The Cat That Had a Clue Page 3

  “What time was that?”

  Morwen thought about this. “It must have been just before nine. I know because I was waiting for the news to come on. I had the TV on in my bedroom. When I got back from delivering his pizza, the headlines had just started.”

  “Did he say anything when you dropped the pizza off?”

  “Not really. He just …” Morwen paused in mid-stir, the spoon gripped between her fingers. “Now that you mention it, there was something slightly odd. At first, he seemed really annoyed with me for disturbing him. I held out the tray and said, ‘Here’s the pizza you ordered.’ And instead of taking it, he started to say, ‘I didn’t order any …’ He kind of stopped himself as though he had remembered something. Then he took the tray and closed the door in my face. And that was the last I ever saw of him.”

  Fay thought about this as she loaded dishes back into the glass-fronted cabinets.

  “It sounds as though he was starting to say that he didn’t order any pizza. So, why would he pretend that he had?”

  “Maybe he thought, Hey, free pizza! and decided to take it before anyone discovered the mix-up.”

  Fay had to admit that this sounded likely.

  “It’s all rather exciting,” said Morwen. “This is the most drama we’ve had on the island for the past … well, basically forever. The last excitement we had was a year ago when Bert Langridge was caught with his neighbor’s sheep in his pen. It took Sergeant Jones three weeks to solve that mystery, and the village talked of nothing else for a month.”

  “I think this trumps Farmer Bert’s sheep-rustling incident.”

  “It certainly does.”

  Morwen put her hands on her hips and gave the pile of carrots in front of her a dissatisfied stare.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Fay.

  “I was going to cook some vegetables to serve with this pie, but it has cleared up into such a lovely day that now I’m thinking about salad. But I don’t have any fresh ingredients. The kitchen garden will be full of fresh produce in the summer, but right now all we have are a few potatoes and turnips.”

  Fay thought that a crunchy salad sounded delicious. “I don’t mind running down to the village to get some salad vegetables for you.”

  “That would be great, but are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. There’s something I want to do while I’m there.”

  She tore her to-do list off a notepad on the fridge. There was nothing urgent on it, but she felt like getting some fresh air. And she really wanted that salad for lunch. The fact that she had an ulterior motive in the back of her mind was something she wasn’t prepared to admit at this stage.

  Saying goodbye to Morwen, Fay left the house by the front door, her boots crunching across the gravel that lined the sweeping driveway leading up to Penrose House. A couple of cats were snoozing in the sunshine that had chased away the clouds, as promised. There was Whisky, clearly none the worse for his soap-licking incident. Next to him lay a lilac-point Balinese called Sprite. These were the two cats that Fay had brought over with her from New York City. They had integrated well with the three other cats that were already full-time residents at Penrose House.

  Fay bent to scratch their heads as she walked past.

  “Did you see what happened to him?” she asked Whisky as he gazed adoringly up into her eyes. “If you were locked in his room all night, you must have been the last living thing to see him alive. How about giving me a clue?”

  Whisky gave her a creaky meow instead.

  Shaking her head at her own silliness, Fay kept walking. Down the path she went, to the grand entrance that welcomed visitors to the Cat’s Paw. With its white pillars and black iron lamps that marked the entrance to the grounds, Penrose House looked rather imposing.

  The road that led down to the village was narrow and lined on either side by flowering hedgerows. When Fay had first come to Bluebell Island, she had been appalled at the narrowness of the roads and the speed with which the locals drove. All the roads had traffic coming from both directions, despite the fact that they were too narrow for two cars to pass each other comfortably.

  Morwen assured her that it was much, much worse during the summer when huge tour buses came across on the ferry from the mainland bulging with coachloads of tourists. After six months, Fay had just about got used to the local traffic. She was growing accustomed to flinging herself into a hedgerow when a large vehicle came hurtling past.

  The road curved to the left, and Fay paused to enjoy one of her favorite views in the world. The road fell away at her feet, and she had an uninterrupted view of Bluebell Village and the tiny harbor that the local fishing boats set out from. The grey stone houses with their slate roofs basked in the gentle sunlight. The roads were cobbled and steep as they led down to the little port.

  Fay had to pinch herself sometimes to believe that she had really swapped the mean streets of New York City for this picture-perfect village.

  One of the first buildings she came to as she entered the village was the doctor’s surgery. Doc Dyer was taking a stroll in the road outside the surgery. He was puffing on an old-fashioned corncob pipe.

  Fay smiled and waved and was about to walk on when he unplugged the pipe from his mouth and used it to wave her closer. In New York City it might have been okay to ignore such a summons, but here in the village it would have been considered the height of rudeness. Fay crossed the road towards the surgery.

  “Morning, Doc.” She consulted her watch and saw that it was just after twelve. “Or rather, good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon to you, Fay love. You’re looking remarkably calm and collected for someone who had a murder under her roof not two hours ago.” He shook his head. “Ah, but I was forgetting. This must be fairly routine for you after your previous job.”

  “Believe me, Doc, as a B&B owner, there is nothing routine about finding one of your guests dead in his bed.”

  “My lad is working on him now. The autopsy, you know. He’s a trained surgeon, that boy, and a great one too. I don’t like to boast, but my son did his medical training at Oxford University, before specializing in general surgery at Harvard. If anyone can find out what happened to your late guest, it’s him.”

  “I didn’t realize your son was such a celebrated surgeon, Doc. I suppose he’ll be off on his travels soon.”

  Doc Dyer’s chest swelled with pride. “Goodness me, no, love. My boy is home to stay this time.”

  Chapter 5

  Fay managed to hide her lack of enthusiasm.

  “That will be nice for you.”

  Doc Dyer sucked at his pipe and nodded. “It will indeed. Ever since my dear wife passed away, it has been just the two of us in that old house. And while he was away studying, it was just me. I will enjoy having my boy for company again.”

  Fay couldn’t resist glancing through the door to the surgery, as though hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr. Caldwell’s body. “How is the autopsy going, do you know?”

  “It’s going smoothly. Your late guest was a forty-five-year-old man who was in perfect health until he ingested cyanide.”

  “Was the cyanide on the pizza?”

  “It looks that way, yes. That’s not a topping they normally serve at Pappa’s. It seems Mr. Caldwell had already eaten earlier in the evening. Beef Wellington and potatoes, according to David.”

  “David?”

  “My lad. That’s his name – Mr. David Dyer, FRCS.”

  “Right, of course.” Fay was not used to the British habit of addressing surgeons as Mr. rather than Dr. When they were general practitioners, they were referred to as Dr., but when they became surgeons, they went back to Mr. again. It was all rather confusing.

  “I’d better get back inside,” Doc Dyer knocked his pipe out into a flower pot. “I have patients coming in a few minutes.”

  Fay continued on her way with a wave. She walked down to the little high street that made up the official center of the village. It consisted of a post office,
a general store, a small hotel with a pub attached, a pharmacy, and a few other shops and restaurants. A farmers’ market had been set up in front of the church that marked the southern end of the high street.

  Fay headed there now to pick up the salad for Morwen. Normally she loved wandering through the tables of fresh produce, but today she was in a hurry.

  She chose a small head of crisp lettuce, a long cucumber, some cherry tomatoes, a handful of rocket, and a hunk of feta cheese. She took the whole lot to Maggie’s mother who was taking a turn at the cash register. Binnie’s Organics always had a stall at the farmers’ market.

  “Hello, Fay love. Lovely weather for a salad, isn’t it?”

  Fay looked up at the blue sky with its scattering of cotton-wool clouds. Seagulls wheeled overhead, enjoying the sunshine as much as everyone else.

  “It certainly is, Mrs. Binnie. On a day like this, you can almost believe that spring is here.”

  Mrs. Binnie pulled the face that British people make when someone is being overly optimistic about the weather.

  “You know what they say about March, love. It comes in like a lamb and goes out like a lion. We’re having the lamb phase now.”

  Fay thought it was the other way around but didn’t correct her. When she had first arrived on Bluebell Island, she had thought she would never get used to being called ‘love’ by everyone. As a homicide detective, it wasn’t a label she was accustomed to hearing. These days, she didn’t even notice it. She knew her assimilation would be complete when she started using it herself.

  “Oh, Mrs. Binnie.” She was struck by a sudden thought. “How many places are there in town that serve Beef Wellington?”

  “Well, your Morwen up at the Cat’s Paw does a mean Beef Wellington. You should ask her to make it for your dinner one night.”

  “Sure. Morwen’s a great cook. But who else? Where would a guest go to get a traditional Beef Wellington with potatoes?”

  Mrs. Binnie thought about it as she handed Fay her change. “The only place I can think of is the Royal Hotel. They haven’t updated their menu since the nineteen-seventies. Beef Wellington is definitely still on the list.”

  Fay tucked her shopping bag into the crook of her elbow and thanked Mrs. Binnie.

  A sensible woman would go home now, she told herself. She had accomplished her mission. Morwen was waiting for the salad vegetables. There was no reason to hang around the village any longer.

  She tried to make herself turn and head back up the hill, but her feet had a mind of their own. She found herself walking past the post office and the general store and turning into Pappa’s Pizzeria.

  A mouthwatering smell of pizza dough baking in a wood-fired oven, combined with bubbling mozzarella and Italian herbs and spices hit her like a freight train as she walked through the door. Fay nearly swooned. If she hadn’t had Morwen’s chicken pie waiting for her back home, she would have been sorely tempted to indulge in a couple of slices.

  “Ciao, bella,” came a greeting from behind the counter.

  “Ciao, Vito,” said Fay. “Have I caught you before the lunchtime rush?”

  Vito looked up from the dough he was kneading. There were two tables occupied in the restaurant, and only one order stuck on the takeaway board.

  “It is still quiet, sì. But in half an hour we will be jumping. Do you wish to order more bottles of red sauce for the Cat’s Paw? You must be going through them molto velocemente.”

  “No, no, we still have enough sauce, thanks. Joe dropped off six bottles just recently. I came to ask about the pizza you delivered to the Cat’s Paw last night. Morwen says it was Joe who made the delivery. Does that ring a bell?”

  Vito lifted the ring of dough onto his fists and began to twirl it in the air. “I don’t remember making that pizza. It must have been Luigi. He was working the oven most of last night. I was off duty. Can you remember what the toppings were?”

  Fay cast her mind back to the Penzance Suite where slices of cold pizza had kept vigil next to a dead body.

  “I think it was pepperoni and olive.”

  “Now, that was definitely not me. We so seldom get asked for pepperoni that I usually remember it.” Vito sighed. It was a constant disappointment to him that the Bluebell Islanders were not more adventurous in their tastes.

  “It sounds like I should be speaking to Luigi or Joe. Are they around today?”

  “Joe is out on a delivery, but Luigi is in the house. He comes on shift this evening. He’s always happy to chat, as you know. I’ll fetch him for you.”

  Vito abandoned his dough and went into the back. There was a cottage with a large yard behind the pizzeria that he and Luigi shared.

  Fay had heard stories of how the two men had left their native Sicily thirty years earlier and moved to Bluebell Island looking for a better life. They had been in their twenties at the time. The two handsome young Italians had set many female hearts aflutter. Bets had been taken on which lucky ladies would catch their fancy.

  Finally - after nearly three decades on the island - they had surprised everyone by getting married.

  To each other.

  Now known as ‘the husbands’, they were ranked among the island’s most respected and beloved inhabitants.

  Fay breathed in the delicious aromas and wished that Vito would hurry up so that she could get home to her chicken pie. She still believed that New York City made the best pizza in the world, but Pappa’s pizzas were right up there with it.

  “Buon giorno.” Luigi bounced into the restaurant in his squeaky white sneakers. “What can I do for you, bella Fay?”

  “The pizza you made for my guest last night – the pepperoni and olives – do you remember making it?”

  “Sì, that was me. That poor man. It must have been his last meal from what I hear. Still, at least he died happy, with a Pappa’s pizza inside him.”

  Fay wondered how to tell Luigi that the Pappa’s pizza was what had killed him.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Luigi noticed her hesitation.

  Fay took a deep breath. “There is a chance that the pizza was poisoned.”

  “Cosa?” Luigi swayed for a moment and sat down at one of the empty tables. “But I didn’t … I couldn’t …”

  “Not by you,” said Fay, although she wondered whether the police would be as convinced of this as she was. “You see, Mr. Caldwell didn’t order that pizza for himself. He was surprised when it arrived, but decided to eat it anyway. Can you tell me how the order was placed and who placed it? All I know for sure is that it wasn’t Morwen.”

  “Indeed, it was not Morwen.” Luigi struggled to compose himself.

  Fay fetched him a glass of water and urged him to drink it. She gestured to Vito to come over. He hurried across the restaurant when he saw how pale Luigi was.

  “The pizza, Vito,” Luigi moaned. “There was poison on it. They think that is what killed that poor man.”

  Vito looked so dismayed that Fay pulled out a chair for him too and went to fetch another glass of water.

  “Nobody is going to think that you two had anything to do with it,” she said. “Sergeant Jones and Constable Chegwin will probably come in here to ask some questions, but that will be for form’s sake only. What possible motivation could you have for poisoning a total stranger who had only been on the island for two days? We need to find out how that order came in.”

  Some of the color returned to Luigi’s face. He stood up.

  “We can trace that. We can definitely trace it. We keep records of all the orders that come in. It must have come in from the app, or from the website, or by means of a phone call. What time would it have been?”

  “I guess about eight-thirty” said Fay. “Because Joe delivered the pizza just before nine.”

  Luigi hurried over to the computer. Vito stood up and went to look over his shoulder.

  “How do the orders work exactly?” asked Fay.

  “We get an alert on the computer if someone places an order th
rough the mobile app or the website,” Vito explained. “One of us – usually Joe – will write the order down on a piece of paper and stick it up on the takeaway board where we can see it while we’re cooking. Same thing with the telefono. Whoever takes the call will write the order down and stick it up on the board.”

  “So, if it was a telephone call, there won’t be a record of it?”

  “No, we have an electronic switchboard that keeps a log of all incoming and outgoing calls.”

  “There is no record of an order coming in on the app or via the website that late yesterday evening,” said Luigi. “It must have been a phone call.”

  “There it is.” Vito pointed at the screen. “At eight-thirty-four. The conversation lasted forty-nine seconds. That was the last phone call of the night.”

  Fay hardly dared to hope. “Please tell me the calls are recorded?”

  Vito shook his head. “I’m afraid not. The computer technician - he offered us this option, but it cost extra money, and for a small ristorante like ours it seemed … how do you say?”

  “Overkill?” said Fay.

  “Sì. Overkill. If you want to find out what was said on this telephone call, you must speak to Joe. If Luigi did not take the call, and I did not take the call, then it must have been Joe.”

  “What time are you expecting him back?”

  Luigi looked at his watch and frowned. “That’s funny. He should have been back by now.”

  Chapter 6

  Fay looked out the window at the empty space where Joe normally parked his bicycle.

  “I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” she said.

  “Of course he will,” said Vito. “He is so careful on that bike.”

  Fay shook off her feeling of unease. “I’d better go now. I need to get back for lunch. Joe will come up to the Cat’s Paw later this afternoon to deliver my eggs. I’ll talk to him then.”

  Vito and Luigi kept Cornish hens in their spacious backyard and Fay had a standing order with them for fresh eggs.