Kitabı oku: «Crime in the Café»
Fiona Grace
Debut author Fiona Grace is author of the LACEY DOYLE COZY MYSTERY series which includes MURDER IN THE MANOR (Book #1), DEATH AND A DOG (Book #2), CRIME IN THE CAFE (Book #3), VEXED ON A VISIT (Book #4), and KILLED WITH A KISS (Book #5). Fiona is also the author of the TUSCAN VINEYARD COZY MYSTERY series.
Fiona would love to hear from you, so please visit www.fionagraceauthor.com to receive free ebooks, hear the latest news, and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2020 by Fiona Grace. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright canadastock, used under license from Shutterstock.com.
BOOKS BY FIONA GRACE
LACEY DOYLE COZY MYSTERY
MURDER IN THE MANOR (Book#1)
DEATH AND A DOG (Book #2)
CRIME IN THE CAFE (Book #3)
VEXED ON A VISIT (Book #4)
KILLED WITH A KISS (Book #5)
TUSCAN VINEYARD COZY MYSTERY
AGED FOR MURDER (Book#1)
AGED FOR DEATH (Book#2)
AGED FOR MAYHEM (Book#3)
CHAPTER ONE
“Hey, Lacey!” came Gina’s voice from the back room of the antiques store. “Come here a minute.”
Lacey gently placed the antique brass candelabra she’d been polishing onto the counter. The soft thud it emitted caused Chester, her English Shepherd, to quirk his head up.
He’d been sleeping in his usual spot, stretched across the floorboards beside the counter, bathed in a beam of June sunshine. He tipped his dark brown eyes up to Lacey, and his tufty eyebrows twitched with evident curiosity.
“Gina needs me,” Lacey told him, his perceptive expression always making her feel as if he could understand every word she said. “You keep an eye on the store and bark if any customers come in. Got it?”
Chester whinnied his acknowledgment and sank his head back onto his paws.
Lacey headed through the archway that separated the main shop floor from the large, recently converted auction room. It was the shape of a train carriage—long and narrow—but the ceiling stretched high like that of a church.
Lacey loved this room. But then again, she loved everything about her store, from the retro furniture section she’d used her past knowledge as a New York City interior designer’s assistant to curate, to the vegetable garden out back. The store was her pride and joy, even if at times she felt it brought her more trouble than it was worth.
She entered through the arch, and a warm breeze came in through the open back door, bringing with it fragrant smells from the flower garden Gina had been cultivating. But the woman herself was nowhere to be seen.
Lacey scanned the auction room, then deduced Gina must have been calling to her from the garden, and headed in the direction of the open French doors. But as she went, she heard a shuffling noise coming from the left-hand corridor.
The corridor housed the more unsightly parts of her store—the cramped office filled with filing cabinets and steel safes; the kitchen area where her faithful kettle and variety of caffeinated beverages lived; the bathroom (or “loo” as everyone in Wilfordshire referred to it), and the boxy storage room.
“Gina?” Lacey called into the darkness. “Where are you?”
“Cooey!” came her friend’s voice, muffled as if she had her head in something. Knowing Gina, she probably did. “I’m in the storeroom!”
Lacey frowned. There was no reason for Gina to be in the storeroom. A condition of Lacey employing her was that she wouldn’t overexert herself with any heavy lifting. But then again, when did Gina ever listen to anything Lacey said?
With a sigh, Lacey went down the corridor and into the storeroom. She found Gina crouching in front of the shelving unit, her frazzled gray hair piled on top of her head in a bun fixed with a purple velvet scrunchie.
“What are you doing back here?” Lacey asked her friend.
Gina swiveled her head to look up at her. She’d recently invested in a pair of red-framed glasses, claiming they were “all the rage in Shoreditch” (though why a sixty-plus-year-old pensioner would take her fashion cues from the trendy youths of London was beyond Lacey) and they slid down her nose. She used an index finger to push them back into place, then pointed at an oblong cardboard box on the shelf in front of her.
“There’s an unopened box here,” Gina announced. Then, with a knowingly conspiratorial tone, she added, “And the postmark says it’s from Spain.”
Lacey immediately felt her cheeks warm. The parcel was from Xavier Santino, the handsome Spanish antiques collector who’d attended her nautical-themed auction the previous month, in an attempt to reunite his family’s collection of lost heirlooms. Along with Lacey, he’d ended up becoming a suspect in the murder of an American tourist. They’d become friendly during the ordeal, their bond cemented further by Xavier’s coincidental connection to her missing father.
“It’s just something Xavier sent me,” Lacey said, trying to brush it off. “You know he’s helping me piece together information about my father’s disappearance.”
Gina rose from her crouch, knees cricking, and peered at Lacey with a suspicious gaze. “I know very well what he’s supposed to be doing,” she said, her hands going to her hips. “What I don’t understand is why he’s sending you gifts. That’s the third this month.”
“Gifts?” Lacey retorted defensively, picking up on Gina’s insinuation. “An envelope filled with receipts from my father’s store during Xavier’s trip to New York hardly constitutes a gift in my eyes.”
Gina’s expression remained nonplussed. She tapped her foot. “What about the painting?”
In her mind’s eye, Lacey pictured the oil painting of a boat at sea that Xavier had mailed her just last week. She’d hung it above the fireplace in her living room at Crag Cottage.
“It’s the type of boat his great-great-grandfather captained,” she told Gina, defensively. “Xavier found it in a flea market and thought I might like it.” She gave a nonchalant shrug, trying to downplay it.
“Huh,” Gina grunted, her lips pressed into a straight line. “Saw this and thought of you. You know how that looks to an outsider…”
Lacey huffed. She’d reached the end of her patience. “Whatever you’re hinting at, why don’t you just come out and say it?”
“Fine,” her friend replied boldly. “I think there’s more to Xavier’s gift-giving than you’re willing to accept. I think he likes you.”
Though Lacey had guessed her friend was implying as much, she still felt affronted hearing it spoken so plainly.
“I’m perfectly happy with Tom,” she argued, her mind’s eye conjuring up an image of the gorgeous, broad-smiled baker she was lucky enough to call her lover. “Xavier’s only trying to help. He promised he would when I gave him his great-grandfather’s sextant. You’re just inventing drama where there is none.”
“If there was no drama,” Gina replied calmly, “then why are you hiding Xavier’s parcel on the bottom shelf of the storage cupboard?”
Lacey faltered momentarily. Gina’s accusations had taken her off guard and left her flustered. For a moment, she forgot the reason why she’d stowed the parcel away after signing for the delivery, instead of opening it right away. Then she remembered; the paperwork was delayed. Xavier had said she’d need to sign an accompanying certificate, so she’d decided to stow it away for the time being in case she accidentally violated any finickity British law she’d yet to learn. With the amount of time the police had ended up sniffing around her store, she couldn’t really be too careful!
“I’m not hiding it,” Lacey said. “I’m waiting for the certification to arrive.”
“You don’t know what’s inside?” Gina asked. “Xavier didn’t tell you what it was?”
Lacey shook her head.
“And you didn’t ask?” her friend prompted.
Again, Lacey shook her head.
She noticed then that the look of accusation in Gina’s eyes was starting to fade. Instead, it was being overtaken with curiosity.
“Do you think it could be something…” Gina lowered her voice. “…illegal?”
Despite being confident Xavier had not shipped her some banned item, Lacey was more than happy to divert the topic away from his gift, so she ran with it.
“Could be,” she said.
Gina’s eyes widened further. “What kind of things?” she asked, sounding like an awed child.
“Ivory, for one,” Lacey told her, recalling knowledge from her studies of items that were illegal to sell in the UK, antiques or otherwise. “Anything made from the fur of an endangered species. Upholstery made with fabric that’s not fire-retardant. Obviously weapons…”
All hints of suspicion now entirely vacated Gina’s expression; the “drama” over Xavier was forgotten in the blink of an eye with the far more exciting possibility of there being a weapon inside the box.
“A weapon?” Gina repeated, a little squeak in her voice. “Can’t we open it and see?”
She looked as excited as a child beside the tree on Christmas Eve.
Lacey hesitated. She’d been excited to look inside the parcel ever since it had arrived by special courier. It must have cost Xavier an arm and a leg to send it all the way from Spain, and the packaging was elaborate as well; the thick cardboard was as sturdy as wood, and the whole thing was fixed with industrial-sized staples and tied with zip ties. Whatever was inside was obviously very precious.
“Okay,” Lacey said, feeling rebellious. “What harm can a peek do?”
She tucked an unruly strand from her dark bangs behind her ear and fetched the box cutter. She used it to slice the zip ties and prize out the staples. Then she opened up the box and sifted through the Styrofoam packaging.
“It’s a case,” she said, tugging on the leather handle and heaving out a heavy wooden case. Styrofoam bits fluttered everywhere.
“Looks like a spy’s briefcase,” Gina said. “Oh, you don’t think your father was a spy, do you? Maybe a Russian one!”
Lacey rolled her eyes as she placed the heavy case onto the floor. “I may have entertained a lot of outlandish theories about what happened to my father over the years,” she said, clicking open the catches of the case one after the next. “But Russian spy has never been one of them.”
She pushed up the lid and looked into the case. She gasped at the sight of what it contained. A beautiful antique flintlock hunting rifle.
Gina started cough-choking. “You can’t have that thing in here! Goodness, you probably can’t have it in England, full stop! What on earth was Xavier thinking sending this to you?”
But Lacey wasn’t listening to her friend’s outburst. Her attention was fixated on the rifle. It was in excellent shape, despite the fact it had to be well over a hundred years old.
Carefully, Lacey removed it from the case, feeling the weight of it in her hands. There was something familiar about it. But she’d never held a rifle, much less fired one, and despite the odd sense of déjà vu that had rippled through her, she had no concrete memories to attach to it.
Gina started flapping her hands. “Lacey, put it back! Put it back! I’m sorry I made you take it out. I didn’t really think it would be a weapon.”
“Gina, calm down,” Lacey told her.
But her friend was on a roll. “You need a license! You might even be committing an offense having it in this country at all! Things are very different over here than they are in the USA!”
Gina’s squeaking reached a fever pitch but Lacey just left her to it. She’d learned there was no talking Gina down from her panicky outbursts. They always ran their course eventually. Either that, or Gina would tire herself out.
Besides, Lacey’s attention was too absorbed by the beautiful rifle to pay her any heed. She was mesmerized by the strange feeling of familiarity it had stirred within her.
She peered down the barrel. Felt the weight of it. The shape of it in her hands. Even the smell of it. There was just something wonderful about the rifle, like it was always meant to belong to her.
Just then, Lacey became aware of silence. Gina had finally stopped ranting. Lacey glanced up at her.
“Are you finished?” she asked, calmly.
Gina was still staring at the rifle like it was a circus tiger escaped from its cage, but she nodded slowly.
“Good,” Lacey said. “What I was trying to tell you is that I’ve not only done my homework on the UK’s laws on possession and use of firearms, but I actually have a certificate to legally trade antique ones.”
Gina paused, a small, perplexed frown appearing in the space between her brows. “You do?”
“Yes,” Lacey assured her. “Back when I was valuing the contents of Penrose Manor, the estate had a whole collection of shooting rifles. I had to apply for a license immediately in order to hold the auction. Percy Johnson helped me organize it all.”
Gina pursed her lips. She was wearing her surrogate mother expression. “Why didn’t I know about this?”
“Well, you didn’t work for me back then, did you? You were just the lady next door whose sheep kept trespassing on my property.” Lacey chuckled at the fond memory of her first morning waking up in Crag Cottage to find a herd of sheep munching her grass.
Gina didn’t return the smile. She seemed to be in a stubborn mood.
“Still,” she said, folding her arms, “you’ll need to get it registered with the police, won’t you? Have it logged on the firearms database.”
At the mention of the police, an image of Superintendent Karl Turner’s stern, emotionless face appeared in Lacey’s mind’s eye, followed quickly by the face of his stoic partner, Detective Inspector Beth Lewis. She’d had enough encounters with the two of them to last a lifetime.
“Actually, I don’t,” she told Gina. “It’s an antique and not in working order. That means it’s classified as an ornament. I told you, I already did my homework!”
But Gina wasn’t budging. She seemed determined to find fault in the matter.
“Not in working order?” she repeated. “How do you know that for sure? I thought you said the paperwork was delayed.”
Lacey hesitated. Gina had her there. She hadn’t seen the paperwork yet, so she couldn’t be one hundred percent certain the rifle wasn’t in working order. But there was no ammunition included in the case, for one thing, and Lacey was quite confident Xavier wouldn’t send her a loaded gun through the postal system!
“Gina,” she said in a firm but final voice, “I promise you I’ve got it all under control.”
The affirmation rolled easily off Lacey’s tongue. She did not know it at the time, but they were words she would soon come to regret ever having uttered.
Gina seemed to relent, though she didn’t look too happy about it. “Fine. If you say you’ve got it covered, then you’ve got it covered. But why would Xavier send you a bloody gun of all things?”
“Now that is a good question,” Lacey said, suddenly wondering the same thing herself.
She reached inside the parcel and found a folded piece of paper at the bottom. She took it out. Gina’s insinuation earlier that Xavier had more than just friendship on his mind made her instantly awkward. She cleared her throat as she unfolded the letter and read it aloud.
“Dear Lacey,
“As you know, I was in Oxford recently…”
She paused, feeling Gina’s gaze on her sharpen, as if her friend was silently judging her. Feeling her cheeks grow warm, Lacey maneuvered the letter so as to block Gina from view.
“As you know, I was in Oxford recently searching for my great-grandfather’s lost antiques. I saw this rifle, and it jogged my memory. Your father had a similar rifle for sale in his New York store. We talked about it. He told me he had recently been on a hunting trip in England. It was a funny story. He said he had not known, but it was the off-season during his trip, and so he could only legally hunt rabbits. I researched hunting seasons in England, and the off-season is during the summer. I do not recall him saying Wilfordshire by name, but remember you said that was where he holidayed in the summers? Perhaps there is a local hunting group? Perhaps they may have known him?
“Yours, Xavier.”
Lacey avoided Gina’s scrutinizing glare as she folded up the letter. The older woman didn’t even need to speak for Lacey to know what she was thinking—that Xavier could’ve told her about the memory in a text message, rather than going so overblown as to send her a rifle! But Lacey didn’t really care. She was more interested in the contents of the letter than any possible romantic notions underpinning Xavier’s actions.
So her father enjoyed hunting during his summers in England, did he? That was news to her! Beyond the fact she had no memories of him even owning a rifle, she couldn’t imagine her mother being okay with it. She was extremely squeamish. Easily offended. Was that why he’d traveled to a different country to do it? It could’ve been a secret he’d kept from her mother entirely, a guilty pleasure he only indulged in once a year. Or maybe he’d come over to England to shoot because of the company he kept over here…
Lacey recalled the beautiful woman in the antiques store, the one who’d helped Naomi after she broke the ornament, the one they’d met again in the streets, when a sunburst behind her head had obscured her features. The woman with the gentle English accent and the fragrant smell. Could she have been the one who’d introduced her father to the hobby? Was it a pastime they shared?
She grabbed her cell to message her younger sister, but only got as far as writing, “Did Dad own guns…” when she was interrupted by Chester yip-yip-yipping to get her attention. The bell over the front door must have tinkled.
She returned the rifle to its case, clipping shut the latches, and went to head back to the shop floor.
“You can’t leave that lying around!” Gina cried, switching from suspicion back to panic mode in an instant.
“Put it in the safe then, if it concerns you that much,” Lacey said over her shoulder.
“Me?” she heard Gina shrilly exclaim.
Though she was already halfway along the corridor, Lacey paused. She sighed.
“I’ll be with you in a minute!” she called out in the direction she’d been heading.
Then she turned, went back into the storeroom, and picked up the case.
As she carried it past Gina, the woman kept her cautious gaze locked on it and stepped back as if it might explode at any second. Lacey managed to wait until she’d fully passed before rolling her eyes at Gina’s overly dramatic reaction.
Lacey took the rifle to the large steel safe where her most precious and expensive items were safely locked away, and secured it inside. Then she headed back into the corridor, where a meek-looking Gina followed her to the shop floor. At least now that the gun was out of sight, she’d finally stopped squawking.
Back on the main shop floor, Lacey was expecting to see a customer perusing one of the store’s crammed shelves. Instead, she was greeted by the very unwelcome sight of Taryn, her nemesis from the boutique next door.
Taryn swirled on her spindly heels at the sound of Lacey’s footsteps. Her dark brown pixie cut was slicked with so much gel not even a single hair moved out of place. Despite the bright June sunshine, she was dressed in her signature LBD, and it showed off every sharp angle of her bony fashionista figure.
“Do you usually leave your customers unsupervised and without assistance for that long?” Taryn asked, haughtily.
From beside Lacey came the sound of a low grumble from Chester. The English Shepherd didn’t care for the snooty shopkeeper at all. Neither did Gina, who emitted her own grumble before busying herself with some paperwork.
“Good morning, Taryn,” Lacey said, forcing herself into a cordial disposition. “How can I help you on this beautiful day?”
Taryn flashed her narrowed eyes at Chester, then folded her arms and pinned her hawk-like gaze on Lacey.
“I already told you,” she snapped. “I’m a customer.”
“You?” Lacey retorted too quickly to hide her disbelief.
“Yes, actually,” Taryn replied dryly. “I need one of those Edison lamp thingies. You know the ones. Ugly things with big bulbs on bronze stands? You always have them displayed in your window.”
She started peering around her. With her thin nose held up to the air, she reminded Lacey of a bird.
Lacey couldn’t help but be suspicious. Taryn’s store was sleek and simplistic, with overhead spotlights that beamed clinically white light over everything. What did she want a rustic lamp for?
“Are you re-styling the boutique?” Lacey asked gingerly, coming out from behind the desk and gesturing for Taryn to follow her.
“I just want to inject a bit of character into the place,” the woman said as her heels clicked behind Lacey. “And as far as I can tell, those lamps are very in at the moment. I’m seeing them everywhere. At the hairdresser’s. In the coffeeshop. There were about a million of the things in Brooke’s tearoom…”
Lacey froze. Her heart began thumping.
Just the mention of her old friend’s name filled her with panic. It had barely been a month since her Australian friend had chased after her wielding a knife, trying to silence Lacey after she’d worked out she’d killed an American tourist. Lacey’s bruises had healed, but the mental scars were still fresh.
So that’s why Taryn was asking for an Edison lamp? Not because she wanted one, but so she had an excuse to bring up Brooke’s name and upset Lacey! She really was a nasty piece of work.
Losing all enthusiasm to help Taryn, even if she was a supposed customer, Lacey pointed limply over to “Steampunk Corner,” the section of the store where her collection of bronze lamps lived.
“Over there,” she muttered.
She watched Taryn’s expression turn sour as she scanned the array of aviator goggles and walking canes, and the full-sized aquanaut’s suit. To be fair to her, Lacey wasn’t that keen on the aesthetic either. But there was a whole bunch of individuals in Wilfordshire—the type with long black hair and velvet capes—who visited her store regularly, so she sourced the items specifically for them. The only problem was, the new section blocked her previously unspoiled view across the street to Tom’s patisserie, which meant Lacey could no longer dreamily gaze out at him whenever the mood struck her.
With Taryn occupied, Lacey took the opportunity now to glance across the street.
Tom’s store was as busy as ever. Busier, even, with the increased amount of tourists. Lacey could make out his six-foot-three figure darting around, working at hyperspeed to fulfill everyone’s orders. The light streaming in from the June sunshine made his skin look even more golden.
Just then, Lacey caught sight of Tom’s new assistant, Lucia. He’d employed the young woman just a few weeks ago so that he would have more free time to spend with Lacey. But ever since the girl had started working there, the patisserie had been busier than ever!
Lacey watched on as Lucia and Tom almost bumped into one another, then both took a step right, another left, attempting to avoid a collision but ending up in comical synchronization. The slapstick routine ended with Tom theatrically bowing, so Lucia could pass on his left. He flashed her one of his bright-kilowatt smiles as she did.
Lacey’s stomach clenched at the sight of them. She couldn’t help it. Jealousy. Suspicion. These were all new emotions for Lacey, ones she seemed to have only acquired since her divorce, as if her ex-husband had slipped them within the pages of their divorce documents in order to make sure her future relationships were as fraught as possible. They were ugly feelings, but she couldn’t control them. Lucia got to spend significantly more time with Tom than she did. And the time she spent with him was when he was at his best—energized, creative, and productive, rather than snoozily watching television on her couch. Everything felt unbalanced, as if they were sharing Tom and the ratios were massively skewed in the young woman’s favor.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” came Taryn’s voice in Lacey’s ear, like the devil on her shoulder.
Lacey bristled. Taryn was just stirring the pot as usual.
“Verrrrry pretty,” Taryn added. “It must drive you mad to know Tom’s over there all day with her.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Lacey snapped.
But Taryn’s appraisal was, to use a Gina idiom, “bang on.” That is to say, she was totally right. And that just made Lacey more frustrated.
Taryn smiled thinly. A malevolent sparkle appeared behind her eyes. “I keep meaning to ask. How is your Spanish man? Xavier, wasn’t it?”
Lacey bristled even more. “He’s not my Spanish man!”
But before they could enter into a spat, the doorbell tinkled noisily, and Chester began to yip.
Saved by the bell, Lacey thought, hurrying away from Taryn and her snakelike suggestions.
But when she saw who was waiting, she wondered if it was a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Carol, from the B&B, was standing in the middle of the shop floor with a look of abject horror on her face. She seemed panicked, and was panting as if she’d run all the way here.
Lacey felt her stomach lurch. A horrible sense of déjà vu overcame her. Something had happened. Something bad.
“Carol?” Gina said. “What’s the matter, ducky? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Carol’s bottom lip began to tremble. She opened her mouth as if attempting to speak, but then closed it again.
From behind, Lacey heard the clip-clip sound of Taryn’s heels as she hurried over, presumably wanting a ringside view of the unfolding drama.
The anticipation was killing Lacey. She couldn’t bear it. Dread seemed to be flooding through every fiber of her body.
“What is it, Carol?” Lacey demanded. “What’s happened?”
Carol shook her head vigorously. She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I have some terrible news…”
Lacey braced herself.
