“Looking for pictures of Kieran?” Daisy asked me with a teasing grin. Her hands never stopped moving as she poured tea and coffee and set pastries on plates.
Still holding the morning paper, I moved closer to the counter and lowered my voice. “I’m actually looking to see if someone got arrested.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, do tell. Give me a moment. I want to hear.” She passed cups and plates to a group speaking French, and after they settled at two tables, she began dispensing my usual coffee order.
While she worked, I told her about our discoveries at Myrtle’s flat—minus Joan’s obituary—and my visit to Clive’s office, making sure no one sitting nearby could hear me. I rattled the newspaper before folding it and tucking it under my arm. “But there’s nothing in here. So maybe Ryan didn’t arrest him.”
“Or not yet, anyway.” Daisy set my tall, steaming coffee on the counter. Her smile was sly. “I wonder what the inspector thinks about you scooping him again.”
I thought back to Inspector Ryan’s attitude. He had remained very professional, but I had the distinct feeling I annoyed him. “He doesn’t like it. But what can he do? I had legitimate reasons to be in both places.” Meaning Myrtle’s flat and Clive’s office. “I can’t help it if I’m naturally talented.” I batted my lashes with a smirk, showing Daisy I was joking.
“You certainly are,” Daisy agreed. She gestured toward the bakery case. “Can I interest you in something to eat? I’ve got cream scones with lemon curd.”
Despite the horrible name, lemon curd was delicious. “I’ll take three. Mum and Aunt Violet will want one too.” I remembered my other news, even more exciting than Clive’s possible arrest. “Guess what? Kieran asked me out to dinner.”
Daisy clapped her gloved hands. “Hurray. I’m so happy. You two are perfect for each other.”
That was nice to hear, even if a little hard to believe. “Really? You think so?” Insecurity began to gnaw. “He’s literally from a different world.”
She blew out air. “Oh, so what. I think he’s the lucky one in this match. And you can tell him I said so.” She tucked the lid of a pastry box into place and set it on the counter, then rang up my order. “Now on to the important part. What are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know,” I wailed. “I have nothing. But Mum and I are going shopping. Want to come along?”
“I’d love to,” Daisy said, accepting my money. “I need some new togs myself.” Her face grew more serious. “Have you started reading my aunt’s journal, by chance? No biggie if you haven’t gotten to it.” Her anxious eyes belied that last remark, and judging by her hunched shoulders, she was bracing herself against what I might say.
“I’ve read a few entries so far and she’s wonderful, Daisy. Truly.” How was I ever going be able to tell her that Joan might have been murdered?
Her shoulders relaxed. “So I’ve heard. Maybe I’ll be ready to read the journal myself sometime soon.” More customers were entering the shop, and in response, she gently pushed the bakery box toward me. “Talk to you later, Molly. Have a good day.”
Taking the hint, I picked up the box in one hand, coffee in the other. “You too, Daisy.”
Over scones, Aunt Violet and I discussed our tea date with Fiona Fosdyke that afternoon. “I suppose we could walk,” Aunt Violet said. “But it’s a bit far. I’ll have George pull the car out of the garage.”
I hadn’t been in an automobile or any form of motorized transit since arriving and I hated to break my streak. “What about cycling over? I can rent a bike next door.” Which gave me a perfect excuse to see Kieran.
“We can. Plus I need the exercise,” Aunt Violet said with a laugh. “How do you suppose I stay so trim? Cycling is the answer.”
“Especially with all these luscious baked goods around,” I said, taking a bite of scone. It melted in my mouth, the lemon curd providing a pop of flavor.
“I have an even better idea,” Mum declared. She had an adorable dab of curd above her lip. At my gesture, she wiped her mouth. “Molly and I both need bicycles. Let’s go buy a couple.”
“Really, Mum?” I had left my old ten-speed in Vermont. Not that I’d ridden it all that much. Between struggling with steep hills, frequent snow and ice, and narrow roads edged with deep ditches, bicycling had never been my sport. But here in Cambridge, a bicycle was pretty much indispensable and much safer, since many streets downtown were closed to vehicle traffic.
“I saw some lovely ones in the rack,” Mum said. “And they’re on sale.”
Aunt Violet took the shop’s helm while Mum and I walked next door. She was right, there was a charming array of women’s bicycles in the For Purchase rack. Like Aunt Violet’s, they came equipped with baskets and bells.
Kieran emerged from the shop, smiling ear to ear. “Lovely morning, Molly, Nina. Can I help you?”
Mum placed her hand on a pink bicycle. “I want to buy this one.”
“And this is my choice.” The bicycle was painted a lovely turquoise that made my heart lift. The cheerful color would definitely stand out in a sea of black bicycles, making identifying my ride easier in the bike racks.
“We’ll get you set up straight away, then.” Kieran unlocked Mum’s bicycle from the rack. “Hop aboard and we’ll do the adjustments.”
Half an hour later, we were the proud owners of two beautiful bicycles and matching helmets. “Want to go for a spin?” Mum asked. She patted her handlebars. “Put Beatrice through her paces?”
“Oh, you named yours?” I studied my bicycle, thinking about what to call it. “Belinda. Yes, Belinda would love to go for a ride.”
After letting Aunt Violet know our plans and grabbing snacks and waters to go, we set off along the cobblestone streets.
Mum led the way and I followed, enjoying the cool air rushing against my face as we wound through the University and over the river. We took a cycle path Mum found, a route leading through water meadows and past grazing sheep and cows. In places, trees and bushes arched over the narrow route, creating tunnels. It was hard to believe we were still in the city.
“Where are we going, Mum?” I called, guessing she had a destination in mind.
“You’ll see,” she called back. “How are you doing?”
“Great,” I said. “Lead on.” The cycling was wonderful, flat and easy, and I felt like I could do it forever. Then I spotted the cows blocking our way.
Cool as could be, Mum veered onto the grass around the herd and kept going. I followed, legs pumping fast, praying all the while that one wouldn’t move in front of me.
We soon entered civilization again in the form of a small village. Mum pedaled along the business district for a few blocks before veering onto a side road. Straight ahead at a curve in the lane was a quaint cottage with scaffolding around it. Two men were working on the partly thatched roof, and a van in the drive was lettered Shire Thatch.
I braked hard, almost falling over. Wasn’t Shire Thatch my uncle’s company? How had Mum known they would be here? She was off her bicycle now, kickstand engaged, and staring up at the men, hands on hips. I parked mine nearby, making sure the stand would hold before letting go.
Finally noticing us, the men paused in their task of fastening straw bundles to a framework, and after a moment, the older man waved. With a shock, I recognized him as the man I’d seen at the newsstand and later that morning, on the bridge. Had he been trailing me after all? My uncle, because it had to be him, hurried across the scaffolding and down a ladder, the other man following more slowly.
“Nina. Is it really you?” He halted several feet away, his eyes locked on her face.
“It’s me, Chris,” Mum said with a laugh, running a hand through her hair. “How have you been?”
Uncle Chris took another step forward, hands lifted as though he wanted to embrace Mum. Then they dropped and his expression became wary. “I’m all right.” He tipped his chin toward the cottage. “Busy as ever, as you can see.”
Mum took my arm and drew me forward. “Chris, this is my daughter, Molly.”
“Nice to meet you, lass,” he said with a tentative smile.
“Nice to meet you too.” Now that I know you exist. Maybe Uncle Chris was all right. It was his wife who was the real problem, according to Mum.
Uncle Chris backed toward the van. “Would you like a cuppa? It’s about that time.”
“Sure. I could use a cup,” Mum said. She threw a glance at me, lifting her brows as though to ask if I was okay. I nodded.
“Hello,” the younger man said to Mum. “I’m Charlie Marlowe.”
She shook his hand. “And I’m Nina, your aunt from America.”
Charlie looked a lot like his father and by extension, Mum. Dark hair and eyes, attractive features, and a nice smile. His palm was dry and calloused when he shook my hand. “Welcome to England, Molly.”
“Thanks,” I said, marveling at the fact that I had a cousin. My only cousin. Maybe we would even become friends.
His father had pulled out a tartan bag and was filling disposable cups with strong tea. Charlie passed around a packet of McVitie’s.
“My favorite,” I said, taking one.
Charlie’s brown eyes twinkled. “Mine too.” He took two before passing the packet to Mum. “We work up quite an appetite, going up and down ladders all day.”
“I’ll bet.” What a contrast between work environments. His outside on roofs, mine inside with books. Although thatching was a beautiful and historic craft. Both branches of the family dealt in the past, I realized. Interesting.
Standing in a circle, we sipped tea, making innocuous comments about the weather, the bookshop, and the thatching job. Uncle Chris answered my questions and offered to do a personal demonstration of techniques when I had time. Mum didn’t mention my uncle’s note and neither did he, and all of us stayed away from the topic of Myrtle’s murder. By the time we finished our tea, the ice was broken and we’d even shared a laugh or two.
“We’d best get on,” Uncle Chris said, collecting the empty cups.
“Us too,” Mum said. “Aunt Violet is expecting us back.”
“Good to see you, Molly,” Charlie said. “Maybe we can grab a pint some time.”
“I’d like that,” I said, lifting the kickstand on my bike. “How about at the Magpie? It’s right across the street from us.”
“The Magpie?” Uncle Chris said. He turned to his son. “Isn’t that the bloke who got in trouble a while back?”
“I have no idea.” Charlie said with a laugh and a shrug. “Don’t mind Dad. He never forgets a good piece of gossip.”
Uncle Chris rested his chin on his hand, thinking. “Is his name Steve Baker?”
Adrenaline shot through my veins when he mentioned Steve. I’d been planning to talk to Steve about Myrtle, but in more of a check-off-the-list way. I hadn’t considered him a prime suspect. What had Steve done? It must be serious or Uncle Chris probably wouldn’t bother mentioning it.
“Steve and Susie Baker own the place,” Mum said. “They’re both quite nice.”
My uncle nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure he is. I don’t know Susie. She must be his second wife. But he’s got a bit of a gambling problem. Or did. About fifteen years ago, he was caught up in a sweep when they shut down an illegal ring.”
And Steve was still betting. Legally, it appeared, but covertly. The question was, did Myrtle’s threats to expose him drive him to murder?
In concession to the tradition, Aunt Violet and I dressed up to take tea with Fiona, despite the fact we were riding our bicycles. I had on a full-skirted white cotton dress with a poppy print, and white flats, and Aunt Violet wore a vintage lavender dress with a matching bolero. The velvet flowers on her hat bobbed cheerfully as she pedaled ahead of me.
Belinda was getting quite a workout for the first day of ownership, I thought as we peddled through Jesus Green, a huge park and former grazing area. Now, instead of cows and sheep wandering about, there were tall trees filtering the afternoon sunlight and people strolling or relaxing on benches.
Mum had been quite happy to stay at the shop, helping customers while continuing to price the Oz set. She seemed relieved that the visit with her brother had gone well, and I thought her strategy had been perfect. For one thing, she knew that Aunt Janice wouldn’t be at the thatching job, and for another, the setting was quite public so as to discourage heavy topics. Time would tell if my cousin and I would actually hang out together. I’d probably let him make the first move.
Reaching the river, which edged the green, we bumped over a bridge and arrived in Chesterton—yet another village that had gradually become part of Cambridge proper as the city grew.
Aunt Violet halted her bicycle on the side of the path. “How are you doing, Molly?” Despite the pace she’d been setting, she wasn’t at all winded.
“I’m great,” I said. “This is really fun.” On a bicycle, I got to enjoy the sights while covering far more ground than walking.
“We’re almost there.” Aunt Violet put her feet on the pedals. “Only a little farther.”
She led me through a maze of side streets until we reached a lane ending at a tall wooden gate. A natural brick wall was to the left, and to the right stood the end wall of the house, also brick but painted light green.
“Fiona has quite the enclave here,” Aunt Violet said. Hopping off her bicycle, she wheeled it through the gate. Inside, we left our bicycles next to the gray Mercedes sedan parked under a tall tree, far enough away that an accidental oops wouldn’t scratch the paint.
Then we turned to face the house. The main section was Georgian, flat-fronted cream brick with a central entry framed by two windows on each side and five above. Tiny dormers pierced the roof.
“Wow,” I said, immediately falling in love. “What a gorgeous place.”
Aunt Violet took my arm and gently turned me to face the grounds. A long lawn edged with flowerbeds stretched to the Cam. Punts drifted lazily by and a pair of swans circled. I wanted to run down that lawn screaming in joy, it was that inviting.
“Hello,” called a feminine voice. “I see you made it.” Fiona stood in the open front door waving at us. Today a double-breasted skirt suit restrained her formidable bosom while revealing admirable legs, and her hair was freshly curled.
“It’s so good to see you, Fiona, dear,” Aunt Violet said warmly. For a moment it seemed the two women might embrace, but they settled for a warm handclasp.
“Please, do come in,” Fiona said, drawing Aunt Violet into the house. “How nice of you to visit, Molly.” She stood back until both of us were in the entrance hall, where an elegant stair led up. Through doorways to the left and right I glimpsed a formal living room and dining room, both furnished in period style. I gawked around at everything while she ushered us into the drawing room, where French doors stood open to a lush side garden. A pair of hideous porcelain pugs regarded us from the mantelpiece.
“Please have a seat,” Fiona said, indicating a seating area of green silk upholstered sofa and wingback chairs. “I’ll be right back,” she said before hurrying out another door.
Aunt Violet elbowed me, nodding toward the dogs. “Chinese, eighteenth century,” she whispered. “Worth a pretty penny.”
I was no antiques expert but glancing around I picked out other valuables—Ming vases, a curio cabinet full of porcelain figurines, paintings in gilded frames. Thinking of the contrast between this mansion and Myrtle’s admittedly modest flat, I wondered if envy had driven her as well as greed.
Fiona returned, carrying a large silver tray. She set it carefully on a low marble-topped table, the bone china teacups shivering gently.
“Here we are,” she said, plumping down on an armchair and picking up the teapot, which matched the floral-print teacups. She deftly filled three cups. “Lemon, sugar, or milk, whatever is your fancy.”
Aunt Violet gave a little laugh. “I was just thinking how different this is from tea in our rooms at St. Hildegard’s. Thick old stained mugs and sometimes even recycled tea bags when we were hard up. Remember?”
Fiona set down the pot and handed me a teacup. “I certainly do. Persephone ‘borrowed’ a few of those mugs from the buttery.” In England, colleges often called their dining halls butteries.
I added a splash of milk to my tea, watching the clear liquid cloud up. There was quite a contrast from happy-go-lucky Fiona in a miniskirt flirting with Tom to this stately matron, queen of all she surveyed. Which Fiona did she prefer, I wonder?
Fiona dropped a lump of sugar in her cup, and I took one as well, for the novelty. Tilting her head, she studied me. Her blue eyes were still clear and lovely, and I could see the girl she had once been. “How are you settling in, Molly? Enjoying Cambridge, are you?” Her smile faltered. “Well, most of it has been enjoyable, I imagine.”
Neat sidestep around the elephant named Myrtle. “I love everything about Cambridge,” I declared, my enthusiasm ringing out in that muted, tasteful room. “Books have always been my life and now I know I come by that passion honestly.” Well, unless we did cheat Myrtle’s branch, which I highly doubted. “Mum and I have great plans for the bookshop”—besides solving murders on the premises—“all with Aunt Violet’s blessing, plus I’ve made new friends already.”
“Kieran Scott asked her out,” Aunt Violet said, setting her cup down with a genteel rattle.
Fiona’s mouth pursed in admiring surprise. “Oh, he’s a lovely boy. Good family, too.”
An understatement on both counts. I squirmed in my seat, feeling as if I were back in high school, having my latest crush scrutinized. Judging by the fond smiles aimed my way, I guessed they approved.
I waved a hand, aiming for casual and hoping the subject would be dropped. “We’re going out to dinner at the Holly and Ivy. Ruth said she is staying there. Oh, and by the way, is Persephone still in town?” Hopefully a deft enough maneuver to bring the conversation back on track and away from my love life.
“She’s still here with me, for another week or so, at least.” Fiona picked up a plate and pushed it my way. “Biscuit?”
No McVitie’s on offer, so I took a gingersnap and bit it, almost breaking a molar. Yikes. Then I noticed that Aunt Violet was dipping one in her tea first, to soften it. Gotcha.
“I’ve so loved having Molly and Nina here,” Aunt Violet said. “Besides helping in the shop and setting up a social media campaign, Molly’s been sorting through Tom’s children’s books. I’ve been putting that off for years.”
At the mention of Aunt Violet’s brother, Fiona dropped her biscuit onto the carpet. “Oh, sorry. Clumsy clot.” Blushing, she bent to pick it up.
She still cared about Tom. Cruelly taking advantage of her feelings for the greater good of our mission, I said, “I wish I’d had a chance to know him. He seemed like a wonderful man. And going by pictures when he was young? Wow. Hot, as my friends would say.”
Under the face powder, her cheeks flushed bright pink. “Yes. Yes, he was. We all thought a great deal of Tom, didn’t we, Vi?”
I’d wondered what strategy Aunt Violet would use to advance our cause, but to my surprise, she went right for the jugular. “You loved him, Fiona, didn’t you? Not only way back when but at the end of his life as well.” She paused when Fiona began to stutter, but then spoke right over her. “We saw the pictures. The ones Myrtle had.”
“That witch blackmailed you, didn’t she?” I said, surprising even myself with my bluntness. “I’m glad you loved my uncle. He deserved love.” The circumstances were messy, yes, but who was I to judge?
Fiona’s eyes went wide with shock, but then her face crumpled into lines of sorrow and regret. “You’re right. I did love him.” With her shoulders hunched, her fingers began to fret at her napkin. “He was the love of my life. I was such a little fool,” she ground out, “marrying Gregory instead of following my heart.”
“And then you found out Tom had cancer.” Aunt Violet leaned across the table, her voice gentle.
Her friend nodded. “Yes. We ran into each other—” Her mouth opened. “Myrtle. She’s the one who told me. I was with her when we saw Tom. At Tea and Crumpets.” Daisy’s shop, right across from the bookshop. So of course Tom frequented the place.
“Do you think she set you up?” I asked. In hindsight, this seemed obvious.
Fiona still appeared astounded. “You know, I think she might have. In fact, right after he came in and said hello to us, she made an excuse and left. So Tom and I…” Her cheeks flushed deeper. “We sat and talked. Oh, how we talked.” She laughed. “I think Daisy had to kick us out when she closed.” Obviously lost in her memories, she continued to shred that poor napkin.
After a moment, Aunt Violet said, “So you began seeing each other.”
Fiona tore her eye away from her lap. “Yes, that’s right. We only had … what? Less than a year, anyway. But I think I brought him some comfort.”
“When did Myrtle start blackmailing you?” I asked.
Putting a hand to her forehead, she closed her eyes. “Right after the funeral. He was barely in the ground before I got the first call. Oh, she had me good, she did. Earlier, and I could have chosen to be with Tom, let the chips fall where they may. And I might have. Yes, I would have. Probably. But I didn’t have him anymore … plus Gregory was having health challenges of his own. And the children … they never would have forgiven me if I’d left their father now.” She gave a little headshake. “He almost didn’t make it, this past winter.”
Game, set, and match to Myrtle. She had Fiona completely boxed in.
I glanced at Aunt Violet. Did we dare to go ahead and plainly ask Fiona if she had killed Myrtle? She certainly had motive—to get this evil blackmailer off her back. As long as Myrtle was alive, there was a risk that she would reveal the affair to Gregory or Fiona’s children.
Voices outside the open French door startled us. We all stiffened as Persephone strolled into the room, braid swinging, a huge smile on her face. “Lovely. Company for tea.” She turned to look at the man behind her, who was tall and lean, with iron gray hair and handsome if weathered features. “Gregory. It’s Violet Marlowe and her niece, from the bookshop.” Her eyes glittered. “You know, Tom’s sister.”