A Dodgy Death Read online

  Clarissa dropped the bags with a satisfactory grunt, then spun in a slow circle as she surveyed the room, tsk-tsk-tsking as she turned. “This won’t do at all.”

  She pointed me back toward the kitchen.

  “You go and have a sit while I make up the bed and set this room to rights. No quarrel now, off you go.”

  I stumbled back toward the kitchen.

  “There’s a kettle on the stove and tea in the cupboard to the right. Make us some tea, luv,” she called from behind me.

  Make us some tea? At the moment, I could barely make us a complete sentence. I sat down hard in one of the chairs at the kitchen table and gazed around the room, my limbs feeling sluggish and heavy.

  Clarissa bustled back into the kitchen. “Let me just grab a dusting cloth, and, what’s this then? C’mon, that tea’s not going to make itself. C’mon, then.”

  She gestured for me to get myself in gear, then turned and sped back down the hallway.

  I gazed at the stove, sincerely hoping the tea would indeed make itself. I stared, then waved my fingers at it in a woo-woo fashion. The kettle sat where it was, but I started to giggle. Apparently, you can get jetlag even if you’re seated in first class.

  I slapped my thighs as if I could prod them into action, then pushed up to my feet. Quickly filling the kettle from the tap, I got the gas range started and began opening cabinets in search of cups. I held up one of the teacups from the cabinet. It didn’t seem like it could hold more than a couple of swallows of tea so I placed it back on the shelf.

  I rummaged on until I found two large mugs. These would do. I threw tea bags into both, then set them on the table.

  Glancing behind me to make sure Clarissa wasn’t sneaking up on me, I peeled back the lid of the serving dish, inhaling a whiff of deliciousness. My stomach rumbled noticeably. Apparently, the couple of bags of potato chips (or crisps, as the British call them) I bought at the car-rental place weren’t enough to tide me overnight.

  Back to the cabinets I went to rummage for plates and utensils.

  I had just filled the cups with hot water and set the casserole dish with two plates on the table when Clarissa bustled back into the kitchen.

  “There you are, up and about. Your room is dusted, and your bed is ready.” She quickly went to the sink and washed her hands, then flopped herself into the chair opposite me. “Nothing like a spot of tea to refresh you after a long trip.”

  She picked up the mug and looked at me quizzically. “Were there no proper cups clean? I’m sure there were.”

  “They seemed a little on the … small side,” I stammered.

  Clarissa bit back a smile. “Oh, you Americans. Everything has to be supersized. Don’t worry, luv, we’ll sort you out.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or not. Did I want to be “sorted out”?

  Clarissa didn’t seem to notice. She hopped up to get milk and sugar to doctor her tea, then joined me at the table, eyeing the two plates.

  “I really brought the dish just for you, but don’t mind if I do. It’s one of my favorites, a sausage and bean cassoulet.”

  Sausage and bean, I understood. Cassoulet was clearly out of my league. I’d ask her about it later. Right now, I couldn’t wait to dig in. Clarissa opened up the lid and served us both, then sat back with a sigh.

  “This kitchen is one of my favorite places in the world. I will so miss having tea with Selma here.”

  I paused with a mouthful of casserole – or, cassoulet – in my mouth and nodded.

  “We moved all of the guests, the three of them, over to my place. I hope that’s all right. We, Constable Allen and I, that is, didn’t quite know what to do with them. We didn’t want to leave them here to fend for themselves, and we had plenty of room.”

  Clarissa chattered on and I finally tuned in to what she was saying, holding my fork in mid-air.

  “Wait, there are guests? Am I supposed to be doing something for guests?” My voice rose with alarm.

  Clarissa shook her head. “Don’t worry about it at all. As I said, I can take the guests until you get on track. My brother-in-law, Hugh, helps me during the day. He’s off to the pub right now, I expect, but he’ll help out.”

  “Sure, yeah, okay, that will work.” I babbled as if I really had a say in the matter, then abruptly dug back into my plate.

  “Thank you again for dinner,” I mumbled with my mouth still partly full, then stopped talking to chew so Clarissa wouldn’t think Americans completely lacked in manners.

  She glanced up and smiled, then turned back to her plate. “We weren’t actually expecting you for a couple more days, but I saw Charles Campbell’s car pull up and knew you must have arrived.”

  Realization kicked in as I stared down at the casserole, my mouth full. Then my eyes met Clarissa’s as I swallowed.

  “This was supposed to be your dinner tonight, not mine. That was very kind of you. Thank you.”

  Clarissa waved off my words with her fork. “It’s what Selma would have expected of me,” she said, then she grinned. “However, it is quite lucky you invited me to stay.”

  I grinned back and returned my attention to my plate, the food beginning to rejuvenate me. I just wanted to catch my second wind long enough that I didn’t have to go to bed at six o’clock, which was rapidly approaching.

  I realized that Clarissa was still talking. Aunt Selma had mentioned her neighbor was a bit of a chatterbox.

  “It’s a shame about Corbyn, of course. Having his regular monthly income was a comfort for her.”

  My eyebrows shot up in alarm. “What about Corbyn? Where is he? Is he okay?”

  “He’s right as rain,” Clarissa started, then tilted her head to one side as she thought about that statement. “Well, not exactly, what with Selma being gone and all.”

  I gestured for her to continue. Corbyn was Aunt Selma’s longtime resident. He worked as some kind of day trader, partially retired, and he paid Aunt Selma extra each month to ensure he had access to speedy Wi-Fi. Aunt Selma was quite fond of Corbyn, having talked about him frequently over the years. He even appeared occasionally in her video calls, and I knew she would want me watching out for him.

  “He moved out about two days after Selma died. Went and found himself a proper flat over in Bowness proper.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. He hired somebody to come and get all his stuff, and he was gone in a heartbeat.”

  I sat back in my chair, my stomach sufficiently full that I didn’t need to keep stuffing in food.

  “I wonder where he suddenly got enough money to move out into his own apartment,” I mused out loud.

  Clarissa shrugged again, then wiped her mouth and jumped up. “Shall I show you around the place before I head for home?”

  I stood up quickly because it seemed like the right thing to do and began to gather the dishes and set them in the sink. Clarissa re-covered the casserole and tucked the dish into the refrigerator, then turned to me with a questioning eye.

  I stared at her for a moment before realizing I hadn’t answered her question. “Yes, of course, a tour would be lovely.”

  I gestured for Clarissa to go first, then followed her out the door. She talked the whole way, pointing out the sitting room at the front of the house that included a large television set for guests to use.

  At the top of the stairs, I stopped to look down. The stairs were steep and narrow, as they were in many old English houses. My heart ached when I thought of Aunt Selma tumbling down them.

  Clarissa turned back when she didn’t hear me behind her and put a hand on my shoulder. Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “She went quickly, the doctor said. She didn’t feel pain long at all.”

  I patted Clarissa’s hand and smiled gratefully. Then we turned down the short hallway, lined with illustrations and pencil drawings.

  Clarissa showed me two of the guest rooms on the second floor, both decorated with rabbits and other woodlan
d creatures.

  “Are they all decorated like this?” I asked, more to be polite than anything else.

  “Yes, they’re all Potter-themed,” Clarissa replied.

  “Beatrix?”

  “No, Harry.”

  Clarissa kept a straight face as I puzzled over her comment. Then we both started to giggle.

  Beatrix Potter, a writer and conservationist, was the Lake District’s most famous celebrity, best known for writing The Tales of Peter Rabbit and drawing the accompanying pictures as well as detailed flora that grew in the area.

  Still laughing, Clarissa took me up to the third floor, where there were three more rooms set up for families. Back on the second floor, Clarissa turned in the opposite direction. She opened the last door and waved her hand toward a plainly decorated room.

  “This was Corbyn’s room,” she said. “He hadn’t wanted it redecorated for several years, particularly not with bunnies.”

  I giggled some more, clearly tired but feeling at ease. It felt good to laugh.

  We walked back out toward the stairs and I sat down on the top step.

  “Are you all right, luv?” Clarissa asked, turning toward me.

  I hugged my knees into my chest and nodded before wrapping my arms around my shins and settling my chin on my knees. “I just wanted to take a minute here in the middle of the house and get a sense of it all, of Aunt Selma.”

  Clarissa’s smile turned wistful. “Selma used to do that, too, just sit on the top step right where you are and look around. I used to tease her that she did it to catch her breath.”

  “There’s probably some truth to that,” I agreed.

  “I’m off. I will stop in tomorrow to check on you.” Clarissa waved over her head as she started down the stairs. She paused, reaching into her pocket and placing something on the table just inside the front door. “I took Selma’s key that she usually hid in the back yard for emergencies, not that she really needed it here, but I’ll leave it for you, in case you decide to lock up since you’re here alone tonight.”

  “Thank you, Clarissa, for everything.”

  She waved again as she slipped out the front door, clicking it shut behind her.

  The whole house felt like Aunt Selma. I breathed in the smells of old house and cinnamon. In an odd way, I took comfort in knowing her presence lingered. I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes. Just for a minute.

  Crash!

  Chapter 4

  The sound of breaking glass from the kitchen jolted me awake on the steps. My knees shook as I pulled myself up by the railing.

  “Who’s there?” I called.

  Then I tromped down the steps as loudly as I could so that whomever it was, if it was a someone, would know I was there. Glancing at the darkness outside the front door, I realized I must have dozed off longer than I thought.

  “Who’s there?” I hollered again from the bottom of the steps, my voice louder and higher pitched.

  I strode to the back of the house just in time to hear footsteps on the back porch and see a figure encased in darkness launch across the back yard to the open gate.

  A lower pane in the back door was broken, with glass lying all over the floor. The back door was ajar, the would-be thief apparently reaching through the broken pane to unlock it.

  With shaking hands, I picked up the phone from Aunt Selma’s wall and dialed 9-1-1, just as I remembered it was 9-9-9 in Britain. I tried again, this time reaching a dispatcher, who said she would send someone “’round directly.”

  Within a few minutes, a young officer knocked at my front door. We walked into the kitchen, where he took my statement. He surveyed me closely as he wrote, barely looking at the notebook. Then he checked the gate, stomping back up the back steps, where I stood, my arms clutched tight at my elbows.

  “Looks like someone went out that way,” he said. “The latch was unlocked and there were fresh footprints.”

  I nodded mutely at him. Of course, there were fresh footprints. I had just seen someone run out the door.

  The young officer covered the broken pane with cardboard for me, taping it closed. Then he told me to make sure everything was locked up as he left.

  I closed the front door behind him, then turned and leaned against it, surveying the house again from this new angle. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so warm and fuzzy anymore. I sighed.

  Then I turned back around and snapped the deadbolt shut.

  Chapter 5

  I awoke long after the sun rose the next morning, feeling surprisingly refreshed as I stretched out my arms and wiggled my fingers. I say the sun rose. I assume it did. With the heavily overcast sky, it was somewhat hard to tell, but the clock on the stove assured me the sun must be up, so I went with that.

  I peeked into the refrigerator and opened the cupboards. They weren’t empty, but everything involved effort if I wanted to eat it. Rejecting any extra effort, I pulled on my sneakers and a light jacket with a hood, then headed out to the porch, carefully turning to lock the front door behind me.

  The cardboard on the backdoor windowpane wouldn’t keep out any potential thieves, but my rumbling stomach convinced me to take the chance. Surely a thief wouldn’t stop by the single hour that I was gone. I planned to call someone for repairs the moment I got home.

  Stepping out the front gate, I turned toward town. This street was mostly homes, small hotels, and bed and breakfast establishments, filled to the brim during the tourist season, which lasted most of the year. The Lake District was home not only to Beatrix Potter, the conservationist who wrote the Peter Rabbit books, but also to hundreds of miles of trails and several lakes. At least, that’s according to the pamphlet from the stack in the entryway. I had read it the previous night as I tried to fall asleep. Nothing like attempted robbery to banish all signs of jet lag.

  I wandered down a fairly steep incline toward the main street, passing a toy shop filled with old-fashioned wooden toys and stuffed animals and a hardware store before finally spying what I’d hoped to see: a tea shop, or more properly by the sign at the front, Tea Shoppe.

  A little bell tinkled as I stepped through the door.

  “Good morning, Kat!” Clarissa waved from behind the counter, a washcloth in her hand. She was talking with a lanky man with shaggy black hair. “How did you sleep last night?”

  “Well enough,” I said as I followed her directions to a little table by the front window. She didn’t need to know that I tossed and turned, certain I kept hearing noises in the kitchen. Or that I had tucked the top of a straight-backed chair under the back doorknob in an attempt to keep out whoever it was trying to get in. The chair was still in place while I was out.

  She gestured for me to take a seat and then sat opposite me. I looked at her, puzzled. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m the proprietor. Didn’t Selma tell you?”

  I shook my head. I think I would have remembered that. “You own a small business and a bed-and-breakfast? Do you not like to sleep?”

  Clarissa laughed heartily, then shook her head. “Sometimes, there’s more truth to that than you know.”

  She turned back to the man by the counter and gestured for him to come over. He approached, questions in his eyes. She took his arm and turned to me.

  “Kat, this is my brother-in-law, Hugh. He helps me here and at the B&B when I’m working.”

  We nodded at each other and made the appropriate greetings. He turned to her and hitched the bag in his hand over his shoulder. “I’m off, Clare. I’ll take these home, then start on the rooms.”

  “Thanks, luv.” She smiled at him fondly as he walked away before turning worried eyes on me.

  "I heard what happened last night. Are you all right?”

  I nodded and then shook my head a few times, finally settled for holding up my palms in the internationally understood, “I have no idea.”

  Clarissa smiled sympathetically. “We’ll sort you out with a nice cup of tea. Do you fancy a black tea?”

&
nbsp; “You are the expert,” I answered honestly, grateful for one less decision to make. “Tea and something else a little nourishing?”

  Clarissa stood up with a smile. “I have just the thing. Relax and I’ll be right back.”

  With that, she swept off through the kitchen doorway, barking orders to the two helpers behind the counter. One saluted, then laughed and followed Clarissa into the kitchen.

  The bell above the door rang again and a family of chattering American tourists clomped in, loudly exclaiming at the store and reading off parts of the menu to each other. I looked away to avoid making eye contact. A big part of me did not want to be associated with such clamor.

  Clarissa was back with a tray, setting down a tea pot, two cups and a china plate with what looked like a breakfast sandwich. I picked up the croissant sandwich and studied it. Egg, sausage and tomato with some kind of light sauce.

  “It’s not a traditional British breakfast, with bangers and beans, but I’ve found the Americans quite like it,” Clarissa said as she poured tea into the two cups and slid one before me, the other in front of herself. She held up hers, tapping on the side.

  “Do you see this cup? This is the proper size cup for tea, not that gigantic mug you used last evening.”

  She emphasized the word “mug” with such disdain that a laugh escaped from my lips just as I was about to bite into the sandwich. I set it back down and watched her add milk and sugar to her tea, then settle back and look at me.

  “So last night? Were you already in bed?”

  I took a bite of the sandwich as I shook my head, then waited to answer once I had swallowed. “I dozed off at the top of the stairs. I’m not sure how long I was sitting there, but it was definitely dark when I heard the sound of the glass breaking.”

  I took another bite as Clarissa stirred her tea absent-mindedly, her forehead wrinkling as she thought.

  “What I can’t figure out is why someone would try to break in,” I said, my eyes meeting Clarissa’s. To my surprise, she glanced quickly away. “What? What? You know something.”