Inside was a single piece of what looked like old paper. On it was a beautiful pen and ink drawing of a landscape, with a tiny signature in the corner: B Potter.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Knocking at the back door startled me. I gasped and clutched the paper to my chest as I peeked out of the pantry. Clarissa’s brother-in-law, Hugh, stood on the back porch. He waved, then pushed open the door.
“Hiya, Kat. I just wanted to let you know I’m here in the back.” His face turned to a frown as spied me on the floor. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
With one hand, I shoved the paper and the box into the pantry and crawled to my feet. Wiping a hand over my brow, I waved him away.
“I’m fine, just cleaning. Thanks for letting me know you’re here.”
He nodded and with a wave, stepped back outside, pulling the door closed behind him.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped back into the pantry, opening the box and staring at the illustration. I looked under the shelf again, but there was only one illustration in the pantry. I was sure there were more. I snapped a quick picture of the drawing on my cell phone, then sat and stared for a few moments at the elegance of the lines, the lightness of the pen in places. I would need to look up more of Beatrix Potter’s work for comparison’s sake.
Putting the illustration back in the box, I clutched it to my chest and looked around the room, realizing I had a new problem.
Where in the world could I hide it now?
First, I tried sticking it behind the pots and pans, then I put it in the freezer and slammed the door shut. Immediately, I opened it again, unsure what effect ice would have on the drawing. It probably wouldn’t be good if the illustration got wet.
I spent the next half hour tucking the drawing into a variety of hiding places in the kitchen. Finally, I gave up and taped it back under the shelf where I had found it. If the would-be burglar hadn’t found it there before, he probably wouldn’t find it now.
It took another half-hour for me to wipe down the shelves then replace all of the cans, boxes and packages. I was impressed that none of the packages were past their due date, unlike my pantry at home.
After wiping off my hands, I decided a treat was in store. A quick glance out the back door told me that Hugh had finished raking the yard. He also had tidied up the flower beds. I needed to track him down to find out how much Aunt Selma paid him for that.
The yard bloomed with life and color. Flowers and bushes grew along the edges, the strapping tree draped over the second floor, and stone steps led from the back porch to the gate. Though on the small side, I reflected, the yard was still big enough for a medium-sized security dog, which I thought I might get if I decided to stay.
There it was again: If I decided to stay?
Leaning my head against the window in the back door, I closed my eyes. What would it feel like to stay here?
No. I shook myself and bustled about the kitchen, gathering my purse and brushing off my clothes. The iron skillet on the counter caught my eye, and I moved to put it away. I stopped just as I reached the handle.
On second thought, maybe I would just leave the skillet on the counter, at least until the constable arrested the burglar.
After locking up both the back and the front doors, I strode down the hill toward the tea shop, hoping Clarissa would be in. I hadn’t decided yet if I was going to tell her about my discovery.
I hated keeping secrets from her, but until the burglar was unmasked, I needed to be careful. I didn’t for a moment think Clarissa had tried to break into my – I mean, Aunt Selma’s – house, but I worried that she might say something to someone else that some other someone might overhear. Aunt Selma did say she was chatty.
At any rate, I couldn’t be too careful, even with Clarissa.
Chapter 19
The bell tinkled as I walked inside. Clarissa was at the front counter, leaning down talking to a customer. When she saw me, she stood up and waved me over to my table with a smile.
“I hear you’ve been doing some cleaning,” she commented as she flopped down in the chair across from me.
I leaned forward, about to spill my secret, then quickly sat back. “Yes, I decided to clean out the pantry today.”
“Find anything interesting?” she asked, a slight smile on her face. I hesitated a moment too long. “You did. You found something. Wait, don’t tell me. You know I can’t keep a secret.”
I smiled, inwardly patting myself on the back about my hunch that Clarissa would blab, then shook my head. “Nothing of interest, although many, many boxes of cereal. I’m assuming the guests ate those?”
Clarissa waved a hand at me. “Only the Americans. We Brits like a proper English breakfast, which by the way, they never really got at Selma’s. She didn’t really serve breakfast.”
“Then why all the cereal?”
“Selma couldn’t decide if she ran a hotel or a B&B. So she often put out breakfast and snack items for her guests, particularly if she had a full house. But overall, she didn’t like to cook.”
I could relate. At home, Jared did most of the cooking and I was fine with that. He considered himself something of a “foodie,” so he wanted his meals to be to a certain high standard.
I, on the lowly other hand, was content with simpler fare and even fast food. On more than one occasion, he had chastised me to “Slow down. You’re not eating that with a milk shake.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy good meals. His chicken parmesan was flavorful, the prime rib melted in my mouth, and the beef Wellington was marinated exquisitely. It’s just that food was less a work of art and more of an energy source for me, and perhaps a comfort when I needed to stress eat. But it made him happy to feed us well, so I made all the appropriate and appreciative noises.
I had even picked up a few tricks watching him cook, so when called upon, I could set a festive and tasty table. I smiled at the memory, wondering how he was doing and if he missed me.
“Kat? Are you there?”
“Excuse me, Clarissa. I’m so sorry. I went down a daydream worm hole.”
She smiled at me fondly. “And where did it take you?”
I took in a deep breath. “Back to Jared in the States.”
Her face fell. Apparently, that was not the answer she was looking for. “Are you sure?”
I shrugged. “No, but what else can I do?”
“You could stay here, for one thing. Stay and run the hotel or B&B, whatever you want to call it. Go on long, damp walks in the countryside. Find a blue-eyed Brit to snuggle with at night.”
I closed my eyes as she spoke, feeling my shoulders release. I imagined myself doing exactly what Clarissa had suggested, well, not the snuggling with a Brit, part. I was just having warm, fuzzy thoughts about my boyfriend back home after all.
The bell tinkled over the door.
An elderly woman pushed into the room. Her eyes met mine and held, and she strode over to our table as fast as someone can with a cane. I jumped up and pulled out a chair for her. She thumped down in the seat, her curved back forcing her face closer to the table. She set her bag on the table but held on to it with both hands.
“Is there something I can help you with, ma’am?”
Clarissa’s face looked skeptical, but I wasn’t sure why.
The woman peered closely at me. “You favor her.”
“So I’ve been told. I’m Kat McCoy, by the way, and you are…”
“Irene Mulligan.”
I sat up straight and threw a wide-eyed glance at Clarissa, who nodded, her eyes almost as wide mine. I sidled to the edge of my seat and leaned closer to the old woman, who was probably my aunt’s age.
“Mrs. Mulligan, I understand you were a close friend of my aunt’s at one time.”
She pursed her lips and looked away, then looked back at me. “For a very long time. Then we had a … a … disagreement. But in the past few months, we had begun talking again.”
&nbs
p; “Really? Aunt Selma didn’t mention it.”
“She wouldn’t.” The expression on Irene’s face was almost smug. “She would have had to admit she was wrong, and Selma wasn’t one to do that.”
She wasn’t, that was true. This Irene person knew my aunt well enough to know that.
“Mrs. Mulligan, did Aunt Selma tell you about the illustrations she had found?”
The old woman nodded, her dark eyes suddenly wary as she hunched in the chair. I feared that if she bent over any further, she’d whack her chin on the table.
“Did you find them yet? Selma was going to hide them.”
I leaned away from her. “I’m still looking, Mrs. Mulligan.”
Then I looked at Clarissa with a rueful expression. “You were right. Everyone in town does know about the illustrations.”
She nodded, her lips pursed.
“I went to school with Selma, you know, starting right in primary. She was a couple years ahead of me. We did a lot of crazy things, even back then.”
Mrs. Mulligan smiled, her teeth faded and uneven, like she was remembering.
“Like what?” I asked.
She stared at me a moment, then waved her hand. “One day, we rode our bicycles through the school. Another time we climbed to the top of the water tower. The boys said we couldn’t do it, but we did. Selma climbed down, but I couldn’t get down. The boys had to help me. Said I was like a cat stuck in a tree. Called me ‘Kitty’ after that.”
Mrs. Mulligan threw back her head and cackled loudly. I joined in with her, then we sat and gazed awkwardly at each other for a few moments before Irene finally slapped her hands on her thighs and pushed into a standing position. She turned pointedly to Clarissa.
“I’ll take my tea to go.”
Clarissa jumped up, Mrs. Mulligan tottering behind her toward the counter. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had enjoyed hearing the story about Aunt Selma. I liked to think of her as…energetic…high-spirited…mischievous. Maybe when all this was over and I had more time, I would have tea with Mrs. Mulligan and hear more about Aunt Selma.
I shook off the idea. When all this was over, I would be heading home to the States.
Clarissa sauntered back over, setting a tea pot and two teacups on the table along with two chocolate-drizzled cookies — or biscuits, as they called them in Britain. She dropped back into the chair across the table from me.
“She was playing cards in the dining room with four of the other residents,” she announced.
I looked at her in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Irene Mulligan. Since you didn’t ask her, I did.” Clarissa seemed quite pleased with herself as she helped herself to a cookie. “I asked her where she was when Selma died. She told me she was playing cards at the retirement center.”
I sat back in my seat, my mouth falling open. “I’m a terrible sleuth.”
“You are that. Good thing you have me here to help you. Now, have you made any headway on your suspect list?”
I reached into my purse and pulled out the paper, unfolded it and scanned it, which didn’t take long. Then I grabbed a pen and tapped it against the paper as I mulled it over.
“I’ve already marked off you and Corbyn.”
Clarissa’s eyebrows shot up as she studied the list. “Why on earth is Jaime still on here?”
“Constable. It’s a hard ‘C’.”
Clarissa blew out a breath and pierced me with a look. “You don’t really think Jaime Allen killed your aunt.”
No, of course, I didn’t. But a true sleuth doesn’t just throw out suspects because they’re nice to her. I reached around in my brain for a plausible reason.
“Maybe it happened by accident and he just doesn’t want to admit it?”
Clarissa reached across the table and tapped my forehead. “Then that means you let a killer stay in your house overnight. What were you thinking?”
Oh, right.
I rubbed my forehead where she had tapped, not daring to make eye contact with her. I didn’t want to admit that in the chaos of yesterday’s break-in and subsequent dinner, I had completely forgotten Jaime was even on my suspect list when I agreed to let him sleep on the couch in the sitting room.
Finally, I looked up from the paper. “We need to officially clear his name. That’s the only way we’ll know for certain.”
“All right, then,” said Clarissa, sounding exasperated with me. “That also means we need to make sure we clear him before telling him anything more.”
I agreed. “Do you know where he was when Aunt Selma died?”
“He’s usually walking his beat in the afternoons.”
“Is there someone we can ask at the police station, a dispatcher or someone?”
Clarissa made a face, then busied herself with pouring tea for each of us. “We’d have to ask Marjorie.” She said the name like it tasted of sour lemons.
“And that’s a problem?”
“One, she’s Irene’s daughter. Two, she’s the worst gossip in town, no, in two towns, worse than her mother. That’s why she holds on to the dispatcher job, so she knows everything that goes on around here. If we ask her about anything, the word will spread all over town in a heartbeat.”
I immediately regretted all the times I had called 9-9-9. We sat back, each deep in thought. Clarissa snapped her fingers. “We could make it seem like we’re asking because you fancy Jaime. He did stay at your house, after all.”
I fixed my best stink-eye on the now-giggling tea shop owner. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Come up with a better idea then.” She stood to meet a group of tourists at the counter, leaving me to muddle through the problem on my own. I reached for a cookie because chocolate always helps, then munched as I mulled.
When Clarissa came back and sat down, I had an answer for her. “We tell Marjorie the truth.”
Her eyes opened wide. “It seems dicey to stroll into the constable’s station and accuse said constable of murder.”
I explained my idea. Finally, Clarissa nodded. “Actually, that could work. Shall we go now? Jaime should be out on his rounds.”
I wiped the cookie crumbs from my face with the napkin and stood to join her.
My stomach pitched up and down with nerves. Was I about to find out that my new friend Jaime might have killed Aunt Selma?
Chapter 20
We strolled into the constable’s station. I tried to act casual but am fairly certain I did a poor job of pulling it off.
The woman at the front desk, shielded by a plexiglass partition, set down the phone and raised an eyebrow. Two heavy eyebrows framed her square face, made more severe by a tight ponytail. For a receptionist, she looked remarkably unapproachable. I stiffened, and Clarissa grabbed my elbow to propel me forward.
“Have you found them yet?” the woman asked. I realized with a start she was talking to me.
“No, n-no,” I stammered.
She frowned. “There can’t be that many places Selma could have hidden them in that old place.”
“Actually, Marjorie, there are a million places Selma could have hidden them,” Clarissa corrected her. “Selma was much more creative that way than most of us.”
The woman’s face pinched like a lemon. “What do you want then?”
I sidled closer to the partition. My voice had trouble coming out. “I-I-I hope you don’t mind, but I have a few questions about my aunt’s death.”
“You really should take that up with the constable. He is the investigating officer.”
Marjorie’s eyes dropped to some papers on her desk. Apparently, she considered the conversation was over.
“As long as I am here,” I pressed on hurriedly, “could you tell me about where the constable was when my aunt died. I heard he got to her house quickly, so he must have been in the area.”
Marjorie’s head pivoted toward mine, like she was trying to figure out where this conversation was headed. She knew — I could tell she knew — that I was
fishing for something.
“Can’t you check the log to see, Marjorie?” Clarissa practically poured sugar into her voice. “It’s not private information, after all.”
Marjorie harrumphed, then clicked a few keys on the computer beside her. She sniffed as her eyes zeroed in on the information. Two fingertips tapped her chin as if she was trying to decide whether to tell us or not. I suspected she was just building anticipation.
“Your aunt’s passing was called in at two-twelve in the afternoon. The constable was just finishing a presentation at the primary school, which is only a few minutes away from your aunt’s establishment.”
She looked up toward me, yet still managed to look down her nose at me. It was quite the trick, no doubt practiced over many years.
“So he had been with the students beforehand?”
She cocked her head and looked at me like I was an idiot, which is exactly how I felt. But I had to be sure.
“Yesss,” she said slowly as if talking with someone who had trouble understanding. “He gave a presentation, a safety presentation, to all the primary grades. He does it every year.”
“That sounds like it takes a long time,” I ventured. “How long was he there?”
Marjorie peered at her computer again, then turned her gaze on me. I struggled to maintain a composed exterior. That woman could wilt a flower with her eyes alone.
“His first presentation was at twelve-thirty with the younger pupils, then at one-fifteen for the older ones.”
Clarissa and I turned to each other.
“He couldn’t have done it,” I whispered, a smile breaking out on my face.
“Let’s mark off his name and move on,” she replied, the smile on her face echoing my own.
She grasped my elbow firmly — in fact, it pinched a little — and threw a wave to Marjorie with the other.
“Thanks, luv, you’ve been an amazing help,” she chirped as we giggled with relief and strode out of the constable’s station.
Once outside, we broke into full-blown laughter as much from relief that Jaime wasn’t a killer as the expression on Marjorie’s pinched face.
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