Collectors, Cats & Murder Read online

  “You know as long as I’m with you, I’ll enjoy myself. Hold on. Just got a text about another article, so I’ve got to run. I love you, Leta Parker, and I can’t wait to see you.”

  I sat and smiled until Christie nudged my hand. “Hey, aren’t you forgetting something? Enough with Dave. What about pictures?”

  Dickens barked, “No. A walk first.”

  “We’ll walk first before it gets pitch dark, and we’ll take you too, Christie.” It appeared she agreed with that plan because she ran to the backpack I kept in the mudroom. A backpack she could ride in had been a big hit with my girl. Dickens and I didn’t take her every time we walked, especially in the colder months, but it was warmer today.

  I laid out the backpack, and Christie crawled in and turned around to poke her head out. With a leash for Dickens, carrots for the donkeys, and lightweight gloves and a canvas cloche for myself, I was ready. It was true that a hat kept the warmth in, plus I liked hats. Perhaps liked wasn’t a strong enough word. I wore them every chance I got.

  At a leisurely pace, we reached the pasture in twenty minutes. Martha and Dylan could be counted on to come running when they saw us, eager for their carrots. Dickens barked, Christie meowed, and I rubbed donkey noses.

  We picked up the pace going home. I had things to do, but only after our trip down memory lane. In my office, I pulled two photo albums from the bookshelf. We’d start with these, from the early days of my twenty-year marriage to Henry, and then move to the computer where the bulk of our photos were stored. Funny how we’d shifted from albums of sticky pages to Shutterfly albums created online to photos stored on the computer, nothing physical to hold—no pages to flip.

  Goodness. Was I ever really that young? With no silver in my hair? Except for that change, I tried to tell myself I looked much the same. All those years of bicycling with Henry coupled with yoga and working out at the gym had kept me relatively fit. I loved to eat and enjoyed my wine, so exercise was a necessity if I didn’t want to have the well-padded hips and thunder thighs we Greek girls tended to develop in midlife.

  Perched in my lap with her paws on the desk, Christie was quiet through the first book of photos, but when I moved to book two, she piped up. “Enough already. Where am I? Who are these other cats? And who is that giant dog?”

  “Little girl, this was before your time. Baggins and Moocher are in kitty heaven now.” Henry had named both cats, one for the character in The Hobbit and the other for a song—“Minnie the Moocher.”

  Dickens craned his head up and barked. “But the dog. Who’s the dog? He looks like Basil at Astonbury Manor.”

  “This is Banjo, the Pyr we had before you. He’s the reason I chose you, Dickens. He had the same personality you have, easy-going and happy-go-lucky—unlike someone else I could name.”

  That got a screech from Christie. “I heard that, and I know you’re talking about me! I have opinions, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “What does being snippy and demanding have to do with opinions?”

  She moved from my lap to the desktop, turned around, and stuck her nose in my face. “I am direct and assertive. Why should I make you guess what I think? I bet you didn’t have a successful career because you were mealy-mouthed, Leta Petkas Parker!”

  My feisty cat had me there. Being assertive wasn’t a trait I came by naturally, and she had no idea how hard I worked to develop it. Fortunately, I had several outstanding bosses who pushed me along.

  “You know, Christie, Henry used to accuse me of being ‘short’ with him, so maybe we’re similar in that regard. Of course, I told him that since I was only 5’ 2”, I came by that tendency naturally.”

  Dickens cocked his head. “You can’t help being short, Leta, can you? Like I can’t help being on the small side?”

  Dickens’s take on the word made me chuckle. His interpretations never failed to make me think how difficult it must be for non-English speakers to make sense of what we Americans said.

  Moving Christie out of the way, I worked my way through photos on the computer. Lots of vacation pics, plenty of them taken on cycling trips in France and Greece. Will I ever have a partner to do that with again? Dave wasn’t a cyclist, though he was fit enough. Oh well. Time would tell.

  I marveled at how Henry hadn’t seemed to change through the years, other than his hair turning grey. His was a life well-lived, and I was fortunate to live part of it with him.

  With that thought, I shifted to checking emails. My sisters Sophia and Anna, plus my friend Bev, had written to say they were thinking of me, knowing what day it was. Both Anna and Bev had sent pictures of their pets to cheer me up. Crunch and Munch, Anna’s cats, were snoozing in a large flower pot in her sunroom, one on either side of the trunk of the ficus tree. Bev shared a photo of her latest foster dog, a lab mix named Jumpin’ Jack, and explained he was aptly named.

  “Christie,” I exclaimed when I opened an email from the Jacquie Lawson ecard site. “Belle, Wendy, and Tigger sent a card with cats in it.” It was an animated card with cats delivering flowers, sent to let me know they were thinking of me. “Do you think Tigger picked it out?”

  “Don’t be silly, Leta. Tigger may be a handsome cat, but he’s not that bright.”

  Yup. She’s opinionated. “You’ve only seen pictures of Tigger on my phone, so how do you know whether he’s smart or not?”

  No answer was forthcoming. Finished with my email, I turned my attention to straightening, dusting, and vacuuming in preparation for Dave’s arrival in two days. Before I knew it, Monday would be here—Dave would be here.

  In my head, I suddenly heard Louis Armstrong singing “What a Wonderful World,” and I smiled. A wonderful life in a wonderful world. What a lucky gal I am.

  Chapter Four

  Does everyone sleep fitfully the night before a big event? I can’t be the only one. All through Sunday night and the wee hours of Monday, I rolled over to look at the alarm clock. It wasn’t that I needed to be up early or was in any danger of missing the buzzing of my alarm. Dave wouldn’t arrive at the Moreton-in-Marsh train station until noon at the earliest, and he’d promised to call when he boarded the train at Heathrow. I grinned. I’m excited. That’s all.

  And with good reason. I hadn’t seen Dave since early January. Three long months with nothing but phone calls and emails, and I’d no one to blame but myself. I had an open invitation to visit him in New York City but kept making excuses.

  After lengthy discussions with Wendy and my Atlanta friend Bev, I figured out I was afraid things had moved too quickly over Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was afraid the holiday season had artificially amplified our feelings, like the sparkling lights on a tree or a pretty package waiting to be unwrapped—afraid the romance was too good to be true.

  When did I turn into such a wimp? I thought. Finally, I decided it was Henry’s fault. I’d given up hope of finding true love, hadn’t even dated for over two years before I met my husband. And, bam, I was head over heels. I wasn’t convinced lightning could strike twice, nor was I sure I was ready for it.

  Looking back, I could see I’d buried my feelings so I didn’t have to acknowledge them. By the time I dug deep enough to uncover them, two months had passed. The odd thing was Dave understood what was going on long before I did. He didn’t have any doubts about the strength of our feelings for each other. When I used the dreaded words, “We need to talk,” it turned out he was relieved—not irritated or anxious.

  “Life is too short,” I said. “I may have moved to the Cotswolds on a whim, but deep down, I’m not a carpe diem kind of girl. I’ve worried myself sick over our relationship, and it isn’t fair to you that I haven’t shared my concerns.”

  A soft chuckle came across the line before he spoke. “And, what are your concerns, Leta?”

  I drew a deep breath and launched into my lightning strikes twice analogy. “I’ve realized this isn’t a fling for me.”

  “And you think maybe
it is for me?” His tone was calm but I sensed a hint of surprise, perhaps worry.

  “I don’t know what I think. Maybe I’m afraid of being hurt. I . . . I . . . oh hell, I love you!”

  He made me wait for it. “You know, if we were having this conversation in person, I’d gather you up in my arms, maybe even lift you off your feet and kiss you.” He paused. “But since I’m not there, I’ll just say . . . I love you too, Leta Parker.”

  And that was that. He hadn’t let up teasing me about my unromantic declaration of love, and I’d been signing my emails to him with “O-H, I love you!” ever since.

  As I stretched and rolled out of bed, I realized how stiff my legs were after Sunday’s cycling trip with Peter. It was the longest ride I’d taken since getting up the gumption to climb back on my bicycle after Henry’s accident, and I was proud of my accomplishment.

  “Leta, can’t you move any faster?” meowed Christie as she flew past me on the stairs. “I need my milk.” She was such a demanding little thing. Dickens, on the other hand, pranced by the door but didn’t chastise me. I let him out and turned to Christie.

  “Here you go. Now, let me start the coffee.” I wondered whether I had time to squeeze in a yoga class. That would loosen up my achy muscles. Let’s see. If I shower before the 9 am class, I can stop for tea at Toby’s Tearoom afterward and still have time to spare.

  I’d left the door cracked open for Dickens, and he ran in and checked Christie’s dish before barking his question. “Am I going with you to get Dave? I like Dave.”

  Christie stopped licking her paws long enough to complain. “Pfftt. Is it going to be this way the whole time he’s here? He’s nothing special, you know.”

  Dickens nudged her. “You sure thought his lap was special when he was here before.” And so it went, the ongoing debate between my furry friends as to Dave’s merits or lack thereof.

  “Yes, Dickens,” I said, “you’re riding with me to the train station. Christie, you can stay here and sulk.”

  I ate an apple before taking a quick shower. Yoga class didn’t require makeup, but on the off chance I wound up running late, I wanted to be prepared to dash home, pick up Dickens, and head to the train station. By 8:45, I was ready to attack the day.

  Rhiannon was setting out bolsters and blocks when I walked in the door, and Wendy was already seated cross-legged on her mat. My retired English teacher friend greeted me. “Today’s the big day. Are you ready?”

  “Yup. Everything’s done except for making the pastitsio. I decided on that and a Greek salad for dinner. That’s all easily thrown together later this afternoon while Dave is resting. He’s bound to be tired after his trip.”

  “Have you asked him about dinner out with me and Brian Tuesday or Wednesday night? I know Brian would like to see him. If that doesn’t work out, we can do it after Dave gets back from Scotland.” He planned to spend three to four days at the University of Edinburgh Library researching J.M. Barrie and several other authors for the book he was working on. Most documents were scanned and available online, but when he could, he preferred to conduct his research in person.

  “Not yet, but I’ll check with him. Maybe we can try one of the restaurants I found in Broadway when I was there with Ellie. And you? Are you ready for your trip to Cornwall?”

  “Yes! I’m so excited. I’ve been wanting to climb to Tintagel Castle, and I’m hoping the weather will cooperate. I haven’t been in years, and I understand there’s so much more to see now. The experts can debate whether King Arthur existed or not. I choose to believe he did. Who can resist believing in Camelot?”

  Wendy and I were of the same mind when it came to King Arthur. We’d read The Once and Future King, The Mists of Avalon, Morte D’Arthur, and more, and seen most of the movies. We agreed one of those books needed to be a book club selection soon.

  Several other students arrived, and Rhiannon shushed us and began class. Today’s session focused on standing poses, and my tired legs cramped up a few times, but the stretches at the end took care of that. People who think yoga is easy have no idea. I was more than ready for a muffin and a cup of coffee by then. Rhiannon often accompanied me and Wendy to Toby’s, but today she had a private session immediately after our class.

  As we walked up the High Street, I showed Wendy the text that had come in from Dave saying he’d caught the train at 9:30. Toby greeted us with a wave, and we found a table near the window. Wendy and I split a lemon muffin. Something else we two had in common besides our love of shopping and books was that we were vigilant about what we ate.

  Wendy stretched her legs out and sighed. “Do you think we’ll ever get to the point where we eat what we want and stop worrying about getting plump?”

  I almost choked. “Are you a mind reader? I was thinking much the same thing. Every year, it’s a bigger struggle to lose my winter weight. As short as we both are, a few pounds this year, another few the next, and we’d be little butterballs in no time. Thank goodness we walk and take yoga. And thank goodness for your brother Peter getting me out on my bicycle.”

  Wendy frowned. “I jokingly said something to Brian about having to skip dessert, and he said I could try skipping the wine. I was flabbergasted.”

  Uh-oh. This is tricky territory. “And what did you say to that suggestion?”

  “I sat up tall—well, as tall as I can—and shot back, ‘If you think I drink too much, please just say so.’ That set him back on his heels. He hemmed and hawed and said that wasn’t what he meant. Still, I was none too happy about his comment.”

  I found Brian Burton to be overbearing and had to work darned hard not to let on to Wendy that I didn’t much care for him. Peter had expressed similar misgivings to me, but we were both smart enough not to say any of that to Wendy. She had to figure it out for herself . . . or not.

  DCI Burton had transferred to the Gloucestershire Police force in December and was Gemma’s new boss. Wendy, Belle, and I met him during a murder investigation, and he and I had gotten off to a rocky start when he chewed me out for interfering. Though he subsequently apologized, his arrogance and his display of temper made me wary.

  Wendy had hit it off right away with the man she described as a silver fox, and I had to admit he was good looking. Until now, I hadn’t heard any hint of discord in their relationship. I tried to lighten the mood. “Perhaps a woman with a mind of her own is a new experience for him. Don’t you need a strong, handsome man to take care of you?” I paused before I added, “Little lady?”

  Wendy spluttered and began to cough. “Good thing you're my best friend. Them’s fighting words!” I was always taken aback when she came out with sayings like that and had to remind myself that she’d been born in Astonbury but had lived in North Carolina most of her adult life.

  “Seriously, though, that’s not the first time he’s been critical of something I did or said. I nip it in the bud every time, but if he doesn’t take the hint soon, a heart to heart will be next. I’m not even sure he realizes he does it.”

  “Poor man. Is he going to hear those dreaded words, ‘We need to talk?’” I doubted Brian would enjoy his need to talk discussion as much as Dave had enjoyed his.

  We were both giggling by now, and I realized I’d almost lost track of the time. “Listen, I’ve got to pick up Dickens before I go to Moreton-in-Marsh, so I’d best run. I’ll let you know about dinner this week, okay?”

  Dickens was inspecting the grassy area bordering the parking lot at the train station when I heard Dave call my name. “Look, Dickens. He’s here.”

  He barked a greeting. “Dave, here we come.” I pulled up hard on the leash to remind my boy who was in charge. He wasn’t as large or as strong as full-size Pyr, but it was hard to keep his forty pounds from jerking me off balance.

  Dave had a computer bag over his shoulder and a duffel bag in each hand, but he dropped the duffels and held his arms wide as I approached. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, you and Dickens both.”

  Movin
g into his embrace, I put my lips to his ear and whispered, “Oh hell, I love you.”

  He looked down at me and laughed.

  Dickens, meanwhile, pranced around doing his best to tangle us in his leash. “Dickens, settle down. Let Dave breathe.”

  At the car, I secured Dickens’s harness and Dave tossed his bags in the trunk before pulling me into another hug. “I love you, Leta Parker. I know, I know, now you’re worried it’s all about absence making the heart grow fonder. What if it does? I still love you!”

  What could I do but grin? “How do you feel about lunch at The Hive in Stow-on-the-Wold? You must be starving.”

  “Isn’t that the place where we shared the charcuterie board last time? That plus a pint will make a new man of me.”

  “Or one ready for a nap! Look at Dickens. He’s already drooling at the thought of getting a handout from you.” I glanced in the back seat. Dickens looked beyond excited. Dave plus a restaurant were a perfect combination.

  Though I regularly updated him about Astonbury happenings and my activities with my friends, Dave inquired about everyone as we enjoyed our lunch. He’d hit it off especially well with Peter, perhaps because they were both single. Neither of them had ever been married, though unlike Peter, Dave had at least been in a long-term relationship once. Peter briefly had an Astonbury girlfriend, but it hadn’t ended well.

  I asked about an evening with Wendy and her DCI, as I thought of Brian Burton. “I’d like for us to spend more time in Broadway this trip, maybe climb Broadway Tower too. It’s filled with World War Two history, and it has a view to die for. If we have dinner with Wendy and Brian at one of the restaurants, we can go early and explore the village.”

  “Whatever you want to do is fine by me, Leta. I’m all yours until the festival. I want to take full advantage of the speakers Saturday and Sunday after I’ve given my presentation on Friday. Naturally, I’m looking forward to hearing Gilbert’s take on The Sherlockian Thursday at the Book Nook and then his talk at the festival about the various Sherlock societies and collections. Have you read much Graham Greene? He lived in Chipping Camden briefly, and one of his biographers is speaking Sunday. I’d love to squeeze that in too.”