Clementine ducked her head. “Thank you. That’s most kind of you. But I’m afraid my wares are rather pedestrian when compared to macarons and gâteau St. Honoré.”

  “I’ve never been disappointed in anything I’ve purchased from your shop.” Mabel leaned her elbows on the counter. “I’m curious. It’s obvious you didn’t vote to approve Foster’s proposal. I wonder who did?”

  Clementine looked slightly taken aback. “Why anyone would want that man’s shop in this town, I don’t know. It’s going to put us all out of business.”

  “I wonder what it would take to stop him?” Penelope said.

  Mabel rolled her eyes. “I know his type. Probably nothing short of murder.”

  FIVE

  It’s five o’clock,” Mabel announced as she bustled to the door, closing it behind the last departing customers, their chattering voices slowly fading into the night air. She flipped the sign on the door from Open to Closed and pulled down the shade.

  “I think I’ve got everything.” Figgy put the basket she was carrying on the counter. “I have the tin of parkin, the toffee, cups, and a thermos of nice, hot tea.”

  “Bundle up,” Mabel said as she pulled on her coat. “It’s cold out there tonight.”

  Penelope grabbed her jacket, put it on, and wound her scarf around her neck. She stuck her hands in her pockets, reassured to find that she hadn’t forgotten her gloves. She pulled her hat from her tote bag and yanked it on as well, tucking her hair behind her ears.

  Figgy was wearing a purple fake-fur jacket that looked as if it were on the lam from the nineteen seventies and a bright red newsboy cap. She circled in front of Penelope and Mabel.

  “How do you like my vintage finds? I found them at the church jumble sale.”

  “They’re very . . . you,” Mabel said and smiled kindly.

  Figgy picked up her basket. “I suppose we should be going. We don’t want to keep Laurence and India waiting. It’s too cold tonight to stand around outside. There will be fires to keep us warm at the fireworks.”

  Penelope began to shiver as soon as she stepped out into the brisk night air. Mabel flipped off the lights, locked the door, and together they all headed down the high street.

  People streamed down the sidewalk, all going in the same direction. The children ran ahead excitedly and then stopped to wait for their parents to catch up, their animated voices rising and falling as they got closer to their destination.

  The bonfires were going to be lit in an empty field just beyond the town center, and Worthington was paying for the fireworks display, which he did every Guy Fawkes Day.

  Penelope was grateful that Americans celebrated with fireworks on the Fourth of July, when it was at least warm.

  They passed the Icing on the Cake and Pen glanced in the window, but the display was empty and the lights were out.

  They were about to cross the street when Penelope caught her toe on an uneven cobblestone and nearly pitched forward but was saved by Mabel grabbing her arm. She would have landed flat on her face if it hadn’t been for Mabel’s quick response.

  “Steady on,” Mabel said, making sure Penelope was standing firmly on both her feet before letting go of her arm.

  Penelope took a deep breath. Her heart was beating wildly and she could feel the blood pulsing in her temples.

  “Are you okay?” Figgy said.

  Mabel looked concerned. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “I’m fine,” Pen reassured them. “At least physically. My dignity, on the other hand, is a bit bruised.” She motioned toward the Jolly Good Grub across the street. “Let’s go.”

  They were about to step off the curb when an Aston Martin came whipping down the road.

  Penelope gasped. “Who was that?” she said, turning to watch as the car continued roaring down the high street.

  “Our very own Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke. I can see that marriage and a baby haven’t completely settled him down.” Mabel shook her head. “One of these days he’s going to kill himself or someone else. I imagine he’s bound for the Book and Bottle. He probably wants to get in a pint or two before the fireworks start.”

  Penelope’s heart was beating rapidly again, and her hands were clammy inside her gloves.

  “That was a close call,” Mabel said. “If you’d fallen, we would have ended up spending the evening in the A&E instead of at the fireworks.”

  The road now clear, they crossed over to the other side and the Jolly Good Grub where Brimble was waiting outside, his nose and cheeks red from the cold. He had a blanket tucked under one arm and a metal pail with a grocery bag in it in the other.

  “I took the opportunity to pop into the Jolly Good Grub for some meats and cheeses and a box of water biscuits,” he said, holding the pail out. “It’s what the French call charcuterie.”

  Penelope glanced at it curiously. “What is the pail for?”

  Brimble cleared his throat. “To roast the potatoes in. I’ll find a bonfire that is dying down and place the pail amidst the embers. Have you ever had a potato roasted over a fire?”

  Penelope shook her head. “No.”

  “There’s nothing like it.” Brimble put down the pail and stroked his mustache. “We used to go camping in North Yorkshire when I was a young lad. I loved cooking over the campfire—mother would even whip up a full English breakfast in the morning.”

  Brimble fell silent, his eyes taking on a faraway look.

  Mabel smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Now the only thing is to wait for India to arrive.”

  Penelope glanced through the window of the Jolly Good Grub. The interior looked warm and cozy, flooded with light and with a colorful display of boxes of Sultan’s Turkish Delight near the door. A line of customers snaked back from the cashier’s desk, where a clerk with white hair was ringing up their purchases.

  A taxi veered toward the curb, and they all took a step back. The door opened and India struggled to get out. Her shooting stick was briefly stuck, but with Brimble’s help, it was finally freed, and India was safely ensconced on the sidewalk.

  “I hope I’m not late.” She looked around her. “I’ve got the potatoes.” She held out a bag. “All nicely wrapped in foil.”

  She was bundled into a black wool coat that smelled faintly of mothballs and a hand-knitted wool cap with earflaps and strings that hung down on either side of her head like braids.

  “Shall we go?” Mabel said. “It looks as if the celebration is starting.” She pointed into the distance, where a thin plume of smoke was rising into the sky.

  Brimble carried India’s shooting stick while Penelope took the bag of potatoes, and they began to walk toward where the crowd had gathered.

  As they were approaching the field where the festivities were being held, a young boy with bright red hair rushed past them. He was pushing a straw Guy Fawkes dummy in a rather dilapidated baby stroller.

  “A penny for the Guy,” he called out as he maneuvered past them.

  Brimble reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and handed it to him.

  “Ta!” the boy said as he scooted away, bumping his stroller over the uneven pavement.

  Suddenly Penelope stopped short and Figgy bumped into her.

  “Look,” she said, pointing toward the field where bright orange flames were shooting into the sky.

  “Oooh,” Figgy exclaimed. “It looks as if things are starting up.”

  “Or heating up,” Brimble said with a self-deprecating chuckle.

  They felt the heat of the bonfires as they got closer to the field. Fortunately, the wind was blowing the smoke away from the crowd, which had increased in size, with people positioning themselves farther and farther back from the flames.

  Some of the fires that had been lit earlier were already dying down, their embers glowing brightly in the dark, while others were just beginning to catch, the wood crackling and spitting as the flames leaped higher and higher, orange red against the dark sky.

  Penelope noticed Constable Cuthbert and several of his colleagues circulating among the crowd, keeping order, although so far, everyone was very well-mannered.

  Suddenly, India grabbed Penelope’s arm. “Look who’s here.”

  Penelope looked in the direction of India’s pointing finger and saw Foster making his way through the crowd.

  “It’s awfully bold of him, showing his face here.” Brimble frowned.

  India agreed. “The nerve of the man.”

  “I don’t suppose he can hide forever.” Penelope tripped over a tuft of grass and Brimble took her arm to steady her. “He’s going to be operating a store here, after all.”

  “I hope we find a good spot,” India said, nervously fingering her pearls. “It’s getting dreadfully crowded.”

  “There’s still plenty of room,” Brimble reassured her. “And we’ll be able to see the fireworks from anywhere.”

  “There’s Gladys,” Figgy said, waving.

  A fair crowd had gathered around the folding table Gladys had set up, waiting to buy one of her famous meat pasties. She was pulling the foil-wrapped hand pies from an insulated cooler as fast as she could and distributing them to the outheld hands. Her forehead was sweaty and there was a strand of hair stuck to it.

  Brimble led the way through the mass of people until he found an open spot large enough to spread out their blanket.

  They all plopped down on it except for India, who set up her shooting stick and perched on the seat. Figgy pulled the thermos from her bag and handed out hot cups of tea. Penelope wrapped her hands around hers gratefully. Despite the heat emanating from the bonfires, it was still a chilly night.

  “A spot of tea is just the ticket,” Brimble said as he accepted the cup from Figgy.

  Penelope sipped her tea and watched, mesmerized, as the flames of the bonfires reached higher and higher into the sky. A dummy was thrown into one of them, where it immediately caught fire. The dummy looked so real that Penelope looked away. She found the sight rather gruesome.

  “I’ll go bake the potatoes, shall I?” Brimble said, dumping India’s bag of potatoes into the pail. “It looks as if some of the fires that were set earlier are burning down, so now is the perfect time.” He got up with a groan and brushed off the seat of his pants. “Not quite as limber as I used to be.” He smiled apologetically.

  “The fireworks should be starting soon,” Mabel said as they waited for Brimble to come back.

  He wasn’t long and returned shortly with a pail of roasted potatoes.

  “That was quick,” Mabel said.

  Brimble winked at her. “I employed a bit of a trick. I microwaved the potatoes first so all I had to do was crisp them up over the fire. It doesn’t take long.”

  “Very clever of you.” Mabel smiled at him.

  Penelope reached for a potato and held it in her hand for a few moments, enjoying the warmth. The temperature had dropped further and most of the fires were dying down to glowing embers and ash.

  After they had finished their potatoes, Figgy doled out pieces of parkin and toffee.

  Penelope finished hers and then gathered the discarded pieces of foil that the potatoes had been wrapped in.

  “I’ll go throw these away. I thought I saw a garbage can nearby.”

  She crumpled the pieces of foil into a ball, got to her feet, and headed toward where she’d last seen a trash bin.

  As she walked back to the blanket, the fireworks began—thunderous booms that shook the ground, followed by brilliantly colored starbursts streaking across the sky and ending with oohs and aahs from the crowd. As soon as the bits of color floated to the ground, there was a whoosh and another firecracker was launched.

  Penelope slowly walked backward, staring up at the sky. Suddenly her foot struck something soft and slightly yielding. Had she bumped into someone? She was about to apologize when she looked down.

  She gave a sigh of relief. It was only a Guy Fawkes dummy waiting to be thrown on the fire. She was about to walk away when something made her turn around. She bent down to look at the dummy more closely.

  And then she began to scream. But her screams were drowned out by the fireworks bursting in the sky above her.

  SIX

  The man’s body was lying partially on its side and he appeared to be dead, but Penelope wasn’t sure. Perhaps he was simply drunk and had passed out? She knelt down to feel for a pulse and, as she did so, the body rolled onto its back.

  Penelope gasped. It was Simeon Foster and he was definitely dead. She felt his neck and his wrist and could not find a pulse. For a moment she wasn’t sure what to do and just knelt there and stared at the body. Finally, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed 999.

  She told the dispatcher, whose voice remained remarkably calm although Penelope’s was shaking, about the body and her approximate location in the crowd. He assured her that one of the constables would be there immediately.

  Penelope looked around her. Foster’s body was lying half on and half off a rough wool blanket. He appeared to have been alone. A thermos was lying on its side with a lone mug next to it. There was a takeaway box from Kebabs and Curries, a packet of chocolate-covered Jaffa cakes, and a small box of candy from the Sweet Tooth with half the chocolates missing. It certainly looked as if Foster had had a sweet tooth, Penelope thought.

  She forced herself to look at Foster’s body again. Perhaps he’d had a heart attack? She looked around at the people sitting near him but they were all looking up at the sky, oblivious to the body within arm’s reach.

  Penelope was relieved when she noticed the tall conical hat of a police constable above the heads of the crowd. As Penelope made her way toward him, he continued to speak into his radio. She motioned for him to follow her and when they made it back to Foster’s blanket, a wave of relief hit her so hard she sat down with a thump, fighting the tears that were pricking the backs of her eyelids. She didn’t know why she felt like crying. She hadn’t liked Foster. Not that she’d known him, really, but his demeanor at the town council meeting had put her off—he’d come across as arrogant and self-centered.

  Penelope was relieved they hadn’t sent Constable Cuthbert, but a younger man with straight dark hair sticking out the back of his hat. Constable Cuthbert and Penelope had met on several occasions before under trying circumstances. She couldn’t imagine what he’d think if he found her with yet another dead body.

  At least this death looked natural, Penelope thought as she got to her feet.

  “What do we have here?” The constable knelt beside the body and checked for a pulse, much as Penelope had done. He shook his head as he stood up. “He’s gone, I’m afraid.” He looked around at the crowd. “An ambulance is on the way. So is Detective Maguire.”

  Penelope’s heartbeat sped up a bit at the mention of Maguire’s name. They had been going out together for several months and the relationship was blossoming nicely. Penelope had begun to harbor hopes that it would turn into something even more serious.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Penelope noticed two men pushing a gurney in their direction. Maguire was right behind the ambulance crew, breaking into a jog to catch up. He overtook them as they bumped the unwieldy gurney over the uneven ground.

  “Penelope,” Maguire said when he arrived at the scene, slightly breathless. “Are you okay?” He touched her arm lightly.

  “I’m fine,” Penelope said. And she did feel fine now that Maguire was there. She felt her shoulders drop and her neck relax.

  Maguire was a hair taller than Penelope’s nearly six feet and, while he wasn’t exactly handsome, his face was open and honest and very pleasant. He was wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket with a knitted scarf around his neck.

  Maguire held up a hand to stop the ambulance crew as they parked the gurney and moved toward Foster’s body. He squatted beside the body and looked it over.

  “No sign of any wounds,” he murmured to himself. “No blood either.” He frowned. “His lips are terribly blue. His hands as well.” He stood up. “I’ve seen that in heart attack victims. Still, we can’t be too careful. The medical examiner is on the way.

  “Excuse me.” Maguire went over to a couple and their two children whose blanket was a foot or two from Foster’s. The woman was clutching the hands of two little boys and looked as if she was trying to shield them from the view of the body while her partner gathered their things together.

  She gave the boys a shove and said, “Go help your father pack up.”

  They both looked reluctant to leave and were staring at the body, wide-eyed. The woman shooed them along with her hands on their backs and turned to face Maguire.

  “Are you a policeman?” she said, her arms crossed over her chest.

  “DCI Brody Maguire.” Maguire pulled out his badge and showed it to her. She grunted in satisfaction.

  Maguire pointed toward the body. “Did you happen to notice anything unusual about this man? Did he seem ill?”

  “I wouldn’t know, would I? Not with two boys to look after and the fireworks going on.”

  Maguire nodded. “How about your husband. Might he have seen something?”

  The woman turned and yelled, “Al, Come here. This policeman wants to talk to you.”

  The man looked up from the backpack into which he was shoving half-empty packages of Tunnock’s Tea Cakes and Mr. Porky Scratchings.

  He walked over to Maguire with a bag of Wotsits corn puffs in his hand. “What can I do for you?” He was wearing jeans and a plaid flannel shirt and was in need of a shave.

  Maguire pointed toward Foster’s body. “Did you happen to notice anything unusual? Did he complain of feeling ill or anything?”

  The fellow shrugged. “He didn’t say anything in particular. Just asked us to keep the boys away from his blanket. You know how kids are. Curious.” He scratched his chin. “He did look kind of pale, come to think of it. And he was staggering a bit. As if he’d had a few too many down at the pub, you know what I mean?”

 

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