A Fatal Footnote Page 25

  Penelope glanced at the tea cart and her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t had dinner yet. She’d been working on her third novel and had become immersed in it—something that sadly didn’t happen every time she sat down to write. Her writing room at the Open Book—a small space barely bigger than a closet with a desk and a chair and nothing else to distract her—was windowless, and she hadn’t seen the sun going down and darkness descending. She wondered if there was time to dash across the street and pick up something from the Chumley Chippie.

  “I’ve made some shortbread cookies, Jaffa cakes and jammie dodgers,” Figgy said, pointing to the various platters.

  “What on earth is a jammie dodger?” Penelope said. “It sounds like a position on a baseball team.” Penelope put on an announcer’s serious voice. “And John Smith has been drafted for the jammie dodger position with the New York Yankees.”

  Figgy laughed. “It does rather sound that way, doesn’t it? They’re shortbread cookies with jam filling. They’re quite lovely.” She pointed to the tea cart. “There’s a Victoria sponge as well and some slices of Madeira cake.” She frowned. “I think that should do.”

  “It certainly should,” Pen said, pushing her glasses up her nose with her finger. She glanced at the tea cart again, longing to grab a slice of the Madeira cake. It had become one of her favorites since arriving in England. It was like a pound cake but more moist and with a hint of lemon flavoring. According to Figgy, the Victorians used to serve it with a glass of Madeira in the afternoons and that was how it had acquired its name.

  Grady, meanwhile, had set up the easels and folding chairs Mabel had rented for the occasion and Odile was organizing the paints and palettes.

  Penelope glanced at the clock. The wine-and-paint participants should be arriving any minute now. She nixed the idea of running to the Chumley Chippie. A slice of Figgy’s Madeira cake would have to do.

  Fortunately for Penelope, she had been blessed with the sort of metabolism that made it hard to gain weight and it didn’t help that she often forgot to eat until hunger finally drove her to think about having a meal.

  The shop door opened again and two women entered, their faces red from the cold and their hands fluttering in excitement.

  Odile introduced herself and invited them to choose a spot and take a seat.

  India Culpepper was the next to arrive. She was wearing the English gentlewoman’s uniform of a plaid wool skirt, twinset and a strand of yellowing pearls. She was distantly related to Arthur Worthington, the Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, and lived in a cottage on the grounds of the Worthington Estate.

  The family money, handed down through generations of Worthingtons, hadn’t reached India to any substantial degree, and her sweaters were likely to be darned and her shoes rather worn at the heels. Figgy kept her supplied with cookies and cakes from the tea shop at no charge and Mabel often hunted out used copies of the books India wanted to read.

  But India was a proud woman as befitted the aristocrat she considered herself to be, and never complained about her lack of funds.

  Penelope guessed that India’s interest tonight didn’t lie in wine and painting but rather in the contents of Figgy’s tea cart.

  Gladys arrived next, her face red from rushing across the street where she and her husband owned the Pig in a Poke, Chumley’s butcher shop. She took off her coat and squealed when she looked down at herself.

  “I’ve forgotten to take me apron off,” she said, laughing, and slapping her thigh. She whipped it off quickly and hung it from the back of the chair she’d chosen next to India.

  Several more women arrived, chattering like birds and fluttering around the shop. One of them went over to Odile and began chatting.

  The bell over the front door tinkled as it opened and everyone’s head turned in that direction. Several of the women gasped in surprise when the duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke walked in. The former Charlotte Davenport, she had married the duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke in a magnificent ceremony at Worthington House that had been the talk of the town from the moment it was announced. Not all the talk had been positive, though—not only was Charlotte an American, but she was a romance writer and neither of those things sat well with a lot of the residents.

  Charlotte was as unpretentious as they came. She and Penelope had developed something of a bond as Americans and fellow writers and had become friends.

  From the moment Worthington and Charlotte had said I do, everyone in Chumley, as well as reporters and photographers from all the tabloids, had been on the watch for the proverbial baby bump. There had been a couple of false alarms but now Charlotte was visibly pregnant, much to everyone’s satisfaction and delight.

  Charlotte looked effortlessly elegant as usual with her long blond hair swept into a simple knot at the nape of her neck. She was wearing a wax jacket, jeans and a fitted navy and white striped Breton sweater that accentuated her stomach.

  The women smiled at her nervously as she took a seat on the other side of India.

  Finally Odile clapped her hands and everyone took their place. Quentin didn’t join the group, but instead wandered around the Open Book, stopping every once in a while to pull a volume off the shelf.

  Figgy opened the bottles of wine and began handing out glasses to the women. Odile accepted one, took a sip and put it aside as she concentrated on leading the class through a painting that looked like a piece of modern art.

  Figgy poked Pen as she stood watching. “It looks rather like a fake Mondrian, doesn’t it?”

  Pen looked at the squares and rectangles of red, yellow and blue separated by black lines.

  “It looks like a Rubik’s cube to me.”

  Figgy laughed, then picked up a bottle of wine and went to refill Gladys’ glass.

  Penelope noticed Quentin walking toward the door as he buttoned his coat and pulled on his gloves. He waved to Odile and left.

  The audience continued to follow Odile’s instructions and slowly their paintings were taking shape. Pen noticed that Gladys had the tip of her tongue between her front teeth as she concentrated on her canvas and Charlotte’s jaw was set as she attempted to copy Odile’s strokes.

  The photographer from the Chumley Chronicle, a middle-aged woman with graying hair wearing a stretched-out red sweater, roamed around snapping pictures of the event, occasionally pausing to grab a cookie off the tea cart.

  Suddenly Odile swayed and put a hand to her head. Penelope eyed her with concern.

  “Are you okay?” Pen said. “Do you need some air? Perhaps the smell of the paint . . . .”

  “I’m perfectly accustomed to the smell of paint,” Odile said, puffing out her chest. “I am an artist after all. It was just a slight dizzy spell. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Do you want to sit down for a moment?”

  Odile made a face and waved Penelope away as if she was a pesky fly. She adjusted her beret and turned back to the assembled audience.

  “Where were we?” she said in her throaty voice, pausing dramatically with her paintbrush in the air.

  Penelope glanced around the room again. The women were dutifully copying Odile’s brushstrokes with varying degrees of success. India’s hands shook slightly and her lines were wavy, giving the whole thing a watery impressionist look like something seen through a rain-spattered window.

  Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves and Penelope sighed with satisfaction.

  Once the paintings were finished and left to dry, the ladies gathered around Figgy’s tea cart, their eyes wide with delight at the array of goodies. Slices of Madeira cake or a couple of jammie dodgers in hand, they wandered among the easels admiring each other’s handiwork.

  Much to everyone’s delight, Charlotte circulated with them, complimenting their artistic abilities and daintily munching on a shortbread finger.

  “I’ve been cra
ving sweets ever since . . . .” Charlotte said to the women clustered around her. She cradled her belly gently with her left hand.

  Gladys threw back her head and laughed. “I was the same with my daughter Elspeth—only with me it was vegemite. I had it on toast every morning and for my tea and I even dipped crisps in it. I went through any number of jars of it. Bruce—he’s my husband—thought being in the family way had made me barmy.”

  Their laughter was cut short by a cry from Odile. Pen looked over at her and was horrified to see her sway wildly, clutch at one of the easels sending the painting soaring, and then crash to the ground in a heap of red and purple fabric. Her beret flew off and landed several feet away.

  The photographer, who had been busy munching on a piece of Madeira cake, gave an abrupt cry, grabbed her camera off a chair and hastened over. She immediately began snapping pictures, oblivious to the crumbs leaving a trail down the front of her sweater.

  “Please, don’t,” Pen said to her and held up a hand to stop her. She knelt beside Odile. “What is it? Are you ill? Should we call a doctor?”

  “I’m dizzy,” Odile said. “My head is spinning.”

  Mabel came over and crouched down next to Pen, her knees giving a loud crack.

  “And I have the most abominable headache,” Odile said, rubbing the back of her neck.

  “Has this happened before?” Mabel said in a crisp, no-nonsense voice. “Do you have any medication you’re supposed to be taking?”

  Odile shook her head. “Just so dizzy,” she said again.

  “When did you start feeling ill?” Mabel said.

  “After I got here,” Odile said. “I felt fine before. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  Several of the women had wandered over and were clustered around Odile.

  Mabel peered at Odile more closely and then turned to Pen. “Her pupils are awfully dilated. They’re positively enormous. Take a look.”

  Pen looked at Odile and nodded her head. “Shall I call an ambulance?

  “I think you’d better,” Mabel said. She frowned. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  As Penelope stood up and pulled her phone from her pocket, Odile’s eyelids fluttered, closed and her head flopped to the side.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Margaret Loudon is the national bestselling author of the Farmer's Daughter Mysteries, the Cranberry Cove Mysteries, and the Gourmet De-Lite Mysteries, written under the name Peg Cochran. She also wrote the Sweet Nothings Lingerie Mysteries under the name Meg London.

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