A Deadly Dedication, page 3
Penelope’s laptop was sitting on the coffee table. She glared at it balefully, a sense of guilt washing over her. She really needed to make progress on her current manuscript even though her deadline was quite far off yet. She knew from experience how quickly it could go from being months away to suddenly being tomorrow.
She’d take her laptop to the Open Book with her, she decided, and hopefully she would have time to get some work done.
Penelope finished her yogurt, threw the container in the trash, and rinsed out her mug. She spent a few minutes playing with Mrs. Danvers, who enjoyed going after the string Penelope was dangling but, ultimately, she became bored with the game and wandered off.
Penelope retrieved her jacket, slipped into it, put her laptop in her tote bag, and left the cottage. It was cold but sunny, with only a few fluffy white clouds scudding across the sky. She decided to walk to the Open Book since it was barely a quarter of a mile away. She enjoyed looking in the shop windows along the high street and stopped for a moment in front of the Icing on the Cake to admire a perfect Victoria sponge that was on display. Whipped cream and raspberry jam oozed out from between the layers and made Penelope’s mouth water.
She was about to move on when she heard raised voices. Standing next door in front of the Sweet Tooth was Simeon Foster. He was dressed casually in a wax jacket and had some rolled-up papers tucked under his arm. Plans for his new shop? Penelope wondered.
He appeared to be arguing with his companion. Their strident voices reached Penelope, but she couldn’t make out the words. The two seemed oblivious to the fact that they might be overheard by a passerby. Penelope’s grandmother Parish had drilled into her at an early age that one simply did not air their grievances in public. Even now she could hear her grandmother’s voice in her head.
She knew she ought to move on, but she hovered in the shelter of the Icing on the Cake’s doorway, not wanting to embarrass the couple.
The woman looked as if she’d dug her clothes out of someone’s dustbin. Her coat was too large, drooping off her shoulders and reaching nearly to her ankles, and her shoes were scuffed with worn-down heels. Her dark hair was in need of a wash, the greasy strands hanging limply on her shoulders. She could have used a good trim as well. Her hair kept falling into her face and she brushed it away impatiently.
She was a bit unsteady on her feet—swaying back and forth as if buffeted by a strong wind. Once she nearly fell, but Foster grabbed her by the elbow and righted her again.
Their discussion was becoming more heated. Their voices were harsher and their hand gestures broader. Was the woman another Chumley resident who didn’t approve of Foster’s proposed new store and was feeling disgruntled about it?
The couple’s voices grew even louder, but Penelope still couldn’t quite make out what they were saying and, unfortunately, she couldn’t glean much from the occasional word that she did catch. By now she was anxious to be on her way, but if she suddenly appeared from the shadows of the doorway, it would be obvious she’d been loitering there.
She was about to chance it when the woman took several steps away from Foster. It appeared as if their conversation—if you could call it that—was wrapping up.
Finally, the woman turned on her heel and began to walk away although if Penelope was putting the scene in a book, she would describe it as more of a stagger. She got a whiff of alcohol as the woman passed her, and she wrinkled her nose.
Foster walked off in the opposite direction and, relieved, Penelope continued down the high street toward the Open Book.
* * *
* * *
Good morning,” Mabel called out when Penelope finally arrived at the Open Book.
Penelope noticed Laurence Brimble browsing the history section. He was becoming a fixture at the store. He’d quietly pursued Mabel for several months before Mabel was willing to bury past romantic disappointments and go out with him.
India was sitting in one of the armchairs with a pile of books beside her, contentedly thumbing through them.
“I just saw Simeon Foster arguing with someone on the sidewalk,” Penelope said as she hung up her coat.
Mabel raised her eyebrows. “Oh? I would think he’d be in a good mood given that he got what he wanted from the town council.”
Penelope frowned. “It was a woman and she appeared to be drunk.”
“A bit early for that, but I suppose the sun is over the yardarm somewhere.” Mabel straightened a stack of books on the counter. “I don’t know Foster personally, but I’ve heard he’s . . . how shall I put this . . . one for the ladies in spite of being married. Maybe she was a woman he dumped for someone new and she wasn’t happy about it.”
Penelope thought about it. “I don’t know. She was at least twenty or thirty years younger than Foster.”
Mabel laughed. “Since when has that ever stopped anyone? It’s called a May-December romance, in case you didn’t know. Or robbing the cradle. It happens all the time.”
Penelope leaned her elbows on the counter. “That could be it, but somehow I don’t think so. That wasn’t the vibe I got from them.”
“Some discontented resident grousing about Foster’s proposed shop?” Mabel suggested. “Heavens knows, plenty of people in Chumley would love to give Foster a piece of their mind.”
* * *
* * *
Brimble wandered over to the front counter just then. “Tonight’s the big night,” he said, running his index finger over his bristly mustache.
Their voices must have carried over to where India was sitting because she set aside the book she was looking through and joined them.
“Big night? What big night?” Penelope raised her eyebrows.
India looked startled. “It’s Guy Fawkes Day, my dear. November fifth.”
Penelope was at a loss. The name Guy Fawkes was vaguely familiar, but it didn’t conjure up much of anything at all.
Mabel obviously noticed the confused look on Penelope’s face and decided to take pity on her. “Guy Fawkes Day is celebrated with bonfires and fireworks and Guy Fawkes is burned in effigy.”
Penelope was appalled. That sounded horrible. “Why on earth do you do that?”
Brimble cleared his throat. “Guy Fawkes Day celebrates the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605.” He took a deep breath. “Guy Fawkes and a band of radical English Catholics tried to assassinate King James I by blowing up Parliament.”
India nodded. “Thankfully, they failed.”
“But why did they try to kill the king?” Penelope said.
Brimble was in his element. He puffed out his chest and fingered his mustache again. “King James did not tolerate religious freedom for Catholics. Priests were put to death and celebrating Mass was forbidden. Since Guy Fawkes was the ringleader of the group, he became a symbol of the whole dastardly plot.”
India got a faraway look in her eyes. “I remember when I was young, we used to take our effigies, or Guys, as we called them, and cart them around and ask for a penny for the Guy. And we’d chant, ‘Remember, remember the fifth of November.’ ”
Just then Figgy bustled over, and everyone’s attention turned to the plate of buttered crumpets she was holding out. “Happy Guy Fawkes Day,” she said. “Fresh crumpets, anyone?”
Within minutes all the crumpets had been claimed and eaten. Brimble pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his mustache, which was glistening with melted butter.
“Who’s going to the bonfire tonight?” Mabel said. “We should get a little party together.”
Penelope, who was anxious to try all things British, immediately said yes.
“I’ve made some parkin,” Figgy said.
“Yes, it wouldn’t be Guy Fawkes Day without it,” India said.
Once again, Penelope found herself at sea—linguistically and gastronomically.
“What on earth is parkin?” She looked from Figgy to India and back again.
“It’s a sort of cake,” India said.
“Much like your gingerbread.” Mabel nodded at Penelope.
“But made with oatmeal,” India added. “And black treacle or, in some cases, golden syrup.”
“You have to make it at least three days in advance.” Figgy picked up the plate that was empty save for a few crumbs from the crumpets. “It’s quite hard when it comes out of the oven but keeping it in a tin allows it to soften and mellow.”
“It sounds intriguing,” Penelope admitted.
“And we’ll have some bonfire toffee. I’ve got that all ready as well,” Figgy said.
India made a face and pointed to her mouth. “I’ll give that a miss, thank you very much. Not with my dentures.”
“Where shall we meet? There’s always quite a crowd.”
“How about in front of the Jolly Good Grub?” Brimble folded his handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. He brushed some crumbs from the front of his sweater. “We can go on from there. I’ll bring a blanket to sit on.”
“I’d best bring my shooting stick.” India fingered the buttons on her cardigan. “It’s terribly handy having that little seat attached. Arthur got it for me for my birthday. If I find I’ve walked too far on one of my rambles, I can always stop and rest.” She laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t get down on the ground any longer, though. I’d never get up. Besides, the damp isn’t good for my lumbago.”
“I’ll bring drinks,” Mabel said. “Do we want something fizzy?”
“Yes,” they chorused.
“I’ll bring a bag of potatoes.” India rubbed her hands together. “There’s nothing like a potato baked over a bonfire to warm you up.”
Penelope was at a loss. “What can I bring?”
India put a hand on Penelope’s shoulder. “Nothing, dear. You come and enjoy your first Guy Fawkes Day celebration.”
The whole concept of Guy Fawkes Day seemed a bit gruesome to Penelope. Hanging the poor man in effigy every fifth of November? But she was willing to give it a try. The fireworks ought to be fun at least. India had promised they would be spectacular.
In the meantime, since the bookstore wasn’t busy, she would get some work done. She took her laptop into her reading room—a tiny space devoid of any distractions—and set it up on the table.
She’d check her e-mail first, she decided. It was a task she dreaded and often put off for far too long. There was always the possibility that amidst the spam and coupons from stores she didn’t visit and requests for political donations would be an e-mail from her editor, Bettina.
She scrolled through the latest arrivals quickly and was about to breathe a sigh of relief when she noticed the word manuscript in the subject line of one of them. She hovered her cursor over it and finally opened the e-mail.
Her first instinct was to close her eyes, but that was ridiculous. She reminded herself that her manuscript deadline was eons off, so surely Bettina couldn’t be badgering her for it already.
Darling Pen,
Sales and marketing are positively breathing down my neck asking me what your next manuscript is going to be about. Honestly, sometimes they can be impossible. Could you work up a teeny, tiny blurb so I can get them off my back?
Still enjoying England, by the way?
XXX Bettina
Penelope groaned. So far, she had only the haziest idea for a plot. Despite writing five pages of notes—single-spaced, mind you—she was no closer to a coherent plot than she had been when she started.
Bettina would have to wait, she decided. Her editor was quite formidable and more than capable of handling sales and marketing. She’d have them running screaming from her office inside of five minutes. And that would buy Penelope some time.
Penelope considered herself a “pantser” as opposed to a plotter. It was a word writers used to describe someone who sits down at the computer to write with only the vaguest idea of where the story is going to go. Plotters, on the other hand, outlined the story in advance. And it was at times like these that Penelope devoutly wished she was the latter.
She closed out of her e-mail and opened her word processing program. She pulled up a blank document and stared at it. What she needed was a first line to get her going. Unfortunately, it was the hardest line of all to come up with. It needed to be compelling, to draw the reader in and to set the scene. Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s famous opening line came to mind—It was a dark and stormy night.
Well, why not, she thought? She’d start with that to get the ball rolling and then during revision she’d hopefully come up with something stellar with which to open the book.
She flexed her fingers and put them on the keys. She knew her heroine, Luna, was destined for a job taking care of an elderly rich man and his son who lived in a sprawling mansion with an overgrown garden on the desolate moors somewhere in Scotland.
Whoa, she thought. Did Scotland even have moors? Wasn’t Heathcliff known for wandering the moors in his blackest moods and wasn’t Wuthering Heights set in Scotland? Penelope paused with her fingers on the keys. Was Wuthering Heights set in Scotland? She brought up her favorite search engine and looked it up.
Hmmm, it seemed that Wuthering Heights was set in Yorkshire, England, not Scotland. So much for that. Should she change the location of her story? She did another search and discovered that Scotland did, indeed, have moors. She breathed a sigh of relief and began to type.
She was surprised when she finally checked her watch to see that more than an hour had gone by. She was quite pleased with herself. She’d written five pages and was off to a good start. She saved her document, shut down her computer, and went to see what was happening in the shop.
Mabel was unboxing a carton of books at the front counter and nibbling on a piece of shortbread.
“Help yourself,” she said to Penelope. She gestured toward the plate of cookies.
Penelope bit into one and inhaled the heavenly aromas of butter and sugar. She found it amazing how so few ingredients could come together in such a delicious fashion.
Mabel slit the tape along the top of the carton and folded back the flaps. She pulled out a book and groaned.
“What’s the matter?” Penelope paused mid-chew.
Mabel sighed. “I hate these die-cut covers.” She held the book up for Penelope to see.
Penelope glanced at it. It showed a woman in a red coat from behind, glancing over her shoulder as she hurried toward a waiting subway train. The drops of blood that trailed behind her were die cut so that the red showed through.
“I think it’s quite striking.” She handed the book back to Mabel. “What don’t you like about it?”
“Oh, it’s striking all right.” Mabel ran a hand through her fluffy gray hair. “But they’re miserable to shelve. Inevitably, another book will snag the cutout and rip the cover. Our patrons don’t necessarily shelve our books with the same care that we do.” She blew a lock of hair off her forehead. “But it’s a bestseller, so perhaps they’ll go quickly before any of them get damaged.”
The door opened and Penelope looked toward it. She was surprised to see it was Clementine.
“Clementine,” Mabel said. “How can I help you?”
Clementine’s narrow face was pinched and white despite the cold. “I’m looking for a birthday gift for a dear friend. We’ve known each other since primary school. She always looked out for me. Children can be such bullies, you know.”
Penelope and Mabel murmured their assent. Penelope could remember being made fun of when she got her first pair of glasses and being called names like four-eyes. Her mother wasn’t at all pleased when she got in trouble for smacking a boy who’d been teasing her on the playground.
“Is your friend a he or a she?” Mabel said. “Do you have a sense of what they like to read?”
“Oh, it’s a woman. She’s quite fond of mysteries, I believe. But nothing terribly graphic, mind you. She’s rather sensitive.” Her hands fluttered in the air. “Aren’t we all, I suppose? I can barely stand the sight of blood myself. My parents had hoped I’d have a career in nursing like my mother and grandmother, but I’m afraid I didn’t have the stomach for it.”
“Perhaps a cozy mystery then?” Penelope suggested with a glance at Mabel.
Mabel nodded. “That would be perfect. A nice puzzle but without anything upsetting. Except the murder, of course,” she said dryly. She went over to the shelves, pulled out a book, and carried it up to the counter. “How about this? The Diva Runs Out of Thyme by Krista Davis. It’s terribly charming.”
Clementine gave a wan smile. “That’s perfect. Thank you.”
“Are you going to the bonfire and fireworks tonight?” Mabel said as she rang up the sale.
Clementine made a sad face. “I’m afraid not. I’ll be working.”
“Don’t you normally close by five o’clock?” Penelope said. Whenever she passed the Icing on the Cake on her way home, the lights were always already out.
Clementine gave an enormous sigh. “Yes, but I’ve decided to stay open later. I’m afraid of what’s going to happen when Foster opens his gourmet store with his fancy pastries being flown in from France.” She pursed her lips. “I’m going to need all the business I can get. A lot of the people who work in London don’t get off the train until six o’clock and by then I’m already closed. I’m hoping if I stay open later, they’ll pop in for some impulse purchases. Perhaps a nice lemon drizzle cake to take home for their tea or a dozen shortbread biscuits to share at the office.”
“Your window displays would tempt anyone,” Penelope said with a smile. “I know I’m always tempted.”
