I nodded awkwardly. He couldn’t have listened in on my thoughts, but it felt like he knew. He spoke efficiently and with little patience.
“I’m Alex Lewis. Your aunt will be missed around here. Her service was lovely, by the way.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lewis. I’m sorry I missed it.”
The solicitor’s office had told me that Aunt Selma had wanted her funeral held quickly to be over and done with.
“May I help you find something in particular?” he asked, although it didn’t really seem like he wanted to know.
I shook my head. “Thanks, I’m just browsing.”
He left me to it and sauntered back to the front of the store. I threw a couple of canned soups in my basket, then turned down the next aisle. When I arrived at the front counter a few minutes later, the grocer’s eyes scanned the items in my basket and a small smile crossed his face.
“What?” I asked. “Is there something funny with my items?” It came out a bit snippier than I had intended. Jet lag could be setting in again.
His usual frown returned as he began to ring up the items. “Your selections are remarkably similar to Selma’s, that’s all. Not a cook, are you?”
I peered into my basket, trying to see it from his point of view: chips, cans of soup, crackers, yogurt and several frozen burritos.
“Not even a little bit,” I admitted. “It’s not that I can’t, I just don’t like to.”
“Your aunt was just the same,” he said, his eyes sad as if he remembered Aunt Selma fondly. After he had rung up the items, he handed me the receipt, then put the items in the grocery bags I had carried in with me. I had found them in Aunt Selma’s kitchen right by the door.
“Wait,” I said. “I haven’t paid yet.”
Mr. Lewis peered over his glasses. “Your aunt always ran a credit here, so your items are already paid for.”
“A credit? Why?”
The grocer gestured to an elderly woman sitting on a nearby stool sorting through items to put on shelves. “She threw in extra each week to help with my mother’s care, but we’ve managed to save up some of it.”
My spine went a little straighter as I stood just a touch taller. I would do no less than Aunt Selma did. “Then I will do the same. Use Aunt Selma’s money the way she intended.”
He blinked in surprise as I handed him back the receipt. He hit a few buttons on the register, and this time I paid him.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“No, thank you.” I meant it as I walked out of the store feeling a little bit better about myself. Aunt Selma could be grouchy, but inside, I’d always known she was a softie.
As I turned up the road toward the bed and breakfast, a voice called. “Katherine!”
No one except my mother called me “Katherine.”
I turned around to see a man approach. He was breathing heavily, so I knew he had been calling or chasing me for some time.
I clutched the bags in my arms, not knowing if I might need to heft them at this approaching stranger. As he got closer, he grew more familiar.
“Katherine! I’ve been looking all over town for you.” He stopped dead in front of me and smiled. “You might not remember me, but I’m your—”
We said it at the same time. “—Cousin Franklin.”
My face broke into a more relaxed smile when I realized who it was. “Franklin, how are you? I heard you helped with the funeral. Thanks so much for that.”
I shifted the bags onto a hip.
“Here, let me help with those.” Franklin reached over and took the bags, then turned and started up the hill. I caught up with him in short order.
“I’m one hundred percent sure you didn’t stop me just so you could carry my bags, Franklin.”
He grinned down at me as we walked.
“I just wanted to welcome you to town and see if you needed anything. In Selma’s last days, I was around quite a lot doing odd jobs here and there.”
I didn’t remember Aunt Selma mentioning Franklin being around, and she usually did, not in the highest of terms. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he carried my bags up the hill.
“Thank you for your help, Franklin.” I unlocked the door and turned back to take the bags, startled as he slipped past me into the house. He stopped at the side table just by the stairs, then smiled as he nodded toward the table, which had several packets of potato chips and cinnamon rolls.
“I always told Selma she didn’t actually run a B&B, since she didn’t actually serve breakfast. She just ran a ‘B’.” He laughed at his own joke, clearly one he had told many times.
I smiled tightly. “Maybe I’ll just call it a ‘BS’ then,” I said, my voice a little more clipped than I meant it to be.
Franklin pulled away, his face puzzled. “Sorry?”
Oops. I could tell by his face that the comment had taken Franklin by surprise, and I instantly regretted my tone. What was wrong with me? Twice in ten minutes, I’d snapped at a relative stranger. Weariness and jet lag really were setting in again.
“No, no,” I said, forcing a weary smile. “BS, you know, for Bed and Snacks instead of Bed and Breakfast? I’m not sure it will catch on as a marketing tool.”
Franklin smiled awkwardly and we turned down the hallway toward the back of the house.
As soon as I got to the kitchen, we set down the bags on the counter. I turned to thank him again, trying to hurry him out of the house, which I’m aware wasn’t the most gracious thing I could do seeing as how he had carried the groceries home.
“Thanks, Franklin, I appreciate your help.”
Franklin studied the kitchen, slowly turning around as if looking for something he had misplaced.
“Can I help you with something, Franklin? I would offer you some tea, but I’m quite tired after my flight from the States.”
“Selma took good care of this place, Katherine,” he said, a wistful tone in his voice.
“Call me Kat,” I interjected.
He looked at me as if he had just realized I was there. “Kat. Yes, she put a lot of money into it in recent years, like that stone walkway back there and the new pantry.”
He marched over to the door and pointed out the back way. I nodded. I had seen the stonework on one of the many video calls.
He turned back and leaned against the counter. “Did Selma say anything to you about some illustrations she had found?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I watched him from the corner of my eye as I unpacked the groceries.
“She mentioned them in passing, but she didn’t say much about them,” I told him truthfully.
Franklin pursed his lips. “I’m surprised. It was all she could talk about for a while there.”
“Did you ever see them?” If Cousin Franklin had seen them, then the constable would have to stop calling them “alleged.”
He shook his head and took a big breath as his eyes darted around the kitchen. “Any idea what happened to them?”
I shook my head, eager to move on from this topic. It made me uncomfortable that so many people knew about the illustrations. “Your guess is as good as mine. I’m hoping she put them in a safety deposit box.”
Franklin scoffed. “Naw, Selma had no great faith in banks. If she still had them when she died, they’re likely here somewhere. We could be looking right at them and not even know it.”
Chapter 9
After chatting more about inconsequential things, Franklin finally left. I had made up the bit about a safety deposit box on the spur of the moment. I knew as well as Franklin did that Aunt Selma didn’t trust banks. I was surprised she still didn’t keep money in her mattress. It occurred to me that I probably needed to check her mattress.
I walked slowly up the stairs, my hand trailing lightly along the railing, then sat again on the top step. I turned sideways so I could lean my back against the wall and figure out what to do next.
Aunt Selma apparently had found illustrations b
y Beatrix Potter. I smiled again at the Potter joke—the other Potter. If I stayed, it would be fun to decorate one room with wizards, just to see if any of the clients got the joke.
There it was again. If I stayed.
I shook myself. Of course, I wasn’t staying. I just needed to clean out Aunt Selma’s house and sell both the house and the business. Really, I could hire someone to do most of it. I could be back in the States by the end of the week if I moved fast enough.
A twinge of guilt pulled at me. Aunt Selma expected me to stay and run the hotel, but surely she knew I would have to sell it, right? I had my own life to live, and it was far, far away from here.
My head rested against the wall, my body apparently not ready for speedy movement. If I had found something I considered valuable, what would I do with it?
I snapped my fingers. I would take it to an authenticator or someone who knew more about it than I did.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I looked up “Beatrix Potter museums” to find the nearest one. It was just out of walking range, or so my weary mind told me, so I hopped into the rental car, ground the gears – I bet the neighbors loved me already – and set off toward the museum.
A few cars littered the museum parking lot, or “carpark” as they called it in England. Still not totally confident in my British driving skills, I parked a good distance away from the other cars. With a quick glance at the sky, I left the umbrella on the floor of the back seat. Not used to carrying one, I could never seem to figure out where to put it once I got inside.
A lone elderly woman sat on a stool at the front reception desk. She smiled widely as I stepped inside.
“Good afternoon! Come in, come in!” I wondered if she was always this cheerful or just desperate for customers.
I asked if there was anyone available who might be an expert in Beatrix Potter materials. If possible, her smile got wider. She nodded, as if she had a secret, then picked up the phone. She spoke quickly and quietly, then hung up and motioned me to a plastic chair by the wall.
Before I even had time to sit down, the door behind her swished open and a man stepped into the lobby. He was equally as old as the woman with a wide smile to match.
He approached with both hands outstretched. “Hello, you’ve asked about Beatrix Potter.”
It wasn’t a question so much as a celebration. I nodded as he took one of my hand in his, shaking and patting it all at once. I finally pulled it away and introduced myself.
His expression changed. His face went somber and he reached for my hand again, this time just holding it and patting the top of it to comfort me, I suppose. A couple of fingers had bandages wrapped around them.
“Selma was a great joy to us here. She had a real appreciation for Beatrix. We just don’t see that much anymore, do we, Margie?” He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke.
Margie, apparently the name that went with the elderly receptionist, shook her head sadly as she crossed both arms and leaned on the counter. “Not so much.”
The old man finally released my hand and introduced himself. “I’m Willis McPherson, the curator here.”
“And one of the finest experts you can find for Beatrix Potter materials,” interjected Margie as she wiped down the glass counter with a cloth. “He won’t tell you that, but I will.”
McPherson bowed his head slightly and touched a hand to his heart in brief acknowledgement, then looked back at me. He opened a door to the left of us.
“Walk with me through the museum and tell me what you’re interested in. Your aunt came into the museum shortly before she passed.”
I followed him into the dimly lit room, featuring a life-size figurine of Peter Rabbit. And by life-size, I mean, adult sized. Peter Rabbit was huge, easily nearly six feet with ears that stretched upward a couple more.
I stopped and studied him.
“He was very big in his day, you know.” McPherson patted the figurine fondly. “Miss Potter was a conservationist, and she used her drawings and stories of woodland creatures to bring awareness to the cause of conservation.” He spoke in an admiring voice, then seemed to refocus himself on me. “We could use more people like that today.”
McPherson gestured for me to sit down on a log bench along one wall. “What can I help you with, Miss McCoy?”
“Kat, please. I wondered if Aunt Selma had talked to you or showed you some illustrations or drawings she found that she thought might be Beatrix Potter’s.”
“Did she show you the drawings?” he asked, his eyes sharp and curious.
I shook my head. “She barely mentioned them to me, just that she had found them in the house remodel. I just thought if Aunt Selma wanted to know something about them, she would come to an expert.”
He pursed his lips and nodded. “She did indeed. She brought them in and showed them to me. There were four pen-and-ink drawings in the style of Miss Potter.”
“In the style? So not Beatrix Potter?” This was news to me — and probably half the town, if what Clarissa said was any indication.
He held up his hands. “Probably, but I had yet to ascertain that definitively.”
“I hate to ask,” I said. How could I broach the subject carefully and not sound like a gold-digger? “But could you tell from your examination how much they were worth?”
McPherson grinned, a twinkle appearing in his eyes. “If they are authentic, they could each be worth nearly twenty thousand pounds.”
My mouth fell open. “You’re joking.”
He leaned closer, one hand touching my arm. “Several have gone up for auction in recent years that have fetched between sixteen and twenty. If they are determined to be real, it would be quite a find.”
Wow.
“Do you still have the drawings?”
A look of surprise crossed McPherson’s face. “No, I gave them back to Selma.”
Hope of an easy resolution to the problem died with his words.
“Mr. McPherson, do you have any idea what Selma might have done with them?”
He shook his head again. “I’m sorry, I don’t. Will you be looking for them?”
I shrugged. “Knowing how Aunt Selma liked mysteries and clues, they could be anywhere, but I’ll give it a try, at least until I head home next week.”
McPherson got to his feet as a young couple with their daughter walked into the museum. He greeted them, then turned back to me.
“I had hoped Selma would donate some of the money from the illustrations to the museum. We don’t actually get large crowds here, and it would be quite helpful. Just something to think about it you find them. Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with.”
I held up a hand to wave, then strolled back toward the lobby and out to the parking lot. If what McPherson said was true, and I had no reason to doubt him, the drawings could be worth nearly eighty thousand pounds.
Was that enough money to kill someone?
Chapter 10
It was late afternoon by the time I got back to the house. That gave me time to figure out what to start packing up before Clarissa showed up.
Clarissa said she would be over after she got done at the tea shop. Apparently, they didn’t do “high tea” every day, so she could close a little early. She wanted to help create a list of suspects and promised to bring pizza.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was at the top of the suspect list.
I sat down on the sofa in the front sitting room, a pad of paper in my hand, and scrawled the word “suspects” at the top of the pad. Underneath, after a moment’s hesitation, I penned Clarissa’s name.
Clarissa had motive (to take over Aunt Selma’s B&B and to get her hands on the illustrations), means (Aunt Selma would not even notice if she was too close because they were friends) and opportunity (she lived just three doors down).
In addition, her name began with the hard “C” sound that Aunt Selma had warned me about.
I tapped my pen against the pad.
Th
ink, Kat, think!
If Clarissa wasn’t the killer, and I really hoped she wasn’t, then who else could it be? Under Clarissa’s name, I wrote “Corbyn.”
The name of Aunt Selma’s longtime resident also started with a “C.” I couldn’t think of a motive off-hand, but he was worth considering.
Under Corbyn, I wrote “Constable Allen” and below that “Cousin Franklin.”
Why did Aunt Selma know all of these people with hard C’s in their names and titles? At this rate, she could have been talking about half the town.
I tossed the pen and pad onto the coffee table, then stretched my arms over my head. If I didn’t get up and move, I would fall asleep right there. I hopped up and headed for the staircase, figuring I might as well start stripping the sheets and blankets from the beds and tossing them into the washer downstairs.
Going from room to room, I stripped off the bedding, throwing it into a big pile at the far end of the hall. I had just dumped the last load and turned toward the dumbwaiter door when I heard a noise.
I froze. Squeak. Someone was on the stairway.
I looked around for a place to hide, then dove into the pile of bedding, pulling the sheets and blankets on top of me. I managed to clear a peephole and peered through.
Squeak. I held my breath. Whoever it was had stepped closer. Did they know I was in the house?
Another squeak, then a head peeked out from the stairwell and a voice spoke in a loud whisper.
“Kat? Are you up here? I don’t want to wake you if you’re napping.”
Clarissa?
I almost stuck up my head, but hesitated. What if she was the killer looking for the Potter illustrations. I waited to see what she would do.
Clarissa spotted the pile of bedding and put her hand to her head in thought.
“Oh, she’s probably in the basement,” she muttered to herself. “I’ll go ahead and throw this bedding down to the laundry for her.”
As she stepped toward the pile, I rose up, sheets and pillowcases falling off me.
A Dodgy Death Page 4