I was falling in love myself—with Joan Watson. Her journal took me back to 1960s Cambridge, to the unfolding of a blossoming young life.
One that had been cut far too short. So far, I had to admit, I didn’t see any signs that Joan was depressed or suicidal. Yes, she was a little homesick, but who wasn’t the first few weeks at college? I remember calling home one weekend early in my freshman year. The few people I knew were out doing something and I was alone in my dorm room. My parents were out too—rare for them—so I’d left a pretty forlorn message on voice mail. I still face-palmed myself at the cringe-worthy memory.
Mum and Aunt Violet entered the shop laden with bags and talking a mile a minute. Looking around, they spotted me in the chair. “There you are,” Aunt Violet said as she dumped her bags behind the desk. “How did it go?”
I got up from the chair, eager to see their finds. “Great,” I said, carrying the journal with me. “I made a few sales, but more exciting, I found a full set of Oz books in Tom’s boxes. All firsts and in pretty good condition, so I put them in the locked case.” I mentioned my off-the-cuff appraisal amount. “You’ll have to fine-tune that, Aunt Violet.”
She glanced up at the shelf where I’d put the collection. “That rascal. He told me he had some valuable books, but I honestly had no idea.” She slid out of her light jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. “Be right back. I’m going to put the kettle on.”
“What good news,” Mum said to me after Aunt Violet bustled away toward the kitchen. “Selling those books will pay down a good chunk of Clive’s loan.”
“That’s what I thought.” I placed the journal next to my laptop. “And guess what, Mum? Kieran came by and asked me out to dinner.” I couldn’t restrain a giggle. “Of course I said yes.”
“Maybe I should leave the shop more often,” Mum said with a smile. “A lot happened while I was gone.”
“I know. It’s crazy.” I hugged myself, thrilled that I had a real dinner date to look forward to. It had been far too long. Many men in Vermont thought watching sports and eating at the bar was a stellar night out. “I’m going to need something to wear.”
“We can work on that.” Mum indicated the bags. “I scoped out some really good shops.”
I sat at the desk. “Show me.”
While we waited for Aunt Violet to return with tea, Mum displayed her purchases. She’d bought a couple of lightweight pastel cardigans, a floral summer dress, and a slew of cosmetics and beauty products.
“These took me back,” she said, unrolling a lipstick to show me the color. “Such a treat to go to Boots and buy a new lipstick.”
“I’ve been wanting to go there but haven’t had a chance. When we go shopping for my new outfit?” I suggested. “Kieran is taking me to the Holly and Ivy, which is apparently quite fancy.”
Mum eyed me speculatively. “You need a little black dress. And I know just the boutique.”
I loved the idea of me, a low-key librarian and wearer of much plaid flannel, rocking a little black dress. Kieran wouldn’t know what hit him, which was the point, right?
Aunt Violet returned with a tray holding three mugs. “Here we are.” As she passed them around, her gaze fell on the journal. “What’s that, Molly?”
I picked up my mug and sipped. “It’s Joan Watson’s journal.”
“The woman Myrtle thought was murdered?” Mum asked.
Aunt Violet sat down heavily. “What? How do you figure that, Nina?”
Apparently Mum hadn’t given Aunt Violet the update during their shopping trip. “She had Joan’s obituary clipping in a video box labeled Midsomer Murders,” I said. “We kind of put two and two together.” I explained our reasoning. Pointing at the journal, I added, “And I have to tell you, reading this, I don’t see her committing suicide. She’s having fun at college. And get this, she had a thing for Gregory Fosdyke.”
Aunt Violet nodded. “I thought I noticed something brewing between them. Meanwhile, Fiona was head over heels for Tom. That’s why it surprised me when she married Gregory. Poor Tom was heartbroken.”
I thought of the photograph we’d found at Myrtle’s. “Fiona is still married to Gregory, right? A photograph we found—wait, let me show you.” I brought it up on my phone. “This wasn’t taken that long ago.”
Aunt Violet sucked in a breath. “I had no idea … this must have been right before he died. See how frail he looks?” Her lips were set in a thin line. “And to answer your question, yes, she’s still married to Gregory. They celebrated their fiftieth anniversary a few years ago.”
The conclusion was obvious. “Fiona was one of Myrtle’s blackmail victims.” Certainty grew as I spoke. “Myrtle managed to get a photograph of her with Tom and held it over her head with threats to go to Gregory. Think of the implications. Think of the scandal. Gregory is in Parliament, right? It would be front-page news. Fiona might even lose her job at the college.”
“Serious stuff,” Mum said. “But why didn’t Fiona come clean? Divorce isn’t such a big deal nowadays.”
“Gregory had his own health challenges recently,” Aunt Violet said. “It was touch and go for a while, I understand. So while I certainly don’t respect Fiona for keeping her relationship with Tom a secret, I can understand it, I suppose. Especially since he had a terminal illness. But poor Tom deserved far better.”
As a staunch supporter of the great-uncle I never knew but wished I had, I agreed with her. “We need to talk to Fiona about this,” I said. “I think she just moved to the number-one suspect spot. Well, right next to Clive and Steve Baker.” I rolled my eyes. “A three-way tie.”
Aunt Violet frowned. “Steve? He wasn’t at the reading. And he works every evening at the pub.”
“True,” I said. “But remember the man Kieran and I saw lurking in the alley? Steve could have easily left the pub for a few minutes. Or it could have been Clive. Sir Jon thinks he saw him at the train station that evening.”
Mum made a helpless gesture. “I keep thinking we’re making progress, but it all seems more muddled than ever.”
She had a point. “I suppose the truth will come out sooner or later,” I said, crossing my fingers. “We need to keep moving ahead with what we know.” I swiveled in the chair to face Aunt Violet. “Will you call Fiona? I’d love to go talk to her.”
Aunt Violet reached for the phone. “Certainly. How does tea tomorrow sound?”
Fiona was agreeable to our visit, so Aunt Violet and I made a plan to visit her while Mum watched the store. That settled, we turned our attention to other tasks.
“If you have time, please price those Oz books today,” I said to Aunt Violet. “I’ll take pictures and post the listing online. I’m sure there will be lots of interest.”
Mum raised her hand. “Can I help with the appraisal? I really want to understand how books are valued.”
“Actually, I do too,” I said. I thought of an idea. “What if you give us the guidelines and Mum and I try to value a couple? Then you can grade us.”
Aunt Violet’s lips twitched with pleasure. “I would love to teach you both. How about after dinner tonight?” As she spoke the bell jingled and a couple strolled in. Judging by how closely they were entwined, I guessed they were honeymooners from the Holly & Ivy. The inn sent us lots of customers.
Mum stood, ready to assist them. “Sounds like a plan. We’ll need uninterrupted time.”
A late afternoon rush began, resulting in very good sales for the day. Aunt Violet sold a rare copy of Lord Byron’s poems to a local collector, thrilled that he mentioned the social media post as impetus to come in.
“I’d quite forgotten you were here,” the collector admitted, clutching his new purchase. “I usually go up to London to buy books. Now I have you bookmarked.”
Aunt Violet put a hand on my shoulder. “My niece is our new marketing genius. Thomas Marlowe is finally entering the twenty-first century.”
“Without losing an ounce of charm.” He accepted his credit card back from Mum and tucked it into his wallet. “Good day.”
Mum ran a quick sales report after the door shut behind him. “Look at this, Aunt Violet. I think we can squeeze out another payment to Clive.”
Aunt Violet bent over Mum’s shoulder, studying the computer screen. “Good. I can’t wait to get him off my back.” Straightening, she turned to me. “Would you be willing to take him a check?” She glanced at the clock. “If you take my bicycle, you’ll make it before his office closes.” Mum was already printing the check for Aunt Violet’s signature.
“Sure, I’ll go.” I glanced down at my sandals. “Let me change my shoes first. And grab a water bottle.”
Aunt Violet’s bicycle was, appropriately, a lavender seven-speed complete with basket and bell, and climbing aboard made me feel like an official Cambridge resident. I rode up the lane and onto Trinity Street, merging into the swarm wheeling along. Of course they all knew where they were going, often buzzing by me at top speed, so I had to stay alert and cautious. Especially since I wasn’t wearing a helmet. Most of the riders were not, which surprised me. I’ll have to try this again, I thought with a smile—after the bicycle rush hour.
Clive Marlowe’s office was on a side street, in a charming pale green stucco building with large arched windows. A discreet sign by the front door read Marlowe Construction, and topiary bushes and flowerboxes made the entrance both elegant and cheerful. I locked the bicycle to a post and went inside.
A poster on an A-frame greeted me. Announcing Cherry Hinton Homes, an exclusive community, it read above a rendering of a charming bungalow.
“They’re quite reasonable and going fast,” a woman said from behind the reception counter. She was middle-aged and trim, with a chic haircut and tasteful make-up. She smiled. “Though you are a bit younger than most of our homeowners.”
“Thanks, but I’m not here to buy a house,” I said. “I’m Molly Kimball, from Thomas Marlowe, the bookshop. I have something for Clive.”
Her perfectly painted mouth dropped open. “The American cousin? I’ve heard so much about you.”
I’ll bet. I continued moving toward her station, a thick and highly polished expanse of wood. A dense carpet cushioned my feet and antique prints depicting iconic Cambridge scenes hung on the walls. But despite the attractive décor, my gaze was caught and held by something very out of place on the countertop, next to a pencil holder and rack of business cards.
A pink knitting needle.