Auntie Mayhem (19 page)

Judith was wearing a quirky smile as they crossed to the post office. “Don't you remember how in English murder mysteries the sleuths always quiz the talkative old woman who sells stamps and postcards? They always know everything in the village. Let's give it a try.”

The woman behind the counter was in her early twenties, with a spiky pink punk haircut and three paper clips in her right earlobe. She eyed the cousins as if they'd just been turned down by a museum for quaint antiquities.

Judith, however, was undaunted. “Hi, there. I need some stamps. Did you go to the inquest this morning?”

The pale face under the pink hair sported burnt-brown lipstick. “What inquest?” The voice was bored down to the depths of its husky hue.

“Miss Ravenscroft's,” Judith said, her friendliness dropping just a jot. “You know, the old lady who was poisoned.”

The young woman looked blank. “Poisoned? That's what happens when you don't do the good stuff. You get what you pay for.” With a disinterested shrug, she removed a sheet of postage stamps from a leather-bound book and pushed them at Judith. “How many?” she finally asked, still bored.

“Ummm…” Judith tried to concentrate on calculating the denomination into a U.S.-bound air letter. “Three?”

The young woman tore off four and waited for Judith to pay. But Judith had never quite mastered the new English currency system. She handed over a five-pound note. The young woman made change, then turned her back on the cousins. Judith and Renie started out of the post office. Colonel Chelmsford was just coming in. A flicker of recognition crossed his florid face, but he merely nodded and continued up to the counter.

“Morning, Miss Comet,” he said to the young woman. “Make me up a postal money order for three hundred pounds, will you?”

Judith reluctantly closed the door on the colonel and Miss Comet. “There's one way to find out what Chummy
brought in that box,” Judith said, lingering near the entrance. “We could ask him.”

“Go ahead,” said Renie. “You were such a roaring success with the drugged-up post office woman. Maybe you'll get really lucky with Chummy and he'll deck you under yonder pub sign.”

Judith glanced up at the wooden sign on the adjacent building. The letters that spelled out “The Hare and the Hart” were well-weathered, as were the crude depictions of a running deer and rabbit.

“Let's treat Chummy to a pint,” Judith said. “Then we can grab some lunch. I have a feeling Mrs. Tichborne isn't going to put out three meals today.”

Colonel Chelmsford marched out of the post office. This time, Judith spoke up: “You missed the inquest,” she said in her friendliest manner. “Of course it wasn't very dramatic.”

The colonel fixed Judith with a reproachful eye. “Why should it be? What's dramatic about dying? Nothing unique—everybody does it. Seen men do it often enough in battle.”

“I'll bet you have,” Judith said, her voice fairly palpitating with interest. “What's it like to be surrounded by whizzing bullets and exploding grenades?”

“Well now.” The colonel cleared his throat, then peered off in the direction of the train station at the end of the High Street. His eyes grew cloudy, as if he were envisioning a troop transport, somewhere in the war-torn Netherlands. “There we were, Stinky Crowther and I, crawling on our bellies towards the bridge at Arnhem…”

Renie's eyes had already glazed over. Judith let the colonel ramble on, her mind elsewhere. A very old Morris rumbled along the High as the sun disappeared behind a bank of pale gray clouds. Out on the road, a shiny new mini-van headed for Great Pauncefoot. A local bus followed shortly after. Then a small sedan, a motorcyclist, and a livestock carrier.

As if on cue, Colonel Chelmsford whirled. “My word! I must be off! I'll finish up later with how we put old
Stinky's leg back on.” The colonel bustled off down the High Street.

“Nice work,” Renie said in sarcasm. “Unless, of course, you think Stinky Crowther killed Aunt Pet.”

Judith was chagrined. She began to make excuses for herself, but interrupted them with a sudden burst of anger. “Damn! We're going nowhere!” In contradiction, she started off down the street.

“Hey, wait!” Renie called, running after Judith's long, swift strides. “I thought we were going to eat at the pub.”

“That was only if we could pump Chummy. Let's go to the inn. They should have a better menu.”

The Old Grey Mare's restaurant was small and empty. The cousins reassured themselves by noting that they were early for lunch. It was eleven-thirty when they sat down at a round wooden table.

A plump woman with flyaway brown hair indicated a blackboard. “Those are the specials,” she said without enthusiasm. “They're always the specials.”

“I'll have the Ploughman's Platter,” Judith said.

Renie ordered the Shepherd's Pie. “I hope she can cook,” Renie whispered after the woman had thumped off into the inn's nether regions. “Now tell me what's bugging you.”

“Everything,” Judith answered, still testy. “There are so many missing bits and pieces. Think about last night—what did you hear after we got back from the stables?”

Renie frowned. “You mean in conversation?”

“No,” Judith responded. “I mean otherwise.” Noting her cousin's lack of comprehension, Judith clarified, “I'm being unfair. You
didn't
hear anything, and that's my point. I know we went to bed early, but by ten o'clock we should have heard a truck pull up at Ravenscroft House. I realized that just now when I saw the livestock hauler go down the road. Either there's still a dead horse in the stable, or…” Judith made a gesture with her hands. “I don't know.”

At last, Renie understood. “You mean they'd haul the carcass away. But it was a Sunday night. Maybe the glue factory isn't open on weekends. Or,” she added with a
sudden inspiration, “the truck you just saw was going to Ravenscroft House.”

But Judith shook her head. “It would have been slowing down to make the turn into Farriers Lane. The truck I saw was doing close to thirty miles an hour. No, coz, there's something fishy about Balthazar. I've read enough English mysteries to know they don't actually shoot horses anymore. They do something more humane, like a bolt of some kind. We should drop by the stables on our way back. I'm betting we won't find a dead horse.”

“Let's hope not.” Renie made a face. “Ugh, I'm about to eat.”

But Renie was wrong. The hostess returned to the dining room, walking slowly in her flat-footed manner. “We're out of Ploughman's Platter,” she announced, not without a trace of pleasure.

Judith paused. “Okay, I'll have the Shepherd's Pie then.”

“We're out of that, too.” It seemed very difficult for the woman to keep from smiling in triumph.

The third item on the blackboard was a meat pasty. Renie regarded the woman hopefully. “Do you…?”

“No, we don't.” Folding her arms across her big bosom, the hostess finally indulged herself in a victory laugh. “Flat out, that's what we are. Unless you'd care for poached eggs on toast. Or soup,” she added somewhat doubtfully.

“What kind?” Renie inquired.

The woman turned back to the door which presumably led to the kitchen. “Which soup?” she called. “Millie? You there?”

Renie screamed. The woman stared. Both cousins fled.

 

Once they were outside, Judith had second thoughts. “We should have quizzed Millie. She might know something.”

“Cooking isn't one of them. Let's hit the tea shop.” Renie was already halfway down the street.

Since Judith couldn't think what to ask Millie except if she'd eaten all three boxes of Fandangos, lunch at the tea shop seemed like a good idea. The cousins were encour
aged by the sight of a dozen women, mostly middle-aged or older, already sitting at tables covered by fresh white cloths. Small vases of spring flowers sprouted everywhere, lending the shop a garden air. The menu wasn't much longer than the inn's, but it was considerably more adventurous. Judith selected chicken breast in a white cream sauce; Renie chose fresh grilled trout.

“Okay,” Renie said after a Royal Albert teapot had been brought to their table, “other than beating a not-so-dead horse, what else bothers you?”

“Motive,” Judith said, aware that some of their fellow patrons were discreetly staring at the strangers in their midst. “Yes, the money is definitely number one. Let's face it, except for Charles, nobody in the family has a real—excuse the expression—
job
. And even Charles is—was—dependent on Aunt Pet for his employment. But if the heirs thought the old will from August that excluded them was still in effect, none of them would have killed Aunt Pet so soon. They'd have waited until she had signed her new will.”

“Unless,” Renie speculated, stirring sugar and cream into her tea, “one of them knew she had drawn up the new document and figured it would stand up in court. Or maybe they just assumed that because Arthur Tinsley had spent such a long time with Aunt Pet on Friday, the new will was ready to roll.”

Judith sipped from her steaming cup. “That's all possible. But the wrinkle is that whoever gave Aunt Pet those poisoned chocolates couldn't know when she'd eat the ones that killed her. I'm assuming she was greedy about sweets. But she wouldn't want to give herself another case of hives. So we have to figure that she'd go slow, maybe two or three at a time. Was the killer guessing at the dosage? Or was the time element really important? Now if the allergic reaction she had last spring was caused by chocolates from the same person who poisoned this latest batch, why did whoever it was wait so long? Did the poison idea come later?”

Renie considered. “You mean that whoever gave her chocolates on a regular basis meant well in the beginning?”

Judith nodded. “It could be. It could also be that the person who brought the candy wasn't the same one who poisoned it. But that scenario doesn't work. Aunt Pet wouldn't admit she ate chocolates, not even to her doctor.”

“And Dora didn't know.” Renie stopped talking as their waitress brought the entrees. “You were right,” she went on after they'd been served, “about Dora being alone in the suite Friday night. But she obviously didn't snoop if she didn't know about the men's stuff in the nightstand drawer.”

Judith tasted her chicken breast, which was delightfully tender. “She didn't snoop in the nightstand, let's put it like that. Dora's no actress, and a poor liar. But she's nosey. She's lived vicariously, and people who lead those kind of closed-in lives are always poking about in what's not really their business. Despite being a bit deaf, she eavesdrops. She probably goes through the mail, too. You can bet she—” Judith stopped, her fork halfway to her mouth. “She did snoop, I'd bet on it.” Judith had lowered her voice still further, and was smiling slyly.

Renie didn't bother to look up from her plate. “The desk? The will? The
motive?
”

Taken aback, Judith's smile evaporated. “How'd you guess?”

Renie lifted one shoulder. “Easy. The desk and the nightstand are the only places where Aunt Pet kept important stuff. It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out. Do you think Dora told anybody about the will?”

“Before Aunt Pet was killed?” Judith saw Renie nod. “She might have. Mrs. Tichborne, maybe. They seem close.”

“Neither Dora nor Tichborne are getting enough of an inheritance to kill for,” Renie pointed out. “Besides, Dora is going to be lost without Aunt Pet, especially if the family turns the house into a B&B.”

A shaft of sunlight came through the windows with their white lace curtains. Renie waved a fork at Judith. “What about the fire in the wastebasket? Was that merely Dora having fun, or did she actually burn something?”

But Judith didn't know. “If it happened before Aunt Pet
was poisoned, Chummy's box would have been there. In fact, if the wastebaskets are emptied only every few days, there would have been quite a blaze.” In confusion, Judith shook her head. “Something's not right. I wish I knew what it was.”

For several moments, the cousins ate in silence. After finishing her new potatoes, Judith finally spoke again. “One of the problems is that the motive doesn't fit the method. I almost like the control concept better. There's no specific time element involved.”

Renie didn't argue. “So what about Nats and Walter? If Pet was against the match, maybe one of them did her in so they could marry.”

Judith wasn't keen on the concept. “Pet couldn't stop them. Oh, she could threaten to cut Nats out of the estate, but that had already been done, in effect. And as far as we know, Walter was never in it. Besides,” Judith went on, leaning closer so that she could whisper, “it's Claire, not Pet, who opposed the match. If Claire has a thing going with Walter, it would explain all her so-called naps. I saw her with my own eyes going toward the gatehouse yesterday when she should have been upstairs in her room.”

Their waitress removed the plates and inquired about dessert. Judith and Renie tried not to look at the pastry case, but their eyes were drawn like magnets.

“A simple eclair,” Renie said simply.

“A slice of the chocolate mousse cake,” Judith said, feeling a bit like a moose.

The tea shop now had people waiting for tables. Since it appeared to be the only viable eatery in the village, Judith wasn't surprised.

“The thing is,” Judith said, getting back to the topic at hand after their waitress had departed, “Claire doesn't show any signs of leaving Charles. So what's the point of keeping Walter single if she doesn't want to marry him?”

“No distraction?” Renie suggested. But the doubt in her voice left room for quibbling.