Bells, Tails, & Murder Page 7

  “Oh yes, I’ve saved them all. I don’t read them much anymore, but I’ve kept them,” said Belle.

  “Wow. Has anyone ever approached you about buying them? They’d be a major asset at any of the universities that house Barrie collections,” said Dave. “Is it possible for me to see them?”

  “Not today, young man. As much as I’ve enjoyed reminiscing with you, it’s past time for my nap. Besides, I keep my mum’s letters tied with a lace ribbon and tucked away in a special box. I’d have to get Wendy to get the box down for me.”

  I knew Belle rested daily, but it wasn’t quite time yet, and I sensed something else in her dismissal of Dave. Dave was effusive in his thanks. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed your story. Thanks to you both for inviting me,” he said as he turned from Belle to Wendy.

  “Well, thank you for listening. I must admit,” said Belle, “I do love an appreciative audience. As of late, Alice was the only person who’d listen to me prattle on. There’s something about sitting in the kitchen with a pot of tea that leads to reminiscing, don’t you think?”

  “Alice?” asked Dave. “From The Olde Mill Inn? The one who died?”

  “Yes,” said Wendy, “the woman who served all that delicious food at the party. And she made it all, too. She was the housekeeper for many of us—Leta, Beatrix from the bookshop, me and Mum. She really was a treasure.”

  Dave looked somber and a little uncomfortable. He told us all he was sorry for our loss and said goodbye.

  “Gee, Belle, I can’t believe I’ve been here for months and am only now hearing your story,” I said. “Does everybody in Astonbury know about this?”

  Belle laughed and said, “Unless they’re newbies like you, they know. For those who were born and raised here, it’s just part of the local lore and not anything special. Frankly, I get a bit put out with folks like Dave Prentiss who seem a little overly curious. I mean, what makes him think I’d share my mum’s personal letters with him?”

  Wendy stuck her head in the door and said, “I heard him ask you, Mum, and I couldn’t believe it. Up until then, he’d been attentive and polite, but I thought that was quite forward of him.”

  Funny, I hadn’t thought a thing about his request. “Now, now, ladies, you’re not going to start in with stereotypes like ‘Americans are brash and rude and all that,’ are you? I don’t think he meant to be insulting. Is he the first person to ask, or have there been others?”

  “I can’t recall anyone ever asking for the letters,” said Belle. “Younger villagers sometimes ask if it’s true that Uncle Jim gave my mum this cottage, but that’s about it. They hear the story from their grandparents or parents and think it’s all made up, you know.”

  “I can see where they’d see it as some kind of exaggerated tale, but it sure is a heartwarming story,” I said.

  “Oh, and that nice George Evans sat with me one day to take notes about the tales I’d heard from my mum about Stanway House, Uncle Jim, and the other authors. I hear George does a nice job entertaining the tourists with the highlights.”

  I laughed. “Well, Henry and I certainly enjoyed George’s tour. I’m glad you helped him out. Now, Belle, I know you want to get to your nap, but do you two have time for me to share what I learned this morning in the village? After that, I’ll be ready for a nap too.”

  Belle and Wendy were eager to hear my news, so I outlined my impressions from speaking with Rhiannon, Toby, and Beatrix. We were now convinced that Toby was the White Knight and that he and Rhiannon were the ones having an affair. What we couldn’t figure out was what the pilfered items like my figurine had to do with things like photos and notes.

  I thought we needed to see what Libby had to say, since Alice had spent more time at The Olde Mill Inn than anywhere else, and Wendy was chomping at the bit to speak with her twin about his relationship with her. She was flabbergasted that she hadn’t known a thing about it, and also a bit hurt, I thought. I got her to agree to hold off, as I was concerned they’d wind up having an argument instead of a productive conversation.

  We agreed I’d find a way to tackle Libby, and Wendy would spend her time trying to see whether anything was missing from Sunshine Cottage. The little cottage was packed to the gills, so that would be no easy task.

  “Okay, Detective Dickens,” I said as I drove us home, “What did you discover while we listened to Belle’s story?”

  “Hmmm. Tigger is sad. He understands Alice isn’t coming back and feels safe with Belle and Wendy, but he’s grieving. I think it will take him a while to get back to normal.”

  “Why did he bolt from Belle’s lap when Dave came in?”

  “Well, Tigger isn’t sure. He said a bad feeling came over him, but he thinks it’s because he has a thing about men after whoever ransacked Alice’s flat scared him half to death.”

  “Could be,” I said. “How ‘bout we go home and give Libby a call? Maybe we can see her this afternoon.”

  I was pulling into my gravel drive when the phone rang. It was my sister Anna, who was none too pleased with me. “Who are you and what have you done with my big sister? What on earth is going on over there? My cautious, risk-averse big sister moves to a picture-perfect English village and suddenly gets involved in a murder? A murder?”

  “Now, now, you make it sound like I’m sneaking around alleyways with a gun drawn. I went out for a nice walk—”

  “And you found a body, and then you went to the victim’s house? Are you nuts?”

  “Does it make you feel any better to hear that Wendy and Belle and Dickens were with me? I mean Belle is close to ninety, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Then I think you’re all crazy. Please tell me you’ve come to your senses after a good night’s sleep.”

  “We’re only asking a few innocent questions here and there, no big deal.”

  “You need to get this out of your system and run—don’t walk—to the nearest police station. Tell that Gemma girl what you think you know and let her handle it.”

  “So nice to hear from you, Anna, and how have you been?” I said sweetly.

  “Okay, if we’re going to play that game, then tell me how my niece and nephew are doing,” she said. “Let me guess, Dickens is good and Christie is paying you back for mistreating her, right?” Anna knew how it was because she had five cats and a Great Dane—and a husband. I always added that last bit when describing her to folks who didn’t know her, lest they think she was a crazy cat lady.

  “You guessed it,” I said. “She takes it in spells, but she’s settling in. Dickens even got to go to a cocktail party.”

  “Typical.” Anna laughed. “And beyond getting involved in a murder case, how’s my big sis doing? Have you got the cottage just the way you want it? Or is there some retail therapy in your future?”

  “You know me too well,” I said. “But the big things are mostly done. That means I can take my time and shop at flea markets and pottery shops for just the right accent items. Oh, and garden shops too. You know how Henry used to tease me about my need for yard art. I’m visiting Oxford this week, and I’m sure to find something I can’t live without.”

  Anna chuckled at that. Though my youngest sister despised shopping for clothes—a trait I found quite bizarre—she did enjoy decorating her Atlanta home and her vacation home on the coast of Georgia. She and I had spent many an enjoyable day searching for the perfect lamp or quintessential seaside painting, and occasionally I managed to drag her into a clothing shop along the way.

  “Gee, you sound almost like my real big sister. I suggest you go to Oxford now and make a week of it. Maybe that would keep you out of trouble.”

  “Enough. I’m glad you called, but I’ve got to run. I’ll give you a holler this week. Say hello to Andrew. Love you.”

  As I was finishing off the leftover Greek salad, Christie came in the kitchen and stretched. “Where’ve you two been?” she meowed.

  “Doing important detective work,” said Dickens. “And you? I bet yo
u’ve been napping the whole time we were gone, right?”

  “Well, yes, a girl’s got to get her beauty sleep,” she meowed.

  I was smiling at their discussion when the phone rang. It was Toby asking if I’d be up for an early dinner at the Ploughman Pub. This was a first, and if my curiosity hadn’t gotten the better of me, I might have begged off. Maybe this was my chance to get the scoop on what was going on with him and Rhiannon.

  I’d postpone calling Libby until later tonight and try to get by the inn tomorrow. I chuckled and pictured Nancy Drew as I imagined needing a sleuthing calendar to keep my appointments straight—except, I reminded myself, this was no laughing matter.

  “That sounds nice,” I said. “It’s time Dickens got to see the inside of a pub. And he’ll get a special kick out of this one because of the dog beds scattered around. You know, in the States, dogs can sit on the patios at restaurants and bars, but not inside.” I told him I’d walk there with Dickens, and he offered to drive us home afterward. Maybe by then, I’d have answers to some of my questions.

  Chapter Six

  I was happy to have some time to myself, and I stretched out on the couch with my new Louise Penny book. As engrossing as it was, I couldn’t keep my eyes open and, with Christie tucked against my side and Dickens on the rug, I took a short nap. I do love a good nap.

  When the school bell clanged, I jerked awake and Christie took flight. The bell was attached to the left of the front door, and my next-door neighbor Timmy liked nothing better than to clamber onto the stone bench beneath it and grab the rope pull. The four-year-old had been eagerly anticipating the arrival of my pets, and I was sure he’d badgered his mum to let him visit.

  “Well, hello, Timmy,” I said as I opened the front door with Dickens at my side.

  Timmy jumped down from the bench and laughed at Dickens. “He’s my size,” he said. “Can I pet him?”

  “Yes, and he’d love a hug too.”

  As Timmy giggled and threw his arms around his neck, Dickens sat still and asked, “Who’s this little fella?”

  “Dickens, meet my neighbor Timmy Watson. He’s heard all about you and wants to be your friend.”

  I invited Timmy to join us in the sitting room, hoping Christie might come out, but no such luck. She’d have to get used to the ringing of the school bell. Fortunately for my feline friend, tow-headed Timmy was the only one to use it. When I heard a knock at the door, I knew it was Timmy’s mum come to take him home.

  “Come in, Deborah,” I said. “Meet Dickens. I think he and Timmy are going to be great friends.”

  Deborah exclaimed over the petite proportions of Dickens and his calm demeanor. “He’s the perfect dog for Timmy. So many of the pups around here are either tiny terrors or intimidating giants.” As Dickens rolled over, she reached down to give him a belly rub, and Timmy grabbed a handful of long white fur. Deborah was impressed that Dickens didn’t flinch. “Yes, a perfect pup,” she said.

  “Hey, I like her. Imagine realizing right away that I’m perfect,” barked Dickens.

  “Well, not totally perfect. He has a tendency to bark, so I hope you’ll let me know if it gets to be too much. My sister says her dog barks at everything—walkers, birds, squirrels, an ant crawling on a blade of grass—you get the picture. Well, that’s Dickens to a tee. Sometimes I see what he’s barking at. Other times? Let’s just say he sees things I don’t.”

  Deborah laughed. “I see, but if you can take Timmy ringing the school bell, I think we can deal with a bit of barking. When John’s free, I’ll bring him by to be properly introduced to the new four-legged neighbors. For some reason, weekend dental emergencies have been the norm for the past month, and he never seems to get a break.”

  John Watson was the local dentist, and we were all very happy to have him conveniently located in Astonbury. As soon as Timmy and Deborah left, Christie padded down the stairs. “What was that godawful noise?” she screeched.

  “A school bell that hangs by the front door. It was left behind when the school closed. I especially like the bench below it with its carving of an open book and the inscription that reads ‘In Memory of Miss Peters.’ I’ve been told she was a favorite schoolmistress.”

  Christie jumped in my lap and looked me in the eyes. “That thing has got to go. I’m pretty sure I lost one of my nine lives when it rang.”

  “Well, aren’t you demanding?” I said. “The bell isn’t going anywhere.”

  Dickens gave his sister an affectionate pat with his paw. “Get over it. I like the bell, and I like Timmy.”

  “Harrumph,” was all Christie had to say.

  As I was brewing a cup of tea, the phone rang. “Hello, sistah,” said my sister Sophia. “Now tell me true, did you find a body or was your message some kind of elaborate joke?”

  I never knew which one of Sophia’s personas would greet me when I picked up the phone. Sometimes she took on a British accent. Sometimes it was pure New Orleans. Other times, she spoke like a Brooklyn native, and she had more in her repertoire. She’d been entertaining us with her various accents ever since she’d studied drama in college. Today, she’d greeted me with her New Orleans version of sister, but there was no telling where she’d end up. She often shifted personas in a brief conversation.

  “Oh, I found a body, alright.”

  Now it was her upper crust persona that emerged. “Well, I do hope you aren’t getting unduly distressed.”

  I laughed. “Right, Sophia, like you wouldn’t be unduly distressed if you stumbled upon a dead body—the body of someone you knew. I’d say I’m pretty darned calm considering the circumstances.”

  “Well, Jeremy says you should let the authorities handle this unpleasantness and stay out of it. He is, however, prepared to fly over should you need him.” Jeremy was Lisa’s very proper British husband and always the voice of reason. As the CEO of an insurance firm in New Orleans, he was good at crisis management.

  “Please tell him I appreciate his concern, but I’ll be fine. Besides, aren’t you two off to Italy next week?”

  “Yes, we’ve rented our usual villa in Tuscany, and Jeremy is especially looking forward to leaving work behind for a few weeks. Still, we’ll both come if you need us.”

  “No, no. Enjoy your trip and don’t worry about me. I know I’ll get to see you both when Jeremy takes his next business trip to London. By then, I’ll probably have a tale to tell about the unpleasantness in Astonbury.”

  “Okay then. I’ll let you know our London schedule once it’s firmed up. Ta-ta.” Had it been an email, she would have signed off TTFN.

  I chuckled as I reflected on how different yet true to form my sisters’ reactions had been. We three may have looked alike, but our personalities were quite distinct.

  I hurried to change into jeans, walking shoes, and a purple sweater, or jumper, as my neighbors say. I suppose I’m destined to be labeled a newbie, at least until I can start using the proper terms for my apparel, I thought. As I grabbed his leash and my new hat, Dickens gave me a questioning look.

  “That’s not a ball cap,” he said. “I mean, I guess it’s a hat, but what is it?”

  “You’ll get used to it. It’s called a cloche, and I found it at the Mad Hatter in Burford. It’s one of my favorite shops because it’s a combo hat shop and book shop. What more could a girl ask for?”

  “As long as it goes with a walk, it works for me,” he barked. “Where are we going tonight?”

  I explained he was getting to meet a new friend at a new place, and we set off. The weather had turned cooler, and I was glad I’d thrown on a jacket and worn my new wool hat.

  Toby was already seated near one of the several fireplaces when we arrived, and there was an available dog bed by the hearth for Dickens. He made a fuss over Dickens’s thick coat of long white hair and his diminutive size as compared to full-grown Pyrs and then went to the bar to get us ciders. I was never sure about all the beer choices, but I’d grown to like cider.

  �
��Wow, Leta,” said Dickens. “Dog beds? How cool is this?”

  “I knew you’d like that,” I said as thought back to when I’d been house hunting and first met Toby at one of Libby’s cocktail parties. There was something special about him, and we’d hit it off right away. Realizing I was in the process of making a major life change, he was eager to tell me his story—how he’d walked away from a successful career in advertising to get back to his roots, as he called it.

  He’d grown up working in his parents' small grocery in Cornwall before going to university and longed to return to a simpler way of life where he’d know his customers and his neighbors. He’d made that dream come true in Astonbury.

  “I just couldn’t face trying to throw something together for dinner after being run ragged all day,” said Toby as we sipped our drinks. “Even for a Sunday, the crowds were amazing.”

  “I know how hard it is to get excited about fixing dinner for one,” I said. “I don’t starve, but there are nights I eat cheese and crackers or popcorn or even grits.”

  “Grits?”

  “Ah yes, I forget you guys don’t do grits. It’s a breakfast staple in the South, kind of a warm cereal. I guess the closest you’d come is porridge, except we don’t put yogurt or honey in our grits. I like mine with butter, cheese, and lots of salt and pepper.”

  “I might have to give them a try one of these nights when Cynthia’s in London or elsewhere,” he replied. “And on that note, I need to explain my ulterior motive for asking you to join me this evening. I felt a need to get some things out in the open.”

  I leaned forward and nodded as he haltingly told me that he and Cynthia had been struggling for some time. When they’d made the decision to move to Astonbury, Cynthia had been on board, but her enthusiasm had waned as her design career began to take off.

  Initially, she’d been able to work remotely and spend only Sunday to Wednesday nights in the city, but that had changed a year ago. Her business had taken off and she’d been pushing for them to move back to London, a shift that meant Toby would have to abandon his dream, just as the tearoom was beginning to turn a profit. Profitable, but not for long if he had to hire a manager to run it in his absence.