Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter 4

Marsden-Lacey, England

Present Day

HELEN RYES PURSED HER LIPS and raised her eyebrows as she
read the incoming number on her mobile. She had just finished a call from her
daughter and now Timothy, her youngest, who lived in Concord, Massachusetts,
was trying to reach her. With a deeply-resigned, maternal sigh, she brushed the
glass surface of her device and asked, “Yes, Timothy?”

“Mother. Why aren
’
t you answering your
phone for God
’
s sake?”

“I just got off the phone with Christine and I’m working.
You do remember your mother works, dear?”

“Oh, my God, of course I know you work, but you
’
ve been avoiding all of our phone calls because you don
’
t want to attend Dad
’
s wedding.”

As the diatribe continued from her loving child, Helen held
the phone slightly away from her ear and examined the back of her hand. She
thought about how nice it would be to have a manicure and then, why not a
pedicure, too? Something to give order to her life at the moment would be so
nice.

Once she realized the barking and whining had slowed on the
other end of the line, she returned the phone to her ear, careful to avoid her
pearl earring.

“Darling, Mama
’
s not going to Daddy
’
s beach-side shindig.”
Her temper stoked itself on visions of the happy couple
’
s
matrimonial bliss being paid for by her hard work. Her words took on the
impression of an irritated, albeit a loving, mother who had tired of her cub
’
s meddling with things he would be better off leaving alone.

“You see, dear, I
’
m not paying to
travel to some God-forsaken Floridian swamp to wish Fiona and your father happy
trails. Not at my expense anyway, and why Florida? Why does everyone want to go
to Florida? It
’
s hot and everyone ends up burned. In this
case quite literally.”

“You know it
’
s not about the wedding,
Mother.”

“Oh, dear, what exactly is it about then?”

“Seeing your grandkids, maybe. Seeing your children
possibly. I don
’
t know, Mother. Maybe seeing your family.”

This last fuming howl touched Helen. Timothy
’
s
sweet, six-year-old, dirt-encrusted face swam up from her memory. She saw him
again as he was the day she found him sitting in the garden digging for worms.
Remembering how she had pulled Timothy into her arms, the feel of his small
neck against her cheek and the soft smell of sunshine, fresh air and little boy
mingling together made an elixir for maternal love. The memory hung there for a
moment and Helen
’
s tone shifted.

She said gently, “Darling, I
’
ll need
some time. You do understand? Don
’
t you, Timothy? I need
some time. Of course I want more than anything to see all of you. I
’
ll let you know. Give me a few days. Fiona and George,”
she said these last
two names with a definite hint of irritation, “aren
’
t
marrying for another two weeks. I
’
ve got time to think it
through still.”

“Oh, all right, Mom. We want to see you and I know Christine
and Peter are planning to be there. It wouldn
’
t be the
same, you know, without you.”
This last part faded away to a small crack in his voice.

Helen quickly added, “I
’
ll let you
know, dear. Don
’
t worry. It
’
ll all be fine. I love you, Timmy. Let
’
s
talk later. Bye for now.”
With a forced attempt to finish with a bright last note she touched “end”
on the phone.

“Hmph.”
Someone cleared her throat. Helen spun around to see a
conventionally-dressed, curvy but short woman in her late forties. Red hair was
piled on the top of her head slightly askew with springing whispies flying out
in every direction. It was as if she had been in a wind storm or had been
wrestling with something, mused Helen.

“
Hello. I
’
m sorry
to interrupt, but there isn
’
t a receptionist at the desk.
My name is Martha Littleword. I
’
m with Partridge, Sims
& Cuthbirt. I
’
m trying to locate Mr. Louis Devry, the
curator?”
This
last bit was said with an apologetic, upward rise in her tone.

“Oh, yes, of course, I
’
m Helen Ryes. I
’
m the book conservator,”
Helen returned. “He just stepped out saying he wouldn
’
t
be back for the day. He seemed a bit preoccupied. Is there anything I might
help you with?”

“Well first, I
’
d like to say it
’
s always nice to run into a fellow American,”
Martha said with a
warm smile.

“How nice. What part of the States are you from?”
Helen asked
returning the smile with an outstretched hand which Martha took giving it a
firm shake.

It was like finding an old friend in the last place you
expected.

“Everyone calls me Martha, by the way. I
’
m
from Arkansas, the northwest corner, a small town called Grace. What about you?”

“No! Me too. Ever heard of Evening Shade?”
Helen asked her
smile now brighter than before.

“On the other side of Conway? I do know it. Small world.”
Martha said giving
her head a little shake. “So, do you work here at The Grange?”

“Not exactly,”
Helen said. “I
’
m a private contractor. I assess and
provide conservation work on books or in this case, entire libraries. The
Grange has one of the best libraries in England representing nineteenth-century
authors. I was thrilled to be offered the chance to sniff around the place and
work on this collection. One never knows what might turn up in these old
collections.”

Helen showed Martha two of the books she was currently
cleaning. One was a first-edition poetry book by Percy Bysshe Shelley titled “Queen
Mab.”
The
other was a diary of a navy admiral stationed in Singapore during the early
nineteenth century.

“I
’
ve probably been boring you. I
’
ll talk your leg off, if you
’
re not
careful.”
Helen
laid the diary down on a piece of pristine cotton fabric. “Should we go find
the receptionist, Mary, and see what Mr. Devry's calendar looks like?”

“I
’
m supposed to take Mr. Devry
’
s statement in a case I
’
m working on,”
Martha explained as
they walked back down the hall. “I guess I missed him because of a ‘to-do’
that happened on
the way here. It slowed me down.”

Helen
’
s eyebrows furrowed as she
recalled her last conversation with Mr. Devry. He hadn
’
t
mentioned any legal issues but then why would he? Devry had, if anything, been
extremely reserved and aloof, not exactly the talkative type the entire week
she had worked at The Grange.

“Was Mary at her desk when you came in?”
Helen asked.

“No one was about.”

“Let
’
s check. She may have returned.”

As they walked down the corridor toward the reception area,
they chatted and laughed about being expats in England.

At the end of the corridor, the somber coolness of The
Grange
’
s entrance hall was offset by the warm sunlight and
summer breeze floating in through the one open door to the main entrance.
Sounds of bees working diligently at their pollen duties on the hollyhocks near
the entrance mixed with the everyday noises wafting up from the village below.
Their eyes had to adjust as they came into the hall because the light from
outside made the dark walls and stone floor recede into shadows.

Together their gazes fell upon water droplets splattered on
the floor and leading behind the semicircular reception desk. Some instinct
made Helen stoop down and touch them. As she brought her hand up toward her
dazzled eyes, both women gasped when they saw the red stain on her fingers.

“Oh, my God.”
Helen said, her voice raw and staccato.

Their gazes locked in mutual horror and it was Martha who
first moved behind the reception desk. There, lying on the ground, was a
well-dressed man face down in a pool of blood.

Martha looked up at Helen and said throatily, “Call the
police.”

Helen dialed the emergency number with her phone. A man
answered, but before he could say anything, Helen blurted, “There
’
s
a man dead. There
’
s so much blood. Here, at The Grange and…and…he
’
s been murdered.”

Chapter 5

DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR MERRIAM JOHNS had been on the
force for almost twenty-five years. He never enjoyed dealing with distressed
women and he especially disliked distressed foreign women who had gone and
involved themselves in local crimes. As he saw it, they should keep their noses
clean when visiting foreign places and his village in particular.

The more he imagined what the woman on the other end of the
phone must be like, the more his colicky self escalated into a temper. She was
definitely an American and that always meant an extra hassle. Americans were
usually one of two things: half were curious about every minute aspect of the
British police investigation experience as if it were a TV drama and all cops
in England were Sherlock Holmes; the other half loved to comment on how
American cops did things differently. He wished he had a pound for every time
some American had said, “
Well, we don
’
t
do it that way in America.”

But these thoughts increased his irritation level which made
his temper rise. He remembered his doctor
’
s advice about
getting too worked up.

“Not good for the old ticker,”
Doc Whithersby had said while pointing towards his own heart or where
there should have been one.

He wondered if Whithersby was serious about his ticker or if
he was insidious enough to make Johns question his own health. He and Whithersby
had been in a tight competition for Lilly Peterson, the bartender at The
Traveller
’
s Inn.

Thoughts of Lilly soothed his cantankerous soul as Johns
turned his vehicle up the High Street. He pulled up in front of The Grange,
turned off the siren and got out of the car. The ambulance was right behind
him.

Due to an injury caused by chasing one of the village teens
through Mr. and Mrs. Down
’
s garden (local nudists) last
summer, Johns walked with stiffness in his right leg. This along with his
extremely stout, bulldog, five-foot-ten body gave the impression of a slow,
determined, military tank forcefully moving through the garden.

Today as he thought about Lilly, he ran his bear paw of a
hand through his buzz-cut hair. Not more than an inch long on any point of his
scalp, each black hair stood perfectly at attention. Johns walked around the
building
’
s corner and entered the portico of the main
entrance to The Grange.

MARTHA AND HELEN SAT QUIETLY on the bench after calling the
police. They focused intently on the modern digital clock hanging over the
reception area because they didn
’
t want to think about the
body behind the desk. It was strange to be sitting in the same room with a dead
man.

Soon distant sirens could be heard. They both shifted
uneasily in their places, unsure of what to expect when the police arrived.

Martha, light-headed, laid her head against the oak-paneled
wall. She looked over at Helen who was also resting her head against the cool
paneling, her jaw slightly slack. Martha had an uncontrollable urge to laugh.
She fought to control it but a snort and chuckle slipped out. It brought Helen
out of her stupor with a start and she turned to look at Martha with wide,
incredulous eyes.

“Did you just laugh?”
she asked in a shocked tone.

Martha slapped her hand over her offending mouth and mumbled
through it. “Oh, God. I
’
m sorry. I looked at your face and
I don
’
t know. It hit me as funny. I
’
m
sorry. It
’
s not funny. I know that. Okay, I don
’
t know why I
’
m laughing. This is horrible.”

“You
’
re hysterical,”
Helen blurted out
and again rested her head against the paneling.

They sucked in deep breaths and exhaled in unison.
Immediately upon doing so, they burst out laughing. The laughter, albeit bad
timing, decompressed their tension for a short time until blaring sirens, tires
crunching on the gravel outside, and voices calling to each other announced the
arrival of the emergency team and the police.

Martha
’
s nose twitched. An overbearing
smell of aftershave wafted into the room.

“Whoa. Someone practically bathed in the stuff,
’
she thought. As if on cue, the breeze delivered the concentrated form of
DCI Johns through the door.

“Where is it?”
Johns asked in a commanding tone.

Both Helen and Martha got up from their seats and began to
walk towards him.

“Behind the desk,”
Helen said and pointed.

The room became busy with the police and emergency task
force.

Johns knelt down to check the man
’
s pulse.
“Either of you check to see if he was dead during the
last ten minutes?”

Martha and Helen exchanged nervous looks, both immediately
realizing they had never checked for a pulse.

“Get a stretcher in here,”
Johns said to the sergeant standing near the door. “This ‘murdered man
’
isn
’
t quite dead yet.”