The Cat That Played The Tombola Page 2

  Lady Chadwick made swatting motions at the air around her head as though she were chasing mosquitoes.

  Nella didn’t quite roll her eyes, but it was close. “I heard it was a gunshot. Can anyone confirm that?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Fay indicated the gun she was guarding. “And here’s the murder weapon.”

  The ladies slipped their spectacles onto their noses. “That?” barked Lady Chadwick. “Why, that’s nothing but a toy. It’s a theatrical prop. It was used in the pantomime that was performed at two o’clock this afternoon. Little Red Riding Hood used it to shoot the big bad wolf.”

  “Are you quite sure of that, Lady Chadwick? This is the gun that was used in the play?”

  “My dear Miss Penrose. I could hardly mistake it. It belongs to me, after all. The Chadwicks have lent it to the pantomime every year for decades now.”

  “The thing is, Mary,” said Nella. “It’s apparently not a toy at all but a functioning weapon.”

  “Well, I know that, Nella. But it certainly wasn’t loaded, and I doubt it is still in working order. This can’t possibly be what killed poor Mrs. Saville.”

  “I doubt Miss Penrose is mistaken. She was a police officer in New York City until recently. A homicide detective, I believe?”

  “That’s right,” said Fay. “This is definitely the murder weapon. It is perfectly safe as long as it’s unloaded. Unfortunately, it looks as if someone found the correct ammunition and loaded it.”

  Morwen looked up. “Oh, thank goodness. Here come the police.”

  Fay looked up too. Sergeant Jones and Constable Chegwin were approaching at an unhurried pace. She wasn’t quite as overjoyed to see them as Morwen. They were lovely men but not the sharpest minds on the island.

  “Evening, all.” Sergeant Jones hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “What’s all this about a murder weapon?”

  It was eleven-thirty by the time Fay had finally brushed her teeth and put on her pajamas.

  The local high school traditionally cleaned up Lower Field after the spring fair as part of their community service. She had almost wanted to tell them to leave everything as it was until the next morning so that a proper search could be conducted in daylight. But she wasn’t running the investigation. Once the murder weapon had been taken into custody, Sergeant Jones had given the kids the go-ahead to start clearing up.

  Doc Dyer and David had taken charge of the body, and Constable Chegwin had gone off to do the next-of-kin notifications.

  It was sad that the spring fair had ended on such an awful note because it had been a very successful day otherwise, with record amounts of money being raised for charity. According to Morwen, this wasn’t even the first time that the spring fair had been marred by murder. Twenty-five years earlier, the leading man in the pantomime had stabbed his rival to death in what was supposed to be a pretend sword fight. That murder had taken place in front of an audience of at least a hundred people, so there had been no mystery about it. Arrest and prosecution had followed swiftly afterwards.

  This was more complicated.

  A gun that had been used as a stage prop would probably be covered in fingerprints from a host of different people. The fireworks had been the perfect time to commit the murder. Fay was the only person to realize that a gun had been fired. Had anyone seen the shooter? That was something Sergeant Jones would (or should) be trying to establish. An eyewitness would break the case wide open, but no one had come forward yet.

  As Fay settled into bed and picked up a book from her nightstand, she heard thumping noises coming from her office next door. The kittens were restless. At two months old, they were ready to be moved out of her office. Until recently, she had kept them in a large playpen where they had toddled around on their baby legs, getting stronger and more confident every day. Then they had started threatening to jump the walls of their enclosure and had graduated to having the run of the office, with several cat trees, platforms, and scratching posts to teach them to climb.

  Now they would need more room to explore and some supervised time in the garden. She would make sure they were completely comfortable with people and other cats before she tried to home them at three months.

  As Fay listened, her book suspended in the air, the thumping noises stopped. Two of her adult cats, Smudge and Olive, were acting as surrogate moms to the four rescue kittens. They seemed to be settling them in for the night.

  She picked up her book and went back to the murder of the Earl of Chudleigh. She had a feeling that it was the butler who had done it, but perhaps that was too obvious. Oh, well. The Dowager Lady Harple would solve the mystery soon enough. Fay was happy to go along for the ride.

  As her eyelids began to get heavy, she thought about the real mystery unfolding under her nose. Who had murdered Mrs. Saville and why? No, she was too tired to think about it now. Perhaps the morning would bring enlightenment.

  After her customary three-mile run along the boardwalk next to the sea, Fay returned home to shower and dress for the day. Then she went downstairs to the kitchen to help Morwen prepare breakfast for the B&B guests. She popped a tray of muffins into the oven before getting started on a batch of chocolate eclairs. Fay was an excellent baker, with light, cool hands that were perfect for making pastry. She took care of the baking side of things while Morwen did the cooking.

  “Guess what?” said Morwen as she sliced tomatoes.

  “What?”

  “It turns out Mrs. Saville had money that none of us knew about. She died a wealthy woman. Whoever she left her money to is about to get filthy rich.”

  “How on earth do you know that?” Fay glanced at the kitchen clock. “It is literally six-thirty in the morning. How could you have had news already?”

  “What can I say? This is Bluebell Island. I’ve had two texts and one phone call this morning already to tell me all about it. Island folk are early risers, remember? This particular snippet seems to have originated from Mrs. Saville’s housekeeper, Bertha. You know Bertha, don’t you?”

  Fay shook her head as she removed the batter mixture for the choux pastry from the stove to allow it to cool before beating eggs into it. “I don’t think I do.”

  “She’s a tall woman with short, grey hair. Always bargaining for lower prices at the farmer’s market?”

  “Wait, I think I know who you mean. She’s a fierce negotiator, that one.”

  “She always told people that her poor mistress was a widow who couldn’t afford to pay full price for anything. That fooled us all into thinking that Mrs. Saville didn’t have much money. Now that she’s dead, Bertha is telling the truth. And apparently, Mrs. Saville was loaded.”

  Fay’s spoon paused in the act of stirring the batter. “Interesting. Do you happen to know who her heirs are?”

  “She used to talk about a daughter who lived on the mainland, but I never got to see her. Others might have, though.”

  “Hmm.”

  They worked in silence. Fay beat eggs into the pastry mixture one at a time until they were well combined and smooth. As she prepared the éclair shells for baking, Morwen got started on frying the bacon.

  Fay took the muffins out to cool and put the eclairs into the oven in their place. Then she beat the cream that she would pipe into the eclairs as a filling.

  It was over the roar of the electric beater that she heard a noise. Morwen lifted her head. Apparently, she had heard it too. Fay switched the beater off.

  “Was that …?”

  “The doorbell?” said Morwen. “I think so. It’s early for a guest to be arriving.”

  Fay pulled off her apron. “I’ll get it.”

  She went upstairs wondering who could be ringing the doorbell at seven o’clock in the morning.

  The newcomer was a woman of about her own age. She radiated self-confidence. Fay was sure she had never seen her before, but something about her was vaguely familiar.

  “Good morning,” said the woman. My name is Candice Saville-Wareham. I believe t
his is where my mother died last night.”

  Chapter 3

  Fay recovered from her surprise.

  “Please come in. My name is Fay Penrose. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Mrs. Saville-Wareham waved this away. She stepped into the entrance hall and looked around expectantly.

  “Well?”

  “Uh …” Fay’s brain scrambled to catch up. “Would you like me to … explain what happened? Or would you like to see where it took place?”

  The woman hooted with laughter. “What a morbid idea. No, no. Nothing like that. I came here because my mother told me that you serve the best breakfast on the island. I want a room, not a tour of my mother’s last minutes on this earth. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. As long as it takes to sort out her affairs and pack up her stuff, I suppose. My mother’s banking arrangements and legal representation were based here on the island.”

  “I see.” Fay touched the mouse to wake up the computer behind the reception desk. She scrolled through the rooms to check availability.

  “You’re probably wondering why I don’t just stay at my mother’s house,” said Candice. “The truth is, I can’t stand the woman who works for her – Bertha Maidstone. The name says it all, doesn’t it? She’ll be given her notice, of course, but there’s no way I’m staying under the same roof as her in the meanwhile.”

  “I understand. Well, we can offer you …”

  “I shall require a spacious room with a bathroom that includes a shower and a bath. I expect a sea view and central heating. There shall be Earl Grey tea in my room as well as a superior coffee machine. Is that clear?”

  “Your éclair pastries are out of the oven.” Morwen’s cheerful voice was music to Fay’s ears. “I can book this lady in if you want to finish making them.”

  Fay gave her a grateful smile. “This is Mrs. Saville-Wareham, Morwen. Her mother was Mrs. Saville. I was just telling her how sorry we are for her loss. I was going to put her in the N.G. room, but I think the Boscastle suite would be better.”

  “That’s right. The N.G. room is rather in demand at the moment.”

  Fay left their latest guest to her innkeeper. Morwen had a way of charming even the most difficult customers. N.G. stood for Nightmare Guest. It was the code that Fay and Morwen used to tip each other off about difficult guests who needed extra charm and attention.

  Once she had finished her éclairs and laid them out on the breakfast buffet, she went upstairs to feed the kittens.

  It was not a job for the faint of heart.

  First you had to get through the door without losing any of them. That meant a nimble use of your hands and feet to prevent the attempted jailbreak.

  “Tigger!” Fay danced sideways and grabbed an escaping ginger body. “Why do you always do this…?” She stuck out a foot to block a little grey nose. “Zorro! When did you turn into such a terror?”

  She squeezed her way into her office and closed the door behind her. She deposited Tigger and Zorro on the floor and turned to say hello to the two adult cats, Smudge and Olive.

  “Are you two tired of mommy duty yet?” She stroked their backs and scratched their heads and chins. “You can afford to be less diligent now. The babies are very independent.”

  But it seemed that Smudge and Olive were super-moms, spending most of their time with the kittens even now that they were eating well, grooming themselves, and managing their litter trays. They remained in the office, despite the fact that there was a high window they could leave from.

  This last month of keeping the kittens at home was mainly to build up their immune systems, to ensure that they got a full course of vaccinations, and to get them well socialized before they went to their forever homes.

  “Yes, hello Freddy and Cinnamon,” said Fay as the other two kittens stopped chasing each other long enough to come and say hello to her. “Who’s hungry?”

  The moment she reached for the food pouches, a chorus of squeals started up. You would swear they hadn’t been fed in days. Fay decanted the food into bowls as quickly as possible and soon the squealing noises were replaced by the sounds of gobbling. Why did baby animals always eat as if someone were about to snatch their food away from them? Perhaps because in the wild they would compete for food with their litter mates and only the fastest eaters would get as much as they wanted.

  As Fay cleaned and refreshed the litter boxes, she thought about the Cat’s Paw’s newest guest.

  Mrs. Saville-Wareham didn’t seem devastated by her mother’s death. Of course, grief affected people in different ways, and perhaps she was using denial as a coping mechanism. It was also possible that she and her mother hadn’t been close.

  Morwen said that she was aware of the existence of a daughter but had never met her. That suggested that she wasn’t a frequent visitor to the Island. Morwen knew everyone and everything that happened here.

  Fay decided not to judge the bereaved daughter until she had got to know her better. She might be a lovely person under that nightmare-guest exterior.

  She played with the kittens for a while until she estimated that Mrs. Saville-Wareham would have finished breakfast and be ready for coffee. Then she went downstairs to help Morwen with the breakfast service.

  “Has our newest guest ordered coffee?” Fay asked as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Earl Grey tea, actually. Do you feel like making it? I’m in the middle of an order for eggs benedict.”

  “You carry on cooking. I’ve got this. I want to have a word with her anyway.”

  Fay got out a teapot and began to warm it. She knew she took more trouble over tea-making than most British people did. They had grown up with tea, were all too liable to throw a teabag into a mug, douse it in boiling water, and add a splash of milk.

  Fay took the time to do it properly. She always made tea in a pot, never a mug. She took the time to warm the pot properly so that the tea would draw better. She always used loose tea when making for the guests, never teabags. She had researched the perfect drawing times for each type of tea and used a timer to make sure that she stuck to this. She got compliments from actual British people on her tea-making skills, so she figured she must be doing something right.

  As soon as the pot of Earl Grey was ready, Fay put it on a silver tray with a sugar pot and milk jug and one of her grandmother’s own China teacups. She took it through to the breakfast room with a smile pasted onto her face. No matter how critical a guest might be, Fay would not drop her cheerful manner.

  Mrs. Saville-Wareham had obviously had a good breakfast. She looked much more relaxed.

  “My mother was right,” she said with a smile as Fay put down the tray. “The breakfast here is excellent. I like the way your innkeeper prepares scrambled eggs.”

  “Thank you. We enjoy it too. I’m a newcomer to the island myself, so I never knew your mother, although we met a couple of times. I’m glad she recommended our breakfasts. How long had she lived on Bluebell Island?”

  “It was ten years last Christmas.”

  “You’re not from the west country, are you? I’m getting better at recognizing British accents.”

  “We’re from Reigate in Surrey. That’s a suburban area quite close to London. My family and I have settled there. It’s an excellent place to raise children.”

  “Did your mother miss being close to the city when she moved here?”

  Mrs. Saville-Wareham smiled again. “You really didn’t know my mother, did you? The whole point of coming to Bluebell Island was to be a big fish in a small pond. Mother liked to rule the roost. There aren’t many opportunities for that in Surrey. Most of the villages have become so big that they’re like suburbs that run into each other. And as for London – well that’s just impossible. Mother liked to be the queen bee. She thought if she came to a sleepy little island like this, she could boss everyone around. Unfortunately, she hadn’t reckoned with people like Lady Chadwick, that woman who runs the bookstore, and your own grandmother.”


  “I’m afraid my grandmother passed away a few months ago, Mrs. Saville-Wareham.”

  “Oh, do call me Candice. We’re about the same age after all. You probably don’t know this, but my mother had her eye on this place when your grandmother died.”

  “On the Cat’s Paw B&B?”

  “It wasn’t a B&B back then. It was just Penrose House. My mother never approved of your grandmother’s plans to turn it into a B&B. She thought that if she lived here full-time as the lady of Penrose House it would increase her standing in the village. She could finally become the leader she was always meant to be.”

  “A house like this costs a fortune to maintain,” Fay pointed out. “That’s why my grandmother decided to make it start paying for itself. She didn’t want it to become shabby or run down.”

  “Like Chadwick Manor?” Candice laughed at the expression on Fay’s face. “You’re surprised at how much I know about the island, especially since I hardly ever came here. My mother kept me up to date. She used to send me weekly emails that were as comprehensive as the local newspaper. She missed her calling as a journalist.”

  “She was retired then?”

  “I don’t think you can call it ‘retired’ when you’ve never worked a day in your life.”

  “I see …” Fay tried to think of a polite way of asking her next question.

  Candice laughed again. She was in a much better mood. “You’re wondering how a woman who never worked could have the money to buy Penrose House. It was my late father who left it to her. He bought up properties in the east end of London and flipped them for a fortune back when there was still money to be made doing that. Dad passed away ten years ago now. He left his whole private fortune to my mother. Can you believe that? She was forty-seven and getting ready to go and live on some island. I was twenty-two and just starting out in life. Who would you say needed the money more?”

  Fay opened her mouth to attempt an answer, but Candice steamed ahead.