A Devious Lot (Antiques & Collectibles Mysteries Book 5) (16 page)

Chapter 17

Penelope’s former residence in London was in the heart of Kensington on a street named Prince of Wales Terrace. Molly didn’t know what to expect when she took the Tube to the High Street Kensington station, but the “Prince of Wales” moniker fit the neighborhood. It was a bastion of upscale antique shops, luxury stores, and swanky restaurants. The Victorian townhouse was a thing of beauty with arched windows and a high gabled roof. Molly thought if she owned that property, in that neighborhood, the only way she’d leave is if she was carried out feet first. She went up the steps to the Romanesque-columned porch and pressed the doorbell. A moment later the door was opened by a frowning woman with a small child balanced on her hip.

“You’re late,” she snapped. She was in her thirties and dressed in loose-fitting blue cotton pants and a white blouse with puffy sleeves. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” she said.

“I think you have me mixed up with someone else,” Molly said.

“Oh.” She winced as she hitched the child up higher on her hip. The little girl couldn’t have been more than a year old, and was a miniature version of the woman, with curly brown hair and big brown eyes. “Are you American?” she asked. “Are you lost?” She looked around Molly as if expecting to see a hoard of American tourists descending on her home. “Do you need directions?”

“No, I’m not lost. My name is Molly Appleby. I was hoping to talk to the owner of this house about Penelope Cassidy, the former owner.”

The child made mewing noises, and she bounced her up and down on her hip. “What’s this about?”

“Do you know Penelope?”

“No. Why are you asking about her? Has something happened?”

“I’m from the village where she’s been living, and people are worried about her. She’s missing, you see, and since I was going to be in London today, I thought I’d ask around and see if anyone had heard from her.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you.” She shifted the baby to her other hip. “I’m Mandy Blake, by the way, and this is my daughter, Jenny. I thought you were the new maid. We hired one of those services.” She shook her head. “No one’s reliable anymore.” She didn’t invite Molly inside, but she was talking to her, which in Molly’s world was a lot better than having the door slammed in her face. “I only met Penelope one time, the day of the house inspection,” Mandy said. “She was here when we arrived, said hello, and ran out the door. I never saw her or talked to her again.”

“Do you remember the date of the inspection?”

Mandy scrunched her nose. “Fifteen May? I think that’s right, because we closed on the twentieth and the inspection was about five days earlier.”

“Can you tell me how long the house was on the market?”

“Not long. I know because I was scouring house ads for months. When this one popped up, I got on the phone to Chris, my husband, right away. He agreed we should call our estate agent immediately, because we’d been outbid on a few other houses. Not that I was keen on buying a townhouse, because I wasn’t, I wanted to move to the suburbs for more space, but Chris insisted on staying in the city for his commute. It can be horrendous . . .” Her voice trailed away and she took a big gulp of air. “Where was I? Right. We offered the asking price the day we saw it. It was the seventh of May.”

Lombardi was right, Molly thought. He’d told her Penelope had put her house on the market two days after Dora died and sold it a couple of weeks later. She hadn’t wasted any time. “Have you heard the name Dora Lang?” she asked.

Mandy’s mouth turned down. “The woman who broke her neck? Sure. I almost bailed on the house when I found out. I told Chris we should keep looking, because who wants to live in a house where someone died, right? But he was tired of looking, and told me what did I expect, it’s an old house, people die.” She squinted at Molly. “Should we be worried?”

“About what?”

Jenny made louder mewing noises, and Molly hoped she wasn’t about to cry and interrupt her mother. “You said Penelope’s missing. Can you tell me why? Is it something criminal? Was she kidnapped, is she in trouble with the police?” She lowered her voice. “Did she murder Dora?”

“As far as I know, Dora died in an accidental fall, and Penelope doesn’t have a criminal past,” Molly said. “I don’t think you have a reason to worry.”

Mandy breathed a sigh of relief. “Good,” she said. “You know what? My neighbor was friendly with her.” She jerked her thumb at the townhouse next door. “She’s a famous artist. Eccentric, but nice. I’d be happy to introduce you, if you want to talk to her.”

“Thanks, I would,” Molly said.

“Give me a sec to put Jenny in her crib.”

Mandy closed the door behind her, and Molly took the opportunity to check her phone for messages. Matt had texted her emoticon hugs and kisses and she sent him back a similar endearment. As she slipped her phone in her purse, Mandy returned and she followed her to the neighbor’s house. It was a full minute before a scrawny, middle-aged woman opened the door. Her hair was cut short and dyed a bright pink, her arms were tattooed from her wrists to her shoulders. She wore frayed jeans and a T-shirt spattered with paint, and she looked about as out of place in Prince of Wales Terrace as a Volkswagen Beatle would look in a Rolls-Royce dealership.

“Hello, Anita,” Mandy said cheerfully. “Sorry to disturb. This is Molly Appleby. She’d like to talk to you about Penelope.”

Anita looked surprised. “Penelope?”

“I’ll let Molly explain,” Mandy said. “Sorry I can’t stay. Jenny’s in her crib, and I’m waiting on a new nanny. Must dash.” She shook Molly’s hand. “Good luck!”

“Thanks again,” Molly said, but Mandy was already racing down the steps.

Anita looked at her suspiciously. “Why are you asking about Penelope?”

Molly explained about her disappearance, and Anita listened without interrupting. When Molly was finished, she said, “I lived next door to Penelope for eight years. We weren’t pals, but she was always friendly, liked to stop and chat. She loved my work, too. Bought quite a few paintings.”

“What do you paint?”

“I call my work modern landscape interpretations.”

“I think I saw your paintings at Penelope’s flat,” Molly said. “They’re beautiful.”

For the first time, Anita smiled. “Thank you, it’s my passion.”

Molly thought her passion must pay well for her to be able to live in such an expensive neighborhood. “Have you kept in touch with her since she moved away?” she asked.

“No.”

“When did you last talk to her?”

“A couple days before Dora died. You know about Dora?”

“Yes, I do,” Molly said. “What was she like?”

“Quiet, shy,” Anita said. “Not friendly like Penelope.”

“Were you surprised Penelope sold the house?”

“Initially, yeah, I was,” Anita said. “Later, I figured it must have been too hard for her to live there, after what happened to Dora. That had to be a bad day.”

“Did you see her after it happened?”

“No, but not for trying. I called her, but she didn’t answer. Knocked on the door, no one came. Next thing I know, there’s a moving van out front and she’s moved away.”

“You didn’t see her on moving day?”

“No, only some guy bossing the movers around, so I went out and told him I was worried about her, because it wasn’t like her not to return my phone calls. He tells me she’s fine, only she needs a change of scenery. I pressed him to get word to her, that I’d like to talk, and he told me to mind my own business. What a jerk.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Sure. Typical stuck-up snob with blond hair, handsome enough to be a model. Exactly the kind of man I steer clear of. I hope you’re not going to tell me he’s the guy Penelope’s engaged to marry.”

“It sounds like him,” Molly said. “His name is Giles Adair.”

“Never heard of him, or saw him before that day. Not that I’m spying out my windows. I have too much work to do.” She glanced at a big watch with a chunky silver band stretched around her skinny wrist, making it clear to Molly she was a busy person. “I talked to another man about a week later. You want to know about that?”

“Absolutely.”

“He knocked on my door, asked if I knew where she’d gone. I told him I had no idea, but as soon as I had time I was going to swing by her shop to talk to her. He tells me don’t bother, she’s closed the Gentle Dealer. God’s truth, that shocked me more than her moving out. Like I said, I could understand selling the house, her being upset, not wanting to live there anymore, but the Gentle Dealer made no sense. She lived for that shop.”

“Did you happen to get his name?”

“No, but I can describe him. He’s about your height, long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and he’s got a goatee stuck in the middle of his chin. I hate that look. He was a nice guy, not like blondie. I remember he was wearing a hip leather bomber jacket with patches on the sleeves. Loved it. Looked vintage, like the ones the pilots wore in the Second World War.” Anita snapped her fingers. “And he smelled like curry.”

“Curry?”

“Yeah, you know, the spice.”

“Right, of course,” Molly said, sighing to herself. Now all she had to do was find a man who smelled like curry in a city of over eight million people. “I don’t want to keep you, I know you’re painting, but do you remember Penelope ever mentioning a village in Yorkshire called Rimstock?”

Anita thought about it a moment, then shook her head. “No, can’t say the name sounds familiar.”

She took the jewelry box out of her purse and opened it. “Have you ever seen this before?”

Anita smiled. “Oh, yeah, it’s not easy to forget, is it?”

“Where did you see it?”

“At the Gentle Dealer. It was before Christmas last year. I was shopping for presents and stopped in to see what treasures I could find.”

“It was for sale?”

“I’m not sure,” Anita said. “Dora was wearing it.”

Molly was surprised. “Dora?”

“Yeah. Maybe it was for sale, I don’t know. I suppose she could have been showing it off for customers. It caught my attention. She told me some story about how in the late 1700s George IV fell in love with a commoner and had a locket made for her with a portrait of just his eye, because he didn’t want anyone to recognize him. I think she said they were popular in France and Russia first, and when Georgie’s girlfriend gave one to him in return, and he wore it, they became the rage in England. She told me it was her favorite antique. How did you end up with it?”

“It’s a long story,” Molly said. She had no intention of getting into Tiffany’s murder.

Anita looked at her watch again. “Anything else? Because I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“I think that’s it,” Molly said. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”

“No problem. I always liked Penelope, but I don’t think she handles stress very well,” Anita said. “Maybe she ran away from another stressful situation.”

Chapter 18

The Gentle Dealer’s former abode was on the famous Portobello Road in Notting Hill. Molly wasn’t surprised. Notting Hill was known for its antiques shops, the most of any city in the world. She wouldn’t normally mind a thirty-minute walk to get there, but as she went down the steps of Anita’s townhouse, it was already nearly noon, and she wasn’t sure where the events of the day were going to take her. She flagged down a taxicab, and relaxed into the seat and thought about Dora wearing the eye miniature.

Had the brooch been for sale? Or did it belong to her personally? And if it did belong to her, how did it end up with Giles? Molly thought she might have been too quick to judge him. Maybe he hadn’t been lying about buying the eye miniature for Tiffany, but had bought it at the Gentle Dealer, from Dora.

The cabdriver dropped her off at the end of a closed portion of the street where vendors were selling household goods and stalls were overflowing with fresh fruits and vegetables. She found the clothing boutique called Sassy Lassie halfway down the block. The merchandise was geared toward the young and hip, terms Molly would never use to describe herself, but she browsed the racks on the chance she saw something she couldn’t live without. That idea soon became a joke, as the prices were astronomical. A gauzy shirt cost ninety pounds, the equivalent of about a hundred and thirty dollars. All that money for a shirt she could see through. She put it back on the rack. It wasn’t that she was naïve. She knew living in London was expensive. But paying that much money for a shirt that looked like it would disintegrate after washing it a few times seemed ridiculous to her.

A small-featured, pale woman in a sleeveless black sequined blouse, tight white jeans, and a silver nose ring suddenly appeared at her side. “Can I help you find something?” she asked in a raspy smoker’s voice.

“I’d like to talk to the owner,” Molly said.

“That would be me,” she said, and smiled. “My name’s Robyn.” Her clothes reeked with the scent of cigarettes. “How can I help you?”

“There was a shop here before called the Gentle Dealer. I was wondering if you know the owner, Penelope Cassidy?”

Robyn looked at her a moment. Then she waved her hand in the direction of a woman putting shoeboxes on a shelf. “Gina, do me a fav, love, man the fort,” she said. She turned back to Molly. “I need a smoke,” she said. “Come with me.”

Robyn tottered away on six-inch high-heel boots. Her hair was long and straight and nearly reached her waist. She paused behind the register counter to collect a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and Molly followed her out the back door to an alleyway, where cars were parked every which way competing for limited space. A large trash bin was nearby, serving restaurants on the street, and Molly almost gagged from the sour odor. Robyn lit her cigarette, and for the first time in her life, Molly didn’t mind the smell of cigarette smoke. The burning tobacco masked the stench of rotting garbage.

Robyn took a deep drag. “God, that’s good,” she said, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth. “You can hardly smoke anywhere these days.” She looked at Molly. “You’re American, I can tell from your accent,” she said. “Is it the same in the States?”