A Deadly Dedication, page 13
“It was a young kid?” Penelope frowned. “What would motivate him to write traitor on Clementine’s window?”
Maguire rubbed two fingers together. “It wasn’t his idea. Someone paid him to do it. He said he was hanging out with some blokes behind the Book and Bottle when a man came up to him and asked if he wanted to make some money. Of course he said yes.”
“Who was the man?”
Maguire sighed. “That’s what we don’t know. He didn’t recognize him. He said the fellow was wearing a baggy overcoat, a wool hat pulled down low on his forehead, and had a scarf wrapped around his throat, partially hiding his chin and mouth. Obviously, he didn’t want to be recognized.”
Maguire shifted from one foot to the other. “He paid Alfie and told him what he wanted done—the word traitor scrawled on the window of the Icing on the Cake.”
“But why traitor? I don’t get it.”
“Perhaps they suspected that Clementine had voted in favor of Foster’s proposal and they felt betrayed.”
“I wish we knew who that man was.” Penelope nearly stamped her foot in frustration.
Maguire shrugged. “Odds are it was a disgruntled shop owner. They were the most up in arms about stopping Foster’s plan.”
“What’s going to happen to Alfie?” Penelope frowned. “The real criminal is the mysterious man who paid him to scrawl graffiti on Clementine’s window.”
Maguire smiled. “I suspect Alfie is going to lose all the money that man paid him and then some. It’s likely he’s going to be slapped with a hefty fine. I doubt he’ll be getting up to mischief like that again anytime soon.”
Penelope was thinking. “Maybe Terry Jones did it? He fits the description and it would have been easiest for him to have doctored those truffles.”
Maguire frowned. “That’s true, but we can’t find a thing to link him to Foster other than the fact that the Epicurean Gourmet would have cut into his business. But then any number of people were in the same position.”
“Did you know that Terry and Foster both fought in the Falklands War? Maybe they met up there and Terry’s still carrying a grudge about something.”
Maguire raised an eyebrow. “There were about thirty thousand men sent to the Falklands. The two of them running into each other during the conflict is about as likely as me pulling off a shot like Jimmy White did in the Scottish Open.”
“The what?”
“Snooker tournament.”
“Sure, it’s a long shot, but what if the two men had known each other back then and something happened?”
Maguire raised an eyebrow. “Something between the two of them, you mean?”
Penelope nodded. “Yes. Something that gave Terry an even stronger motive for wanting Foster dead.”
EIGHTEEN
Penelope was standing at the counter talking to Mabel when Figgy joined them. She put a plate of shortbread cookies on the counter.
“I thought you might be in need of a pick-me-up,” she said.
Pen’s eyes brightened at the sight. She selected a cookie and took a bite. “How are the wedding plans coming along?” she said around a mouthful of shortbread.
“Great.” Figgy’s face lit up. “Derek has found a wonderful sitarist to perform the recessional.”
Pen nearly choked on her cookie. “A sitar player? What on earth is Lady Isobel Innes-Goldthorpe going to think about that?”
“My mother?” Figgy shrugged her shoulders, but Penelope noticed the dark cloud that passed over her face. “It’s our wedding, not hers.” She grinned. “I’ll be sure to have some smelling salts on hand. That will be your job as the maid of honor.”
Mabel raised her eyebrows. “Should be interesting. Very interesting indeed.” She glanced at the calendar open on her computer screen. “Today is India’s birthday.”
“We must get her something,” Pen said, swallowing the last bite of her cookie. “I doubt she’s going to get all that many birthday wishes.”
“That’s true,” Mabel said. “She’s often lamented the fact that she’s one of the last of her group of friends to still be alive.” Mabel turned to the shelf behind her. “I have just the thing for her.” She pulled out a book and patted the cover. “This ought to be right up India’s alley.”
Pen read the title out loud. “The Palace Papers: Inside the House of Windsor—the Truth and the Turmoil by Tina Brown.”
“India takes no end of delight in following the antics of the royal family. She ought to love it.”
“There’s certainly a lot to follow,” Pen said. “Do you think it’s true that Kate and Will are having marital problems?”
Mabel snorted. “Where did you read that?”
“OK! magazine.”
“That rag?” Mabel cocked her head to one side. “I didn’t figure you for the scandal sheet type.”
“I’m not. It was the headline on the cover. I happened to glance at it while I was waiting in line at Tesco.” Mabel continued to look doubtful. Pen held up a hand. “I swear. You’ve got to believe me.”
Mabel and Figgy laughed.
“There’s no harm in it, I suppose,” Mabel said. “People need to find amusement somewhere.” She frowned. “Although I suspect it does rankle the royal family, poor things.”
“I’ll have this wrapped in a tick,” Mabel said, reaching under the counter for a sheet of wrapping paper and a spool of ribbon.
“I’ll put together a plate of her favorite treats,” Figgy said. “I have a Madeira cake about to come out of the oven.”
A book and a plate of goodies to nibble on—it was the perfect gift, Pen thought. All that was needed was a roaring fire and a cup of tea.
And a vase with flowers, she decided. She would stop at Bloomers down the street and pick up a small bouquet for India.
“There,” Mabel said, placing the book on the counter. It was now covered with the Open Book’s wrapping paper, which was printed with the covers of classic novels, and a dark blue ribbon with Open Book printed on it in gold.
“I can run those over to India,” Pen said. “I’m going to pop into Bloomers and get her some flowers.”
“Why don’t you go get the flowers,” Mabel said, sweeping some bits of ribbon off the counter and into her palm, “and we’ll all go visit India right after we close? We can make a party of it.”
* * *
* * *
Penelope had just crossed the street when the wind kicked up and blew a bit of dust into her eye. She stopped in front of the Crown Jewels for a moment and blinked rapidly while tears washed the speck away. She glanced in the window of the shop and was surprised to see that they were already anticipating the holiday season, with tiny white lights outlining the window and a display of engagement rings arranged against a black velvet background.
As soon as her eye stopped watering, Penelope continued down the block to Bloomers and pushed open the door. The air in the shop was perfumed with the scent of flowers and the glass display cases were foggy with condensation.
A man was at the counter and, when he turned his head slightly, Pen realized it was Terry Jones from the Sweet Tooth. The girl behind the counter was taking down an address, so Pen assumed that whatever he’d ordered was being delivered to someone.
The clerk ran his credit card and handed it back to him. She smiled brightly.
“Thank you and I’ll see you next year.”
Terry looked at Penelope as he passed her, giving her a small nod of acknowledgment.
The clerk leaned on the counter. She had blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and was wearing an apron with a ruffled bodice and Bloomers embroidered in flowery script across the front.
“He comes in every year on the same day,” she said in low tones, “and always orders flowers to be sent to the same address. I’ve been told it’s been going on for years.”
The shop door opened and a young man stuck his head in. Penelope noticed a white delivery van double-parked outside.
“Delivery,” he called out.
The clerk held up a finger. “I’ll be right with you.” She smiled at Penelope. “I apologize. I have to open the back door for him. I promise I’ll be right back.”
Penelope drummed her fingers on the counter as she waited. She wondered who Terry could be sending flowers to once a year. His mother? A sister? Penelope couldn’t contain her curiosity. Her mother used to remind her that curiosity killed the cat, but she didn’t believe that for a minute then and she didn’t believe it now. Besides, weren’t cats supposed to have nine lives?
The clerk had disappeared into the storeroom. Penelope made sure she was out of view before casually turning the order pad around.
The flowers were being sent to a convent—the Sisterhood of the Sacred Cross, to the attention of Sister Rosamund.
Was that a relative of Terry’s? Penelope wondered. It was curious, but it was unlikely to mean anything so she put it out of her mind.
She heard a rustling noise coming from the stockroom and quickly turned the order pad back around.
“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” the clerk said when she emerged from the stockroom. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a small bouquet to take to a friend,” Pen said. She gestured toward the display cases. “I’m afraid I don’t know where to begin.”
“Oh,” the girl said. “You’re the American, aren’t you?”
Pen somewhat reluctantly agreed that she was, indeed, the American.
“My friend Jade went to New York City last year and when I asked her if she went to Disneyland, she said it would take days and days to drive there. I had no idea the country was so big.”
“Yes. From New York to California is nearly three thousand miles.”
“I’m reading your book,” the girl said, blushing slightly as she reached under the counter and pulled out a copy of The Woman in the Fog. “Would you mind signing it for me?” Her blush deepened as she handed Pen the book.
Pen felt a creeping sense of embarrassment as she took the pen the girl gave her. She opened the book and scrawled her name across the page. She was still trying to perfect an authorly looking signature, but she hadn’t nailed it yet.
The girl smiled broadly when Pen handed back the book and pen.
“You’re looking for a bouquet?” she said, moving out from behind the counter. “What kind of an arrangement were you thinking of? Something elegant? Casual?”
The word that came to Penelope’s mind was cozy. Was there such a thing as a cozy arrangement of flowers?
“Something . . . something that looks like the flowers were just picked from the garden.”
The clerk’s face lit up. “I know exactly what you mean.” She opened one of the cooler doors and stood for a moment, wrinkling her nose. She studied the selection and then began pulling flowers from the various white enamel buckets.
“How do you like this?” She turned toward Penelope and held out the bunch of blossoms clasped in her hand.
“It’s perfect,” Pen said, relieved that she didn’t have to pick out the flowers herself.
The clerk pulled a length of kraft paper from a roll, lined it with a piece of pink tissue paper, and wrapped it around the flowers. “Do you need a card?” she said as she tied a length of raffia ribbon around the bundle.
“No. Thank you. I’m going to deliver them directly.” Penelope reached for her wallet, slotted her credit card into the reader, and picked up the bundle of flowers. She held them to her face and inhaled. She was sure India was going to like them.
* * *
* * *
Promptly at five o’clock, Mabel switched the Open sign to Closed and reached for her coat and the bag with India’s present. Figgy turned the lights off in the tearoom and joined them, carrying a plate covered in plastic wrap with slices of Madeira cake, chocolate biscuit cake, and a half dozen hobnobs. Pen picked up her bouquet and they headed to Mabel’s car.
The sky was still thick with heavy clouds that obscured the moon and made the lane leading to India’s cottage even darker. Mabel switched on her high beams, which startled a deer standing by the side of the road. It stared at them for a moment and then bolted into the shadows.
“That was a close call,” Mabel said. “I was afraid it was going to run in front of the car.”
Fortunately, they reached India’s cottage without further mishap.
Mabel knocked on the door and they heard India slowly hobbling to the foyer. She gasped in surprise when she opened the door to see Mabel, Penelope, and Figgy waiting outside.
“What a lovely surprise,” she said as she held the door wider.
“Happy birthday,” they said together as they walked in.
“We decided to throw you a party,” Figgy said, showing India the plate of cake and cookies.
Penelope handed her the bouquet of flowers.
“These are delightful.” India’s face glowed and her eyes glistened with tears.
She was leaning heavily on a cane and was rather pale. She winced as she stepped away from the foyer. Penelope took her arm. “Let me help you.”
“I should make some tea.” India turned toward the kitchen, looking slightly flustered.
“I’ll do that. You go sit down,” Figgy said. “And I’ll put the flowers in some water while I’m at it.”
“The tea is in the cabinet next to the sink,” India called out as Figgy headed into the kitchen.
Once the tea was prepared and poured and everyone was comfortably ensconced in India’s sitting room, she opened her present.
“How wonderful!” she exclaimed when she undid the wrapping. She ran a hand over the glossy book cover. “I shall enjoy this immensely. I do love reading about the royal family.” She ruffled the pages.
She looked up and lowered her voice. “Did you know that there’s a rumor that Kate Middleton, the Princess of Wales, is expecting? Arthur told me that isn’t true. He had tea with the queen last week.” She beamed like a proud parent. “The queen is quite fond of Arthur, you know. He’s one of her favorites.”
Figgy held out the plate of cake and cookies. “It’s a bit late for tea, but better late than never, right?” she said.
India hesitated, her hand hovering over the dish. “Oh, dear, everything looks so delicious. I don’t know how I shall choose.” She finally settled on a piece of chocolate biscuit cake. She pointed to her dish. “This is what the queen served at tea, Arthur told me.”
Penelope noticed that India’s color had improved. Her eyes were shining and there was a pink flush to her cheeks that hadn’t been there before.
“Arthur and Charlotte came to wish me a happy birthday,” India said. “And they brought little Grace. Such a darling baby.”
“Does she resemble Arthur or Charlotte?” Figgy said, nibbling on a cookie.
India frowned. “She has a bit of wispy hair—red, the color of Arthur’s. And large blue eyes like Charlotte’s.” She laughed. “No matter. I am sure she will grow up to be a gorgeous young lady.”
“How is Charlotte?” Mabel said. “Recovering nicely, I hope.”
“Oh, yes. She’s right as rain and so happy.” India cocked her head. “She seemed rather excited about something.” She waved a hand. “Nothing to do with the baby. Something else. But when I asked her about it, she wouldn’t say, only that I’d find out in due course.”
That was curious, Pen thought. Beryl was excited about something and wouldn’t say what and now Charlotte was as well. The two of them had become quite friendly. Could they be cooking up something together?
* * *
* * *
Penelope leaned forward and tapped Mabel on the shoulder. “Could you let me out in front of the Chumley Chippie? I want to pick up something for dinner.”
“Certainly,” Mabel said as they drove down the high street.
Penelope couldn’t imagine how she could possibly be hungry after a piece of chocolate biscuit cake and two hobnobs, but there was no denying it. Her stomach was actually rumbling.
A few minutes later, Mabel put on her blinker and pulled up to the curb in front of the Chumley Chippie. Even before Penelope opened her door, she could smell frying fish and potatoes and her mouth began to water.
She said good-bye to Mabel and Figgy and went into the restaurant. It was busy. All the tables were taken and there was a line at the counter. Fortunately, Stan and Mick worked so quickly that Penelope barely had to wait at all before her order was taken, bagged, and she was out the door.
The heavenly aroma emanating from the paper bag surrounded her as she headed home. She crossed the street and passed the window of the Chumley Chemist and the Sweet Tooth. The display window was empty and the lights were off except for one burning way in the back of the store. Pen thought she saw Terry Jones moving about in the shadows.
The trays in the window of Icing on the Cake were also empty, ready to display freshly baked goods the following morning. The Closed sign was on the door, but the light was still on toward the back of the shop.
Clementine was inside, talking to someone. It was easy to tell from her body language that she was upset. As a matter of fact, Penelope thought she looked furious. She peered through the window again, curious to see who Clementine was arguing with. It appeared to be a woman, but she had her back to the window and Pen couldn’t identify her.
Pen waited a few minutes, still peering through the glass, the warm bag from the Chippie clutched to her chest. She was beginning to shiver when the woman finally turned and Penelope saw that it was Courtney Brown.
What had gotten the two of them so riled up? Normally, Clementine came across as timid and almost wishy-washy, but she’d looked even more upset than Courtney. Pen wished she knew.
