A Fatal Footnote Read online

  “Let’s assume he got rid of it because it might incriminate him. What would he do with it?”

  “I don’t know. Throw it in the woods or something?”

  “I think Tobias is more clever than that. The jacket might be found and he couldn’t deny it was his—we all saw him in it.” Pen nibbled on the cookie. “No, I think he gave it away to a thrift store or charity shop. There it would all but disappear amid all the other jackets and donated garments. And whoever buys it will go off who knows where with it.”

  Figgy paused with her hand on the till drawer. “There’s an Oxfam shop right by the roundabout at the top of the high street. Oh!” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “Remember we saw Tobias speeding off in that sports car of his the morning after the ball? Maybe that’s where he was going!”

  “You could be right.” Penelope glanced at her watch. “It’s almost five o’clock. I suppose they’ll be closing any minute.”

  Figgy shook her head. “It’s their late night tonight. Let me finish counting up the change and then we’ll go.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The Oxfam shop, like all the other buildings in Chumley, was half-timbered and had a bright green sign hanging from a pole outside. A display of women’s hats, including some very creative fascinators, was in the window.

  Inside, garments were neatly displayed on racks or shelves. A salesclerk with steel gray hair pulled back into a tidy bun and wearing a plaid kilt and Shetland sweater, was straightening the dress on one of the mannequins. She turned around and smiled when she heard Pen and Figgy come in.

  “Can I help you?” she said politely.

  “We’re looking for the men’s section,” Pen said, glancing around.

  “The back right corner, over there.” The woman pointed in that direction.

  They were passing a rack of women’s jackets when Figgy suddenly stopped short.

  “Look at this,” she said, taking a garment off the hanger and holding it up. It was a faux fur vest in bright purple. “My favorite color,” Figgy said, slipping it on.

  “It’s so terribly . . . nineteen seventies,” Pen said, a smile hovering around her lips. “It reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of rock groups from that era.”

  “I know. Isn’t it wonderful? It’s so Mott the Hoople or Elton John. I have to have it.”

  Figgy tucked the vest under her arm and followed Pen to the men’s section. They began to go through the jackets—most were ordinary—corduroy or wool in solids and plaids.

  “Now what?” Figgy said when they came to the end of the rack and hadn’t found Tobias’s jacket. “Maybe Tobias took it somewhere else?”

  “Could be,” Pen said. “Why don’t we ask the saleslady? Maybe somebody already bought it. She’s bound to remember it if it was here.”

  “Excuse me,” Pen said. “We’re looking for a men’s dinner jacket that someone might have brought in. It’s not on the rack and we wondered if it might still be in the back somewhere?”

  The woman sighed. “Was it given away by mistake? Or did they leave something important in one of the pockets?” She sighed again. “You won’t believe how often that happens.”

  “Mmmm, not exactly,” Pen said. “We only wondered if you’ve ever seen it.”

  The woman tilted her head. “Okay,” she said uncertainly. “What did it look like?”

  “It was a midnight blue burned velvet dinner jacket. Quite distinctive.”

  “Not your ordinary dinner jacket,” Figgy added.

  The woman’s face cleared. “Of course. I remember it well. It came in only yesterday but we’ve already sold it,” she said with an air of a job well done.

  “You don’t happen to know who purchased it by any chance?”

  Penelope knew it was a long shot but there was no harm in asking.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. It was a young man who said he plans to wear it while he’s performing. It seems he’s in some sort of rock and roll group. He said it would be perfect.” The woman’s face flushed. “He was quite charming. And quite good-looking, too,” she added almost as an afterthought.

  “Did he mention the name of the group?” Figgy said.

  “Let me see.” The woman bit her lip. “It was one of those daft names young people come up with these days.” She closed her eyes as she thought. “Now I remember!” Her face brightened. “They’re called the Foggy Bottoms.” She laughed. “Like I said, some of these names are right daft.”

  “I’ve heard worse,” Pen said, thinking of a group she’d heard in college named the Flounder March. “Did he say if he was from around here?”

  The woman lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “Not in so many words, but I got the impression he knew his way around Chum.”

  “Thank you,” Pen said with sincerity. “You’ve been really helpful.”

  The woman flushed again. “I’m glad I could help. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “I’ll take this,” Figgy said, putting the purple fur vest on the counter.

  The woman smiled at Figgy indulgently and rang up the sale.

  “I guess that’s that,” Figgy said as she pulled away from the curb outside the Oxfam shop. “Fancy a quick drink at the Book and Bottle?”

  The Book and Bottle was the Upper Chumley-on-Stoke pub, or, as the residents referred to it, “their local.”

  The parking lot was barely bigger than a handkerchief, but Figgy managed to squeeze her car into a space between an overbearing Land Rover and a Volvo SUV, a maneuver that had Penelope briefly holding her breath and closing her eyes.

  Figgy beeped the car locks and they walked around to the entrance of the Book and Bottle. A sandwich board was propped up on the sidewalk outside, announcing that the Book and Bottle was now featuring live music.

  Figgy gestured to the sign. “Looks like the Book and Bottle wants to one-up the competition. Not that there’s much completion in Chum.”

  Pen was about to open the door when she stopped short.

  “What did that sign say?” she said, glancing at the sandwich board again. “Look,” she cried, pointing to the sign. “The group they’re featuring tonight is the Foggy Bottoms. The clerk at Oxfam said she sold Tobias’s jacket to a member of that band.”

  “I guess we’re in the right place, then,” Figgy said as they walked inside.

  All the seats at the bar were taken, but a couple of tables were still available. They chose one and Penelope went up to the bar with their order.

  A bored-looking barmaid in a Renaissance style uniform, with a puffed-sleeves, low-cut blouse and a corset-style vest, a micromini skirt, and thigh-high leather boots, appeared.

  “Two ciders, please,” Pen said. “By the way”—she gestured toward the makeshift stage set up at the back of the pub—“when does the music start?”

  “When they’re good and ready I should think,” she said. “They ought to be on now, the slackers.”

  Pen carried their drinks back to the table and sat down. She was taking her first sip when a discordant guitar chord echoed through the pub. She swiveled around in her seat. Foggy Bottoms was slowly assembling onstage.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said to Figgy as she pushed back her chair.

  “Good luck,” Figgy shouted after her.

  Penelope approached the stage. The guitar player was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up—no jacket. The drummer had on a vest over a T-shirt with a saying on it—Penelope couldn’t quite see all the words.

  She hovered on the fringes of the stage as the guitar player tuned his instrument and the drummer warmed up with random bits on the drums. Finally, two other band members emerged from the storeroom at the back of the pub.

  And one of them was wearing Tobias’s jacket.

  It was unmistakable in both fabric and design. Penel
ope watched as he crossed the stage and began to fiddle with the microphone, alternately raising and lowering it until it was just right. He leaned forward, tapped it, and said, “Testing, testing, one, two, three.”

  “Excuse me,” Penelope said, raising her voice to be heard above the din in the increasingly crowded pub.

  The young man turned around. His eyes were dark blue and fringed with thick black lashes. The blue velvet of the jacket intensified their color.

  He smiled at Penelope, revealing strong even teeth. “What can I do for you?” he said amiably, running a hand through his slightly shaggy hair.

  Penelope took a deep breath. “Did you purchase your jacket at the local Oxfam?”

  A frown clouded the young man’s brow. “Yes. What of it?” He stood with his arms crossed over his chest. “The owner want it back or something?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” Penelope hastened to reassure him. “I have a rather odd question, I’m afraid.”

  The young man sat down on the edge of the stage and rested his elbows on his knees.

  “Shoot,” he said.

  “Is . . . is the jacket missing a button by any chance?”

  The young man looked startled. “I don’t know. I haven’t tried to button it, to be honest with you.” He looked down at the jacket and fingered the buttonholes. “What do you know?” He looked up at Pen with a surprised expression. “There is a button missing.” He frowned. “How did you know that?”

  Penelope shook her head. “It’s complicated,” she said with a smile. “Do you mind if I have a look?”

  A strange expression crossed his face and Penelope realized that he thought she was flirting with him! Well, so what. She was far more interested in helping solve Cissie’s murder, but he didn’t need to know that.

  The young man shrugged noncommittally. “Sure. I guess it’s okay.”

  Pen examined the two remaining buttons and wasn’t in the least surprised to see they matched the one that the police had found in the garden at Worthington House.

  “Thanks,” she said. “But I have to warn you that the police might be interested in knowing that. As a matter of fact, I think you’d better take that jacket down to the station so they can have a look. I’m sure they will return it when they are finished with it.”

  “But why?”

  Penelope sighed. “It’s possibly related to a murder inquiry.”

  The young man’s startled expression intensified to an almost comical degree. Before he could ask any further questions, Penelope turned around and went back to her seat at the table with Figgy.

  “Well?” Figgy said, raising her eyebrows so high they disappeared under her bangs.

  “It’s Tobias’s jacket all right,” Pen said as she picked up her glass of cider. “And it’s most definitely missing a button. A very unusual button that looks exactly like the one the police found in the garden at Worthington House.”

  NINE

  Penelope was behind the counter with Mabel, looking through a catalogue, when a woman came in carrying two books in her hands. She was older with gray hair in regimented waves and was wearing a black coat open over a floral-print dress.

  Penelope heard Mabel groan and when Pen looked at her, Mabel rolled her eyes and whispered, “It’s Cynthia Parfitt again.”

  Penelope raised her eyebrows but by then Cynthia had reached the counter.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Parfitt,” Mabel said in a tone of resignation.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?” Cynthia smiled and placed the books on the counter.

  “What do we have here?” Mabel said, glancing at the titles.

  Cynthia tapped one of the books with her finger. “I want to return these, love. I’m afraid I picked up the wrong titles.”

  “Again?” Mabel said.

  Cynthia didn’t look in the least bit embarrassed. She smiled broadly. “I’m afraid so.”

  Mabel gave her a stern look, but Cynthia either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  Penelope picked up the books. The spine was cracked on one of them and they both looked rather . . . grubby, she thought.

  “I can’t give you your money back,” Mabel said, filling out a slip. “It will have to be a store credit this time.”

  “That’s fine,” Cynthia said, taking the slip from Mabel. “I’ll just go find the correct titles, then, shall I?”

  “What gives?” Penelope said when Cynthia was out of earshot.

  “She’s done this several times,” Mabel said, watching as Cynthia retreated to the back of the store. “And she’s not the only one. Old Mr. Crankshaw does the same thing—always claiming he got the wrong book and bringing it back a week later, clearly having been read.”

  Penelope frowned. “Can’t you refuse to sell them anything?”

  “I’m afraid it would cause considerable ill will in the community if I did that. If the books come back too damaged or dirty to sell, I put them on the used bookshelf. Since they’re usually new titles, they get snapped up quite quickly.”

  “You’re too kind,” Penelope said. She stretched her arms overhead. “I think I’m going to get some writing done if that’s okay with you.”

  “You go on ahead,” Mabel said.

  Penelope had had an idea for tackling one of the revisions that her editor wanted. It had come to her in the middle of the night and she’d flipped on the light, startling Mrs. Danvers, who had quickly retreated under the bed. She’d scribbled a few words down on the notepad by her bed; and when she’d looked at them this morning, they’d appeared nearly indecipherable, though she’d managed to make out enough to jog her memory.

  She tossed her coat over the back of her chair, swung her laptop onto the table, and powered it up. She’d make a few notes now while the idea was still relatively fresh in her mind.

  As soon as she’d finished that, Pen gave some thought to the next Open Book newsletter. She’d had the idea to encourage reader involvement by inviting them to make suggestions—in the previous newsletter it had been to recommend books worth reading twice.

  Her fingers hovered over the keys as she thought about various possibilities. A lot of the Open Book’s customers were avid romance readers—perhaps something to do with that genre?

  Finally, Pen had an idea. She would ask them whether they preferred alpha or beta male leads in their books and which romance novel character best embodied their choice.

  She began fleshing out an article on various male protagonists in romances—Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, Michael Phan in The Kiss Quotient, Brandon Birmingham from Kathleen E. Woodiwiss’s The Flame and the Flower. She finished the piece by inviting readers to send in their choices.

  By the time Penelope closed her laptop, Mabel was standing alone behind the counter.

  “How was your trip to Oxfam yesterday? Any luck?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.” Pen told her about tracking down Tobias’s dinner jacket and confirming that the missing button was the one found by the police.

  “Now if we could find someone who saw Tobias go out to the terrace around the time Cissie was killed.”

  “If anyone at the ball had seen something, I imagine they would have told the police by now.” Mabel picked a dead leaf off the philodendron plant she kept on the counter. “But what about someone who wasn’t a guest? The butler or maid or the gardener. Although I don’t suppose a gardener would be working that late at night.”

  Penelope felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. She snapped her fingers. “There was a company that put on the fireworks display on the lawn. Perhaps one of the workers saw something.”

  “Are you going to tell Detective Maguire about finding the missing dinner jacket?” Mabel brushed an errant strand of hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear.

  “I’ve invited him for dinner tonight. I’ll tell him then.
Although with the detective from the Met in charge of the case, I don’t know if it will be of any help to him.”

  Mabel raised her eyebrows. “You’re having him to dinner? Sounds like things are getting serious.” She smiled.

  “We enjoy each other’s company,” Pen admitted. And that’s all she was going to admit to, she thought. Even she wasn’t sure exactly what her feelings were.

  “What are you making for him? Something typically American?”

  “You mean like hot dogs and beans?” Pen said with a laugh. “No, I’m making a good old Yankee beef stew from my grandmother Parish’s recipe. I’m going to stop at the Pig in a Poke to get some beef stew meat later.”

  Mabel glanced at her watch. “You’d better go now then. They often run out of things later in the day.”

  Penelope slipped on her coat and dashed across the high street to the butcher shop. A large cutout of a pink and smiling pig hung in the window and was depicted on the wooden sign hanging over the door.

  Gladys was standing behind the counter, against a backdrop of hanging sides of beef, tying up a package of pork chops for a customer. She handed over the butcher paper–wrapped parcel, rang up the sale, and deposited the pound notes the customer gave her in the till.

  She smiled at Penelope as she approached the counter.

  “What do you know,” Gladys said. “My customer and I were just talking about the Worthington wedding. The duchess looked so beautiful. I saw all the pictures in the Sun. Quite a treat to have something like that right in our midst.” Her round, apple cheeks were flushed red. The shop was quite warm, and Pen unbuttoned her coat.

  Gladys frowned. “But so sad about the murder spoiling the duke and duchess’s celebration. Who would have thought something like that would happen?”

  The bell over the door tinkled and a woman walked in. She was wearing a plain black coat over a simple dress with a white apron tied around her waist. Penelope recognized her as the maid helping to serve at the Worthington’s ball. Pen remembered she’d had a bandage on her hand, but it was gone now.

  “Ivy,” Gladys said, giving the woman a smile. “What can I get for you today?”