A Stodgy Slaying, page 3
She threw her arms around me in a most un-Clarissa-like manner. She had informed me at one point during my first days that Brits weren’t inclined toward much hugging. But right now, I didn’t care. Tears of anger and fear poured down my face as I clung to her chunky form.
When I was through crying, she pulled away and looked at me.
“I’m glad it’s you and not me. My makeup would be a ruddy mess if I cried like that.” She pointed to the heavy liner around her eyes and gave me a gentle smile.
“Oh, luv, let me get the tea and I’ll join you.” She hurried back behind the counter and I settled in at my usual table by the wall, where I could look out on a park that was typically empty this time of day since the children were in school.
Clarissa returned with a pot of tea, two cups and an American-style breakfast sandwich that had quickly become my favorite meal. I had sworn off them a week or so ago because I found myself eating one nearly every day.
Desperate times, desperate measures and all that.
I bit deeply into the sandwich, then settled back into my chair to chew. Clarissa watched me, worry etched on her face.
“I’m fine,” I finally told her, once I had swallowed that first bite. “Really.”
“What is he thinking?” Clarissa asked, stirring her tea with a spoon. “Jaime burst in here asking how I knew you were Selma’s niece.”
I tilted my head to look at her. “What did you tell him?”
She shrugged. “I said that if old Mr. Campbell of Allen & Campbell had been convinced, then so I was. Besides, who flies halfway around the world to pretend to be someone else, then stays to run a B&B? That makes no sense. If you’re not Selma’s niece, you should be.”
I grinned in spite of myself.
Clarissa looked at her watch. “I hate to ask and all, seeing as how you just got out of jail, but can you still help me this afternoon?”
I stared at her for a long moment. Frankly, cleaning someone else’s inn was the last thing I wanted to do right now, but I had promised. And Clarissa had stood by me.
I forced a smile. “Of course. Just let me finish my sandwich and off we go.”
Clarissa breathed a sigh of relief, which made me feel even worse about not wanting to go in the first place.
Then a thought struck: I could find out more about this Mr. Edgar Elliot Graham. The thought filled me with fresh enthusiasm, much to Clarissa’s delight.
“Tell me more about Mr. Graham,” I instructed as we set out from the tea shop.
Clarissa frowned as she wrapped a long scarf around her neck and shoulders in the cold.
“He only checked in yesterday afternoon,” she protested, then added, “although he did stay here one other time, which was unusual.”
“Why was that unusual?” I asked as we set out up the street.
She pursed her lips as she thought. “The thing is he always stayed in different places and then he would do a quick review of the inn when he returned to London.” She stopped suddenly and looked at me. “In fact, I remember him saying quite clearly that he likely wouldn’t be back because he liked to ‘spread the wealth’.”
“What does that mean?” I gently pushed her to the side to get around a family of tourists on the sidewalk.
“That’s what I asked him,” she said. “That’s when he told me that he wrote a review of every place he had been and since The Lakes is a tourist destination, he wanted to make sure readers had plenty of options. Which is odd because he didn’t really seem to like his job that much. Said he used to write restaurant reviews and it was much more satisfying. I did wonder why he decided to stay with us again.”
“What was he like to talk with?” I pressed her because my experiences with him had not been wonderful.
“When I showed him his room, he just rather grunted at me.” She made a face as she remembered. “I couldn’t tell if he was happy with his room or not, but I guess since it was a return visit, it must have been fine.”
That was the way he had seemed over the phone, too. Stodgy, yes, but that wasn’t a reason to kill someone.
Or maybe it was. Not being a killer, I couldn’t say for sure.
Chapter 6
We reached Clarissa’s inn and she set me right to work changing the beds and cleaning the rooms of the people who had checked out.
Before I entered the rooms, I knocked and pressed my ear against the door to see if anyone was inside. Most of her guests were out and about. That’s why travelers came to the Lake District – to hike and enjoy Mother Nature at her finest, if also dampest.
I tapped at one door and heard voices inside, so I stepped back. A nearly middle-aged woman opened the door and peered out. She looked like she might be pretty but had deep rings under her eyes.
“Yes?” she asked brusquely.
“I’ve come to tidy up and change the sheets and towels, if you’d like.” I held up the towels in my hand to show her.
“No.” She started to close the door, then paused. “I mean, no, thank you.”
“Is everything all right?” I asked gently. “You seem upset. Can I help?”
Someone behind her jerked open the door. “She thinks there’s a killer loose in town and she won’t let us go anywhere.”
A teen girl stood with one hand on the door as she looked with dismay at the older woman. “Can you tell her that it’s fine if we leave the room?”
The older woman clutched both hands to her elbows and looked at the floor.
“We heard a man was killed,” she said. “It doesn’t seem safe here. I think we should go back to London.”
The teenager threw up her hands and looked hard at me. “See? If you don’t want to lose a booking, convince her to stay.”
My mouth opened a few times, but I could not think of a single appropriate comeback. Fortunately, footsteps sounded behind me and Clarissa swept into the hallway.
“Hello, Mrs. Payne, and Ginny, right? What seems to be the problem?”
I stepped back to let Clarissa take over and moved on to the next room. A few minutes later, Clarissa caught up with me as I was making a double bed. She caught the other end of the sheet to help me out.
I looked at her with upraised eyebrows. She shrugged. “We sorted it out. I think they’ll stay, though I’d just as soon they left. The older woman, one Eliza Payne, runs a cleaning business in London. She made sure to tell me about all the wealthy clients she has.” She rolled her eyes. “Every time I go into her room, I think she’s going to whip out a white glove and follow along behind me.”
“They sounded frightened because of Graham’s death,” I said, pulling a pillow into a clean pillowcase.
Clarissa shrugged. “Not much I could do about that except to suggest they walk into town and be back before it gets dark.”
We finished up the room. As I locked it behind me, I grabbed Clarissa’s arm. “Which was Graham’s room?”
She looked around to make sure no one overheard us. “Why do you need to know?”
“I just want to take a quick look. Maybe there will be something there that will point to someone besides me as the killer.”
“The police have already been there, you know. There’s crime scene tape across the door.”
I figured, but I still needed to look for myself.
She pointed toward the steps, then sighed. “Come on, then. It’s upstairs, Room 32.”
I scrambled up the stairs behind her. She unlocked Room 32 and motioned for me to hurry. We both ducked quickly under the tape and she closed the door behind us, flicking on the light switch.
“Don’t dally and don’t touch anything,” she whispered. “It makes me nervous.”
I leaned toward her. “Why are you whispering? It’s your house.”
She waved me away. “Just look around and be done.”
I opened the closet door and was glad to see his suitcase was still there. I lifted open the cover with the edge of my fingernail. Either the police had already looked through it or Mr. Edgar Elliot Graham was a sloppy packer.
“They can’t lift fingerprints from fabric, right?” I asked as I lifted up each item, trying not to remember that I was pawing through the clothes of a dead man. There was nothing out of the ordinary except an inordinate number of socks.
I closed the suitcase and the closet door and peered around the room. Snagging a tissue, I opened and closed all of the drawers and cabinets I could find, but they were empty. Apparently, Mr. Graham hadn’t been there long enough to spread out his things.
Then I used the tissue to open the nightstand drawer. It was empty, too. “You don’t leave Bibles for your guests?” I commented.
“Shut up, Yank.” Clarissa had wandered over to the windows as I searched.
I grinned. That was the response I had hoped for. Then my smile faded. On a notepad on the nightstand was written a familiar address with my name underneath.
I sighed. “I’m fairly certain Jaime had a field day with that. No wonder he came looking for me.”
Clarissa patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, luv. It will all work out.”
The sound of a car door slamming drew her to the window and her expression changed. She rushed toward me.
“Get out, get out, get out!” she hissed. “The police are back.”
After a hurried glance around the room, we ducked back under the crime tape. One end caught on my sweater. I stuck it back onto the doorjamb and pulled the door closed, wiping the handle with the tissue. We reached the second floor just as Jaime rounded the corner.
He stopped. “What are you two doing up here?”
I picked up the used towels and sheets from the floor outside one of the rooms. “Cleaning, constable. If you don’t mind.”
I pushed past him, my arms full of linens, and strode down the stairs. He muttered something to Clarissa, then his footsteps pounded up to the third floor.
I didn’t stop until I reached the basement, where the washer and dryer awaited. Clarissa joined me just as I began to load the washer.
“What’s he doing?” I whispered.
She glanced back up the stairs and leaned closer. “He said he wanted another look at the victim’s room.”
Her eyes flitted nervously around the dim room. “Do you think he’ll notice anything different?”
“Probably,” I admitted as I dumped in the detergent and pressed the “on” button.
Jaime had worked as a police investigator in London before coming to Cumbria to be closer to his parents. He was no slouch in the investigative department.
Clarissa retreated to her kitchen as I pulled the vacuum out of the first-floor utility closet, trying to avoid looking toward the steps to the second floor. I had just got it running in the front sitting room when I felt a hand on my arm. I jumped with a screech.
Jaime jerked away, holding up both hands. “Whoa, settle down.”
“Me settle down? What are you doing sneaking up on someone like that?”
“I said your name several times, but you didn’t turn around.”
“I’m busy.” I waved the vacuum nozzle at him.
He reached over and unplugged it.
“Might I talk to you and Clarissa in the kitchen?” He stopped and looked at the ceiling. “Let me rephrase that. Come to the kitchen so that I can talk to you and Clarissa.”
With that, he spun on his heel and strode down the hall. I plugged in the vacuum and went back to vacuuming. Suddenly the vacuum died. I looked over to see Jaime with the plug in his hand.
“Kitchen, Ms. McCoy.”
I stalked over and pulled the plug from his hand, sticking it back into the wall. “I’m nearly finished. It’s not an emergency. You can wait.”
I took some satisfaction seeing his mouth fall open. Inside, I was shaking.
I turned and picked up the vacuum nozzle again, getting down onto my knees to reach under the sofa. I took my time, making sure every inch of Clarissa’s sitting room was dust-free.
Then I unplugged the machine and carefully – oh, so carefully – I rewrapped the cord into its holder on the side of the vacuum. I set it back into the closet, then stopped in the bathroom to wash my hands before finally sauntering down the hallway to Clarissa’s brightly lit kitchen.
Jaime and Clarissa sat at her kitchen table, Clarissa stirring her tea while Jaime sat with one ankle propped onto the other knee and his arms crossed over his chest.
I stopped in the doorway, then leaned against the counter just inside the kitchen. “Can I help you with something, constable?”
He looked back and forth between the two of us.
“The light was on in Mr. Graham’s room when I pulled up to your inn,” he said, finally settling his gaze on Clarissa. “Then it was off when I let myself into the room. Can you explain that?”
She looked at him, then back down at her tea, apparently opting not to answer. I wondered if Brits could plead the fifth or something like the fifth.
Jaime continued, this time his gaze on me. “The crime-scene tape had come off on one side. It looked like someone tried to stick it back on.”
I looked back at him. “Guess you need better tape.”
He stood up and pushed in the chair, then stood with both hands on the back rail as he spoke, his eyes on me.
“If I find evidence that you are interfering in my case, it will demonstrate guilt rather than helpfulness.” His eyes flicked back to Clarissa. “And you don’t want to be caught in the middle, Clare. You don’t really know her.”
With that, he spun on his heel and strode past me out the door.
Unbidden, tears sprang to my eyes. I studied the floor, then blew out a breath. “He’s right, you know. You don’t want to get into trouble because of me.”
“More trouble, you mean?”
I looked up to see Clarissa’s eyes as wet as my own. She gave me a watery smile.
“Selma would haunt me if I turned my back on you, luv. Frankly, I’m more scared of a dead Selma than a live Jaime.”
Chapter 7
I stirred my tea and frowned at the blank pad of paper on the table. Finally, I looked up.
“Clearly, I’m not good at this.” I tapped the pad of paper, then picked up the pen and wrote “Suspects” at the top.
After Jaime left, Clarissa decided to help me with my investigation. We met the following morning at her tea shop, rather Tea Shoppe, as the sign said.
First up, the Suspects list. Who wanted to see Graham dead?
“Had Graham ruffled anyone’s feathers in town on an earlier trip?” I asked, already doodling on the side of the paper.
“Ruffled their feathers?” Clarissa laughed, setting down her teacup so it wouldn’t spill. She rested her elbows on the table and looked off into the distance. “You’ll like this one: Eleanor Davies.”
“Be serious.” I tapped my pen against the paper.
“I am quite serious.”
I sat up a little straighter and leaned toward Clarissa. “You’re just saying that because you know I would love it so much if she was the killer. She’s just awful to me.”
Clarissa reached across the table and tapped the pad of paper. “Write down her name. When Graham was here last time, he stayed at her place and he did not give her high marks. In fact, he was quite harsh about his stay, frankly, harsher than necessary.”
“Really?” I’m not proud of the emotion, but a big part of me was practically giddy to hear this. “What did he say?”
Clarissa frowned. “I don’t recall the exact wording, but it was something to the effect that her breakfasts were boring and bland, that she still cooked traditional British breakfasts of beans and bangers and no one wanted to eat those anymore.”
My mouth fell open. “She is always on me about not providing a proper British breakfast. Apparently, that was Aunt Selma’s greatest failure.”
My mind raced as I wrote her name in big block letters. Here was a suspect I could get behind. Eleanor Davies had not only harassed me, but also Aunt Selma.
“Don’t worry, Aunt Selma,” I whispered. “We will not let her get away with this.”
Next to Eleanor’s name, I wrote “Motive (bad review),” then looked up at Clarissa. “Now, means.”
“She used your mallet that you discarded on the steps.”
“I didn’t discard it,” I protested. “I just forgot to put it away.”
She wagged a finger at me. “That can be a liability issue for an innkeeper, luv. Start putting your tools away.”
I stared at her for a moment, then dropped my eyes.
“Noted,” I grumbled. “All right, she had motive and means. What about opportunity? She didn’t have much time. I had just seen her at the grocery.”
“It’s a village. She had plenty of time. Also, she lives just six doors down and across the way from you.”
“Plus, the light was out so it was dark,” I said, remembering that I still hadn’t put in the new light bulb.
She frowned. “Then how did she know he was there?”
“Maybe she was stalking him?” I suggested, pointing my pen at Clarissa. “What an awful person.”
“It was just an idea,” Clarissa said, looking amused. “We don’t know that she actually did it.”
“She probably did. She’s awful.”
“So you’ve said. Who else could it be?”
“I literally have no idea.” I tossed down the pen and leaned my head back over the chair rail. “I mean, if I follow the evidence, even I would track it back to me.”
“Right, well, that’s no good. Let’s see.” Clarissa’s eyes wandered around the room. She suddenly sat up straighter and leaned toward me, keeping her eyes on someone across the room. “What about Jonathan Moore?”
My eyes followed hers toward a lean and lanky man with longish salt and pepper hair whom I had seen around town.
“I remember him,” I realized suddenly. “He held the door for me when I went into Alex’s shop just before I found Graham. That means he was in the vicinity at the time of the murder.”
Clarissa raised a finger to interrupt me. “It’s a village, Kat. We were all in the vicinity at the time of the murder.”
