A Fatal Footnote Page 10

  He was dressed the way he normally was in jeans, a blue button-down shirt, and a cream-colored cable-knit sweater that looked handmade. Pen was glad she hadn’t put on anything too special—it might have made him feel awkward.

  “Come in.” She led him into the sitting room.

  “This is lovely,” Maguire said, standing in front of the roaring fire, rubbing his hands together. “It’s turned quite bitter out.”

  “Take the seat by the fire,” Pen said. “I’ll open the wine.”

  When Pen came out of the kitchen with two glasses and the opened bottle of wine, she was astonished to see that Mrs. Danvers was curled up next to Maguire. She stared openmouthed at this spectacle.

  “What is it?” Maguire said.

  “It’s just that . . . that Mrs. Danvers doesn’t take to anyone. She’s usually very standoffish.”

  Maguire smiled. “I’ve been told I have a way with animals.” He stroked Mrs. Danvers’s head and she purred audibly.

  Pen put the bottle and glasses down on the table and poured them each some wine. She had already set out a basket of crackers and a plate of cheese. She’d bought some Irish cheddar in Tesco on her way back from following Tobias—she hadn’t had the nerve to go back into Jolly Good Grub. Grant probably thought she was a real nutter, running out the way she had.

  Maguire took a sip. “Something certainly smells delicious,” he said. He picked up a cracker and added a slice of cheese.

  “It’s my grandmother Parish’s beef stew,” Pen said. “I think you’ll like it.”

  “My mother used to make what she euphemistically called lamb stew, but it was more mutton than lamb, and it didn’t fool anybody. We all hated it, but we were hungry so we ate it.”

  Pen rubbed a finger around the rim of her wineglass. “I hate to bring up work, but everyone is wondering since there’s been no real news. Has there been any progress in the Worthington House murder?”

  The newspapers had taken to calling Cissie’s death the “Worthington House murder” and the phrase had stuck—everyone in Chumley was referring to it that way now.

  Maguire scowled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Angie Donovan—she’s the DCI the Met sent down—isn’t exactly known for keeping people in the loop. Short answer—I don’t know.” He poked at a small hole in the knee of his jeans. “She treats me like I’m the coffee boy.” His face was beginning to flush. “Frankly, I don’t know how much longer I can keep my cool.” He thumped his fist against the couch, sending Mrs. Danvers leaping off in high dudgeon, her tail held stiffly in the air as she trotted off to the kitchen.

  “I’m determined to solve the case before she does.” Maguire clenched his fists, then forced a laugh. “If I can.” He grimaced.

  Pen put down her wineglass and turned toward him. She pulled one leg underneath her as she leaned forward.

  “I have some information that might be useful.”

  Maguire looked startled. “Really? What do you mean?” He sounded suspicious.

  “You know how you found that button in the garden but couldn’t identify the owner?”

  “Yes.” Maguire scowled, then his expression cleared. “Although, as far as I can tell, Donovan hasn’t had any more luck than I have.”

  “The button came off Tobias Winterbourne’s dinner jacket.”

  Maguire’s mouth hung open. “We checked through everyone’s clothes. Or at least Constable Cuthbert did. Did he miss it?”

  “Not exactly.” Penelope decided to amend her story slightly by starting from the end and working backward, thus eliminating the need to admit to the awkward part where she and Figgy went through Tobias’s closet.

  “We saw a young man wearing Tobias’s jacket—he sings in a band called the Foggy Bottoms—”

  That elicited a bark of laughter from Maguire.

  “They were playing at the Book and Bottle. I asked him where he got the jacket and he said he bought it at the Oxfam shop on the high street. I checked with the clerk there, and she confirmed that she’d sold it to him and that it had recently been brought in.”

  “But dinner jackets all look the same—black and boring. How did you know it was Tobias’s?”

  Pen described the jacket. “There weren’t any other men in midnight blue burned velvet numbers except Tobias.”

  Maguire whistled.

  Pen held up a hand. “Wait. There’s more.”

  Maguire was listening eagerly now.

  Pen explained about following Tobias to Worthington’s shooting lodge and discovering that Tobias had a tryst with Rose Ainsley.

  Now Maguire was frowning.

  “I don’t like the thought of you putting yourself in danger like that.”

  “I didn’t honestly think it was dangerous,” Pen fibbed, shivering now at the thought of it.

  “So Tobias and Rose . . . that certainly gives him a motive for killing his wife.”

  Pen nodded. “Tobias and Rose were an item, but he dropped Rose when Cissie came along. Cissie had money and Rose didn’t. Now Tobias inherits his wife’s fortune and is free to marry the woman he really loves.”

  Maguire sat up straighter. “That’s a pretty strong motive. Of course we questioned all the people that were at the ball, but they clam up when talking to someone outside their sacred circle. No one mentioned the connection between Tobias and Rose.” He smiled at Pen. “That’s incredibly helpful. Maybe I’ll be able to beat Donovan to the punch after all.”

  He reached for his wineglass. “You know they found the murder weapon—Worthington’s polo mallet.” Maguire frowned. “We sent it to forensics, but the only prints on it are Worthington’s.”

  “So the killer wore gloves?”

  “It looks that way. Unless, of course, Worthington was the killer.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope whistled—off-key she’d be the first to admit—as she washed her face and changed into her pajamas—an old pair of sweatpants and a thermal top she’d bought to wear the one time Miles had taken her skiing.

  The evening with Maguire had gone smoothly, not that Penelope had expected anything different. The beef stew had been tender and well flavored, the conversation had flowed easily, and the whole evening had been relaxed and comfortable. Pen realized that all her interactions with Maguire since they had first met—bumper to bumper on the high street when Pen had veered onto the wrong side of the road—had been that way.

  Of course that almost made the evening sound dull, but there’d been a spark of excitement as well—Maguire had lingered over his good night kiss and Pen had quite enjoyed it.

  Pen got in bed and pulled up the comforter. The wind had picked up and was battering at the windows as icy sleet tapped against the glass. Pen hugged her knees as she relished the coziness of her warm bed and snug cottage.

  She grabbed her phone from the bedside table and began to scroll through her e-mails. She was reading one about a sale on sweaters at Marks and Sparks, as it was known, when the phone rang. She was so startled, she nearly dropped it.

  She glanced at the number on the screen and was surprised to see it was her sister, Beryl’s. It seemed odd that she would be calling at this hour, but then Pen remembered that it was only early evening back in the States.

  “Hello?”

  “Pen? Is that you? I’m so glad you’re home.”

  Where else would she be at this hour? Pen wondered, listening to the windows rattling. She shivered.

  Her sister’s voice sounded odd—strained—almost as if she had been crying.

  “I’ll be there sometime tomorrow morning,” Beryl said.

  Penelope stared at the phone in her hand. Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. She couldn’t possibly have.

  “What? We must have a bad connection. I thought you said you’d be here tomorrow morning, which is impossible sin
ce you’re in Connecticut.” She hesitated. “Right?”

  “That is what I said.” Beryl sounded testy. “And I’m not in Connecticut, I’m at Kennedy airport. I’m flying in to Heathrow and I’ll be at your place sometime midmorning. I assume there’s a train from London.”

  “Yes,” Penelope said hesitantly. “It leaves from King’s Cross station.”

  She was beginning to wonder if she’d missed a text or voice mail from her sister. She must have.

  “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Neither did I,” Beryl snapped.

  “Has something happened?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there,” Beryl said with a sob. “I’ve got to go. They’re calling my flight.”

  And she ended the call.

  Pen was left staring at the phone. What on earth had gotten into Beryl? Her sister never did anything on the spur of the moment—all her activities, her commitments, her social outings were put on her calendar months in advance. She was the only person Pen knew who could tell you exactly what she’d be doing on a specific date six months in the future.

  Something must be very wrong. If their mother was ill—at this time of year she’d be in Florida—Beryl would have said and she certainly wouldn’t have been flying to England to tell Pen.

  It had to be something else. Pen had been getting sleepy but now she was wide-awake. It was so like Beryl to keep her hanging like this.

  She turned out the light and rolled onto her side, but sleep eluded her for several hours.

  ELEVEN

  When Pen woke the next morning, she was convinced she’d dreamed the whole thing. Beryl couldn’t possibly be on her way to Upper Chumley-on-Stoke. She’d had very realistic dreams before, but that one certainly took the cake.

  She took a quick shower, dressed, and ran a brush through her tangled hair. She was planning to go to the Open Book to do some writing. Those revisions weren’t going to wait forever and neither was her editor.

  She downed a quick cup of tea and a slice of toast while standing at the kitchen counter, filled Mrs. Danvers’s food and water bowls, pulled on her coat, tucked her laptop under her arm, and headed out the door.

  Penelope breezed through the Open Book, waving at Mabel, who was surrounded by papers and frowning at her calculator, accepted a freshly baked Chelsea bun from Figgy, and headed for her writing room.

  She opened her laptop and brought up her manuscript. She’d come to view her writing room at the Open Book as her “sacred space.” It was quiet but not lonely—she had a sense of the life going on in the bookstore right outside her door—and there were few distractions.

  She was bound and determined to tackle the middle of her manuscript, which Bettina had described as lacking tension.

  She pushed her glasses up her nose with her finger and began reading.

  After going through the pages, Penelope realized there wasn’t enough conflict, and conflict was what held the reader’s attention. She’d missed a wonderful opportunity for Raoul and Luna to be speaking at cross-purposes during their conversation. That ought to add a spark to those pages.

  Penelope was halfway through the scene when there was a knock on the door.

  She opened it and found Mabel regarding her with an apologetic smile. She had her glasses stuck on top of her head, and there were crumbs on the front of her sweater. She brushed at them impatiently.

  “I hate to interrupt you, but there’s a woman here to see you—a DCI Donovan.”

  Mabel’s raised eyebrows were the only indication of her curiosity.

  “She’s the detective they sent down from the Met to help with the Worthington case.”

  “She looks like a real piece of work,” Mabel said. “Very buttoned-up and quite impressed with herself, I’d say. Good luck,” Mabel said as Penelope followed her to the front of the store.

  Donovan was standing by the door, her face pinched with impatience. She was in her thirties, tall and slender, with blond hair yanked back so tightly into a ponytail that Pen was surprised she could move her eyebrows. Her expression clearly said she meant business.

  Donovan glanced at a small notebook in her hand, then looked up.

  “Penelope Parish?”

  “Yes.” Penelope was tempted to add something snide but bit her tongue.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  Penelope led her to the back of the store and the sofa and chairs where her book group usually gathered. She was about to sit down when she realized that Donovan had remained standing.

  “You attended the wedding ball of the Duke and Duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  A series of questions followed, which Donovan assured her were being asked of everyone who had been in attendance.

  “Strictly routine,” Donovan said, but the way she said it made Penelope wonder.

  Donovan glanced at her notepad again. “Did you leave the ballroom at any time?”

  Penelope wracked her brain. She’d gone to the ladies’ room, but she doubted that was what Donovan was after.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “You didn’t go outside to the terrace or the gardens? For a bit of fresh air perhaps? I imagine the ballroom was quite stuffy.”

  Penelope felt her back stiffen. “No,” she said rather tersely.

  No wonder Maguire was feeling frustrated with this woman.

  “Did you see anyone else leave the room?”

  “I’ve already told Detective Maguire everything I know. Why don’t you check with him?”

  “I will definitely be doing that,” Donovan said. Her lips were clamped together and Pen could see the muscles in her jaw working.

  Donovan snapped her notebook shut, dropped it and her pencil into her tote bag, and pulled out a business card. She handed it to Penelope.

  “We’re asking everyone to stay in the vicinity,” she said, almost as an afterthought. “And if you remember anything useful, please let me know immediately.” She tapped the card in Pen’s hand. “My mobile number is right there.”

  Penelope was watching as Donovan marched to the front of the store, when her phone suddenly dinged. She pulled it out of her pocket and glanced at it. She had a text. She clicked on it.

  It was from Beryl—announcing that she’d landed at Heathrow and would be taking the eleven o’clock train from King’s Cross station to Upper Chumley-on-Stoke.

  So it hadn’t been a dream after all.

  She’d been planning to do some more writing, but changed her mind. She’d better head back to her cottage. Pen wasn’t a particularly neat person—when the writing was going well she was apt to let the dishes pile up in the sink and toss her discarded clothes on the chair in her bedroom.

  Ashlyn, the young woman who came and cleaned once a week, dealt with things like dust bunnies, smudges on the windows, and muddy footprints on the floor, so at least the place was clean.

  Penelope was slightly out of breath when she arrived back at her cottage. She took a moment to greet Mrs. Danvers, who seemed to be in fine spirits, even allowing Pen to scratch under her chin—something she reserved for special occasions.

  Pen put her laptop down and glanced around the sitting room. She folded up the throw she kept on the sofa and draped it over the arm in what she hoped was an artful fashion. She straightened the pile of books on the coffee table and put the shoes she’d kicked off the night before by the stairs to be taken up to her bedroom.

  The kitchen was next. She wiped down the top of the Aga, which was a bit splattered from last night’s stew, and washed up all the dishes from her dinner with Maguire.

  Then it was on to her bedroom, where she put her shoes in the closet, hung up her discarded clothes, and made the bed. The spare room was the one she was using as a study. She gathered up her papers and mov
ed them to her room, then she rummaged in the linen closet for a clean set of sheets. She made up the bed, cracked the window a bit to air the room, and piled some clean towels on the dresser. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it would have to do.

  Penelope was filling Mrs. Danvers’s food bowl when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Danvers looked extremely peeved that Pen had been interrupted during such an important task and stalked after her as she headed to the foyer.

  Penelope pulled open the door to find her sister standing on the doormat, flanked by two suitcases. Beryl’s skin had the pasty look of someone who had just gotten off a long flight and her artfully cut and expensively highlighted blond bob was flattened on the sides. She was wearing a Loden coat, leggings, a tunic-length cashmere sweater, a silk scarf that was slightly askew, and a pair of Everlane shoes that Penelope had seen touted as being a favorite of Angelina Jolie’s.

  Beryl’s whole outfit probably cost more than her entire wardrobe, Pen thought as she held the door wide and grabbed her sister’s suitcases.

  The girls had always been too different to be especially close. Pen had acquaintances who were best friends with their older siblings but, while she and Beryl shared a family bond, they’d never been comfortable spending a great deal of time together.

  Beryl looked Penelope up and down. “You’re not still wearing that ratty old sweater, are you? You must have had that since college.”

  Pen looked at her watch. It hadn’t even been five minutes and already Beryl was criticizing her. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  Beryl was looking around the sitting room. “Dreadfully cramped, isn’t it?” She pursed her lips. “But I suppose it suits you.”

  “How about a cup of tea?” Pen said brightly, moving toward the kitchen. “You sit and catch your breath while I put the kettle on.”

  Beryl gave a small smile. “You’ve gone full-on British, have you?”

  “I think you’ll be amazed at how restorative a good cup of tea can be,” Pen said. “If you want to wash up, the bathroom is at the top of the stairs. You can’t miss it.”

  She pointed toward the staircase and then headed off to the kitchen, trying not to stomp her feet. Once out of sight, she opened her mouth and let out a silent scream, then set about making the tea.