Sunday afternoon, mournful organ music droned as funeral goers drifted into the Round Church for Myrtle’s service. Aunt Violet, Mum, and I had snagged seats a couple of rows back from the front, close enough to show involvement, but certainly not claiming a close relationship.
No, that honor appeared to belong to George, her executor, who sat alone in the front, dressed in his best tweeds, ever-present cap in his lap for once.
I stared up at the stained-glass window over the altar, admiring its glowing colors and intricate design. This historic church, built almost a thousand years ago, was a wonder of stone arches, ancient carvings, and enormous round pillars. We were in a newer part off the original structure, the famous circular nave that gave the church its name.
Aunt Violet’s friends entered in a bevy that stirred the air, people turning to watch as they rustled down the aisle, heels clicking. An attractive woman with hair cut in a stern beige bob walked beside Ruth. Catherine, I guessed.
They settled in the row right in front of us, shoulders bumping as they whispered. More latecomers drifted in: Susie and Steve—who sat across the aisle with Daisy and Tim—and Clive, who chose our row, forcing us to shift over a seat. I suppose he thought we Marlowes should stick together. For the funeral, at least.
I nodded in greeting as Clive settled next to me, his heavy cologne tickling my throat. I quickly put a tissue to my nose, praying I wouldn’t cough.
He grunted a reply, staring straight ahead as though deep in thought. Why had he come to the service? I doubted that he genuinely mourned Myrtle’s passing, in light of her blackmailing him. But honestly, if you used sorrow as a measure, most of us probably shouldn’t be here.
How sad. I hoped that when I passed away—with any luck many years from now—people would miss me. Not merely show up, as these folks had, to make sure that I was truly gone. Conveniently, here were all the suspects, dressed to the nines and appearing appropriately somber: Susie, Steve, and Clive. Fiona and Ruth. What about Persephone, though? The potential plagiarism I’d discovered last night bothered me. And I’d never considered Catherine, mainly because she’d been in London the whole time. Or so I thought. Was one of them the killer, hiding glee—or guilt—under a mask of grief?
Quick footsteps sounded on the tile floor and I turned to see Kieran striding down the aisle. Seeing that our row was full, Kieran slid in beside Aunt Violet’s friends, who broke into huge smiles of welcome as they made room.
Right after he sat down, the organ music changed tempo to something majestic with deep, sonorous notes, and everyone rose for the vicar’s entrance. The service had begun.
Thankfully the funeral was short, featuring only a few words from the vicar, a prayer read by George, and a sung hymn or two. It was obvious from the vicar’s eulogy that he barely knew Myrtle, although he praised her volunteer efforts and regular attendance.
She’d also left a small bequest to the church, he said, although when I saw George’s ears redden, I guessed he’d made it on her behalf. But it gave the attendees something to talk about when we burst out of the church into the warm May air, relieved to have done our duty.
Kieran came up beside me, handsome in his suit jacket and white shirt. “Heading to the pub?” he asked while taking off his tie. We fell into step with the well-dressed throng making its way to the street.
“You bet,” I said. “Want to buy me a pint?”
“Sure.” He grinned. “I heard the first one is on the house, so definitely.”
“Big spender,” I joked back. Susie and Steve were not only putting on a spread, they were hosting a short open bar. How generous, especially considering their rocky relationship with the deceased.
Inspector Ryan and Sergeant Adhikari were standing to one side, watching everyone leave the church. Of course they were here. Didn’t killers often attend the funerals of their victims? Or so I’d heard.
I caught the inspector’s eye, so instead of slinking past, I had to speak. “Hello there,” I said. “Joining us at the pub?”
The sergeant’s brows went up but the inspector shook his head. “Good day, Miss Kimball.” His keen gaze went beyond me to others walking by.
Dismissed, I turned back to Kieran with a shrug. He hadn’t even thanked me for my work.
We meandered down Trinity Street to Magpie Lane, still in company with the funeral attendees. The easel sign outside the pub door read Closed for Private Party, but since that was us, we joined the crowd pressing through the door.
“The old girl would be pleased,” George said, coming up behind us. “Quite a good turnout.” Perhaps it was the offering of a free meal, but we seemed to have gained a few bodies since the church.
A rush of affection swept over me as I stared into George’s broad, kind face. “She was lucky to have a friend like you.” I took his warm, callused hand and squeezed his thick fingers. This reliable old gent was one of my favorite people, I decided.
George blushed and stammered. “It’s nothing really. We’ve all got to look out for each other, haven’t we?”
Kieran clapped him on the back. “That’s right, we do. Let me buy you a drink.” He winked at us before wading through the throng toward the bar.
“Price is right, I understand,” George called after him. He craned his neck, studying the crowd, then excused himself to follow Kieran.
I kept moving, knowing that Kieran would find me. Daisy was in the back room, where a long table had been set up. She and Susie were putting the finishing touches on a buffet that included hot chafing dishes, finger sandwiches, and salads. Daisy’s butterfly cakes and other desserts were on a smaller side table, along with coffee and hot-water urns.
“This looks amazing,” I said, thinking about what I should eat. After a late breakfast, I hadn’t had lunch, so I was starving.
Susie pulled off a metal lid to reveal bubbling lasagna, and the aroma made my mouth water. “I guess we’re doing all right by the wicked old thing. Should give us a couple of points with the Man Upstairs.” She settled the lid back in place and turned down the Sterno flame.
“Susie.” Daisy put a hand to her mouth, stifling a startled laugh. “You don’t mean that.”
A strange light shone in the pub owner’s eyes. “I could tell you tales … but I won’t. Let just say we’re lucky lightning didn’t strike the church.” With that remark, she nodded at the buffet, swiped her hands across her apron, and marched off.
“Whoa,” I said, fanning my face. “That was intense.”
Daisy sidled close. “I agree. Something certainly got her knickers in a twist.”
Now that’s a funny saying, I thought with a giggle. But on a more serious note, Susie definitely held a grudge against Myrtle. Enough of one to kill Myrtle and try to frame Clive?
People began lining up for food, so I moved out of the way. Kieran showed up with my beer and we stood at one of the high tables to drink them.
Kieran leaned his elbows on the table. “I had such a good time last night,” he said in a low, warm voice, his eyes smiling into mine.
Was it corny to say my heart skipped a beat? Well, it did. “Me too,” I said, raising my pint glass. “Cheers.”
He clinked his glass with mine. “Cheers.” After a long swallow, he said, “Let’s do it again.” His brows rose. “How about next Saturday?”
“That might work,” I said, holding back a little. Before he could respond, someone passing by stopped to say hello. That broke the spell, and after that, we drank beer and watched the crowd mill around.
Aunt Violet and her friends were still together, along with Mum, and I watched as they filled plates of food then found a table. Somebody, namely Persephone, had already been hitting the wine, judging by her pealing laugh and exaggerated gestures.
Kieran shook his head at her antics. “Someone better shut her off.”
“You’re telling me.” The other ladies were laughing along, except for Fiona, who sat a little apart, concentrating on her meal. Maybe she’d had enough of the poet—and I didn’t blame her. Persephone’s condescension toward her hostess had been obvious and rude.
The line thinned at last, so Kieran and I loaded plates, then returned to our corner table, where Daisy and Tim joined us. I chose a slab of the lasagna and a serving of chopped salad mixed with creamy dressing, plus a big slice of hot homemade baguette.
“Some of us are going to stay and play darts tonight,” Tim said to the table at large. “Are you in?”
“Maybe,” I said. “After this boatload of carbs, I might be too lazy.”
“I’ll hang out and watch,” Daisy said with a sigh. “I want to take it easy for a bit.”
“Me too,” I said. So much had happened lately, I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. I scooped up a forkful of lasagna. “I’d better pace myself. I want one of those butterfly cakes, Daisy.”
“They seem to be a favorite,” she said, eyeing the depleted platter on the dessert table.
“Everything you do is my favorite,” Tim blurted. Then he blushed furiously.
Kieran and I hooted, but Daisy sidled closer to Tim. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she murmured. A blonde curl fell over one eye, giving my pretty friend the allure of a classic film starlet. Tim was entranced.
I glanced at Kieran, who grinned. Watching Daisy and Tim’s relationship unfold was sweet.
“Want another?” Kieran asked, tipping his chin toward my empty pint.
“In a few.” I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. “Please excuse me for a minute.” The first pint had just caught up with me.
Seated at the end of the bar, Clive was swilling down lager with the intensity of a man on a mission. He set the heavy mug down with a thump as I edged past. “Molly.”
“Clive. You made it.” I hadn’t seen him since the church service.
“No thanks to you.” His small blue eyes were hot with rage. “What were you playing at, calling the police on me?” The veneer of civility he’d worn earlier had vanished. This was Clive the street fighter.
I took a step back, bumping into someone. “Sorry,” I threw over my shoulder to whomever. “I didn’t call them on you. I called about the pink knitting needle.” And if it implicated my cousin, so be it.
Steve, whose nose must be finely tuned to trouble, appeared behind the bar. My savior. “Clive. Want another?” He slid a glance at me, giving me the signal to escape.
I took the opportunity to scamper away, almost running down the hall to the restroom. Persephone pushed through the swinging door as I approached. “Molly.” She came right up to me and gusted wine breath into my face. “How are you, dear?”
“Fine, thanks.” Again I found myself stepping back, this time threatened with an overabundance of affection instead of anger.
She moved closer. “Her bones are put to rest, but specters still roam the night.”
“What? What does that even mean?” Trust a poet to say something cryptic.
Persephone’s wine-heavy eyes brightened. “That wasn’t bad, was it? I must go jot it down.”
Shaking my head, I pushed the door open and entered the ladies’ room. Catherine stood at the sink, combing her glossy bob.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Molly Kimball, Violet’s niece. You must be Catherine.”
“I am,” she agreed, her eyes watching me in the mirror. “Lovely to meet you. Violet is a dear.” Her voice was soft, almost timid.
As sometimes happened, meeting a quiet person made me babble, to fill the uneasy air, I suppose. I went on about moving here, the bookshop, meeting Ruth—
“You’re the one who found her. Myrtle.” Still staring at me, she tucked the comb into her bag and picked up a minican of hair spray. “I always knew her crimes would catch up with her.” She sprayed her hair like someone trying to poison bugs.
“I heard what she did to you. Or tried to. It was despicable.” We’re told not to speak ill of the dead, but I found myself saying, “It’s no wonder that someone finally snapped.” Not that it made murder right, merely understandable.
Catherine’s mouth dropped open. “How dare you! Ruth didn’t do it.” She popped the can into her bag.
I threw up my hands. “Wait, I wasn’t implying—”
But it was too late. She whirled around, her immaculate hair set in place like concrete. “They said you were snooping around, trying to pin the murder on someone. Well, it won’t be Ruth.”
Out the door she went, and I stood rooted to the floor, in shock. First, because she’d jumped to such a wrong conclusion, and second, because someone was telling people about my investigation. I guess I hadn’t been as covert as I’d thought.
The crowd began to thin once the funeral meal was over and the pub opened for regular business. I stayed in the back room with my friends, watching as they played darts. But I was content to sit and relax, chatting with Daisy about this and that.
“I suppose I should call it a night,” I said around nine. It felt like midnight.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Daisy said. “Those scones don’t bake themselves.” She got up around dawn to bake, so customers could enjoy fresh treats.
Kieran and Tim were still playing, so I said goodbye with a promise to see them in the morning. Kieran and I still hadn’t set another dinner date but for once I was pretty chill about the whole thing. I just knew we were getting closer, destined for something good.
Outside, the air was fresh and cool, the sky a deep navy blue. Lights shone golden in windows up and down the lane. As I started across the lane, a dark shape darted toward me. “Puck.” I gathered his warm body into my arms. “What are you doing outside?” He could be so sneaky sometimes. Now that he was mine, I preferred him to stay inside at night, where it was safer.
At the bottom of the lane, headlights flashed on, too bright and blinding me. Probably some idiot who didn’t know about the driving ban in this area.
Then an engine roared, and as I stood frozen in horror, clutching my cat, the automobile raced toward us.