Greengage Shelf

by Emma Sterner-Radley

  Not trusting herself to answer without using the f-word or one of the many c-words, Kit stabbed the phone screen to hang up. Steaming hot anger was pumping through her veins, but it soon dissipated as she saw she had a text from Laura. She clicked it and read:

  Guess what the fopdoodle has done.

  Despite herself, Kit chuckled. “Fopdoodle” was the Victorian insult her girlfriend used for her younger brother, Tom. Kit tried to imagine what Thomas Howard might do when unsupervised and wrote back:

  Spent all the money he borrowed from you? Swindled someone? Tried to seduce some oil tycoon’s teenage daughter?

  It took quite a while before the reply came in:

  Your swindling suggestion was closer to the mark. He’s being detained in a police station in Monaco over some shady business deal. I’ve sent the family solicitor over there. We’ll see what comes of it.

  Kit gaped at the screen. As if Laura didn’t have enough on her plate without his foolishness. He’d been detained? In Monaco? This was over the top even for Tom. Kit texted back, saying that she needed more info and asking if she could come over.

  Laura’s reply pinged in a few seconds later:

  I think that could work. I’ve checked and Uncle Maximillian is on the phone to one of his business partners. He’ll be busy for hours.

  Kit flung the door open and headed up to Howard Hall, which brooded against the purple velvet of the late summer evening. Laura was waiting for her by the door. When Kit arrived, she pulled her in by the collar of her shirt and kissed her.

  That took a while. Such important things can’t be rushed.

  After that, Kit was invited in, handed a glass of red wine and sat down on the high-end leather sofa. She tried the wine and then locked eyes with Laura. “So, your brother is in a prison in Monaco.”

  “Police station, not prison, but yes.”

  “Sybil Howard, your dictatorial aunt, is terrorising the French countryside with your ex-fiancé, a man half her age and half her intellect.”

  Laura put her wine on the table and walked over to sit on Kit’s lap. “Yes.”

  “Your doughnut of an uncle is haunting your days while his kids, your adult cousins, are in hiding and living off their daddy’s money in his needlessly derelict house.”

  Laura grimaced. “Mm-hm.”

  Kit wrapped her arms around the curvaceous beauty in her lap. “Can you promise me that you won’t go bonkers like everyone else in your family?”

  “Well, my parents were mostly normal. Whatever normal is. However, I know better than to make promises like that.” She ran her fingers through Kit’s hair. “If you want me, you’ll have to take me as I am, with the risk of me going all March Hare on you at any moment.”

  “Ooh, Alice in Wonderland reference. You do know how to woo a bookworm.”

  Laura laughed and leaned in to nuzzle noses.

  “Oh, before I forget,” Kit said, fishing the Post-It note out of her jeans pocket. “Here’s the latest development in the case of the missing book. Well, except for Phillip Caine calling to tell me to drop the case. The Post-It was left on the counter at the library.”

  Laura read the note while Kit reached for her wine glass and drank a couple of mouthfuls. Whatever this stuff was, it tasted really nice.

  “Interesting,” Laura said, handing the note back.

  “Yep. Do you happen to know which of our suspects might have written it?”

  Laura played with Kit’s hair as she mused on that. “I think Phillip and Anthony went to Cambridge, so they should have better writing skills than this. Still, who knows? Jackie helps edit the reviews page for the Greengage Gazette, so I doubt it’s her.”

  Kit was trying to think straight despite the pleasure of those gentle fingers brushing through her hair. “So, unless it’s one of them trying to disguise their writing, that leaves Caitlin, who might not be bothered by writing properly but is unlikely to write this about herself. That leaves… Liam?”

  Laura tensed in her lap. “Liam Soames didn’t write this.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Laura straightened and avoided her gaze in the way Kit knew to mean she was offended or irate and trying not to show it.

  “Because, well, Liam used to send anonymous messages to the events committee.”

  That explained it. Laura was the head of the Greengage events committee and was well loved by all for it. Well, except for those who didn’t like charity fundraisers, kitten races, village fetes, or Christmas markets.

  Laura squirmed. “The letters, or notes rather, were vile things full of bad language and complaints about everything we did. Someone saw him drop one off, and I confronted him about it. He seemed truly apologetic about the anonymous nature of the notes and the curses and slurs, but not about the complaints themselves.”

  Kit pulled her closer, suddenly feeling protective even though she knew Laura could take care of herself.

  Laura adjusted her position in Kit’s lap and kissed the crown of her head. “Now Liam emails me to inform me how the village fete, kitten race, or what have you is bothering him. Anyway, his handwriting is nothing like that, and he is well versed in the use of proper grammar when he wants to be. He didn’t write this.”

  “Unless he’s trying to make it look like it wasn’t him?” Kit suggested.

  “Oh,” Laura nodded, “whoever wrote it, I’m willing to bet it was someone trying to pretend it wasn’t them.”

  “Yep. I bet you’re right.”

  Kit took advantage of how close they were now to bury her nose in Laura’s sweater, breathing in her scent and hugging her tighter. Laura made a content little purring noise in the back of her throat before running her fingers through Kit’s hair again. The house was quiet. The delicious wine warmed Kit’s belly and made everything seem rosy. Laura felt supple in her lap, and her fingers were so tender. Their cuddling couldn’t have cemented their love more clearly if they tried. It was a perfect moment.

  A door, sounding like it was upstairs, slammed open.

  And there’s good old uncle Max to ruin the evening.

  “Laura! Where is the paperwork for Gage Farm’s sales to the mainland?”

  “Down in the office,” Laura called back.

  He made a sound somewhat akin to a cat getting its tail stomped on. “That’s inconvenient!”

  Laura closed her eyes and mumbled, “Perhaps Aunt Sybil should’ve locked him in the wine cellar when they were young. She always said that was her one regret from childhood.”

  “Dear girl,” Maximillian bellowed, still upstairs. “If the paperwork must be in the office, then so must we. We shall have to go inspect them so I can pass the final figures on to Declan Bainbridge while I have him on the telephone.”

  “Is it too late to lock him down there now?” Kit asked.

  “We had to sell the wines and use the cellar to store jars for Gage Farm years ago. There’s no room for uncles down there,” Laura whispered back. She raised her voice to tell Maximillian that she’d be there in a minute.

  “I’m sorry,” she said after planting a kiss on Kit’s forehead. “I’d offer to let you come with us, but it’s sure to be boring and complicated, not to mention longwinded, and you have work early tomorrow.”

  “Yep, and I bet he’ll give me a stuffed animal if I stay.”

  Laura levelled a sardonic eyebrow at her. “There’s always that risk.”

  “Right, I’m off then.”

  Laura stepped off her lap. “Okay, dearest. Let yourself out. I’ll call you to say goodnight later. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  After a quick kiss, Laura walked out, leaving Kit standing there scrubbing a hand over her face.

  Damn all Howards, save for Laura.

  Still, she had said she was fine with their current situation, and fine she would be. She had promised to take Laura the way she was, and this was it. Laura was the sort of person who didn’t tell barmy old uncles to hang out with the jars in
the wine cellar for the rest of their lives.

  Kit tottered home to lose herself in a book. Or maybe some TV. Either way, it’d be accompanied by a big glass of Diet Pepsi and vodka. In her pocket lay that Post-It note, acutely reminding her that she was no closer to a solution for Alice.

  Chapter Nine

  Ants in Your Bra

  It was a Friday. That meant that Kit, Rajesh, and Phyllis had taken their usual walk and then settled down on a bench by the square. They were now ready to see how their placed bets would fare in regards to the older ladies and their beloved dogs.1

  So far, Kit had picked only losers, and Rajesh was winning big. The fact that he was romancing half the contestants did seem to give him an unfair advantage.

  The mid-June sun was beaming down on them, making Kit’s head burn. She wished her hair wasn’t so dark. Did blondes have cooler heads?

  She ran her fingers through her tresses, trying to get a breeze onto her suffering scalp. It reminded her of another annoyance. “Oh, by the way, I spoke to Phillip Caine on the phone yesterday.”

  Rajesh grunted. “That must’ve been pleasant.”

  “About as pleasant as ants in your bra.”

  “I have no idea what that’s like, but I can imagine it’s better than talking to Phillip. That man. Ugh. I bet the R.A.F. were happy to see the back of him.”

  “Probably. He told me to drop the case, as there is no case.”

  “Big surprise,” Rajesh muttered. “It’s a shame the Caine boys turned out so bad. Both their parents were always lovely.”

  “Speaking of the two brothers, did I mention that I met Anthony Caine prowling around the library at early o’clock?”

  “No. What did he want?”

  “About the same as his brother: to tell me that this whole business was nonsense, but he was nicer about it. He also wanted me to know he didn’t have a key.”

  Rajesh harrumphed, making Phyllis wake up and bark. Kit leaned down to scratch behind the dog’s soft ear. Phyllis grunted contentedly, relaxing again.

  “The Caine brothers are adamant about me dropping this,” Kit said.

  “A good reason to dig deeper,” Rajesh said with conviction.

  “I will.” She patted Phyllis’ head, smoothing the warm, tufty fur before adding, “You know, what fascinates me is that if Anthony is so sure there’s nothing shady going on, then why race up to the library so early in the morning to tell me that he no longer had a key and therefore couldn’t be a suspect?”

  Rajesh sniggered. “Peculiar, that.”

  “Exactly, dear Watson.”

  “Oh, no you don’t, young lady,” he grumbled. “I’m not your sidekick. I’m your boss.”

  “True.”

  “And former landlord.”

  Kit bumped his shoulder. “And friend?”

  He gave her a look, but then his unshaven, wrinkled face spilt into a grin. “Mm, that, too. But not sidekick and never assistant.”

  “No, more like a trusted sounding board.”

  His thick eyebrows lowered in thought for a moment, then he resurfaced. “Yes, I’m all right with that one.”

  “Awesome. Right, my next move is to seek out the other suspects and try to get a feel for them.” Kit closed her eyes against the sharp sunlight, wishing her glasses had those lenses that turned into sunglasses. What were they called? Transition lenses? “I just need to find time between work, helping Rachel and Shannon, Aimee’s phone calls, getting my exercise in, and this ridiculous farce with hiding my relationship status from Maximillian.”

  Rajesh huffed. “That ruddy plant pot!”

  Kit choked on a breath. “I won’t say I don’t agree with you, but we should probably be careful with the name calling.”

  “I don’t mind that he has a mind full of dust and sprinkles, Katherine,” he admonished. “We’re librarians. Half of the authors we love and admire were peculiar and were called as mad as a box of frogs. Blooming hell, my doctor keeps suggesting I try antidepressants.” He glared at a passing duck. “No, what irks me about Maximillian is that he’s not mentally ill. He’s selfish, jumbled, and theatrical. And he shouldn’t stand in the way of your relationship.”

  Kit went back to patting Phyllis, who rolled over to show her balding, soft belly.

  “Well, everyone else did when Laura and I started dating. Back then he was still in hiding in his house, so I suppose he’s making up for it now. I still can’t believe he didn’t hear about our relationship back at the time of the scandal.”

  Rajesh held up three sausage-like fingers. “One: like you said, he’s a recluse. Two: he listens to no one. Three: since no one likes him, including his children who scrounge off him, no one tells him anything.”

  Kit pondered Maximillian and realised that if anyone had mentioned to him that Laura was involved with someone, he’d probably have forgotten it right away because it wasn’t interesting to him. Kit was about to say that to Rajesh when heavy boots stomped somewhere near their bench. The sound stood out, considering it was June and everyone wore light, summer shoes.

  There was one person in Greengage who defied any season or temperature, Kit thought. One person who wore a knitted hat nearly pulled over her eyes, a big coat, and heavy-duty boots year-round.

  Mrs Mabel Baxter. A pensioner and battle axe who, together with her friend, the sweet and funny Ethel Rosenthal, had decided to partially adopt Kit. Something she found equal amounts amusing and infuriating.

  Now, Mabel was headed right for them, like a guided missile in a grey knitted hat.

  “Is it too late to hide?” Rajesh muttered. This was one older lady that not even he dared to romance.

  The weight of Mabel’s intense staring and stomping made them both stand up. Kit had once read a book where a forceful, older, and broadly built woman was described as “entering the room like a galleon at full sail.” That quote popped into Kit’s head when she shielded her eyes and squinted at Mabel. People around the square moved aside when she passed, not only because she’d knock them over if they got close but also because she’d tell them off, and the way Mabel Baxter told you off was worse than being knocked over by her wool-clad, stocky body mass.

  Rajesh had now, through some sort of magic trick, made himself and Phyllis vanish. He and the dog were most likely hiding behind some of the trees, leaving Kit alone in the firing line. Kit was pondering his treachery when Mabel’s booming voice shattered her train of thought.

  “You smell like gin.”

  “What?” Kit started. “Well, I haven’t been drinking. I’m not really a daytime drinker. Hello, by the way.”

  “Yes. Hello.” Mabel sniffed the air. “I think it’s your cologne or whatever you call it. Smells like gin.”

  This wasn’t the first time Kit’s signature perfume, Voyage d’Hermès, had gotten comments. She didn’t care. It was as much her as her leather jacket and faded Converse. She tried for a genial look and put her hands in her pockets. “Ah, right, I think it’s meant to smell like cardamom and citrus.”

  “Gin,” Mabel grunted.

  Kit gave up on geniality. She was starting to get that ants in her bra feeling again. “If you say so. I’m sorry about my smell. Was there anything else, Mabel?”

  Those wrinkled lips pursed. “Of course there was, girl. I didn’t traipse all the way to the main square to tell you that you smell of gin.”

  Kit wondered how long she, Laura, and other thirtysomething women would be called “girl” on Greengage. “I see.”

  “Precisely,” Mabel said, standing even more ramrod straight.

  A few quiet moments passed while Kit waited for more information.

  Mabel merely glared.

  Kit began rocking back and forth on her heels. “Right, um, so…?”

  “Don’t ‘um’ and ‘ah.’ You’re an intelligent girl. Use your words.”

  “Thanks for noticing! However, I was ‘umm-ing’ to give you a chance to continue.”

  Mabel squinted. “Continue? What
are you trying to say, mainlander?”

  “Did you want to tell me something? Or did you just want to see me because you missed me?”

  Kit hadn’t been able to resist teasing Mabel with that last comment, but she had done it with a big, friendly smile. Unfortunately, that didn’t help.

  Mabel’s frown deepened into chasms of disapproval. “I. Am. Waiting. For. Ethel.”

  Kit stepped back. “Oh.”

  “She’s the one who needs to tell you something. She’s late, though. As always.”

  “I’m not late,” a small, cheerful voice said to their side. “Only slower than you, you old steam locomotive!”

  Kit leaned in to give Ethel Rosenthal a kiss on the cheek, smiling at the smell of lavender and talcum powder. Mabel was still huffing at the steam train comment, making it seem more and more appropriate, so Kit focused on Ethel. “How are you?”

  “Oh, I can’t complain. You see, I am not in a pickle with a sweetheart who pretends to be my friend and nothing more to spare her uncle’s feelings,” Ethel said.

  Kit sighed. “Ah, you’ve spoken to Laura?”

  “I didn’t need to. All of Greengage knows what’s going on. Well, everyone but Maximillian. Which is not surprising, considering it’s doubtful if Maximillian Howard knows who’s prime minister or what year it is. Or if he is wearing socks.”

  “Probably true. Anyway, Mabel, says you wanted to tell me something?”

  “Yes, dear! Rajesh mentioned you are finally helping Alice Caine with her missing book?”

  “I am, yeah.”

  “Excellent,” Ethel said. “He also said that you didn’t know why someone would want to steal that particular Jules Verne book.”

  “That’s right,” Kit said, eagerness upping her pulse.

  “When he said it, something rang a faint bell in my mind. Except, the bell wasn’t making itself clear until this morning.” Ethel lowered her voice as if imparting a secret. “I remembered talking to Alice about books and their themes. She mentioned Journey to the Centre of the Earth having a minor theme of hiding things within books. In the case of that book, which I feel has not stood the test of time, it’s a cypher.”