British Manor Murder (22 page)

“What was it?” asked Poppy.

“He called me ‘Rev' and it took me right back to Hoxton. That's what they called me there.” He paused. “Nobody here has ever called me that.”

“It certainly wouldn't occur to me,” said Poppy. “But why did he kill Cyril? They were old pals, no?”

“They were, and that was a big problem for Willoughby. He'd created a new persona and would have been terrified that Cyril would expose him, revealing his true identity. In fact, knowing Cyril as I do, I imagine he threatened to do exactly that. He might have demanded a cut of the antiques operation or even tried to blackmail him, which would have pushed Willoughby into a corner. He may have felt that killing Cyril was his only option.”

“I feel a bit sorry for Willoughby,” said Desi. “He worked so hard trying to be upper class, when we're trying not to be.”

“What do you mean trying?” asked Poppy. “I'm a worker bee these days and, as you can imagine, I have quite a lot to do.”

“C'mon, Mum,” said Desi, wrapping an arm around his mother's shoulders. “Call it a day. I'll take you into town and give you lunch at the Ritz. What do you say?”

“I'd be delighted, that's what I say,” she replied, giving him a fond pat on the cheek.

“What about you?” Robert asked Lucy as they watched mother and son walk off together. “Are you all right?”

“I am. What about you? I think you better get some ice on that jaw of yours.”

“I will. Good thing Sarah's out today. She'd be furious with me.”

“Where is she?” asked Lucy.

“Shopping for a dress to wear to the gala opening,” said Robert, before striding off in the direction of the vicarage.

* * *

Dressed in a gold silk sheath that left one shoulder bare, Sarah did her husband proud at the opening, but it was Lady Wickham who drew the most admiring glances. She was dressed in a black chiffon evening gown topped with a white fur stole and numerous pieces of diamond jewelry, including a magnificent necklace and an enormous tiara.

“It's the Mucklemore Jewel,” said Perry in a waspish tone. “She refused to lend it to me for the show and now I know why.”

But even Lady Wickham's glory dimmed when Dishy Geoff, dressed once again as a footman, rapped his stick on the floor and announced, “The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.”

The crowd parted as the Red Sea did for Moses, and everyone, including Lucy and Sue, bowed or curtsied. Even if protocol didn't require bows from Americans, they had discussed the matter in advance and decided that they should adopt the custom of the country they were visiting and had practiced curtseying in front of the mirror in Lucy's room.

Lady Wickham took it upon herself to welcome the royal couple, neatly cutting off Poppy and Gerald, as well as Perry, who were the proper hosts. She rushed forward, coming to an abrupt halt in front of Kate and Wills, plucked up the sides of her voluminous skirt and attempted a deep curtsey that went wrong, and tumbled down onto her knees.

The prince reached down politely and gave her a hand, helping her rise to her feet. “The hat show is called Heads Up! not bottoms up!”

Everyone laughed, even her ladyship.

Epilogue

“T
he captain has informed me,” began the flight attendant's announcement, “that we are preparing for landing. At this time we ask you to turn off all electronic devices. Please return your seats to the upright position, replace the tray tables against the seat backs, and fasten your seatbelts.”

“Already,” said Sue with a smile, checking her cell phone for texts before turning it off. “The flight home always seems so much quicker.”

“In this direction the clock is our friend,” said Lucy. “It's only a little bit past six and we left at four, right?”

“Crazy,” said Sue, peering out the window as they flew over Boston Harbor.

Lucy leaned back in her seat, mentally reviewing the purchases she'd made in the shops at Heathrow: a bottle of single malt scotch for Bill, Cath Kidston tote bags for her friends Pam and Rachel, Burberry cologne for Elizabeth and Zoe, and a Paddington bear for Patrick. It was that last thought of Patrick, far away in Alaska, that prompted a deep sigh.

“Didn't you have a good time in jolly old?” asked Sue, a note of concern in her voice as she gave Lucy's hand a squeeze.

Lucy was suddenly overcome with gratitude and affection for her best friend. “Oh, Sue, I can't thank you enough. This trip was wonderful. I feel so much better. It was just what I needed.”

“I'm really glad you came,” said Sue. “It was good to have a friend, considering everything that happened. I wouldn't have liked to be there on my own, what with the murder and everything.”

“It was quite an adventure,” said Lucy as the plane began to descend. “But now it's back to reality.”

“It's good to be home, right?” prompted Sue.

“Oh, yeah, but I'm kind of nervous about it, too. I don't want to sink back into depression, you know?”

“I'm sure you won't,” said Sue when the wheels of the jet hit the tarmac with a thud.

“I wish I could be as confident as you,” admitted Lucy as the plane taxied to the gate.

It seemed to take a long time for the plane to empty, and there was some sort of problem with the baggage carousel that delayed the arrival of their bags, but Sue used the time to check her messages. She didn't seem to notice that the friendly beagle making the rounds of the baggage area with a Customs officer was taking an awful lot of interest in her bags. That meant a nervous delay at Customs as her case was x-rayed and her stash of Cadbury chocolate bars was discovered.

“The ones in the UK are better tasting. Everyone says so,” she told the officer. “Would you like one?”

“Now that would be against regulations,” he said with a smile as he handed her the suitcase with the chocolate bars inside. “Have a nice day.”

“That was close,” muttered Sue as they headed for the big double doors that opened to the A
RRIVALS
area. “I was afraid that they'd confiscate my Cadburys or maybe even arrest me for smuggling.”

“I don't think you should have tried to bribe him,” said Lucy as the doors slid open and revealed a crowd of people—lovers and families and friends waiting to greet their dear ones.

“Makes you wish someone was here for us,” said Lucy, who knew they had a long drive ahead back to Tinker's Cove.

“Hold on,” said Sue, “I think I see—”

“Patrick!” screamed Lucy, spotting her grandson waiting for her along with his father Toby and grandfather Bill. People stood aside as she ran to embrace Patrick, who had grown so much and was quite the handsome five-year-old.

“I c-can't b-believe it!” she stammered. “What are you doing here?”

“We spent the day in Boston,” explained Bill. “We went to the Aquarium and the Children's Museum, all the time following the plane's progress on the British Air website, and then Sue texted us about customs and gave us the green light so we skedaddled over here. I gotta tell you the traffic was brutal.”

“No,” she said, turning to Toby. “Why aren't you in Alaska?”

“The agency sent me to take a course at the university. It's eight weeks so I brought the family. The house is rented so we'll have to stay with you. In fact, Molly's there now. That's okay, right?”

Bill scratched his beard. “It's going to be awfully crowded. . . .”

Sue looked doubtful. “There'll be so much laundry, and think of the meals and the grocery bills. . . .”

Lucy, who was holding Patrick's hand, stared at them in disbelief. Then seeing their suppressed smiles, she realized they were teasing. “Oh, you guys!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “It's going to be wonderful. A full house! I can't wait to get home. Let's go!”

EGGNOG MURDER by LESLIE MEIER
When a gift-wrapped bottle of eggnog—allegedly from the Real Beard Santa Club—proves to be a killer concoction for a Tinker's Cove local, all Lucy Stone wants for Christmas is to find the murdering mixologist who's stirring up trouble.

DEATH BY EGGNOG by LEE HOLLIS
Food and cocktails columnist Hayley Powell has never cared much for Bar Harbor's grouchy town librarian, Agatha Farnsworth. But after the Scroogy senior has a fatal—and suspicious—allergic reaction to supposedly non-dairy eggnog, it's up to Hayley to ladle out some justice.

NOGGED OFF by BARBARA ROSS
Julia Snowden's tenant Imogen Geinkes seems to be jinxed. First, her poorly named “Killer Eggnog” gives all her co-workers food poisoning at the holiday party, then her boyfriend's body shows up in Julia's moving truck as she's headed back to Busman's Harbor. Now Julia has to get moving to catch the cold-hearted culprit.

And keep reading for a sneak peek...

“‘Beware of gifts from strangers,' that's what I told
Wilf, when he found this bottle of eggnog on the
back porch,” said Phyllis, producing a distinctive oldfashioned
milk bottle decorated with red and green ribbons
and a sprig of faux holly from her red and green plaid tote
bag and setting it on the reception counter in the
Pennysaver
office. The
Pennysaver
, formerly the
Courier and Advertiser
, was the weekly newspaper in the coastal town of
Tinker's Cove, Maine.

“He said it wasn't from strangers, it's a welcome gift
from this new club he's joined,” she continued. Phyllis's
official title was receptionist at the
Pennysaver
, but that
only began to describe her duties, as she handled ads, subscriptions,
billing, and the classifieds. Today was the Monday
after Thanksgiving and the Christmas season had
officially begun, so she had painted her fingernails in alternating
shades of red and green polish and was wearing a
sparkly sweater. She had long ago forgotten what color
her hair actually was, but had dyed it a brighter shade of
red than usual, also in honor of the holiday. Her cat's-eye
reading glasses were decorated with candy cane stripes and
were resting on her ample bosom, where they dangled from
a rhinestone-encrusted chain. No one dared to ask Phyllis how old she was, but somewhere between fifty and sixty
was a safe guess.

“What club is that?” asked Lucy Stone, who worked
part time at the paper as a reporter and feature writer. She
was already seated at her desk this Monday morning, tapping
away on her computer keyboard. Lucy wore her dark
hair in a short, easy-care cut and dressed in easy-care
clothes, usually jeans and a sweater. In warm weather she
wore running shoes, but now, since it was almost winter,
she was wearing duck boots like just about everyone else
in the little Maine town.

“The Real Beard Santa Club,” replied Phyllis. “He was
driving me crazy hanging around the house, now that he's
retired from the postal service, but I can't say I'm very
happy about his choice.”

“I don't suppose growing a beard actually keeps a person
very busy,” said Lucy, who was struggling to decipher
the notes she'd scribbled when covering a Conservation
Commission meeting. “Which is more likely?” she asked
Phyllis. “Does the commission want to require that
dogs
be leashed
in the conservation area or
days be limited
? The
only word I'm sure of is
be
.”

“Probably both—I wouldn't put anything past that
bunch of nincompoops,” grumbled Phyllis, voicing the
suspicion of the town's regulatory boards that was heard
whenever two or more taxpayers were gathered together.
“And like you said, growing a beard isn't really an occupation
that keeps a person busy, though now that I think
about it, Wilf does spend a lot of time in front of the bathroom
mirror, admiring his facial growth. I told him it's like
watching a pot to make it boil, admiring it in the mirror
isn't going to make it grow any faster.” She paused. “To
tell the truth, I really don't like the beard. . . .”

“No?” asked Lucy, whose husband, Bill, had grown a beard when he gave up his Wall Street job to become a res -
toration carpenter in Maine, a move they'd made more than
twenty years before. Once a lustrous brown, these days
Bill's beard was lightly sprinkled with gray. “Why not?”

“Lots of reasons. It seems dirty. It's prickly when I kiss
him. I miss seeing his chin. It makes him look old.”

“Well, Santa's no spring chicken,” said Lucy, reluctantly
coming to the conclusion that she'd better call Dorcas
Philpott, the chairwoman of the Conservation Commission.
“And he's much fatter than Wilf. Is he going to try to
gain weight so he'll have a belly that shakes when he
laughs like a bowlful of jelly?” asked Lucy, paraphrasing
the famous Christmas poem.

“Absolutely not,” snapped Phyllis. “That was the deal.
I'll put up with the beard but not a Santa-sized stomach.”
Her tone became very serious. “You know how they say
belly fat increases your chances of dying young, and I'm
not taking any chances. We got married late in life and I
want to have as much time together as possible, so he's
going to have to keep eating healthy. He says I've got him
eating like a reindeer, what with all the baby carrots, but
I'm not giving in. He'll have to wear padding, that's all
there is to it.”

“Is that okay with the Real Beard Santa Club?” asked
Lucy, who was reaching for the phone. “They have to have
real beards, but it's okay to have a fake stomach?”

“I presume so,” said Phyllis, primly. “It's not called the
Real Belly Santa Club, now, is it?”

Lucy was suppressing a laugh when Dorcas Philpott answered
the phone on the first ring. “Oh, Lucy, it's you,”
she said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm when Lucy
identified herself. “I was waiting for the oil man to call—
my furnace went out. You know, for a while there at the
meeting I thought you might be falling asleep.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” claimed Lucy, who had in fact
struggled to stay awake during the evening meeting, which
had not adjourned until after eleven o'clock. “But I do have
a question about my notes. I can't seem to read my own
handwriting.”

“Well, I can't say I'm surprised, people nowadays hardly
ever take pen to paper, they just poke at electronic screens.
Do you know they don't even teach cursive writing anymore?”
asked Dorcas, her voice trembling with indignation.
“I was shocked when my granddaughter asked why
my writing was so funny looking!”

“I didn't know that,” admitted Lucy, fearing she wouldn't
be able to keep Dorcas on track. “But about the meeting?”

“We should have a meeting with the school committee,”
declared Dorcas, jumping on the idea. “And let them
know that dropping penmanship instruction is simply not
an option. They have a responsibility . . .”

“That's a good idea,” said Lucy. “But about the concom
meeting, didn't you make some new regulations for the
conservation area?”

“They say it's because everyone uses computers these
days, that nobody needs to have good penmanship, but I
ask you: Can you write a proper thank-you note on a computer?
And what about notes of condolence? Those absolutely
must be on the very best plain white paper and
written with great care. . . .”

“My late mother would most certainly agree with you,”
said Lucy, who had been most carefully instructed in the
rules of formal correspondence, and thanks to an eighthgrade
dance class she'd found excruciatingly awkward
could also dance the waltz and the fox-trot, not to mention
the cha-cha and Charleston. Times had changed, how ever,
and she had found these skills were no longer appreciated or valued as they once were. “Now, are you changing the
hours that the conservation area is open?”

“Where did you get an idea like that?” demanded Dorcas.
“Next thing you'll be telling me we'll be requiring
dogs to be leashed.”

“I did wonder about that,” admitted Lucy.

“I noticed you nodding off,” said Dorcas. “Try coffee,
that's what I do. I find a cup of coffee after dinner enables
me to stay sharp in the evening, which is when I usually
handle my correspondence—which I might add, I write by
hand, with a fountain pen.”

“I'll keep it in mind,” said Lucy. “So no action was
taken on either issue?”

“They were both tabled for a later meeting,” admitted
Dorcas. “But I will be expecting to see a story in the paper
about the school committee's shortsighted and irresponsible
decision to drop penmanship from the curriculum. . . .”

“I'll look into it and run it by Ted,” said Lucy, ending
the call just as the little bell on the door jangled, announcing
Ted Stillings's arrival.

“What are you going to run by me?” asked Ted, bringing
in a burst of cold air that made Phyllis, whose desk
was by the door, shiver and pull the sides of her cardigan
sweater together across her substantial chest. Ted was the
chief reporter, editor, and publisher of the
Pennysaver
,
which he owned. In other words, Ted was the boss.

“Hi, Ted,” said Lucy, greeting him with a smile. “I was
talking to Dorcas Philpott. She says the school committee
voted to drop penmanship from the curriculum and she's
worried that the kids won't know how to write thank-you
notes.”

“That ship has sailed,” declared Ted, hanging up his hat
and coat. “Pam says she never gets thank-you notes from any of our ungrateful nieces and nephews, and not from
Tim, either, even though our son was brought up to write
them,” said Ted, picking up the bottle of eggnog and examining
it. “What's this?”

“It's eggnog, Phyllis brought it,” said Lucy.

“It was given to Wilf as a welcome present from the
Real Beard Santa Club. He's just joined and eggnog is the
club's official drink,” said Phyllis.

“Doesn't he want to drink it?” asked Ted. “Why is it
here?”

“Wilf would love to drink it, but I won't let him,” said
Phyllis, who was reaching for the phone, which was
ringing.

“Why can't Wilf drink his eggnog?” asked Ted.

“Because it's fattening,” said Lucy, “and Phyllis made a
deal that he can grow a real beard, even though she doesn't
much like beards, but she doesn't want him to have a
Santa-sized stomach.”

“Oh,” said Ted, studying the bottle with hungry eyes.
Hearing the jangle on the door, he turned, smiling as Corney
Clark breezed in. “You're just in time, Corney. I'm
thinking about cracking open this eggnog. Will you join
me? It's officially Christmas, you know.”

Corney stopped in her tracks, recoiling from the bottle.
“I never touch the stuff. It might as well be poison!”

Ted looked crestfallen. “What do you mean? It's Christmas
and eggnog is the traditional drink.” He paused,
thinking. “I've actually got a bottle of whiskey in my
desk—journalistic tradition, you know? I could doctor it
up. . . .”

“You're mad! Take the most fattening drink in the history
of the world and add more calories?” Corney pulled
off her knitted cap and shook out her blond hair, which she got cut and colored every six weeks at great expense in
Portland. “And I might add that the sun is not anywhere
near the yard arm, much less over it!”

“I never thought you were a party pooper,” grumbled
Ted, replacing the bottle on the counter.

“I am certainly not a party pooper, I enjoy a good time
as much as anyone. Why not serve the eggnog at the holiday
stroll on Friday?” suggested Corney, remembering the
errand that had brought her to the paper. She was the director
of the Tinker's Cove Chamber of Commerce and
her job required her to work closely with the
Pennysaver
staff to promote local events. “This year's stroll is going to
be bigger and better than ever. We want to encourage people
to shop here in town and support local businesses.”

“Bigger and better's not saying much,” said Phyllis.
“Last year's stroll was pretty much a non-event. Wilf and I
got all bundled up and attempted to finish up our Christmas
shopping, but only a few places stayed open after six
o'clock.”