A Stodgy Slaying Read online

  A Stodgy Slaying

  A Kat McCoy Lake Country Cozy Mystery, Book 2

  By Jacqueline M. Green

  Copyright © 2021 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 Kat McCoy Lake District Cozy Mystery Series

  A Dodgy Death

  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)

  Savasana for a Santa (Christmas short story)

  Other books

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

  “We cannot stay home all our lives, we must present ourselves to the world

  and we must look upon it as an adventure.”

  - Beatrix Potter

  Chapter 1

  “Kat! Kat! Where did you hide the teacups?” Clarissa’s voice sounded shriller by the moment.

  Somewhat alarmed but thinking I must have misheard her, I stuck my head out of the pantry.

  “What’s the matter, Clarissa?”

  My neighbor held up a large mug in one hand and a tea bag in the other. “Mugs! All I can find are mugs. Where did you put the teacups?”

  A smile played at my face. I would have let it out if Clarissa hadn’t seemed so serious. “They’re in the third cabinet over in the back,” I said. “They’re too small to be of use to any normal person.”

  “Any normal American, you mean,” she groused.

  “Someone’s cranky today,” I muttered as I went back to rummaging for something to cook for dinner in the pantry.

  My shoulder bumped a shelf and everything on the shelf toppled over. I opened my arms wide to stop the cans and boxes from falling on the floor.

  “Yikes!”

  Clarissa was immediately beside me, helping to get the items back on the shelf while I tried to hold up the shelf. With her fingers, she felt underneath the shelf and shook her head.

  “It looks like the thingy that holds the shelf has fallen out, Kat.”

  Though I was happy to hear that the technical word “thingy” translated from English to American, I frowned as we took everything off that shelf and set it on other shelves in the large pantry that my Aunt Selma had created out of a spare room. Now I would have to spend time looking for the spare piece or getting another one.

  I turned Clarissa back into the kitchen and returned to rummaging among the shelves, hoping the rest would stay in place.

  Finally, I found what I was seeking. I held a box of waffle mix above my head like a beacon.

  “Ta da!” I sang out. “How about Belgian waffles with sausage and eggs?”

  Clarissa lifted her gaze from where she stood by the tea kettle and looked at me glumly. “And fruit?”

  “And fruit.”

  “Done.”

  I grinned as I grabbed a bottle of maple syrup from the closet and set about preparing breakfast for dinner, a favorite of mine and, dare I say, many Americans. Some Brits are not on board with the whole idea yet.

  I had been living in the village of Windermere, in the northwest corner of England for not quite two months yet, having jumped the Atlantic when my great-aunt had died, leaving me the owner of her bed and breakfast inn. Windermere was the smaller of two villages nestled together on the shores of Lake Windermere, the larger village being Bowness-on-Windermere.

  All the pesky little differences between Americans and Brits still amused (and sometimes confused) me.

  “Did you see the new flag out front?” I asked her. I had gone online and ordered a custom flag that read “The Little Windermere Hotel.” Earlier today, I had spent several minutes pounding it into the ground in front of the house, a triple-story row-style house with a small front porch several steps up from the street.

  Clarissa nodded, sitting down hard in the chair. She yawned as she absently stirred her tea.

  “Rough day?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Just so busy right now. And with no help, well, it’s that much more work for me.”

  “I’ll be over tomorrow to help with the wash,” I told her. “How many guests do you have right now?”

  Clarissa’s eyes floated upward as she mentally counted. “Seven rooms are booked, including that journalist who was asking after you.”

  I made a face. I’d fielded dozens of calls from journalists and others in the past month after word got out that in the process of renovating parts of her house, my late Aunt Selma had found four pen and ink drawings by Beatrix Potter, a Cumbria artist and conservationist best known for writing the Peter Rabbit books in the early twentieth century.

  The drawings, currently sitting in a safety deposit box in the Windermere bank, were reportedly worth thousands of British pounds. I hadn’t yet had time to get them authenticated or appraised, so in the box they sat.

  Once word got out about the drawings, Beatrix Potter experts and journalists had contacted me, but so far, I had steadfastly refused to allow anyone to see them. I wasn’t sure what I would do with them once they were appraised. Aunt Selma had left me with a surprising number of financial resources, including the inn, so I wasn’t hurting for money.

  Frankly, leaving my life in the States and moving to England, helping solve a murder and then getting the inn ready to reopen took enough of my time, not to mention brain power. When things calmed down, I would pull out the illustrations and figure out the next steps.

  The particular journalist in question had phoned, emailed and texted me about the drawings and now apparently had shown up in town. As if that would help. I’m nothing if not bull-headed.

  First, I needed to get Aunt Selma’s business – an old-fashioned bed and breakfast – up and running again. Guests who had made reservations with Aunt Selma were having to stay at Clarissa’s inn, which greatly increased her workload. We were a little over a week out from welcoming guests back to the Little Windermere Hotel, and I still had a lot to learn before then. After all, I’d been a journalist myself and then in marketing. I’d never run any kind of inn before.

  Aunt Selma died in a fall down her steps nearly two months ago. In the process of settling her estate, however, I’d fallen in love with her B&B, the Cumbria area, and a handful of locals who had become fast friends.

  Including Clarissa. I gazed at her worriedly as I stirred the waffle batter in the large red mixing bowl. “Maybe it’s time to hire someone to help?”

  Clarissa blew out a breath and tilted back her head.

  “There is a girl from over in Bowness. Her sister works for me at the shop. I was thinking I could hire her to help part-time in the B&B. It’s just so much effort, right?”

  I nodded fervently as I heated up the waffle iron, keeping an eye on the sausage cooking on the stove.

  “Do you want me to cut up some melon?” she asked.

  Without waiting for my reply, she got slowly to her feet and flung open the refrigerator door, then set about slicing the cantaloupe.

  Frankly, Clarissa knew her way around my kitchen bette
r than I did. She was one of Aunt Selma’s friends and, even though it cost her dearly, had helped me set a trap for Aunt Selma’s killer.

  Fortunately, she didn’t blame me. Greed got in the way of good sense and a death had ensued, shocking the whole village. Now we were all trying to move on. Especially me.

  Aunt Selma knew I’d never run a B&B before, yet still chose to leave the hotel to me over my British cousins who lived nearby.

  Fortunately, my cousin Franklin was helping out, mostly out of guilt because he had tried to break in to steal the Beatrix Potter illustrations from Aunt Selma. Now he was trying to make amends for his behavior. Just this week, he had helped me fix some plumbing under the kitchen sink and move breakfast tables into the front sitting room.

  I knew I could never run the B&B the exact same way Aunt Selma had so I looked for ways to increase the value of my guests’ stays. Aunt Selma had not served breakfast, but it was something I wanted to try. Clarissa and I had come up with a plan to help both of us. Rather than each of us cooking full British breakfasts every day, we would mix continental-style with pieces from British and American breakfasts. I would show her the American basics and she would help me with the British bits, like bangers and beans.

  Clarissa wasn’t actually convinced I could cook, mostly because I really hadn’t cooked during the time I’d been in England. So tonight, I was determined to cook my favorite meal: Breakfast for dinner.

  The waffles turned out perfectly – slightly crisp on the outside, soft on the inside.

  Clarissa held up a bite of waffle on her fork, maple syrup dripping off the sides. “You eat this for dinner?”

  “Not every night,” I replied, cutting into a link of sausage. “It’s special. Not like holiday special, but like weeknight special. You don’t like it?”

  “Oh, it’s delicious, just quite sweet,” she said.

  “That’s why it’s not for every night or even every morning.” I turned back to my own plate, feeling somewhat relieved.

  Clarissa tucked back into her dinner. Finally, she sat back in her chair, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “I feel so much better,” she said. “Perhaps I just needed to eat.”

  “It’s probably the sugar. You’ll crash in an hour or so,” I said with a grin.

  “It’s nice to have someone cook for me. Nate is off to London a few nights a week,” she said, referring to her husband. “He’s got a big project coming due and then he’ll be home again.”

  She cocked her head as she listened to the house. “By the way, where’s Corbyn tonight?”

  I waved my fork toward the front of the house to answer her question about my sole boarder. His was the room in the back on the second floor.

  “He’s having dinner at the senior citizens centre,” I said. “A couple of his buddies live there now.”

  “Why didn’t he move there after Selma died?” Clarissa wondered.

  I shrugged. “I think he was too distraught to think clearly.”

  Corbyn had moved into an apartment in Bowness right after Aunt Selma died because he just couldn’t bear the thought of being in this house without her. We had talked things over, though, and I was just glad he had moved back in. Even if he was nearly ninety, it was nice having someone else in the house at night.

  “I am a bit worried about him, though. I think he’s lonely. That’s why I’m glad he’s out tonight.”

  Clarissa nodded. “He misses Selma, that’s a fact.”

  The phone rang on the wall in Aunt Selma’s kitchen. I wasn’t sure if I was quite ready to call it “my” kitchen just yet. I hesitated briefly before answering.

  “Hello, Ms. McCoy?” asked a gruff British voice from the other end.

  “Yes, this is she. How may I help you?”

  “Ms. McCoy, it’s Edgar Elliot Graham. I’ve been trying to reach you regarding your aunt’s Beatrix Potter discovery.”

  The man spoke so loudly I had to hold the phone away from my ear. Clarissa looked on curiously.

  “Mr. Graham, I told you in an email that I wasn’t ready to show anyone the illustrations. I thought I made myself quite clear.”

  Clarissa waved to get my attention. “That’s the one staying at my place,” she whispered. “Graham, right?”

  I barely heard her because Mr. Graham had kept talking.

  “Ms. McCoy, I understand you are an American, and perhaps you don’t quite realize how important Miss Potter was to the Cumbria culture,” he said. “It’s paramount that those illustrations are properly cared for and stored, preferably in a British museum.”

  I stared at the phone in my hand. “Because Americans can’t have nice things?”

  “Now, Ms. McCoy,” his voice sounded terribly disappointed in me. “You know Americans have a reputation for being somewhat more, well, shall we say clumsy and perhaps boorish—”

  “Yes, let’s,” I interrupted dryly.

  “—when dealing with potentially fragile items.”

  I had heard enough. “Mr. Graham, I do hope your ego is not potentially fragile because this conversation is over. Good night, sir.”

  I held the phone receiver by two fingers, then unceremoniously dropped it into its setting.

  “Boorish, are you?” Clarissa grinned at me over the teacup she had snagged from the cabinet. “You were nicer than I would have been. I would have summarily hung on him.”

  “Apparently, yes, boorish. I need to get rid of that wall phone and just use the cell. How do people live without caller ID?”

  Clarissa laughed and raised her teacup in a salute. “Let’s hope that does the trick and Mr. Edgar Elliott Graham doesn’t bother you again.”

  If only it were that easy.

  Chapter 2

  Once Clarissa had left for the evening, I threw the dishes into the sink and pulled on my heavy woolen sweater. I had just enough time to walk to the grocery to pick up a few items before it closed. Then I’d clean the kitchen when I got home.

  As I turned to lock the front door, the porch light flickered and went out. I mentally added “light bulbs” to my shopping list.

  I stepped down toward the street and noticed the mallet I had used earlier to hammer in the new flag and apparently forgot to put away. I picked up the mallet and tilted it on one of the steps so I wouldn’t forget to bring it in with me when I got home.

  Then I turned and headed down the hill toward the main street, my cloth shopping bags tucked under my arm. Aunt Selma’s inn was in a residential area that included several B&Bs among the homes.

  A man with scruffy salt-and-pepper hair held open the door for me. I couldn’t remember his name, so I just smiled my gratitude. Stepping inside, I grabbed a basket and threw a wave to the owner, Alex Lewis, at the cashier’s station. Alex gave me a chin nod and continued checking out one of my neighbors, Eleanor Davies.

  Eleanor Davies? I tried to duck behind the row of cereal boxes before she saw me.

  “Miss McCoy? Is that you, Miss McCoy?” A screechy voice pierced the air.

  Too slow, Kat, too slow.

  I stopped and sighed, looking up at the ceiling. Then I spun on my heel, nearly coming nose to nose with a tall, gangly woman a little older than my sixty-two-year-old mother. Her ginger hair looked like it might have been natural at one time but more than likely came from a bottle these days.

  “Yes, Mrs. Davies. How can I help you?” I tried not to tap my foot as I waited for her response.

  “I saw the new flag you put up in front of your inn today. It’s not the correct style. According to city ordinances, business signs in neighborhoods should be A-boards, which you would know if you had bothered to contact the town clerk.”

  I stared at her in confusion. “You mean the flag I put up today? It’s not that big. It’s only like eight by eleven.”

  “Centimeters?”

  “Inches.” I was not going to give her the satisfaction of talking in metrics. It was petty of me, I know.

  “It might come to a surprise to you, Miss M
cCoy, that we use the metric system here as does most of the civilized world,” she said, her foot tap-tap-tapping beside her. “It’s not about the size of your sign. It is about the style. Please do something about it or I will have to report you to the Tourism Commission.”

  With that, she turned on her practical low heel and strode from the aisle.

  A few moments later, Alex started down the aisle toward me, apparently finished with checking out Mrs. Davies, two cans of green beans in his hands. As he sauntered past me to put them on the shelf, he muttered to me. “Metrics, Kat, we use the metric system.”

  “Oh, la-di-da, you’re all so very civilized here,” I said in my best high-pitched British accent.

  Alex looked past my shoulder toward the front of the store and bit back a smile. He waved over my shoulder. “Good night, Eleanor.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me she was there?” I hissed at him as he straightened up the items on the shelves.

  “Because it was ever so much more entertaining this way,” he said, a smile lighting his dark face as he gestured down the aisle. “Is there anything in particular you are looking for or are you just getting random food for the microwave?”

  I showed him my list and he helped me track down the items. British groceries made little sense to me, being organized differently than stores in the States. Slowly but surely, I was figuring it out, but I appreciated his help as well as his company.

  Once Alex had checked out my items, I asked him about Eleanor’s complaint. “What’s this about an A-board?”

  He crooked his finger and strode down the main aisle to the front of the store, pushed through the door and pointed to a sign held by two clips in a rectangular frame. “That’s what she’s talking about.”

  I blew out a breath. I had ordered the sign from the internet instead of a local printer. Big mistake, apparently.

  “Got it,” I said.

  Walking back to the store’s register, I picked up my bag and tossed the straps over my shoulder.