A Dodgy Death Read online

  A Dodgy Death

  A Kat McCoy Lake District Cozy Mystery, Book 1

  By Jacqueline M. Green

  Copyright © 2020 Jacqueline M. Green

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Of course, England’s Lake District is real, as are the towns mentioned. However, the resemblance of any characters or businesses to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Other books by Jacqueline M. Green

  The Yoga Mat Cozy Mystery Series

  Corpse Pose, Indeed

  Goddess, Guilted

  Warrior, Fatal & Flawed

  Triangle, Ill-Fated

  Mountain Pose, Maligned (short story prequel)

  Savasana for a Scarecrow (Halloween short story)

  Other books

  Premonition in Pompeii (short story time-traveling cozy mystery)

  “With opportunity, the world is very interesting.”

  Beatrix Potter

  Chapter 1

  “Kat, Kat, is that you, dear?” The raspy voice with the British accent came through my cell phone a little on the scratchy side.

  “It’s me, Aunt Selma. Look at your phone. You can see me.”

  “Is that you, Kat?”

  I sighed and tried again. “Yes, Aunt Selma. Can you see me?”

  “There you are. I can see you now.”

  I peered into the video chat app on my phone. Aunt Selma’s face was there, but her eyes bounced all over. Nearly ninety years old, she showed no signs of slowing down.

  “How are you doing, Aunt Selma?”

  “I’m eighty-seven. How do you think I’m doing? Never mind, I don’t have time for that. Listen to me, Kat, this is important.”

  She had my attention now. “Okay, okay, tell me what’s going on.”

  “Kat, Kat, someone is trying to kill me.”

  My mouth fell open. “What? Are you sure?”

  “What do you mean, am I sure? I might be eighty-eight, but I still have all my faculties.”

  “Eighty-eight? But you just said-”

  “Kat, no time to quibble. I’m calling to tell you that I’m leaving you my B&B. I know you’ll take good care of it.”

  I moved the phone closer to my face see if she was joking. Her mouth was pursed, all the wrinkles drawing together. She looked serious.

  “Why me?” I asked. “Don’t I have cousins who live much closer to you?”

  “They’re nitwits, the whole lot of ’em.”

  Hard to argue with that. I hadn’t seen my British cousins in years, but that was my impression as well.

  “Okay, Aunt Selma, what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to take care of my lovely hotel when I’m gone. You’re the only one I know who would do that. Most Americans would sell it at the drop of a hat, but I know you will take care of it. The will is already at my solicitors.”

  “But Aunt-”

  “I know I’m eighty-six years old,” — this time she cackled, so I knew she was messing with me about her age — “but I’m healthy as a horse and I’m not quite ready to go. Do you know I still go up and down these stairs twenty times a day by myself?”

  “Yes, I know that, Aunt Selma, and it might be time for you to take it easy.”

  She’d been running that B&B as long as I could remember. Maybe I should call those nitwit cousins of mine to help her out.

  Aunt Selma waved her hand away from the phone.

  “Now, Kat, there’s more.”

  Of course, there was. This was Aunt Selma, after all.

  “When I redid the pantry a few months ago, do you remember? It’s lovely. I have it all quite organized…”

  “It’s very nice, Aunt Selma. But what about it?” I rubbed my eyes with my free hand. Knowing Aunt Selma, this conversation could take all night.

  “Right-o. In the old pantry, I found something, something valuable.”

  Now she had my attention, although I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what could be so valuable in an early twentieth-century house in the middle of England’s Lake District.

  “What did you find, Aunt Selma?” I asked with all the politeness I could muster.

  She glanced from side to side, apparently to make sure no one was listening in.

  “I found four Beatrix Potter original pen and ink illustrations. They’re worth a lot. But now—this is important, Kat, listen.”

  “I’m listening,” I protested, widening my eyes and moving my face closer to my phone. “See? Listening.”

  She ignored my snark. “Someone knows I have them and they’ve broken in. They’re trying to steal them, so I’ve hidden them. I’m telling you this in case I die anytime soon.”

  I rolled my eyes at Aunt Selma’s dramatics, but she continued.

  “Once things settle down, I’ll take them out of hiding and put them up for auction.”

  “You’ve hidden them? Where? Did you write it down?”

  I certainly hoped so. I couldn’t remember where I put things and I was nearly five decades younger than my great-aunt.

  “No, of course, not. Then anyone could find them.” Aunt Selma’s tone clearly indicated that I was a dolt for even suggesting such a thing. “But don’t worry. I’ll leave you clues.”

  “Clues? Oh, no, no, no.” My mind raced. Aunt Selma was a big fan of murder mysteries. I could only imagine what kind of “clues” she would leave for me.

  “One last thing, Kat. If I die anytime soon, I was murdered. Follow the path — do you hear me?” She barked into the phone. “Follow the path, and don’t trust c—”

  The phone cut out.

  “Aunt Selma?” I looked at the face of the phone as if I could will it back into range. My aunt’s face was frozen on the screen. “Aunt Selma?”

  I punched the return numbers back into the phone, but it just rang and rang, so I left a voice message telling Aunt Selma to call me back right away.

  I was still standing on the back patio with the phone in my hand when my boyfriend, Jared, stepped through the double doors from the kitchen onto the back porch, a tray of marinated steaks in his hand.

  He looked at me with questioning eyes.

  “Aunt Selma. She thinks someone is trying to kill her and she is leaving me the B&B.”

  Jared shook his head. “Aunt Selma is a nut case.”

  He wasn’t wrong, but his comment still didn’t sit right. “She’s not a nut. She’s been running that hotel for fifty years, mostly by herself.”

  Jared looked skeptical as he opened up the grill.

  I tapped the phone against my hand, then shook myself from my reverie. “Want some help?”

  I was really asking more for show and to change the subject than anything else. Jared knew his way around his grill and was particular about it, which was fine since the house was his, too.

  I slipped past him into the kitchen to start a salad and finish the potatoes. I had sold my condo and moved in two years ago when it looked like things were getting serious between us. Plus, I had just turned forty and thought I should make the leap toward commitment.

  Yet here we were two years later and still not married. Jared had quit asking after my less-than-committed replies the first two times. It’s not that I didn’t love him. I did. Probably.

  I hesitated as I reached for the salad utensils, watching Jared at the grill on the patio. He must have felt my eyes on him because he glanced up and smiled.

/>   I gave a little wave with the salad tongs, then set them on the counter with the vegetables. My mind turned back to Aunt Selma’s call.

  It had been several years since I had even seen Aunt Selma in person. She was actually my great-aunt, the sister of my dad’s mother, who had left England during World War II to marry Grandpa, a young American GI.

  Aunt Selma and I met in London whenever I traveled to England or elsewhere over the years, but I hadn’t been to her bed and breakfast inn more than a couple of times since I graduated from college. A friend and I had backpacked across Europe, ending up with Aunt Selma. We stuck around for a couple of weeks, helping her out and hiking the lush and green Lake District in the northwest corner of England.

  But that was twenty years ago. She had learned how to use video conferencing apps on her phone in the past couple of years, so it wasn’t unexpected to get video calls from her, particularly if she had a project.

  She had been working on a lot of projects during the past few months, so we had been in touch regularly lately. It had all started last year, when she had called to show me the new picture window she had put in the front sitting room, from which you could see a sliver of Lake Windermere. It was double-paned, she said, and it kept out the cold but let in the sunlight on those occasional sunny days. She was quite happy with it.

  A few months back, she had called to show me the new pantry she had had built in the tiny room behind the kitchen. Apparently, it was once the maid’s room, but since there was no longer a maid, Aunt Selma thought a pantry made more sense.

  Then there had been the new “Welcome” sign inlaid into the new cabinet in the foyer, the new rubber step covers for the stairs, the stone pavers in the backyard, and the new entertainment system in the front sitting room, where guests sometimes relaxed in the afternoon and watched television in the evening.

  I nearly dropped the knife I was using to cut up carrots as the pieces began to fall into place. Even before the double-paned windows, she had called to tell me about the dumb-waiter system installed to move laundry from the third floor to the basement. Then she told me about the raised beds for her vegetable garden in the back so she wouldn’t have to bend over as much.

  There was a theme to Aunt Selma’s calls, until today.

  I hadn’t noticed it before, but she had been filling me in on home improvement projects for years. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. Aunt Selma had been planning to leave me the B&B for at least three years.

  I shook my head and smiled ruefully. What would I do with an English bed and breakfast?

  Fortunately, it wasn’t anything I needed to worry about any time soon.

  Or so I thought.

  Chapter 2

  The call came three days later at the most unreasonable time of five o’clock in the morning. I rolled over when I heard my cell buzz, recognizing the international number for England. I slipped quickly out of bed with the phone in my hand, not answering until I had quietly closed the bedroom door, so I didn’t wake Jared.

  “Aunt Selma?” My voice was nearly a whisper in the hallway.

  “Is this Miss McCoy?” A man’s clipped British voice came through the phone.

  “Yes, is this about Aunt Selma?”

  “Ma’am, my name is Charles Campbell of Allen and Campbell, a law firm in Windermere in Cumbria. I am quite sorry to inform you that Selma Brown has passed away.”

  “What?” I covered my mouth with my hand. All I could muster were question words. “When? How?”

  “It happened yesterday afternoon. She fell down the stairs at her home and business establishment.” He cleared his throat. “Miss McCoy, I am calling to inform you that Mrs. Brown has left to you her entire estate, including the business. You will need to come to Windermere to collect and decide what to do with the hotel.”

  I nodded numbly into the phone, clutched in my hand.

  “Miss McCoy?”

  “I prefer Ms. I’ve been married before.” Fortunately for him, I didn’t launch into the story about how I went back to my maiden name after a short and ill-informed marriage in my twenties.

  Silence greeted my comment. I could practically feel disapproval soaring across the Atlantic Ocean and into my cell phone. “Well then, Ms. McCoy. When do you think you can be here?”

  I ran my free hand through my hair. “Be there? I’m not sure. I have work and all. Can I call you back later today or tomorrow?”

  “You may,” the voice corrected me.

  I sighed.

  We agreed his secretary would text me the contact information and I clicked off the call, sliding down so that I was sitting on the carpeted floor with my back against the wall.

  Aunt Selma was gone. I covered my face with both hands as tears stung my eyes and seeped down my cheeks.

  My cell buzzed again. I glanced at it to see the lawyer had indeed texted me the information with the additional: Please let us know soonest. It was important to Mrs. Brown that you come immediately to take care of the business.

  The business. The B&B business? A business I knew nothing about?

  I leaned my head back against the wall. Aunt Selma, what have you done?

  Chapter 3

  The flight from the states to Heathrow was remarkably pleasant, due in no small part to Aunt Selma leaving me an open-ended first-class ticket. The solicitor assured me that was what Aunt Selma had wanted. I acquiesced, and off I went.

  The eleven-hour flight gave me time to think about Aunt Selma’s last phone call. I thought it was oddly coincidental that she had called me to tell me she feared for her life, then fell down the stairs two days later.

  Jared had dismissed the idea. “Sweetie, she was eighty-something years old and did not have all her faculties. Didn’t you tell me she couldn’t seem to remember how old she was?”

  He might have been right, but I still bristled over it. This was my Aunt Selma, after all. He had asked me if I wanted him to come with me, but I really didn’t.

  I talked to my boss about taking a couple of weeks off after I spent several days finishing up a project before I left. She had agreed, saying that if I needed to be gone longer than two weeks, could I please work remotely?

  I had little choice but to agree. When I had been laid off from my newspaper job a few years ago, this marketing position had seemed like an answered prayer. But now? How many different ways could you say something was awesome?

  My heart just wasn’t in it anymore, just like it wasn’t in my relationship with Jared. Maybe I had some depression, left over from being laid off and turning forty so close together. Maybe this trip was just what I needed to re-energize my life. I settled back into the first-class seat and closed my eyes.

  As suggested by the solicitor, I took British Railway from London to Oxenholme in the Lake District, where I rented a car for the two weeks I planned to be there. As I recalled, a car was a necessity in Cumbria, the northwest corner of England, which included the spread-out Lake District.

  Rain drizzled around me as I slowly drove toward the village of Bowness-on-Windermere, the larger of two villages that practically melted together. Anxiously remembering to drive on the left-hand side of the road, I was grateful the road wasn’t well-traveled, which for me was a plus.

  It was nearly evening when I finally arrived in the village. The solicitor, Mr. Campbell, met me at Aunt Selma’s B&B, officially called the Little Windermere Hotel.

  I stopped in the entryway, nearly tripping on my luggage, which Mr. Campbell had set just inside the door.

  “This was where it happened?” I gestured to the stairwell, although even I knew the answer without asking.

  Mr. Campbell nodded. “I’m sorry to say it was. Your aunt was found at the bottom of these stairs here.” He gestured toward the right-hand side of the entryway, then handed me his card. “I’m sorry for your loss. Don’t forget to come ‘round my office and we’ll go over the paperwork.”

  I nodded, a lump appearing in my throat as he stepped quietly
outside, the way people do who have experience with grieving clients. I had cried when I first heard the news, but now tears threatened to spill out all over again as I leaned against the closed door and gazed blankly around the empty room.

  Heavy steps pounded onto the porch and a loud knock to the front door startled me.

  “Hello! Hello!”

  I wondered briefly as I turned to open the door if Mr. Campbell had forgotten something and apparently changed to a high-pitched woman’s voice.

  A woman who looked a few years older than me with short black hair and heavy eyeliner stood on the porch with a covered casserole dish in her towel-covered hands.

  “Hello! You must be Kat.”

  “I must be.” At this point, I was too weary for niceties. “And you are?”

  She smiled broadly. “I’m Clarissa Clark. I live down the way. I used to look in on Selma frequently, poor dear. Here, this is for you. I knew you wouldn’t have time to cook tonight. Welcome to the North Country!”

  She shoved the dish toward me.

  I stared at it blankly and the words stumbled out of my mouth. “I literally just walked in the door, Mrs. Clark.”

  “I know. I watched the cars pull up. And call me Clarissa, please, luv.” She then swept past me, the dish still in her hand. “Here, let’s put the dish in the kitchen and get you settled.”

  I followed her past the stairwell down the narrow hallway. The kitchen seemed dark, but Clarissa set down the dish and pressed up the light switch, then quickly went from window to window, giving a slight tug and popping up the shades to let in the fading sun.

  She brushed her hands together. “There, that’s better. Here now, let’s set your luggage in the spare room while you decide what to do.”

  I nodded dumbly, then followed as Clarissa snatched up my bags and carted them out the other side of the kitchen down a short hallway and into a bedroom. I vaguely remembered staying in this room when I visited after college.