
# Ghost of a Chance

Maggie Mulgrew Mysteries Book 1

Cate Dean

Copyright, 2016

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author's imagination alone.

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# Table of Contents

Copyright Page

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Excerpt from Written on the Wind

List of British Slang

Ghost of a Chance

About The Author

Further Reading: More Than A Feeling

# One

The second Maggie Mulgrew stepped out her front door, she knew it would be a wild hair day.

Wind blew off the English Channel, cold and crisp--and it played havoc with her already unmanageable red waves. Like everything else in her adopted village of Holmestead, she had learned to adapt to the almost constant wind by wearing her hair up when she ventured outside.

She had already tucked her hair in a messy bun, and resigned herself to having stray waves floating around her by the time she reached her shop in the high street.

"Good morning, England." She smiled as she looked up at the clouds racing across the achingly blue sky. "It's good to be here."

She slung her oversized leather bag over her shoulder and danced down the porch steps, eager to start the day.

Her hair versus the wind was a lesson learned early, during her very first visit here. She had been a lonely, awkward ten year old, facing her formidable Great Aunt Irene Mulgrew for the first time. It was mutual admiration at first sight, and for Maggie, that admiration had blossomed into a deep, real love.

When she received the letter from Aunt Irene's solicitor, informing her of Irene's passing, Maggie responded by locking herself in her apartment for a week, mourning the only woman who had given her the love of a mother, and the wisdom of a friend.

Once she had started to accept what she never expected to happen, she opened the rest of the letters in the packet--including Aunt Irene's will.

Her aunt had left everything to her.

Maggie took the sign for what it was--an escape from her controlling parents, freedom to live her own life. She had just celebrated her thirtieth birthday, and it was past time to walk away. They would never give up trying to change her.

So, less than a month after Aunt Irene gave her the world, Maggie arrived in the village of Holmestead, and started her new life.

She rounded the corner that led to the pedestrian high street, and took a deep breath. The air smelled like the sea, fresh scones, and the wildflowers that burst out of the pots in front of every shop.

It smelled like home.

Smiling, Maggie strode down the middle of the cobbled street, enjoying the sight of businesses getting ready for the day. Seagulls swooped overhead, their piercing cries another part of her morning.

Her gaze strayed to the castle, sitting at the top of the cliff. It could be seen everywhere in the village. The tall, ancient outer walls, and the square keep, were impressive guardians. Maggie had fallen in love with the castle during her first visit. Since her return, she had climbed the endless stairway leading up to it on a regular basis, to walk the grounds, and look out across the Channel.

On a clear day, she could see France. She loved that.

She stopped long enough to glance in the window of Only Old Books, the rare and used bookshop. Patrick Tucker sat behind his cluttered desk, the piles of books around him so high they looked like they would fall over with the slightest breath.

Someday, she'd get Mr. Tucker to smile at her.

Her own shop came into sight. The Ash Leaf carried an eclectic mix of antiques and modern goods, and it had done even better than her wildest hopes. Tourists loved the selection, all housed in the oddly shaped, angled rooms, with creaky maple floors and age blackened oak beams.

Maggie unlocked the front door, turned the sign to open, and flipped on the lights. They flickered for a few seconds before deciding to turn on.

"I really need Henry to check that out." Henry Manning was the village's handyman, good at just about any job. Maggie loved to sit and hear him talk, his brogue putting images of wild, rugged land and bagpipes in her head. "Spencer, are you here?"

She didn't expect an answer. Spencer Knight, her best friend and only employee, slept like the dead. More than once, she had to call him to wake him out of his stupor.

She had hoped that today he would be on time. The big estate auction started at one pm, and she wanted to be there early to see the items up close before the auction.

"I'll give him until eleven, then he's getting a wakeup call he won't forget."

The first customer walked in just as she stepped out of the back room with her first cup of coffee, and her morning madness began.

***

"Maggie!"

Maggie turned at the shout, her hand on the antique latch of the shop door.

She smiled when she spotted Spencer bounding down the street, his sun-streaked blonde hair flying around his face. He skidded to a halt next to her.

"Do you know how many times I let the phone ring before I gave up?"

He kissed her cheek, flashing the smile that almost always got him out of trouble. "Sorry. Late night."

She glanced at the watch pin on her jacket lapel. "It's nearly noon. You slept through all three alarms?"

He shrugged, his grin too charming. "I came in on the last train from London. You should have gone with me, Mags--the show was spectacular."

"Maybe next time." She pushed the door open, turning the sign back to open before she walked over to the waist high, mahogany counter that served as her purchase point in the shop.

The show Spencer gushed over was the latest art show of one of his friends. Modern art. Undecipherable modern art. Someday, Maggie wouldn't have a ready excuse for Spencer, and would have to smile her way through one of the shows.

She handed Spencer her key, because she knew he wouldn't have his. "Keep the shop from burning down. I'm already late for the auction."

He looked at the key, then at her, unsuccessfully hiding his panic. "You're not driving, are you?"

"It's at the Bingham Estate--no bus or train service." She patted his cheek. "Don't worry--I'll stay on the wrong side of the road."

"The correct side of the road, Yank." He winked at her. Spencer had been calling her Yank since they were ten, after they met during Maggie's first stay with Aunt Irene.

"Got it," she said. "Hopefully I'll need your help to unload my finds when I get back. Oh--the lights have been flickering all morning. I made a note to call Henry about it. If you get inspired, you can--ˮ

"I told you, Mags, it's the ghost." Spencer glanced around, then spoke again in a loud stage whisper. "She's been hanging around for ages."

"And I told you, I don't believe in ghosts. Call if you need me." She waved her mobile, then slipped it in her oversized bag as she headed for the door. "Thanks for taking over, Spence."

"Anything for you, slave driver."

She fought her smile. "Get to work unloading the box of silver jewelry I tucked under the counter. I want an eye-catching display when I get back, or you'll work the bank holiday instead of me."

She waited for his dramatic reaction. Spencer didn't disappoint.

He clutched his chest. "Not my bank holiday! However will I survive without my journey to the water which is my soul, my all?" He draped himself over the counter in a gesture so overblown, Maggie bit her lip to keep from laughing. It would only encourage him.

"I think you'll survive. Now drag yourself off the counter and get to work."

With a loud, drawn out sigh, he straightened. "Have a fab time, Mags. I love the jacket, by the way."

She tugged at the peplum hem of her bright blue jacket. "It's not too much?"

"Maybe for someone with less style. You look amazing, love."

She blushed, and silently cursed her fair skin. It showed every emotion--whether she wanted it to or not.

"I'll see you later, Spence. And thanks--for everything."

"Hey." He jumped over the counter with a grace she envied, and took her hands. "I love having you here, Maggie. I love working with you." He wrapped his arms around her, and she felt grounded again. She felt like she was finally home. "I love you, my ginger-haired beauty. You know that, don't you?"

"Always, Spencer."

They had bonded at first sight, two lonely ten year olds, and became inseparable every time Maggie visited her aunt. Spencer was the brother she'd desperately wished for, in a home that had been neat, scrupulously clean--and loveless. Aunt Irene had helped fill that longing, with her brusque, but caring ways. And Spencer--he had filled her lonely life with joy.

"Stop," she said. "Before you make me cry. Okay," she eased away from him, and blinked until the tears stopped stinging her eyes. "I'm off. Be good."

"Never."

She laughed, giving him one last wave before she opened the door, and stepped out to the bustling high street.

June was a busy time in Holmestead. The local council campaigned hard through the year to draw tourists in, using the Holmes reference in the village's name in not-so-subtle ways. There was no connection, but that didn't stop them.

Maggie shook her head as she walked past the one shop that catered to those who came in search of a secret Holmes destination. Holmesania was a catchy name--too bad it didn't live up to the promise. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been in a shop with so many tacky, tasteless souvenirs.

The shop's owner saw her through the window and waved for Maggie to wait. She did, wishing she'd parked in the alley behind her shop, and risk scraping her fenders in the narrow passage, instead of in the public lot at the top of the street.

Enid Phillips bustled out, her white bouffant looking like she had just stepped out of the local beauty salon.

"Maggie, my dear, can you give me a hand?"

"Of course, Enid." She followed the older woman into her loud shop. Enid called everyone dear, so Maggie had no illusions about a sudden turnabout with the woman, who ruled the local council with an iron fist. "What can I do for you?"

"I can't quite seem to reach that box. Will you be so kind..." She let the request trail off, like she always did.

It worked in her favor; she never actually asked for help, just--suggested it. Maggie never thought she'd meet a woman more passive-aggressive than her mother. Enid Phillips won, hands down.

"Of course." Maggie set her bag on the corner of the cluttered table, and hiked up her calf length skirt to climb the rickety ladder. "Where did you want it?"

"The front counter will be fine, dear." She hummed under her breath, and Maggie braced herself for the insult--or suggestion, as Enid called her comments. "Don't you think that jacket is a bit much with your hair? I believe one bright color is sufficient on a body, and your hair is quite--bright."

"Thank you, Enid. I'll take that into consideration." She grabbed the surprisingly heavy box and climbed down, setting the box on the front counter. "Is that all you need? I'm heading for the auction at the Bingham Estate, and I will just make it if I leave--"

"You're not driving, are you, dear?" Enid touched Maggie's arm. "I know how difficult it is for Americans to orient themselves to the proper way of driving. You seem to be finding it more difficult than most."

Maggie just managed not to sigh. "I'll be careful, Enid. Thank you for your concern."

She walked out before the woman could talk her into another favor--or add to her list of insults. Maggie knew it was something she'd have to deal with, since Enid's opinion of her could mean the difference between being accepted in Holmestead, and treated as a barely welcome stranger.

That would not be good for business, or make it comfortable to live here. And Maggie wanted to live here, more than she'd expected when Aunt Irene first opened the door for Maggie with her generous inheritance.

The younger residents greeted her as she walked quickly down middle of the pedestrian street. Lilliana Green, owner of The Tea Caddy, stepped out to call hello. Maggie smiled, but kept going. If she didn't start driving in the next few minutes, she'd be too late to register for the auction.

She finally reached her Land Rover, and slid behind the wheel, remembering to get in on the opposite side. The scarred Rover had come with the house, and held many fond memories for Maggie.

She found first gear, eased the hand brake off, and then took her time pulling out of the parking space. The sheer size of the Rover still intimidated her--never mind shifting with her left hand instead of her right. Thank heaven she already knew how to drive a stick. Mom had thoroughly disapproved of the robin's egg blue VW van, so naturally, Maggie bought it.

After a few close calls with the tourist buses all trying to leave at the same time, she made her way to the two lane road that led out of Holmestead, and straight to the Bingham Estate.

Excitement raced through her, and she pushed her foot down on the accelerator. There was no one else on the road, so she let herself speed through the green, rolling countryside.

She couldn't wait to see what treasures she might find.

# Two

Maggie loved auctions.

The buzz of excitement surrounding the attendees, the anticipation of discovery, finding that one perfect object--it was like an addiction. One she couldn't afford as much as she'd like.

But today she had been lured not only by the auction, but the chance to peek inside one of the most fabulous estates in Kent. She couldn't let that opportunity pass by, even if she ended up leaving empty-handed.

She wandered around the expansive lawn, where tables had been set up to display the items up for auction. The furniture was off limits right away; the price of one chair was more than her monthly buying budget for the shop.

"Maybe one of the tchotchkes," she muttered, caressing the curved arm of a Chippendale dining chair. "I could probably afford a few of those."

After a last, lingering touch of the silky mahogany, she sighed, and headed for the tables with decorative items. A familiar figure, hunched over the book table, had Maggie smiling.

She made a detour, and stopped far enough from the table to keep from startling Mr. Tucker. She'd made that mistake once, and nearly gave them both a heart attack.

"Hey, Mr. Tucker." He must have heard her, because he didn't jump.

"Miss Mulgrew." His rich brown eyes studied her from behind thick glasses. "Here to buy wares for your shop?"

She stared at him. Mr. Tucker had never said so much at once. "I--yeah." She recovered, and moved a little closer. "Did you find some antique books?"

"The former owner was renowned for his library. I managed to contact the auction house before the announcement, and the auctioneer, Tanner, has graciously held books for me." He waved his hand over the table. "This is what I did not request. I simply wanted to be certain..." He waved his hand again, like he had finally run out of words.

"That you didn't miss anything." He nodded, his wild, grey-streaked tonsure like a halo around his head. "I'm going to head over to the decorative items. Enjoy the auction."

She smiled, escaping while she had the chance. Mr. Tucker's long silences could trap a person in what they thought was a continuing conversation--only to find after a few minutes of awkward, one-sided talking, that he was done.

Before Maggie reached the first table, a knife with a jeweled hilt caught her eye. She picked the knife up, then slid it out of the scabbard, laying it on her index and middle finger to check the balance.

The blade was beautifully etched, and well balanced, the hilt small enough for her hand. She checked the blade for any warping, and the part of her that always wanted to buy every knife she came across that met her personal criteria itched to own this.

She sheathed the blade, running one finger over the scabbard before she set it back on the table. Then she put a check mark next to the listing in her catalog. It wouldn't hurt to make a play for it.

The box caught her attention the second she saw it.

It was long, and obviously built to hold a specific item, judging from the odd size. Maggie used a linen handkerchief she always carried to gently brush the bottom corner. Dirt came away, revealing what looked like a hand painted surface.

Excitement bubbled through her, but she kept her face neutral. To anyone who didn't know antiques, it would look like an old box, out of place among the expensive figurines. Maggie noted the lot number, and casually walked away, forcing herself not to look back at the table.

Too much interest would draw other buyers--and she wanted that box. A careful cleaning would turn what she suspected was underneath into a showpiece. One she could sell for a high price--or, if she really loved it, add to her small but growing collection.

She no longer felt guilty about selling her antiques for what they were worth, despite Enid's less than subtle complaining about her prices. Maggie gave value for the money, a story to go with the object, and a good memory of the buyer's trip to England.

Aunt Irene would have been proud of her.

Maggie's aunt had been a shrewd businesswoman, but she'd also cared deeply about the antique furniture she sold on consignment, so much so that Maggie remembered seeing her refuse to sell more than once when the potential buyer rubbed her wrong.

Aunt Irene had always trusted her intuition, and taught Maggie to do the same. Trusting that intuition led her back to the place she had loved as a child. A place she could call home.

Her great aunt's connections had also opened doors for her, making it easier than it should have been to apply for resident status. Six months after stepping off the plane, she was now a part of the everyday life in Holmestead.

She tucked a stray strand of hair that kept escaping her messy bun behind her ear. Thank heavens her great aunt had been an upstanding member of the village--and cursed with the same wild red hair. Maggie's hair, and her clear blue eyes, gave the villagers all they needed as physical proof that she was related to Irene Mulgrew.

That still didn't give her an in. She was a Yank, an outsider, and people like Enid Phillips never let her forget it.

She shrugged off her thoughts, determined to enjoy the day, and kept perusing the tables. There were a few more things she added to her list before she wandered inside for the auction.

The expansive foyer halted her. A marble checkerboard floor gleamed under her feet, reflecting the crystal chandelier over her head.

That chandelier has to be worth--

She stopped the calculation in her head. If she kept this up, she'd turn into Aunt Irene, who had put a price on everything--including the worth of the people around her.

"Just savor it," she whispered, moving forward to take a closer look at the mural that filled one long wall. It was exquisite; a detailed replication of the estate and the grounds, circa 1920. "This is incredible."

"I agree." The deep voice spun her. She knew she wasn't alone, but she hadn't felt him behind her. His smile calmed her nerves. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to startle you. I am Edward. Edward Carlisle."

He held out an elegant, manicured hand. Maggie took it, not surprised by the soft skin. He was obviously upper class; she knew the look, and the accent.

"Maggie." She extricated her hand when he held it longer than a simple handshake called for. "I should get inside."

"Of course." He took a watch out of the pocket of his tailored trousers, and pressed the decorative crown, opening the front of the watch. "It is time."

She tried not to stare at the watch. It was a Patek Philippe, and she had seen a similar one--in a museum. She managed to keep from drooling, and smiled up at him.

"It was nice meeting you, Edward. Good luck in the auction."

"Oh, I will hardly need luck. I intend to win the one thing I came to bid on."

He bowed to her and strode into the dining room, where the auction would take place. Maggie followed him, wanting to get a good seat. From the looks of the crowd wandering around outside, it was going to be packed.

She spotted a seat in the third row, and made her way to it. Once she was settled, she looked at the sheet listing the order of the items. Her box was third on the list. She stomped down her nerves, took a deep breath and waited for the auction to start.

# Three

Professor Pembroke Martin was furious--and he wasn't afraid to show it to the person who happened to be the cause.

"You did what?"

"I needed the money." Ken's whining did nothing to tamp Martin's anger. "It was just a jar, Professor--"

"It was just a jar I have spent the last three years searching for." His deadly quiet voice had Ken flinching. "Consider yourself booted out of my class, at the very least."

"Professor--"

"As for the rest of your school career, you will be answering to the Vice-Chancellor for that."

"Please--"

"At least she will give you a chance to be heard." Martin's anger faded, leaving him simply exhausted. "I need to be able to trust my students, Ken. I no longer trust you. Now, please get out of my sight."

He watched Ken slouch out of his office, taking the time to slam the door. The glass shook in its frame, but it held. Martin let out his breath, and ran one hand through his hair, beyond frustrated.

The boy had sold the apothecary jar, and it had found its way into an estate auction--an auction too far away for him to arrive in time to stop the jar from going under the hammer.

Perhaps he could call the auction house in charge of the estate.

Martin opened his mouth to shout for Ken, and cursed under his breath. He would need to find a new assistant. This time, that assistant would not be a student. As much as he wanted to help one of his own, he had been burned one time too many by students who put themselves first every moment.

He thought giving them responsibility would help with the self-involvement. Lord knew he could have used some at their age.

With a sigh, he reached for the phone on his desk. At least he had pried the name of the auction house from Ken, using hints of expulsion as extortion.

He did plan to go through with his threat to remove Ken from his class; he refused to have a student who had stolen from him anywhere near the artifacts he kept in his classroom for lectures.

Whether Ken would have the chance to stay in university was up to the Vice-Chancellor. Martin never wanted to see the boy again.

After a frustrating phone conversation, which led to another frustrating phone conversation, Martin hung up and leaned back in his chair, pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes. Every curse word he could think of ran through his mind, some of them in several languages.

The jar had already been entered into the auction, and it was too late, without visual proof, to remove it.

He stood, refusing to give up without a fight.

"You know where the auction is taking place," he muttered. "Follow the trail, old man."

Hope surged, along with the excitement of the hunt. Martin had been addicted to it since his first dig as a young boy.

His father had been to blame. The Earl sent his youngest son to Egypt in the hopes of breaking him out of his bookish ways. He accomplished it--but not in the way he had most likely anticipated.

Martin had fallen in love with the past. In university, his interest turned toward unusual artifacts. Growing up in a haunted castle, and sharing a bedroom with a ghost, had shaped his beliefs.

The objects he hunted for now always had a story, or a legend attached to them. He loved the idea that a person's spirit infused their belongings, sometimes clinging to those belongings even after death. The apothecary jar was just such an object, with a rich, enticing ghost story attached to it.

Martin had spent the better part of three years tracking it, in between other projects. His passion was one he pursued after his obligations as a teacher and mentor were met. Someday, it would be his only passion.

He may be the son of an Earl, but money was not overflowing from the family coffers.

Today was his last day of term, so he could head to the auction site. If the jar had been sold by the time he arrived, he would track the buyer down, and hopefully convince them to sell. It pained him to pay for the jar again--especially if he had to ask the university to buy it for him--but he wanted the jar back badly enough to do so.

He searched through his desk until he found his car keys, then stuffed his papers into the scarred leather satchel he carried everywhere with him. If he needed any other papers from his office, he could print them from his cloud account.

Right now, he had a jar to retrieve.

# Four

Maggie won the pretty jeweled knife, which no one seemed to want, and a huge lot of figurines that would easily sell in her shop. The next item up for bid was the box, and her heart pounded as the man displaying the auction items set the box on the table.

Tanner, the auctioneer, and owner of the auction house, started his spiel. "Up now is a wood box, being sold as you see it." He waved at the unsmiling man, who picked up the box again, showing it to the crowd. "Not much to say about this." He shuffled through the papers on the podium. "This came as a last minute addition to the auction, and according to my notes, it was not part of the estate. Let us start the bidding at ten pounds."

Maggie kept herself from shooting her paddle into the air. She waited, to see if anyone else showed an interest. After a few seconds of silence, and no movement, Tanner cleared his throat.

"No one willing to part with ten pounds?" Maggie lifted her paddle, casually, like she didn't care whether she won the box or not. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid everyone around her heard it. "And we have ten pounds from the lady in the third row. Do I have twelve? Twelve pounds for a soundly constructed box?"

Maggie kept facing forward, no matter how much she wanted to scan the crowd for any sign that someone else might bid. An endless minute later, Tanner spoke again.

"And we have a final bid for ten pounds, going once, going twice--sold for ten pounds to number 238. You may settle at the table just outside the door."

Maggie nodded, and clutched the edge of the chair to keep from jumping up and down. Ten pounds! Even if there wasn't a beautiful, decorative box under all that dirt, she could still sell it for twice what she paid. Worst case, she could use it at the shop for display, or storage.

Once she composed herself, she started to stand--and sank back to the chair when she saw the next item up for bid.

Her heart nearly lodged in her throat when she recognized the distinctive brown and cream of the jar. It was larger than the two she had seen in a private collection, and if anyone else here knew what it was, she would be out of the race before she even stepped up.

Tanner spoke, and she could tell by his reverent tone that he knew exactly what the man set on the display table with such care. "Up next is another late addition to the auction, which is why you will not find it in your catalogs. A Sayer & Brown apothecary jar--and I must tell you, ladies and gentlemen, this is the finest example of their extremely rare large jar I have ever been privileged to see. We will start the bidding at two thousand pounds."

Gasps filled the room. A familiar, cultured voice rose over the din. "Five thousand pounds."

Maggie turned around, and saw Edward, his gaze on the jar as he raised his paddle. Gone was the cool and confident aristocrat. He stared at the jar with an intensity that startled her.

"Five thousand pounds," Tanner said. "Do I have six?"

"Six thousand." A second man joined in. Maggie recognized him; it was Giles Trelawney, the antiquities curator at the museum in Holmestead.

How did he know this was going to be here? The seller must have contacted the museum--probably to try and start a bidding war. It only took two determined parties to send the price rocketing up.

"We have a bid of six thousand. Do I have seven?"

"Seven thousand." Edward didn't look as confident.

Giles didn't even wait for Tanner. "Eight thousand."

"Eight thousand," Tanner said, raising his eyebrow at Giles. "Do I have nine thou--ˮ

"Twenty thousand pounds." Edward was on his feet, clearly irritated.

Tanner looked calm, but Maggie could see his hand gripping the edge of the podium. "Twenty thousand pounds from Sir Edward Carlisle. Do I have--ˮ

"Twenty-one thousand," Giles said, staring at Edward.

"I have twenty-one--ˮ

"Twenty-five thousand." A new bidder joined in.

Maggie almost fell out of her chair when she turned around. The newest bidder was Angus Fitch, a local historian, and one of the most unpleasant men Maggie had met since moving to Holmestead.

The one time he came into her shop, he practically sneered at what she had for sale, then asked where the real antiques were. If Spencer hadn't been there to step between them--Maggie still didn't know what she would have done.

Punched him was the most likely response.

Now Tanner did look strained. He cleared his throat. "I have a bid of twenty-five thousand, and before anyone else shouts out another number, as if we are at a cattle sale, I will warn you, gentlemen--one more interruption, and the jar will be removed from the auction." He waited until each man nodded before he continued. "Very good. Now, I have a standing bid of twenty-five thousand pounds. Do I have twenty-six?"

Everyone in the room looked at Edward. His nostrils flared, but he sat, crossing his arms.

"Twenty-six," Giles said, flashing a smile at Edward. To his credit, Edward didn't take the bait.

"I have twenty-six thousand pounds bid for this Sayer & Brown apothecary jar." Tanner was obviously making them wait before the next chance to bid. He cleared his throat, took a sip of water, and straightened the lapel on his black jacket, just in case they didn't get the message. "Do I have twenty-seven?"

"Forty thousand pounds." Angus Fitch glared at Giles after bidding.

The curator turned an interesting shade of red, then sat, shaking his head.

"I have forty thousand pounds," Tanner said. "Do I have another bid?" He looked at Edward and Giles. Both men shook their heads. "All right--forty thousand pounds going once, forty thousand pounds going twice, and--sold for forty thousand pounds!"

Applause erupted in the room, bouncing off the glossy, wood-lined walls of the dining room. Tanner leaned against the podium and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Sir, you may settle up with the young lady at the table just outside the door. As soon as possible, if you please. Now, if we are all recovered," laughter floated around Maggie. "Shall we have the next item up for bid?"

***

Maggie stayed until the end, and spent her allotted budget, plus a little more. But she acquired quite a haul for the shop, and most of it would sell for a nice profit.

She made her way out of the dining room, and joined the queue at the table to pay for her items. Edward walked past, and she waved at him. To her surprise, he detoured, heading over to her.

"I'm sorry about the jar," she said.

"No harm done, my dear." He smiled at her. "It was a spirited bout, wasn't it? I did not expect to have competition for the jar, as it was such a late addition. I only knew because the young lady at the payment table is an acquaintance." He winked at Maggie.

"I love Sayer & Brown wares, but I don't think I'll ever be able to afford one."

Edward studied her. "You know your jars. I saw what else you bid on, Maggie. You have a keen eye for quality."

"Thank you." And there was the hated blush. Every time someone complimented her, she turned red. "I think it was inherited, from my great aunt. Plus, it comes in handy when I buy stock for my antique shop."

He looked at her hair, then met her gaze. "What is your surname, Maggie?"

"Mulgrew."

"Not Irene Mulgrew?"

Maggie nodded. "She was my aunt. I inherited her house, and her consignment shop, when she passed. It's an antique shop now, though I do take furniture on consignment." She pulled out one of her business cards, always ready to pass them out. "Here."

Edward stuck the card in his shirt pocket, then took her hand. "I was saddened to hear about her sudden death. She was fierce, but when she cared, it was with the heart of a lioness."

Maggie blinked, tears stinging her eyes. "I miss her. My happiest childhood memories were with her, in her drafty house."

He squeezed her hand before he let go. "You are aware that drafty house is haunted?"

"Like the shop?" The change of subject helped her stomp down the grief. "I don't believe in ghosts, Edward."

His smile had her blushing again. He was a fine looking man, even if he was too old for her. "Give it time, Miss Mulgrew. I guarantee you will become a believer."

She seriously doubted it, but she smiled at his comment. "Looks like I'm next. It was nice meeting you, Edward."

"The pleasure," he bent over her hand and kissed her knuckles, "was entirely mine. Perhaps I will visit this antique shop of yours. What you bid on today tells me I will be pleasantly surprised by your inventory."

"Thank you--I think."

With a smile that made her heart jump, he freed her hand. "It was a compliment, I assure you. I am quite picky, and if I did not expect to find an item or two that appealed to me, I would not have given your shop more than a passing thought."

Maggie knew there was an insult in that flowery sentence. She decided to ignore it, since she wouldn't see Edward again. "Have a safe trip home."

With a final nod, he strode through the foyer and out the front door. Maggie watched him leave, aware that she was staring after a throat cleared behind her.

"Sorry." She stepped up to the table, pulling her wallet out of her bag. "Number 238, please."

"Your total is eight hundred seventy-five pounds. How will you be paying today?"

"Cash."

Maggie had learned the hard way about setting budgets and sticking to them. One enthusiastic auction bid had cost her more than she could afford at the time, and she ended up maxing out her credit card to pay for her purchases. She had vowed right then never to put herself in that position again.

When she walked outside, she saw Edward with Angus Fitch. Edward didn't look angry, so he was probably congratulating the historian. She waved when he glanced over at her, and headed for the Rover.

It had been a long day, and she was ready to go home.

# Five

Martin swerved into the temporary parking lot--and nearly collided with a Land Rover trying to exit on the wrong side.

He caught a glimpse of red hair and wide blue eyes before she shot past him. He could have sworn she mouthed an apology. She was forgotten the moment he stepped out of his car and sprinted to the open double doors of the estate.

A pretty woman stood next to a table at one side of the foyer.

"Excuse me." Martin strode over to her, and hoped his hair was not sticking out in all directions. The way she smiled at him told him that he was at least presentable. "I am here for the auction."

Her smile faded. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. The auction ended at half past. Would you like to speak with the auctioneer, Mr. Tanner?"

"Yes, thank you." He swallowed the bitter taste of disappointment, silently promising to make the rest of Ken's time at university miserable--if he managed to stay.

Martin followed her into what looked like an immense dining room, toward a tall, thin man bent over a table facing the rows of chairs.

"Mr. Tanner." The man looked up. "This gentleman wishes to speak with you."

"Thank you, Hilde." He straightened, and held out his hand. "Tanner, of Tanner Auctions and Estate Sales." He frowned. "Do I know you?"

"Professor Pembroke Martin."

"Ah." His brow cleared. "The archaeologist. I thoroughly enjoyed your latest documentary, Professor. What can I do for you?"

"I am sorry to be the one to bear bad news, Tanner, but you sold an item that was stolen from me."

Tanner's face paled. "Which item, Professor?" He looked as if he already knew the answer.

"A Sayer & Brown apothecary jar."

Tanner gripped the table. "Do you have proof of ownership?"

"Will a bill of sale be enough?" Martin pulled it out of his jacket and unfolded the yellowed paper, handing it to Tanner. "My assistant stole the jar from my office, along with the provenance. I hardly blame you for accepting it--he did have all the necessary paperwork."

Attention to detail was one of the qualities that made Ken an invaluable assistant. Martin sighed.

Had made--the fool couldn't simply tell me he had money trouble--

He knew why; it was the stigma that had followed him his entire life. Nobility equaled money. As far as Ken was concerned, Martin couldn't understand his situation. Unfortunately, he understood all too well.

"Sir." Tanner's voice brought him back to the present, and what he did not want to face.

"Professor, please. Or Martin." He ran one hand through his hair. "Would it be possible to have a list of the buyers?"

"I cannot. It is against policy to divulge a private citizen's information. But," he rummaged through the sheaf of papers in front of him. "There was a business--an antique shop. I can give you the address of a business, which is public. It would be up to you to broach what you needed to discuss with the owner."

"I would appreciate that, Tanner." Relief spread through Martin, and he took the slip of paper. "The Ash Leaf, Holmestead." He looked at Tanner. "Where is Holmestead?"

Tanner smiled. "It's a pretty village on the coast, just south of here. If you follow the road, you will drive straight into it."

"Thank you again. You have no idea how much this means to me."

Tanner shook his outstretched hand. "I saw the apothecary jar, Professor. I have a good idea."

"Right."

He left as quickly as he could, without seeming rude, and sprinted to his car. He took long enough to pull out his mobile and punch Holmestead into his GPS.

It looked to be about a fifteen minute drive from here. He dropped the mobile into a holder on the dash, shifted into reverse, and swung around, heading for the road that would take him to The Ash Leaf, and hopefully, the answers he needed.

Please let Holmestead not be related to the detective.

# Six

Maggie let Spencer go after he helped her unload the Rover, holding him long enough to pull it around back. She wasn't going to deal with the public lot again. Not on tourist Tuesday, when every bus tour in the Southeast converged on villages like Holmestead.

Once Spencer was gone, she retrieved the paper handle bag holding her box, and dragged her smallest work table out of the back, setting it up next to the counter. This way, she could watch for customers, and work on the box at the same time.

There was no way she could wait until the shop closed.

She gently removed the box from the paper bag, and set it on a cotton cloth draped over the table. The weight surprised her every time she lifted it. Whatever it had been made to hold must have been heavy--or precious.

She carefully brushed her fingers over the dirt on the top edge of the lid. It crumbled, instead of sticking to her fingers which told her it had been stored in a dry place. Hopefully, the dirt crusting the box had preserved the decoration underneath.

After shaking out her hands, she picked up the small, soft brush, gently, slowly brushing away the dislodged dirt. All it revealed was time-darkened wood.

"Slow and steady, Maggie. That will get the job done."

A chill wrapped around her, and she shivered. She made a mental note to check the thermostat, and headed to the back room, where she grabbed a bottle of water out of the small fridge.

Back in the main part of the shop, she pulled a short stool up to the table, and got to work.

Twenty minutes later, she was close to revealing what was under the dirt on the end piece. She took a deep breath, then brushed away the final layer of dirt along the bottom edge. When she saw what she had uncovered, she almost dropped the brush.

"That's enamel inlay," she whispered. "And the wood. It looks like--"

"Rosewood." The deep male voice froze her hand. Maggie stood--and did drop the brush, forgetting what she was going to say. She had been watching the man who stood in the doorway on BBC last night. Good heavens--renowned archaeologist Pembroke Martin was standing in her shop. "The box is rosewood. And it belongs to me."

His last words snapped her out of the shock at seeing him here, in the flesh. "I'm sorry, Professor Martin, but I just bought this box at auction, which means it belongs to me."

"A Yank," he muttered. "It figures."

"Excuse me?"

He blinked at her, his grey blue eyes clear and intense behind his wire rimmed glasses. Maggie would never admit to him that she had rewound one section of the documentary several times, to watch a close up of him while he talked about--something.

Too bad he wasn't the same charming man in person.

He cleared his throat. "Did I say that out loud?"

His response surprised her so much she laughed. "Yes, you did."

"Sorry." He ran one hand through his wavy, dark brown hair, making it even more disheveled than it already was. "About the Yank comment, and saying it out loud. We nearly met in the lot next to the estate, and I figured it was a foolish Yank." Maggie covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. He had been in the little sports car she'd almost run over, forgetting to orient herself again before she headed toward the road. "Not that you are foolish--" Maggie lowered her hand, smiling at his horrified glance. "Lord, I am going to quit while I'm still only at my ankle."

"Smart move." She decided that he wasn't such a beast after all. "Why don't you come all the way inside, and tell me why this box is yours."

"Thank you."

"Maggie." She held out her hand as he approached. "Maggie Mulgrew."

He stopped in front of her, and flashed a smile that left her a little breathless. "Are you related to Irene Mulgrew?"

"She was my great aunt." Maggie composed herself, and put a little space between them, using the need to take a drink of water as an excuse. "So, if the box belongs to you, how did it end up in an estate auction?"

"My former assistant stole it, along with the jar it contained."

Maggie choked on her water. "Jar?" she whispered.

"It held a rare Sayer & Brown apothecary jar. Ken most likely separated them, hoping to get more money for the sale."

"He would have been disappointed with the profits from the box. I bought it for ten pounds."

Professor Martin sighed, running his hand through his hair again. He looked so young when he did that--like a college student who had been outside all day--

Stop it.

"That doesn't surprise me. I was not able to clean the box before Ken stole them both out from under me." He lowered a well-used leather satchel to the floor, crossed his arms and studied her, like she was one of his artifacts. Maggie straightened her shoulders, aware that her wild waves were wilder than usual, even constrained in her usual bun. Barely constrained. "You knew, when you saw the box. You saw its potential."

"That's what I do. Look for the potential, bring it out, and sell it for a profit."

Professor Martin laughed. "I think I like you, Miss Mulgrew."

"I have the feeling you didn't come here to talk about the box."

He ran one hand through his hair, and pushed his glasses up. He was obviously stalling while he decided what to say next. "Tanner gave me your address, and I was hoping you had seen who purchased the jar."

"I did--and I'll tell you, on one condition."

He frowned, and Maggie wanted to smile. "What would that be?"

"I go with you."

"Oh." He must have expected some mild form of extortion, because he looked relieved. "That will be fine. Since I am unfamiliar with the area, perhaps you can lead the way."

"Sure." She glanced at the wall clock, surprised to see how late it was. Long past closing time. She had been too caught up in cleaning the box to notice. After she pulled her keys out of the drawer under the counter. "You can leave your satchel here, if you like."

He stopped, half bent over. "Thank you. It tends to weigh more than it should, since I am always forgetting to clean out old papers."

Maggie would love to be there when he did clean it out--

Stop. You just met him--he's here for his jar, then he's leaving.

She headed across the shop. "This way, Professor."

"Please, call me Martin." He followed her to the front door.

"You don't use your first name?"

"Not if I can help it."

Laughter burst out of her before she could stop it. She clapped one hand over her mouth and glanced over at him, hoping she hadn't insulted him. "Sorry."

He shook his head, amusement in his grey blue eyes. "I'm not offended, Miss Mulgrew. I got over that years ago."

"Maggie."

He bowed his head. "Maggie. It suits you, with your sparkling eyes, and your exuberant ginger hair."

"No one has ever called my hair exuberant before." Was it a compliment? She couldn't tell--his face was neutral now, the amusement in his eyes gone. "We can walk from here. Unless you want me to drive."

"No--ˮ He cleared his throat. "Walking will be perfectly fine. It's a beautiful night for a walk."

Maggie was teasing him. For some reason, his gracious avoidance of her terrible driving didn't bother her as much as it should have. She turned the sign to closed and opened the door.

"After you."

"Please, ladies first. It has been ingrained in my very DNA."

She laughed again, and walked outside, waiting next to the door so she could lock it after them.

Maggie had always loved this part of the day--after the shops had closed, and the locals who were eating out had already settled in their chosen restaurant or pub. The pedestrian high street became deserted, seagulls and tired tourists her only company when she strolled down to the green, then to the boardwalk lining the beach.

It felt comfortable walking in the evening hush with him. Too comfortable.

She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket, and filled the silence. "Is this your first time to Holmestead?"

"I'd heard of it, but visited it for the first time today." He looked around as they walked down the center of the cobbled street. "It is more charming than I expected. I was afraid it might be--"

"More Holmesian?" She smiled up at him, surprised by how tall he was. She barely came to his shoulder. "We have one." She pointed at Enid's shop, and watched his eyes widen. "It's more than enough, trust me. The name of the village actually comes from an owner of the estate to the west of us. That doesn't stop Sherlock fans from showing up, expecting a mecca of Holmes everything."

"And do you take advantage of the influx?"

"As much as I can." She smiled up at him. "I have a Victorian section in the shop, catering to the purists, and a section of more modern, eclectic wares, for the recent fans. It gives me an excuse to head to London every month, so I can replenish my stock, take in a play or two."

"How long have you been here, Maggie?"

"Six months tomorrow. This is my home now. I have plans to expand the shop into the next building, maybe do a trash to treasure section." At his puzzled glance, she explained. "I love finding furniture pieces at boot sales and completely overhauling them."

"Ambitious."

"It was an escape when I was younger, and turned into a passion. I learned most of my techniques from Aunt Irene. She encouraged me, taught me what to look for--and I'm rambling."

"I enjoy your rambling, Maggie. How much farther?"

She pointed to a cross street ahead. "Left up there, then a right at the end of the lane. Angus Fitch likes his privacy."

Professor Martin halted. "Not the historian."

"Yes--do you know him?"

"We were--colleagues." He did not look happy. "Reacquiring my jar may not be as simple as I had hoped."

"I think Angus bought it out of spite. His rival was bidding on it."

Professor Martin looked afraid to ask, but he did. "The name of this rival?"

"Giles Trelawney." Professor Martin closed his eyes. "He's a curator at the local museum--and you know him, too, don't you?"

"We worked together. Archaeology is a small community, Maggie. And memories are long." He let out a sigh. "Giles and I had a disagreement more than three years ago. He hasn't spoken to me since."

"Whoa. Three years? I can't remember the last time I held a grudge more than a few days."

"Good to know." He smiled down at her, and she had the urge to take his hand. She felt so comfortable with this good looking, rumpled man. She had been expecting ego--a load of ego. Instead, he turned out to be funny, and a little self-deprecating. A dangerous combination for her. "Would you mind if I had a go at the box when we're done here? My assistant snatched it out from under me before I could even take a brush to it."

"Sure. I'd love to--um, see what's under the dirt. Can I ask a question?"

"I will do my best to answer."

"Why this jar? There are other Sayer & Brown apothecary jars. According to your last documentary, you've been searching for this one for years."

"This jar has a ghost story attached to it."

Maggie used a good part of her control not to roll her eyes. "I don't believe in ghosts."

Professor Martin smiled down at her, and she tripped. He caught her elbow, his grip strong, and held on until she found her footing. "All right?"

"Yeah. Uneven cobbles. I'm always tripping over them, because I don't look at my feet. An old dancer's habit," she said, when he raised an eyebrow. "I danced ballet and jazz in high school. I still take a dance class here and there, and I kept up with daily stretching--and I'm rambling again."

"I find it quite soothing." She wasn't sure if he was joking or not. "As for not believing in ghosts--you are missing out on the most intriguing aspect of history."

"I'm game. Tell me about the ghost story."

"How about later, while we work on the box?"

"I'd like that."

Who was she kidding? She'd love it.

Very few people in Holmestead had her passion for history, with the exception of Spencer. His passion nearly outstripped hers. She'd have to introduce them. Spencer would get a kick out of--

Maggie jerked to a halt after they turned into the short lane. A figure stood in the open doorway of Angus' cottage. It was too dark inside to see who it was, but she knew it wasn't Angus. The figure was too tall.

She must have made a sound, because the figure disappeared inside. Professor Martin took off after them, leaving Maggie to try and keep up with his long strides. By the time she got to the cottage, Martin was disappearing around the back.

Maggie moved to the open front door--and a figure bolted out, running into her. Strong hands set her on her feet.

"You should'na be here, Miss Maggie."

"Henry? What are you doing here? Is Angus..." Her voice faded when she saw the blood on his hand. She looked at the sleeves of her jacket, where he'd grabbed her. Two bloody hand prints stained the bright blue. She looked up at Henry. "What did you do?"

He shook his head, panic in his clear green eyes. Maggie had liked the Scot since she met him, with his big, strong hands, and his ability to fix almost anything.

"Nothin', Miss Maggie. I swear to ye, Mister Angus was already dead and gone when I found him. You have to believe me, Miss."

"Tell me what happened." She kept her voice calm, and Henry started to relax.

"I was to repair the outside light here. Mister Angus said it was broken out last night when he came home from his office. I was runnin' late, from another job, and when I got here, the door was open, and--I tell ye true, Miss Maggie, he was dead when I found him!"

"It's all right, Henry." She started to take his hand, and thought better of it. Drew Cooperman, the Police Constable in charge of the night shift, would want to see the evidence. "Did anyone else see you arrive?"

"I--no, Miss." He backed away from her. "I canna be stayin'."

"Henry--no--ˮ He sprinted away from her, too fast for her to catch him.

Martin came around the side of the house. He must have spotted Henry, because he took off after him.

Maggie opened her mouth to call him back, but he disappeared around the corner.

She took a shaky breath, and headed inside. Angus might just be hurt, and if so, he'd need help. The dark cottage left her unsettled. Angus hated the dark. It was common knowledge, and Enid brought it up whenever she could, in her "pretending to care but really putting you down" tone.

Maggie slid along the wall until she found the switch, and flipped it on. After a heart-pounding hesitation, the lights flickered on. Her first glimpse made her gasp. The small entry looked like the victim of a fight. Every one of Angus' pottery jars had been smashed, the colorful shards spread across the floor. Some of them had been crushed to powder.

Maggie stayed close to the wall, trying not to step on any of the shards, moving as quickly as she could to get to the study she had seen once. Martin caught up with her and blocked the door to the study.

"Maggie." His face was white. "I want you to go outside."

"How do you know--"

"I saw the study light on, and glanced through the window. We can't do anything for him now, except call the local police."

"I want to see him, Martin."

He blinked, and she realized he had taken his glasses off. Without them, he looked--vulnerable. After a long second, he nodded, and stepped aside.

Angus was curled up in the middle of his study. Like the entry, it had been trashed--furniture turned over, a couple of the pictures hanging almost sideways.

She carefully made her way to Angus. Despite what Martin said, he might still be alive--

One look at his face told her otherwise. But she crouched next to him, and pressed two fingers to his throat. His skin was still warm, but no pulse beat under her finger, and his chest was still.

Crouched next to him, she saw why he was curled up. The apothecary jar was cradled in one arm, miraculously unbroken. His hand gripped the neck of the jar.

Blood stained the ugly floral carpet, and she saw the source. The back of his head was soaked with blood, one of his prized Egyptian replicas on the floor next to him, the head of Ra covered in blood.

A small marble box and a couple of books were on the carpet next to his outstretched arm. They must have tumbled off the overturned side table.

There was also something clutched in his hand. Maggie leaned down to see what--and Martin jerked her to her feet, right before the screech of tires braking on gravel.

"We need to go."

"Martin--"

He started to drag her out of the lounge, and toward the back of the cottage.

"Police! Halt right there, and turn around."

Martin's shoulders slumped, and he turned, one hand covering his eyes when the flashlight jumped up to his face. Maggie waved her hand, recognizing the short, stocky figure.

"Hi, Drew."

"Maggie?" Drew Cooperman lowered the flashlight and stepped into the cottage. "Someone rang through, said there was a robbery in progress. What are you doing here?"

"I--we--came to talk to Angus. He bought a rare jar at the auction today, and Professor Martin--well, it's kind of a long story." She swallowed. "Angus is in the lounge, Drew. He's dead."

Drew changed in an instant from friend to cop. "Stay here. Touch nothing."

He strode into the lounge, leaving Maggie and Martin alone. She took the opportunity to touch his wrist.

"Are you okay?"

He swallowed. "I am used to the long-dead, not a body of someone I once worked with. Forgive me," he rubbed his forehead, and slipped his glasses on. "I left you to deal with it, and I am sorry."

"I found a friend, when I was in high school." The memory still tugged at her, even after all these years. "She took a bunch of her mom's sleeping pills, to avoid going to court for shoplifting. I started taking CPR and first aid classes after that. I felt so helpless. I never wanted to feel like that again."

Like she did now. It was hard to resuscitate someone who was already dead.

Poor Angus.

She shuddered, trying to push the image of him out of her head.

To her surprise, Martin wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "That must have been horrible. I could not even begin to imagine walking in on a friend as a teenager."

She leaned into him, just for a minute. It felt good to lean on someone else, someone who understood the need for support. Her parents had never--

Don't go there.

They were quiet, until Drew came back. Martin dropped his arm, and Maggie missed the warmth of his touch.

"He hasn't been dead long," Drew said.

She let out her breath. "We saw someone, as we were walking up to the cottage. They ran away when they spotted us." She decided not to mention Henry, for now. When Martin glanced over at her, she shook her head.

Drew's eyebrows twitched. "Any idea who?"

"Sorry," Martin said. "I went after him, but he managed to hurl himself over the back fence before I could get to him."

"And you are?"

"Professor Martin."

He held out his hand. Drew ignored it and studied him.

"You came to talk to Angus. Why?"

"He purchased a rare jar at auction today. A jar that had been stolen from me. I wanted to buy it from him, if possible."

"If it was stolen, you could have put a claim in."

Martin shook his head. "Angus spent good money on the jar, unaware that it was a stolen item. The university would put up the money for its return, if I could not afford to buy it on my own."

Maggie frowned. "But then they'd own it."

"Yes," Martin said. "But I would have been able to study it, and follow what leads I had about the story surrounding it. Now, I have nothing."

"Not quite." Drew pointed at the study. "Angus is curled around some brown and beige jar. Has a death grip on it, to be specific. The coroner will have to free it from his hand."

"I saw it," Maggie said. "I went in to see if I could help..." Her voice faded, and she cleared her throat. "Why didn't whoever did this take the jar? It's obviously what they were after."

"My guess--you interrupted before they could. I need you both to stay until the scene is secured. For questions."

"Sure." Maggie glanced up at Martin. He nodded, clearly distracted by the news of the jar. "Where do you want us?"

"The kitchen will do. It's out of the way. Excuse me, I need to call this in."

He turned away, talking into the small radio in his hand.

The reality of what she'd found finally sank in.

"I think--I need to sit down," she whispered.

Martin wrapped his arm around her waist and led her to the small kitchen, easing her into the closest chair. Maggie distracted herself from her need to throw up by studying her surroundings. It always worked when her nerves kicked in during one of Mom's lectures.

Unlike the rest of the cottage, the kitchen was untouched, and as neat as Angus. It had no feminine touch, but he had clearly enjoyed cooking; high-end appliances filled the space, including a beautiful, creamy yellow Aga range that she immediately coveted.

Maggie took off her bloodstained jacket, hoping Drew hadn't spotted the handprints. Martin rummaged in the narrow fridge, and handed her a bottle of water. "I don't think he'll mind."

"Thanks." She opened the bottle, and took a sip. It helped settle her stomach, but she would never be able to erase the image of Angus, curled up on the floor like he was trying to protect himself from his attacker.

Or protecting the jar.

That would be so like Angus--protect the precious object before himself.

Martin paced, running one hand through his already wild hair. "What could be taking so long?"

"It's a crime scene, Professor." He seemed so distant, so cold, Maggie didn't feel comfortable using his name anymore. Something about him changed the second he heard about the jar. She wasn't sure she wanted to know this Martin. "Don't you watch any crime shows? It could take most of the night."

He halted, shock on his face. "Are you joking?"

"Sorry. No jokes here today."

"I have no time for television." His tone stung.

"Right--of course you don't." She stared down at the table, picking at the label on the water bottle.

"Maggie--I am sorry." He sat in the chair on the opposite side of the table, and took his glasses off. "I don't do well when I am not in control."

"A control freak? I get that--I grew up with two of them. They could teach classes in control."

The distance in his eyes faded, replaced by amusement. "Parents?"

"Oh, yes. I do enjoy having control over my own life now. Though it took a week of screaming arguments and moving across an ocean to get it. I love my parents, but they don't understand me."

When she didn't want to be a doctor like her father, or a lawyer like her mother, and fought loudly against being forced into either role, they gave up on controlling her career path--and just tried to control her life.

"I can sympathize." He sighed, spreading his hands on the table. Maggie noticed the small scars that marked his fingers, along with a couple of nasty scars on the back of his left hand. "I may not be the first son, but I was expected to become politically active, at the very least. My announcement to them about my intention to continue my education in archaeology was not met with approval. I had to make my own way, with no monetary assistance."

"You paid your own way through university?"

"Shocking, isn't it?" He gave her a crooked smile. "My classmates didn't believe it, and were constantly hitting me up for loans. After I received my doctorate, I believe I slept for a week straight. But, my tenacity paid off. I was a doctor of archaeology, and I managed to come out of university almost debt free."

"Wow." She was beyond impressed--and found herself liking this mercurial man. Someone with enough determination to defy their family was someone she could understand. "That must feel amazing."

He looked surprised, like no one had ever told him that. "It does. I have been too busy establishing myself to take the time to acknowledge my own accomplishment."

"You should. I would have been dancing in the street if I'd managed what you did."

"Thank you, Maggie."

They were quiet after that, and for her, part of it had to do with the exhaustion that slammed her without warning.

Finally, Drew appeared, carrying what looked like an evidence bag. The jar was inside. Maggie felt Martin tense.

"Professor." Drew held up the bag. "Can you identify this as the stolen jar?"

Martin held out his hand. "May I?" Drew hesitated, then handed the bag to him. After turning it in his hands several times, Martin gave it back. "That is my jar."

"And you know this because--ˮ

"There is a slight chip on the lip, in the back. I did manage to create a detailed description of the jar before it was stolen."

"Thank you." Drew shook his hand. "If you could stay for the next day or so, in case I have any other questions, I would appreciate it."

"Of course." He glanced down at Maggie. "There are accommodations nearby?"

"Plenty." She had one in mind, but she wasn't going to say anything in front of Drew. Gossip traveled faster than wildfire here.

Drew cleared his throat. "You can both go. I will ring you in the morning, Maggie. You will need to come in and make a statement. Both of you." He studied Martin, then turned back to her. "The morning will be soon enough. I know you've had a long night already."

He touched her wrist, and looked like he was about to say something else. But he nodded instead, dropped his hand, and headed back to the study.

Maggie knew he was attracted to her. She liked him, but not enough to go beyond a casual friendship. She kept waiting for him to ask her out, still not sure how she would answer.

"I'll worry about it if it happens," she muttered.

"What was that?"

She jumped at Martin's voice. "Nothing. I tend to talk to myself. Old habit." She gave him a wry smile. "Only child."

"Ah." With a smile, he rested his hand on her lower back and guided her outside. Her cheeks warmed at his touch, and she was grateful for the darkness. "I wished to be an only child every time one of my older brothers decided that throwing me in the river was good fun."

"You're the youngest?"

"Of five." He sighed, then smiled at her. Her heart skipped, and she knew she was in trouble. She liked him. "The happiest day of my life was leaving for Oxford, with the knowledge that I would have a single roommate. The silence nearly deafened me for the first month."

Maggie smiled. "I get that. Silence was a huge part of my childhood. Except when I came to visit my aunt here. She hated silence, and always had the radio or the television on. I loved my time here so much, it felt like I left myself behind when I went home."

"And now you live here."

Maggie nodded. "Thanks to my aunt."

Before she could say anything else, a car pulled up next to them. Ian Reynolds, the Police Constable who had been in Holmestead as long as Maggie could remember, rolled down the window.

"Sorry, Maggie, but I'm afraid Drew wants to see Professor Martin down at the station. He has a few questions."

"What--ˮ

"It's all right, Maggie." Martin laid a hand on her shoulder and turned to Ian. "I will be happy to go with you."

"I'm going, too."

Martin frowned. "There's no need--ˮ

"I think there is." She took the hand on her shoulder and pulled him in. "You're a stranger, in a village where there hasn't been a murder in decades. I don't want them to make a scapegoat out of you."

"Right." He opened the back door of the car. "Shall we?"

"I think I'll sit in front. Just in case."

# Seven

Drew waited for them in front of the station. Not a good sign.

He opened Maggie's door, frowning at her. "You didn't need to come tonight, Maggie."

"Yes, I did." She gave him a pointed look, and he dropped the hand obviously headed for her shoulder. "What's this about, Drew?"

"I have some questions, regarding the professor's relationship with Angus."

"Of course." Martin looked tense. "I would like to phone my solicitor."

"Hey--that's not necessary, Professor. Not yet." Drew turned to Maggie, and she knew what he was about to say before he opened his mouth. "You can go on home. If I have any questions, I'll ring you to come down to the station."

"I'm staying, Drew. Professor Martin isn't from around here, and I think he might need someone to vouch for him."

Drew's eyebrows twitched. "And how long have you known the Professor?"

"Long enough to know he isn't a killer." She crossed her arms, daring Drew to keep interrogating her.

He let out a sigh, and nodded, leading the way inside.

The small police station boasted a tiny waiting area, with three plastic, uncomfortable chairs, and a counter tall enough that Maggie had to stand on tiptoe to see over the top. Drew took Martin's arm, and shook his head when Maggie started to protest.

"This is an official inquiry. Which means I'm talking to him. Alone."

He guided the Professor around the tall counter, past three scarred oak desks, and into a windowless room. After he firmly closed the door, Maggie sank to one of the chairs, anticipating a long night.

***

"Take a seat, Professor Martin."

Martin did as requested, forced a calm he did not feel, and clasped his hands together, resting them on the table.

"My phone call?"

Drew waved his hand. "I will be present for it."

"I expected no less." Martin pulled his mobile out of his jacket and rang through to the family solicitor. Not surprisingly, he answered after the first ring.

"Beaumont here. What have you stepped into now, Pembroke?"

Martin did his best not to flinch at his given name. "I am being questioned in the death of a former schoolmate." He summarized quickly, ignoring Drew's avid attention. "I wanted to alert you, in case it escalates beyond simple questions."

"You are officially on my radar. Shall I pass this on o your father?"

"Only if it becomes necessary, Beaumont. If I ring you again--ˮ

"That means it's become necessary. Watch your words, Pembroke. You are well spoken, but I know how your temper can override common sense at times."

"Thank you for stating the obvious."

Beaumont laughed. "Your father pays me well to do so." His voice lowered, serious now. "If you need anything, lad, do not hesitate. Your family may have washed their hands of you, but I am not your family."

"Thank you." Some of the weight that always pushed at Martin when he dealt with his family eased. "Hopefully, you won't hear from me again until the next holiday."

"The offer stands--and not just for this. I am your solicitor as well, and a friend, if you need one."

"I--I am grateful, Beaumont." His throat tightened, and he stared at the table. "I will ring you if I need anything."

They said goodbye, and Martin rang off. He took his time putting his mobile away. Time to compose himself after the surprising conversation with a man who cared more than Martin ever suspected. Time to prepare for the questions meant to ignite his temper.

Finally, he looked up at Drew. "You have questions for me?"

"How long have you known Angus Fitch?"

"We attended Oxford together. I have not seen him more than a handful of times since graduation. Our careers took different paths."

Drew consulted a file folder, standing over Martin like an inquisitor. "Can you tell me about the falling out you had," he scanned whatever incriminating statement was on the paper in the folder. "It looks like five years ago. What happened?"

Martin was afraid that had been the reason for the summons. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Lord, he was tired, and his mouth tended to run on before his mind could warn it to stop.

"How well did you know Angus?"

Drew shrugged. "Well enough. Please, Professor, tell me the circumstances."

"Angus and I found ourselves going after the same grant. A substantial grant, one that could fund several years of research and field work. I won the grant, and Angus called foul, claiming that I was given the grant because of my family."

Drew raised his eyebrows. "Your family?"

With a sigh, Martin slipped his glasses on. They felt like a shield between him and a world determined to demean his accomplishments. "I am Pembroke Martin Deauville, the youngest son of the Earl of Berkshire. I use my given name professionally, to distance myself."

Martin knew to the moment when he lost the PC's sympathy. "Milord." Drew bowed his head. "Forgive my ignorance." The sarcasm in his voice hurt more than Martin expected. "I understand your need to ring your solicitor. Protecting the family reputation, and all."

"I was protecting myself. I use my given name for a reason, PC Cooperman. My family does not approve of my chosen career, and refuse to support it. I am merely a professor now, and not the heir apparent, so there is no need to address me as milord."

"Fine." Drew sounded angry, and embarrassed. That did not bode well for Martin. "When was the last time you saw Angus?"

"Two days ago." That wiped the anger off Drew's face. Avid interest replaced it.

"Explain."

"Angus came to the university, to see the jar. My discovery spread quickly, especially since I've been on the trail of this particular jar for some time. Angus wanted to buy it from me. I said no, and he accused me of holding a grudge."

"And did you?"

Martin ran one hand through his hair. "I could hardly remember what we fought about in the first place."

Drew's disbelief irritated him. "Beating Angus out of an important grant was easy for you to forget?"

"Five years is a long time. Not only did I let that argument slip out of my life, I ended up giving the grant to the university. My own studies had taken a different direction, before you ask. Some of the grant was returned to me, and the rest used for the School of Archaeology."

"The university must have been grateful."

Hold your temper, man. He is deliberately goading you.

"They were. The grant got me nothing more than a thank you letter, PC Cooperman, and a small piece of it for my work."

That seemed to deflate whatever theory Drew had in his mind.

"I want you to stay in Holmestead for the next few days. In case your explanation doesn't pan out."

"Of course." Martin stood. "Is that all?"

"For now."

"I will inform you of my accommodations once I have secured them." Martin deliberately used the voice he had cultivated to intimidate overconfident students. "I will cooperate fully, PC Cooperman, unless you make an attempt to discredit me without proof. Then, I guarantee you, the full force of the Deauville name will land on you and this station." Martin rounded the table, staring down the shorter man. "Believe me when I tell you that you do not want such an outcome."

Before Drew could recover enough to reply, Martin walked out of the small, stuffy room. Maggie stood when she saw him, and all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her glorious hair.

The thought shocked him, enough that he stopped in his tracks, trying to discover when the small, fiery ginger had gotten under his skin.

"Martin?" Her quiet voice snapped him back. The concern in her crystal blue eyes warmed him--and warned him that he needed to take a giant step back. "Is everything okay?"

"Of course." He flashed her the smile he used when he was exhausted. He had seen it onscreen enough to know it looked genuine. "I need to find a bed for the next few days. Can you recommend a place?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "My friend, Elisa, has a lovely B&B near the harbor. Let me call her--no, she'll be awake." She waved at Martin's protest. "The last train from London isn't for another hour, and she always waits for it."

He watched her ring her friend, admiring her smile, and the way the wind lifted the strands of rich, red hair that had escaped from her haphazard bun. Lord help him, she was lovely, with the creamy skin of a true redhead. Light freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks; if he had not been close he never would have noticed them.

She rang off and turned back to him. "Elisa has a room ready. One of her reservations canceled, so you can head over anytime."

"Thank you, Maggie." A blush colored her cheeks, but she kept eye contact. "May I buy you breakfast in the morning?"

The blush deepened. "I'd like that." She studied him, and her blush faded, replaced by a concern he had not been the recipient of for far too long. "Are you all right?"

"I will be, after a decent night's sleep."

"Right." She headed down the sidewalk, stopping once the harbor came into view below them. "Keep walking until you hit the fountain and the green at the bottom of the street. La Fleur de la Sea is on your right, just past the museum."

Martin fought a smile. "La Fleur de la Sea?"

Her smile had him losing his battle. "Ocean is ocean in French. Elisa found it horribly disappointing that the words were the same, so she used Sea. She can be contrary that way. Good night, Professor." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, blushing again when she backed away. "You can--um, meet me at my shop in the morning. For breakfast."

"Of course. Good night, Maggie."

She waved at him, and he watched her walk back up the high street, watching until she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

Whatever happened, he would always thank Providence for steering him into Maggie Mulgrew's path. 

# Eight

Maggie wandered around the huge Victorian, worried about Martin, and unable to sleep after the events of the night.

She settled on the sofa in the lounge with a cup of peppermint tea, sure she'd be up for the rest of the night.

Exhaustion finally won out, and she fell asleep on the sofa, wrapped in Aunt Irene's favorite rainbow afghan.

When she woke, stiff and disoriented, it was to the doorbell chiming. She pushed off the sofa, limping out of the lounge and through the foyer to the double doors.

Spencer grinned at her when she opened the door.

"Good morning, love. Sleep on the sofa again?"

She touched her hair--and met the wild waves, sticking out inches from her head. "What gave it away?"

His smile faded, and he studied her, his clear blue eyes intent. "Are you all right?"

"You heard about what happened."

"It's all over the village. Is it true that you found the body? You and Professor Sexy Martin?"

Maggie nearly choked. "What?"

"Lilliana's new waitress coined it, according to Lilliana. Did you really have famous archaeologist and artifact hunter Pembroke Martin in our own shop? And you didn't ring me?"

"It all happened so fast, Spence. I need to sit down."

She headed back to the lounge, where the most comfortable sofa in the house was. Spencer draped an arm around her shoulders, the concern in his eyes every time he looked at her turning his smile into a lie.

"Can I get you some tea, Mags? Or something to eat? You look pale."

"I didn't sleep much. There are some scones on the counter. I bought Lilliana's day olds yesterday, when I went in for some tea."

"You are an angel." He leaned down to kiss her cheek before he ran out.

She lowered herself to the sofa, and smiled at his triumphant shout. The scones were blueberry--his favorite, and they usually sold out by the time he strolled into the tea shop. The only reason she managed to score a bag of them was because Lilliana had baked them for a tourist's special order, and the tourist never showed.

"Blueberry." Spencer appeared, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs and the scones piled on a plate. "I love you, Mags." He kissed her cheek before he settled the tray on the coffee table and plopped down next to her. After his first bite, he closed his eyes, an expression of bliss on his face. "Now I can die happy. Oh--sorry. That was bad form."

"Don't apologize, Spence. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it, and I was there."

"About that." He scooted over, handing her a mug of tea. "Spill. I want to hear every detail, no matter how gory."

For the first time since finding Angus, she laughed. "I do love you, Spencer."

"Of course you do. Now, let's hear it."

Maggie told him everything, from the second he left the shop until she came home, wrung out from the night's events.

"I'm supposed to meet the Professor at the shop--ˮ

"It's almost nine, my beauty."

"What?" She never slept in so late.

Spencer stood and pulled her to her feet. "Let's go."

"I--Spence, I have to change--ˮ

He bounded up the stairs, coming back with at least two outfits draped over his arm. "You can change there, Mags. Come on."

Before Maggie could even open her mouth to object, Spencer tossed the clothes at her, and had her out the door and in his sporty two-seater. She had just enough time to try and wrangle her hair into a ponytail holder before they squealed into the small alley behind the shop, where Spencer parked neatly in a space. She admired his skills, and knew she'd never come close. Her mind just couldn't bridge the left side/right side of the car issue.

Spencer helped her out of the car, holding her hand as they headed for the back door. She must look worse than she thought.

Once they were inside, she shooed Spencer out to the front so she could change, and try to make herself look presentable.

She shook her head when she spread out the clothes. Spencer had picked out her two skimpiest sundresses--the two she had bought so Lilliana would stop harassing her. Thank heaven she had a light sweater at the shop, in a pale blue that would work with the navy and white flowered dress.

After she dressed, she used the toiletry kit she had in the small bathroom, and flinched at the state of her hair. A braid would be the best solution at this point. It was too wild to tame into a bun.

She pulled it out of the ponytail, wet it down, and quickly braided the length, hoping it didn't start poking out of the braid as it dried. With a final look at herself, she shrugged into the sweater, flipped the braid over her shoulder, and walked out to the shop.

Martin stood at the front counter, wearing a casual, light blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She had to lean against the doorframe, because he looked just like the deadly handsome archaeologist she'd watched on her favorite history channel, over and over.

She could hardly believe he was standing in her shop, larger than life, smiling. At her.

"Good morning, Maggie." His deep voice yanked her out of her shock.

She pushed off the doorframe and used all her control not to cross her arms in front of her v neckline.

"Did you find the B&B?"

"Your directions were spot on, and your friend was delightful."

I'm sure she was.

Maggie shook herself mentally. Elisa flirted with every male she encountered; it was part of her personality. She adored men.

"I'm glad."

"Are you ready for breakfast? I'm starving." His stomach growled, loudly, and he cringed. "Obviously."

Spencer saved her from tripping over her tongue. "I brought the scones Maggie was hiding from me." He pushed the bag across the counter. "Even as day olds, Lilliana's scones are drool worthy."

"If a strong cup of coffee comes with the offer, I accept."

Both men looked at Maggie.

"I--I can make coffee." She turned to the coffee pot sitting on the back counter, her face hot. Would she ever stop blushing in front of the man? "Do you like it strong?"

"Strong is perfect."

Good. She could do strong coffee. After a cup or three, and a scone, maybe her brain would kick into gear, so she'd be able to talk without making a fool of herself.

She glanced down when her foot hit something hard, and saw Martin's leather satchel. Spencer must have moved it behind the counter. She would have to give it to him before he left.

While the coffee brewed, she busied herself getting the shop ready to open. The first tour bus would arrive just after ten, and she wanted the door open, and ready for the onslaught.

The first sip helped clear some of the mental cobwebs. Maggie was about to take her second sip when the lights blinked off.

"Not again."

"I told you, Mags." Spencer leaned against the counter, a satisfied grin on his face. "She going to keep trying to get your attention until you acknowledge her."

"And I told you, Spence, I don't believe in ghosts."

Martin straightened. "The shop is haunted?" He looked like a boy about to discover treasure.

"According to Spencer, yes."

Spencer took that as his cue. "Irene told me, when I was five, that the ghost protected what was in the shop. A thief broke in once, and the police found him just inside the door, out cold. He came to, gibbering about a floating woman who threatened him if he so much as touched anything in the shop." He grinned at Maggie. "Then she slid through the wall."

"I would love to do some research on the building. With your permission, Maggie."

He looked so eager, she couldn't help herself. She laughed, her nerves gone. Martin made her more comfortable than she had felt with a man in a long time.

"Can it wait until after breakfast?"

He nodded, and started wolfing down the scone in front of him.

Spencer pulled out the history Maggie kept under the counter to show to curious tourists. The myth of a ghost did bring them in, so she encouraged their curiosity.

"Here you go. Irene hired a researcher, and did some herself. What she found was written up and published by a local press."

Martin pored over the small, leather bound book while he ate, careful to keep any crumbs off the pages. The more time she spent with him, the more Maggie liked him--and the less she believed he had anything to do with Angus' death.

"If you don't want to stay in a B&B," she said. "There's a flat above the shop. Aunt Irene booted the last tenant out when items started going missing in the shop. It's fully furnished, and I'll be happy to make up the bed for you."

Martin studied her, his grey blue eyes unreadable. "I will accept your kind offer, Maggie, if I am here beyond today. That is, if the offer will still be on the table."

"You mean because you may be accused of murder? You won't need my flat. Drew will be giving you a nice, private room, with three square meals a day."

"That is my fear." He shook his head, and set the book on the counter.

The easy mood disappeared, leaving Angus' death and the question of who killed him in its wake.

Maggie wanted to believe absolutely in Martin's innocence, but his history with Angus kept poking at her. What if she was wrong about Martin?

She had always trusted her instinct, but this time, she was afraid her emotions might be interfering.

The thought that she might be vouching for a killer scared her.

***

The morning influx of tourists kept her too busy to think beyond answering their endless questions. When she did have a chance to look for Martin, she always found him talking to one of the tourists, a smile on his face, his eyes dancing with amusement.

The way he interacted with them had her second guessing herself. Again.

His presence livened up the shop--and she stopped that train of thought before it could leave the station. Pembroke Martin had a life outside this village, and when he was free to leave, he would go back to it.

At lunch time, she found enough in her back room fridge to put together a snacky meal, which Spencer and Martin devoured.

She still had no appetite after finding Angus, so she brewed some peppermint tea, and sipped it while they cleaned the large white porcelain serving dish.

With only crumbs left, Martin pushed to his feet and started to wander around the now empty shop. Maggie watched him over the rim of her cup, nerves kicking in. Pembroke Martin had an eye for the rare, and for quality. She was afraid her humble shop wouldn't meet his standards.

To her surprise, he stopped in front of a shelf filled with glass paperweights, letting out a sigh as he slid his fingers over her personal favorite, a blue flower captured in a globe of bubbled glass.

"Where did you find these?"

"Estate sales, mostly. I found the blue flower at Camden Market, along with a box of sterling silver letter openers. Over there," she said, pointing to a Victorian secretary, smiling at the gleam in his eyes. She recognized it all too well. "I kept a few for myself. I have a weakness for sword and knife letter openers."

Spencer snorted, and she punched his arm. It attracted Martin's attention, and he looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

"From Mr. Knight's reaction, I am guessing there is a reason behind this particular weakness."

"I throw knives." She could feel herself blushing as she said it. Very few people knew about her odd skill.

"Pardon?"

"Knives--as in, throwing them at targets for fun and relaxation."

A smile crossed his face. "You are a constant surprise, Maggie Mulgrew. Knife thrower," he muttered, as he sorted through the letter openers.

She watched him start a pile, nodding to himself every once in a while. When he had at least half a dozen, he scooped them up and set them on the mahogany front counter.

"I will be adding to these, Maggie," he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "You have an eclectic, but excellent selection here." He started toward the Victorian corner, and halted next to the table holding the box. She watched him reach toward it, then pull his hand back. "Maggie."

"Yes, Professor?"

He turned to her, his hands clasped, like he had to restrain himself physically to keep from touching. "Can we have a go at the box now?"

Spencer snorted again, and she resisted punching him. Barely.

"Let me get my tools," she said, and headed into the back room.

She had to stop, and take a breath. She was about to uncover the beauty of her box with Professor Pembroke Martin. It was hard to wrap her head around that--she'd been watching him on TV for years, following his career, excited by every find, every story behind that find.

Now he stood in her humble shop, and had actually kept his word about her assisting him.

"Pull yourself together, act like a professional, instead of a drooling fangirl."

With a final, deep breath, she grabbed her kit and walked out to the shop. Martin bent over the box, too absorbed in it to see Spencer glaring at him. Maggie slapped the back of his head as she passed him. That would get her message across.

"Here you go, Professor."

"Martin, please." He smiled as he took the tackle box she used to house all the tools she'd collected over the years. His eyes widened after he opened the hinged top. "Color me impressed. This almost rivals my own kit."

He took out several brushes, her stash of linen handkerchiefs, and the linseed oil, lining them up on the table, in front of the box.

He had long, graceful fingers, and handled the brush with the expertise that only years would give him. Maggie found herself inching closer, not realizing she was almost on top of him until he glanced down at her, a smile on his face.

"Sorry," she said. "I just wanted to--ˮ

"See what lay under the dirt?" He moved her to his left side, and continued brushing the box. "So do I, Maggie. But I have learned that archaeology requires patience. Sometimes more patience than I possess." That crooked smile crossed his face again, making him look more like a mischievous college student than a respected archaeologist and teacher. "Pick up a brush. If you still want to assist me, of course."

"Right." She stomped down her nerves, grabbing a brush before she could psyche herself out.

You've done this a hundred times. Just go through the steps, like always.

She moved to the other side of the box and got to work.

Little by little, the beautiful, intricate enamel revealed itself. Maggie had seen photos of Sayer & Brown boxes; they were works of art, often worth more than what they contained. This box looked like it fell into that group.

"Gorgeous," Martin muttered, using the handkerchief to gently rub the top corner of the box. An intricate jade flower gradually appeared, so delicate and beautiful Maggie held her breath, overwhelmed by the craftsmanship. "Please, hand me the large brush, Maggie."

His voice jerked her out of her reveries, and she grabbed the brush, handing it to him. He accepted with a knowing smile. Instead of feeling embarrassed, Maggie grinned. Here was a kindred spirit, someone who understood the obsession. Martin had spent his life chasing that obsession.

By the time they came up for air, after being interrupted several times by customers, the top half of the box had been uncovered, and Spencer was sound asleep, stretched out on the floor behind the counter.

"He can sleep anywhere," Maggie said. She moved over to him, and gently shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes, smiled up at her. "Time to go home, Sleeping Beauty."

"Done for tonight, then?"

"You didn't have to stay, but thank you for staying."

"Anytime, Mags." He stretched, then pushed to his feet. If she didn't love him like a brother--and know him better--he would be eye candy. Tempting eye candy. "You going home?" He glanced at Martin when he asked.

"After I get Martin settled upstairs."

"Right." He leaned into kiss her cheek, and whispered against her ear. "Watch yourself. I know how much you admire him, but he happens to be a murder suspect at the moment."

He left before she could argue.

With a sigh, she turned around, and watched Martin. He wrapped the box in the soft fabric that had been supplied by Tanner, and set it in the carrier box. When he turned around, she smiled at him.

"Ready for bed?" A blush heated her cheeks when she realized how that sounded.

Martin ran one hand through his hair, revealing his nerves, and it eased her embarrassment. "More than ready."

She detoured over to the counter, and picked up his satchel. The weight surprised her, and Martin relieved her of it as soon as he saw that she held it.

"Sorry about leaving this in your shop."

"I'm glad you left it in a safe place. What do you have in there? Lead bricks?"

"Worse." He smiled down at her. "Books."

"Ah. I've experienced that phenomenon. Books turning into bricks the second I put them in my backpack."

They looked at each other, and Maggie swore he could hear her heart pounding.

"The flat?" He spoke quietly, his question yanking her back to the reason they stood in the middle of her shop.

"Sorry." She turned away from him when she started blushing again, and headed for the staircase at the back corner of the shop. By the time she reached the locked door that hid the staircase, she had her embarrassment under control. "There's an outside entrance, but Aunt Irene had it closed up years ago. I've been meaning to have it reopened, but it's pretty far down on the to-do list."

She unlocked the door and started climbing. The stairs curved around, ending at a small landing, and the door to the flat. She unlocked it, and pushed the door open, going to the nearest window to open it. The flat smelled musty.

"Sorry for the smell," she said.

"This is mild, compared to some I've experienced in Egypt."

"Egypt." She sighed. "That's been on my list for a long time."

"It exceeds all expectations." He gave her the crooked smile she'd seen so many times on TV, and her breath caught in her throat. This time, the smile was directed at her. "I hope your travels find you there one day."

"Thanks." She forced herself to take a breath, and moved toward the bedroom, pulling a set of sheets out of the small linen closet in the hallway. "I'll make up the bed. There should be bottled water in the fridge. If not, there's plenty in the shop, along with some snacks. Unless you wanted to go somewhere and eat."

"I will manage with what you have here. I'm afraid I will be poor company at the moment."

She looked over her shoulder, and found him in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe. He looked exhausted.

"We can go to the tea room for breakfast. Lilliana opens early for commuters wanting their morning caffeine. Did you need a blanket?"

"I can do this, Maggie." He took the sheets from her, and gently pushed her out of the bedroom. "You still have to head home."

"It's only a few minutes from here. My shortest commute ever."

"Thank you, Maggie." To her surprise he moved to her and took her hand, sandwiching it between his. The callouses on his palms spoke of a man who did his own work, and didn't rely on the labor of students or assistants. "Thank you for believing in me."

He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Before the shock could settle in, he let her go and started making the bed. It snapped her out of her daze.

"Let me--ˮ

"I am more than capable. Go on home. I will see you in the morning."

"Okay."

Exhaustion kicked her, hard, at the bottom of the stairs. She leaned against the wall, and decided to drive the short distance to the house, since no one would be on the streets this time of night--after one a.m., according to her pin watch.

"No wonder I'm wiped," she muttered. She knew she'd feel more awake once she slipped behind the wheel of the Rover.

It was an old college habit, after a too-long night of studying. The second she got in the car, all her focus was on getting home safely. This time, she also had something to keep her mind awake and occupied.

Pembroke Martin.

She headed through the back room, and locked the door behind her, so glad she had parked back here after the auction. The short drive to her rambling Victorian felt even shorter, thinking about the Professor.

Alone in the Rover, she willingly admitted to herself that she was attracted to him. More than attracted; she flat out liked him.

He made her laugh, had a quick mind, and they shared her biggest passion--history, and everything to do with it. She wasn't sure, but from the way he flirted--at least, she hoped it was flirting--he found her attractive.

Maggie had shied away from serious relationships most of her life. With parents as cold and methodical as hers, she never had a good role model for what constituted a normal relationship.

But Martin--he made her want to give the relationship thing a try.

"Oh, girl, you're already in deep, if you're thinking like that."

She shook her head, and swung into the long driveway along the side of the house. A converted carriage house stood in the back, large enough for at least three cars. Having just the Rover parked in there gave her ample space for a workshop, and with a parking pad out front, she had the option of using the entire carriage house if she had a project that needed the space.

Right now, she was in between projects, so she pulled into the wide, central opening, not trusting herself to navigate the narrower side openings. The trek across the back seemed like it was endless, but she finally reached the back porch, and climbed the steps to the door.

The lights refused to click on. Again.

Maggie let out a sigh, flipped the main switch off, then on again. This time, the lights flickered, then finally turned on.

"I really need to have Henry look at that."

Her mind tripped over the thought. Henry had disappeared the night of Angus' murder, and had not been seen since.

By the time she climbed the double staircase, she barely had the energy to undress. She broke her rule of hanging everything up, just this once, pulled on an oversized, button-down shirt, and stumbled to the bathroom.

No matter how exhausted, she wouldn't go to bed without washing her face. Her sensitive skin would retaliate in the morning if she skipped out on it.

Finally, she climbed into the huge king bed, and sighed as she lowered her head to the fluffy pillow.

She didn't remember falling asleep.

# Nine

Martin wandered around the small flat, admiring the architectural detail.

He had met Irene Mulgrew several times; she had been a staunch supporter of archaeology, and preserving the past. Keeping these details would have been her doing.

His thoughts wandered from architecture to Maggie. Just picturing her made him smile.

She was a spitfire, and much more knowledgeable than he had expected. Though he shouldn't have been surprised--she was Irene's niece, after all. He knew from talking to Irene that Maggie had spent quite a few summers here, under Irene's influence.

It seemed to have stuck. Maggie's love of history, and her eye for antiques, proved that.

"You like her, you fool. Stop thinking around it."

She had not been awed by him. Well, perhaps a bit, when they first met. After that, she treated him like a fellow history addict. It was something he rarely found in anyone outside his sometimes too small community.

The fact that she hardly ever mentioned his family endeared her to him.

Being a Yank may have a bit to do with that oversight. Titles meant little to them, and she was obviously not one of those who worshipped the royals and nobility from afar.

He took off his glasses, and scrubbed at his face.

"Time to think about your current situation, and how you're getting out of it."

That was not going to be easy. He had been accused in a place without allies, and he had the feeling his family name would protect him for only so long.

Right now, he needed sleep, so he could start fresh in the morning.

He undressed, and slipped under the surprisingly soft sheets. Not until his head rested on the pillow did he realize just how much the last two days had taken out of him. He fell asleep quickly, thinking of a ginger haired woman, with smiling, crystal blue eyes.

# Ten

Maggie stopped at The Tea Caddy on her way to the shop, meaning to stay long enough to buy a few scones, and two Earl Grey teas to go. But Lilliana caught her as she headed for the door.

"Good morning, Maggie."

"Hey, Lilli. I'm in a hurry, so--"

"Headed back to Professor Sexy?"

"What?"

Lilliana laughed, and pointed over her shoulder. "My new employee saw you walking out with Professor Martin. She gave him the nickname. Shelly, come and meet Maggie."

A woman bounded out of the kitchen, and Maggie smiled. She had Kool-Aid red hair, and wore Lilliana's casual uniform of jeans and white t-shirt. Her energy, and her wide smile, were both contagious.

"Hi, Maggie." She stuck out her hand. Maggie took it, not surprised to hear her American accent. "Is Professor Sexy still here? He is one tall, cool drink of water."

Lilliana shook her head. "Do you have any idea who he is, Shelly?"

"Um, no. Is he someone important?"

"Just one of the most respected archaeologists in Britain." She smiled at Shelly's shocked reaction, then turned to Maggie. "You must come back and tell me exactly how he landed at The Ash Leaf, Maggie. Every detail."

"It's not something I can talk about right now."

"Oh, no." Lilliana touched her shoulder. "This doesn't have something to do with poor Angus Fitch?"

"I'm afraid so. It's the only reason Professor Martin's still here. He spent the night in the shop flat, so stop getting ideas."

Lilliana shrugged, but a smile tugged at her mouth. "You look good together. I won't say anything more, I promise. Now, go on, before his tea gets cold."

"It was nice to meet you, Shelly."

"You, too! I'm glad there's another American here. I won't feel so out of place."

Before Maggie could comment, Shelly sprinted back to the kitchen.

"Heavens." Lilliana looked after her. "She wears me out."

"How did she end up here?"

"She's taking classes at LSE. I hired her for the summer, on the recommendation of a friend in London. Shelly has a good work ethic, and a work visa for her time here. She'll also help as a go-between with some of the more--difficult tourists."

"You mean Ugly Americans. I won't be offended if you say it, Lilli. I'm embarrassed that they still exist. I get my share in the shop, demanding a discount because we come from the same country. I just smile and tell them I don't give discounts."

Lilliana shook her head. "You have it easier than I do. I was finally forced to create ingredient lists so I could show them to people who demanded to know what was in every item. They never leave my sight, no matter how much the customer demands."

"I get that. You have to protect your recipes." Maggie lifted the bag filled with scones. "These are worth their weight in gold."

"Bring the Professor by, when you can. I would enjoy meeting him."

"As soon as I can."

Maggie walked out of the tea room, smiling at the young couple who held the door open.

Her smile faded when she saw the police car in front of her shop. Police cars and maintenance were the only vehicles allowed on the pedestrian street. The police only used that privilege for official business. Like arresting someone.

She sprinted down the sidewalk, moving faster when she saw the open door. She ran inside, halting when she saw Drew, escorting Martin across the shop. Martin was wearing handcuffs.

"Drew--what's going on?"

"I am sorry, Maggie." He kept moving, and she stepped in his path. "Maggie--"

"Now, Drew. You'll tell me why you're arresting him now."

Drew sighed, and waved at Ian Reynolds. "Get the evidence bag."

"Right away."

Ian strode out, coming back with a small, clear bag, and handed it to Drew.

"I need to know about this." He held up the bag. "It was clutched in Angus' hand."

The color drained out of Martin's face. "He shouldn't have that."

"What--" Maggie grabbed Martin's arm, ignoring Drew's frown. "What is it?"

"A pocket watch. Milord Deauville's name is inscribed on the back." Maggie frowned at the tone Drew used when he said the unnecessary title. He turned the bag over, and Maggie could see the inscription--a beautiful, cursive inscription, with Martin's full name, and a date. "Would you like to explain, milord, what it was doing in his hand?"

"I've already told you, milord is not necessary." Martin said it like he'd said the same words thousands of times over the years--more reflex than statement. "I have no idea. I gave that watch to Giles Trelawney three years ago, as part of a wager. Angus coveted it, but I don't know..." Martin closed his eyes for a second, then looked at Maggie. "I don't know how it ended up here."

Drew pulled at Martin until she let go of him. "I have to take him in, Maggie."

"I'm going with you."

She dropped the tea and bag on the counter before she followed them out.

Drew and Ian were settling Martin in the back seat when she reached the sidewalk. Drew gestured for Ian to close the door, then he turned to Maggie. "I interviewed Giles this morning. He swears he never received the watch from Professor Martin--or any gift, for that matter. According to him, they haven't spoken in more than three years."

"So you're arresting Martin, just on the word of a man who doesn't even like him?"

"His watch was found at the crime scene. Maggie," he laid his hand on her shoulder, and she knew what he had to say next wasn't going to be good. "His fingerprints were one of two sets found on the watch."

"It used to be his!" She forced herself to calm down, and raised her hand. "I'm sorry, Drew. I know you're just doing your job. What about the other set?"

He shook his head. "They aren't in the system."

"Can I talk to him?" He opened his mouth, and she suspected he was about to say no. "Please, Drew."

"One minute, Maggie. Don't make me regret this."

"Okay."

Drew waved to Ian, and they moved back to the shop, giving Maggie as much space as he could, while still close enough to grab Martin if he tried to run.

She opened the door, and crouched next to Martin. He looked exhausted, his clothes rumpled, his hair sticking up, like he'd just rolled out of bed.

"Maggie--"

"Let me do the talking. I only have a minute." He nodded, and the despair in his grey blue eyes eased. "I'm not going to let them railroad you, Martin. I think Giles is lying, and I'm going to find out why."

"Please, don't place yourself in danger for me."

She smiled. "Giles Trelawney is the least dangerous man I know."

"You underestimate him. I know Giles, so watch yourself around him. He has a competitive streak, and it can consume him."

"Okay, I've been warned. I'll be careful, Martin."

"Time's up, Maggie." She looked over her shoulder. Drew stood behind her, impatience edging his voice.

"Thank you for giving me the time." Turning back to Martin, she acted on impulse, and leaned in, kissing his cheek. His eyes widened behind the glasses. "Don't forget--you're not alone."

He swallowed, then nodded. "At least he gave me time to dress." A crooked smile crossed his face. "I answered his pounding in a decidedly feminine robe."

"The former tenant was a woman."

"A tall woman, thankfully."

She knew what he was trying to do--ease the tension, for her.

"I'll come and see you, as soon as I can."

"Thank you, Maggie, for all you've done."

Drew interrupted them. "Past time, Maggie. I have to get him to the station."

"I want him treated fairly, Drew. He may be a stranger, but he deserves the benefit of the doubt, until you prove otherwise."

"Very well."

Maggie stood, watching Drew and Ian climb into the car and drive away.

Whatever grudge Giles held, he wasn't going to use it to incriminate Martin. Not if she had anything to do with it.

She walked into the shop and picked up the phone. Spencer was about to earn another favor from her.

***

After Spencer arrived just in time to open the shop, Maggie thanked him, handed over all the scones, then headed for the police station.

She wanted to make sure Martin was okay before she interrogated Giles.

It took longer than she wanted to make her way up the high street, but she finally reached the front of the police station. When she walked into the small building, the first person she saw was Martin, handcuffed to a chair in the small waiting area.

"Martin--"

His head snapped up. "Maggie--what are you doing here?"

"Checking on you." She rushed over to him, scared by his hunched shoulders, his pale face. The closer she got, the worse he looked. "Why are you out here?"

"Where everyone can see me?" Martin took a deep breath, and shook his head. "Drew claimed to be checking my alibi." He swallowed. "The issue with that is I don't have one."

Maggie sat in the chair next to him, her heart skipping. "But--you weren't anywhere near Holmestead when Angus was killed. Were you?"

He scrubbed at his face with his free hand. "Except for the time I spent at the estate with Tanner, and with you, I was in my car. Alone."

Panic shot through her. "But you have times, when you left Oxford, when you arrived at--"

"They don't exonerate me. I am the prime suspect, Maggie."

"Oh, no--no, you're not." She stood and stomped over to the desk. "I want to see Drew Cooperman. Now."

"Sorry, Miss Mulgrew." Maggie wasn't surprised that the plump, grey-haired receptionist knew her. It was a village, after all. "Police Constable Cooperman is unavailable."

"I was told, by PC Cooperman, that the man handcuffed to that chair would be treated fairly." The woman's eyes widened. "I'd like to find out why he's been displayed in the waiting room like a prize. From PC Cooperman." Maggie used her mother's serious lawyer voice. Growing up in a courtroom, watching her mother at work, came in handy at times like this. "Now."

"One moment." She pushed to her feet and bustled into the corridor leading to the back.

Maggie felt a little guilty for talking to her like that--until she glanced over at Martin. He was being treated like an outsider, a trophy for Drew. Maggie didn't know how long they could hold Martin without substantial evidence, but the longer he stayed, the better the chance that no one else would be considered. Martin would be the only suspect.

Drew walked out, looking almost as exhausted as Martin.

"Sorry, Maggie. I didn't sleep much last night. If you come in the back with me, we can speak in private."

She waited to say anything until they entered a room. An interrogation room. "Am I a person of interest, Drew?"

"No." He closed the door and turned to her. "But you were with the suspect, and I need a few answers before I take you off my list."

"Martin didn't do this--"

"The evidence says he did."

"What evidence, Drew? A watch with his name on it?"

"Please, sit." She did, crossing her arms. "I know you would like the Professor to be innocent. I would like that, since I happen to be a fan of his BBC programs. But he could have done it, Maggie, and I can't simply discount him without investigating."

"I want to know why you have him handcuffed in the waiting area, like a prize."

"He would overhear anything I say if he is in the holding cell. One of those things was arranging for the jar to be stored at the museum."

"But--it's evidence. Shouldn't it stay here?"

He sighed. "That jar is worth a fortune. I have no way to guarantee it won't be dropped by someone moving it out of the way to get to something else on the evidence shelf. We are not equipped to handle this type of evidence, Maggie, or this type of case. Murder doesn't happen in Holmestead."

"Fine." She decided not to question it, even though it nagged at her. Wasn't he worried about chain of evidence? On the other hand, letting the jar leave evidence could work in Martin's favor. "I just don't want him railroaded because he doesn't live here."

For the first time, Drew smiled. "I've already ushered Enid Phillips out of the building. Twice. She certainly proclaims the need for justice loudly, for someone who hated Angus Fitch with a passion."

"That must have been some show. I'm glad I missed it."

"You were the only one. I am going to connect the dots, Maggie. They may not create the picture you want them to."

"Do what you have to, Drew." Maggie stood, and made a decision. "I should have told you this before, but there was more than one suspicious person at Angus' cottage." She let out her breath, and spit it out. "Henry Manning was there, with blood on his hands."

Drew grabbed her arm, anger flashing in his eyes. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because--I don't think he hurt Angus. But I'm telling you, because I want you to test the other set of fingerprints against Henry's prints. I don't want Martin to be your fall guy, your reason for not looking at anyone else."

"Is there any other detail I should know, Maggie?"

"That's it." She let out her breath. "I'm sorry, Drew. Henry was so scared, and I couldn't believe he would do anything to hurt Angus."

He took her hand, his anger gone, and sandwiched it between his. "I never told you how sorry I was that you found Angus. No one should have to walk in on such a scene."

"I'm okay. But thanks, Drew. I appreciate your concern."

"I'd like--" He cleared his throat. "When this is over, I'd like very much to ask you to supper. Or a drink, if that suits better."

"I--" Surprise that he'd pick such an inappropriate time to ask had her stumbling. "I'm flattered, Drew."

Disappointment crossed his face. "But the answer is no."

"The answer is ask me when this is over. I can't tell you what my answer will be then, but I'd like you to ask."

"All right. I will be taking Professor Martin back to the cell, and I want you gone while I do."

"I have somewhere else to be."

She headed for the waiting area, wanting to say goodbye to Martin. Ian stood next to him, arms crossed, his intent clear. "Have a good day, Maggie."

"Take care with him, Ian."

He lowered his arms. "I guarantee it. Go on, now."

She met Martin's eyes, scared by the despair she saw in the grey blue depths.

Whatever it took, she was going to find the truth. Even if she had to beat that truth out of Giles Trelawney.

# Eleven

It only took Maggie a few minutes to reach the museum at the bottom of the high street.

Holmestead Museum was a hodgepodge of local history, artifacts found in the area, and whatever special exhibit happened to be on. There was even a stuffed polar bear in the second floor stairwell. It took Maggie by surprise the first time she nearly ran into it.

She loved the eclectic museum. Unfortunately, Giles wasn't part of that love.

The first time they met, he had been a pompous, nose-in-the-air academic, assuming because she was American she didn't know anything. She proved him wrong, and in front of witnesses. They'd been on civil in public only terms ever since.

She knew going in that this was going to be a hostile conversation.

Giles didn't disappoint.

She spotted him in the gift shop, hitting on the teenage girl at the register. The girl looked part terrified, part disgusted.

"Giles--I need to talk to you."

He jerked away from the counter he'd been leaning against, his round face flushed.

"I have no time for you, Miss Mulgrew." He walked away from her as he talked, heading for the stairwell.

"You need to make time." She made sure her voice was loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "It's about Professor Martin."

He froze, his hand an inch away from the door handle. "I gave my statement to the local constables."

Before Maggie could respond, he yanked the door open and disappeared. She recovered quickly, and followed him into the stairwell. For a short man, he moved fast--he was halfway up the first flight by the time she hit the stairs.

"Giles--shoot." She silently thanked herself for wearing flats today, and ran up the stairs after him. "Whatever you said had them arresting Professor Martin."

"I only told the truth." He sounded breathless now, and had definitely slowed.

Maggie grabbed the metal railing and climbed faster. She burst into the first floor exhibition room, right behind him. Giles clutched the edge of the nearest display case, hunched over and gasping for breath. Before he could recover, she grabbed his arm.

"I think you lied," she said. Giles tried to pull away, and Maggie tightened her grip. "I know you have some long-standing argument with him, but he's being accused of a murder he didn't commit--"

"Are you certain?" The gleam in his eyes startled her, and he managed to pull free, straightening his jacket with hands that shook. "Pembroke Martin is not the upright noble he presents to the world. I have known him since we attended Oxford, as has Angus Fitch." She jerked in surprise at that information. "I am quite certain he would prefer that both of us were unable to talk about what happened at university."

"What happened?"

"As if I would tell you, Miss Mulgrew. You are clearly smitten, as are most women who meet him. Don't consider yourself special."

She took a deep breath, pushed aside the doubt he was clearly trying to plant. "Where were you two nights ago, Giles?"

He lifted his chin, fury in his brown eyes. "How dare you--"

"I was at the auction." The fury died, fear flashing in his eyes before he managed to hide it. "I saw how angry you were when you lost the bid on the Sayer & Brown jar."

"My anger was for the loss to the museum, not for myself." She had to admit, he recovered fast. A little too fast. Then, he had plenty of time to create an alibi, and a façade of calm, before the police showed up. "It was heat of the moment, Miss Mulgrew. Now, we are done with this awkward conversation. I suggest you gather what dignity you still have, and--"

"The box I bought belongs to the jar."

He halted mid-turn. "What jar?"

"The apothecary jar, Giles. The one the museum will receive once Drew has it transferred from the police station."

"You dare--ˮ

"Everyone in the village knows about Angus' intention to donate his collection to the museum after his death. You must be thrilled that it came sooner than expected. It looks like your connections will allow you to get your greedy hands on the jar faster than you should."

She left him gaping at her. Heavens, she hadn't meant to blurt that out. She wanted to let him hang himself by making a mistake. She also knew--okay, hoped--that the mystery prints on the watch belonged to him.

By the time she got downstairs and out the main door, she had a headache. She knew it was from trying not to think about what Giles had said to her, about Martin.

He never mentioned that he had known both of them since they were young. The difference between a few years and college friends was vast. Maggie had revealed parts of herself to her college roommate that no one else knew. Those long, soul-baring talks had helped her make the decision to stand up to her parents, and stand up for herself.

Martin didn't have an alibi; he'd admitted that much to her himself. Driving here, alone, wasn't going to be enough--not when his fingerprints had been found at the murder scene. Never mind when Drew found out about his history with Angus.

And why were Martin's prints on file? They would have to be in some database, for Drew to match them so quickly.

Maggie was so absorbed in her conflicting thoughts, she didn't see Enid until the older woman grabbed her arm.

"Enid--"

"Hush."

Maggie let Enid drag her inside Holmesania, partly out of curiosity. The normally well-appointed woman looked like she'd been running in a windstorm--and she wore a blouse and skirt that didn't match. That was so unlike Enid, Maggie wanted to know what had distracted her so much.

Enid locked the door behind them, then hauled Maggie to the only clear floor space, in front of the front counter. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Walking?"

"Don't you give me lip, young lady." Enid actually shook her finger in Maggie's face. "I know you were down at the museum, harassing Gi--Mr. Trelawney."

"Last I checked, asking questions wasn't harassing..." Maggie crossed her arms. "Exactly how did you know I was at the museum?"

"I--" Enid dragged one hand through her wild hair. "I saw you heading there earlier."

"Was I wearing a sign that said I was going to talk to Giles Trelawney?"

"Fine." She straightened her spine, looking more like the Enid Maggie knew. "Giles--Mr. Trelawney rang me after he was able to compose himself." That must have been one fast recovery. It only took five minutes to get from the museum to this part of the high street.

"I thought you and Mr. Trelawney didn't like each other."

Enid blushed like a teenage girl. "I--we have come to an--accord." She cleared her throat, the color in her cheeks fading. "I want you to stop questioning him, Maggie. He had nothing to do with this grisly murder." She dug her fingers into Maggie's wrist, and the wild look in her eyes had Maggie forgetting about the pain of her grip. "Leave the investigating to the police--before you are harmed by your invasive questions."

She let Maggie go, and bustled into the back room.

"I guess this means the conversation is over." Enid had always been odd, but this morning she inched closer to crazy.

Maggie shook her head and unlocked the front door, pulling it open. She closed it behind her, figuring Enid would come and lock it again, or open the shop. Right now, Maggie was too shaken from the morning's events to do more than make her way to The Ash Leaf.

"Oh, no," she muttered. Spencer was there--and he could read her like an open book. He'd know something was up the second she walked in the door.

She took a deep breath and headed up the street. Maybe talking with Spencer would help sort through all the conflicting emotions. Right now she could use some clarity.

The shop was busy when she stepped in, so she took long enough to throw her jacket over a chair in the back room before she went to help an outnumbered Spencer.

It took nearly an hour to clear the shop--and all of the tourists clamored to be rung up at the same time, right before their tour bus was scheduled to leave. Maggie sagged against the counter when the last couple left. Spencer draped himself over it.

"Thank you for rescuing me, Mags. I was planning a strategic retreat before you arrived."

"Glad to help. Did you want some water?"

"Yes, yes, and yes."

She laughed, then pushed off the counter and grabbed several bottles from the fridge in the back room. Spencer had undraped himself by the time she came out, and practically hugged the bottle when she gave it to him. He guzzled half the bottle in one go.

"Better, Spence?"

"Getting there. So," he boosted himself to the counter, and gave her his "I know you're hiding something" look. "What's up?"

"Martin was arrested this morning."

"Oh, Mags." He reached out and pulled her into a welcome hug. "Why? What did Drew find?"

She told him everything she knew. "I don't know what to think, Spence. I know I've only known him a short time--"

"But you like him." He rubbed her back. "I want to be happy for you, Maggie, but I get an odd vibe from him."

"It's called encroaching on your territory. Or more simply, 'stay away from my sister' syndrome."

"I guess. I've never seen you serious about anyone, or heard you talk about anyone. But in less than two days, when you talk about this professor, your voice is different."

"I do like him, Spence." She sighed, and eased back until she could see his face. "I think he likes me. I also think he's hiding something. Maybe something incriminating."

"Like the small detail that he bashed Angus Fitch over the head?"

"No." She batted his arm. "Like his connection to Angus. Giles Trelawney told me that all three of them knew each other when they went to Oxford."

"Oxford. It figures."

"You can ridicule him for his education later. I need your help now to find evidence that he's not guilty."

"You believe he is, Maggie?"

"Yes." She had doubts about his motives for coming to see Angus, but she had seen his face when they found Angus' body. It was the face of a man in shock. No one could pale on cue like that. "I will, until I find something concrete that tells me differently."

"You're not--" Spencer held her at arm's length. "You're going to investigate, aren't you?"

"Drew thinks he has his suspect, no matter what he told me. I won't let Martin be railroaded because he's a stranger."

"Right." He let her go and rubbed his hands together. "What can I do?"

She smiled, wanting to hug him again. "It's time to make one of my famous lists."

Spencer groaned, and she laughed, feeling hopeful for the first time since she saw the police car this morning.

She pulled a pad of paper and her favorite pen out from under the counter, and made two columns: one for suspects, one for their motive.

Spencer touched her wrist. "You know you have to put Martin on that list. He had motive, whether you like it or not. Use what you know to prove his innocence."

"Yeah."

She hated doing it, but she put him at the top, along with the motive that made him a suspect.

Wanted his stolen jar back.

After finishing, she felt like she had betrayed him.

To make herself feel better, she put Giles down next, with a big, fat star next to his name.

Spencer prompted her, gently nudging her with his shoulder. "Who else has been acting odd?"

"Enid. She ran at me like a wild woman after I talked to Giles. I've never seen her like that. She warned me to stop asking questions."

"Intriguing." Spencer had a long-standing feud with Enid, over more than a few things, and starting with his van. She called it the moving abomination. "Write her down. What do you think her motive is?"

"She despised Angus, and as far as I know, isn't all that friendly to Giles. That's why her warning surprised me--never mind the way she looked." She continued when Spencer raised an eyebrow. "Her hair was standing up on end, like she'd been running through a windstorm, and her outfit didn't match."

"Oh, the horror!" He pressed one hand to his heart, and Maggie shook her head.

"Drama queen."

"History geek."

They smiled at each other.

"Okay," she said. "One more. Henry Manning." She wrote his name, sad that she had to put him on the list.

"Seriously?" Spencer frowned at her. "What didn't you tell me?"

"He was at Angus' cottage, with blood on his hands, the night Angus was killed. He ran right into me trying to escape. I was so freaked out by everything else, I forgot to tell you that bit."

"Do the police know?"

She nodded, tapping her pen against the pad. "I told Drew, just now. And Henry has gone missing. He's probably terrified."

"You have to look at it from Drew's angle, Mags." Spencer opened one of the bottles and handed it to her, before he opened his second and took a long swig. "He finds a watch belonging to an old rival, with fingerprints, mind you, and said rival was in the victim's house minutes after the murder. I'd think he was guilty, too."

"But how did Drew match his prints so fast?"

Spencer shrugged. "My guess, they're on file. He does travel extensively, Maggie."

"Right."

He took another drink, finishing off the bottle. Maggie studied him, her optimism sinking with every word. Spence was right; in the eyes of the police, with the evidence they had, Martin looked guilty as sin.

"I'm still making a list."

"Never thought otherwise, love."

She smiled at him, grateful for his friendship. He had always been her one stable point, along with Aunt Irene. Two people who would always support her, no matter how silly her idea, and love her, no matter how much she screwed up. Losing Aunt Irene so unexpectedly had left her adrift--until she came back to Holmestead.

Until she came home.

# Twelve

"You have a visitor."

PC Reynolds stood in front of Martin's cell, frowning at him. Martin stood, hope flaring. It could be Maggie; she told him she would find a way--

He cut off that thought. It was better if she did not involve herself. The way things looked at the moment, he was the prime suspect. The only suspect.

"Am I allowed visitors?"

"It's at our discretion. PC Cooperman let him in."

Him. Not Maggie, then. Martin's disappointment surprised him. He had known her for two days, and she had already become important to him.

Reynolds walked out of the holding area, and returned with Maggie's associate, Spencer Knight.

"Thank you, PC Reynolds." Spencer turned to him and crossed his arms, waiting until Reynolds left before he spoke again. "Tell me the truth, Martin--did you do this?"

"I did not." Martin moved to the bars. "Did Maggie send you?"

"She doesn't know I'm here." Spencer ran one hand through his sun streaked hair. He looked more American than Maggie, with his tanned skin, and shaggy hair. "She likes you, Professor, and I want to be certain that her feelings aren't misplaced."

"You mean, you want to be certain she doesn't have feelings for a murderer."

Spencer smiled. "That's another way of putting it."

"I did not kill Angus Fitch." He felt like he had said the same words a hundred times since this morning. "I gave the watch they found to Giles Trelawney more than three years ago. I lost a bet, and that was the prize. He should remember; he gloated over it for weeks."

"Maggie believes in you." Spencer moved in until they stood eye to eye. "She is going to bat for you out there."

"What do you mean?" He was already certain he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from the other man.

"She's asking questions. She went to the museum this morning, and gave Giles Trelawney a good shake up. She thinks he is lying. She also thinks the resident gossip, Enid Phillips, has something to do with it. Enid warned Maggie off, out of the blue, which tells me that good old Giles called her the second Maggie left him. That looks suspicious. Maggie made a list."

He pulled a folded piece of paper out of the pocket of his jeans and handed it through the bars. Martin unfolded it, his heart pounding as he read her short note at the top.

You're not guilty, Martin. I know, and I'm going to prove it. Please feel free to add anything to the list below.

Maggie

"Stop her, Spencer." He shoved the paper back through the bars. "Go and stop her, right now."

"If you knew Maggie, you'd know it was too late. She believes that you are being framed, and she won't stand by and let it happen."

Martin cursed under his breath, in several languages. When Spencer started laughing, he lifted his head.

"Impressive," Spencer said. "Another thing about you that will charm Maggie. Look," he gripped the bars, his blue eyes serious. "Maggie cares about you, and I love her. She is the sister I never had, and I will protect her like my sister. Are we clear?"

"Crystal. Tell me, Spencer--what do you believe?"

He sighed. "I agree with her. Why would you kill a man over a jar? Especially when a visit to the police with your proof of ownership would be much easier, and less exertion." With a shrug, he let go of the bars and headed for the doorway. "For what it's worth, Professor--and this is not easy for me to say--I think you'd be good for each other. I've never seen Maggie as happy, and you give her the chance to indulge in the one thing she loves more than me."

He flashed Martin a smile and walked out.

Martin lowered himself to the hard bunk, took off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. A woman he hardly knew was putting herself on the line for him. His own family would not do such a thing.

That she was going after a murderer terrified him, especially since he was unable to protect her if she got too close. He also had to explain his past to her, and how it may have been a catalyst for what happened here.

If that didn't chase her out of his life, nothing would.

# Thirteen

Maggie needed space after a long, busy day. She locked up, said goodbye to a dragging Spencer, then headed down the high street, toward the harbor. Just sitting on the promenade, listening to the sound of the waves, breathing in the scent of the ocean, always soothed her spirit.

Making a list didn't help. It was short, with only one potential suspect, a scared handyman on the run, and Enid's suspicious behavior this morning. Not an auspicious start to an investigation.

After an hour, she headed back up, planning to walk home, take a long bath, then make dinner. The shops were all closed, but the restaurants, cafes, and pubs were lively, people spilling out of several pubs, enjoying the mild evening.

Maggie waved at more than one local, then turned into a side street that led to the street she lived on.

She let out a cry when a heavy weight slammed into her.

They smacked the rough stone front of the stationery, Maggie's elbow bouncing painfully off the stone. Hot breath washed over her cheek, her attacker's face hidden under a hood.

"Stop asking questions. If you know what's good for you, you'll leave off and--"

"Rich? Rich Danner?" Even muffled, she recognized the voice. He jerked back, and his hood slipped. "What are you doing?"

"Mr. Trelawney didn't do what you're accusing him of. Leave him alone."

Footsteps echoed behind them. Rich cursed, then shoved Maggie away from him and took off. She fell, smacking her already throbbing elbow on the sidewalk.

"Maggie? Are you all right?" The familiar, unexpected voice brought her head up. Edward Carlisle crouched in front of her. "Let me help you up."

"Thanks." She flinched as he pulled her to her feet, her right side throbbing from impact with the sidewalk. "It was one of the college students who works at the museum during the summer. He's loyal to Giles Trelawney. A little too loyal." She gingerly rubbed her right arm, and spotted blood on the sleeve of her jacket. "What are you doing here?"

"Ah." He led her back to the high street, stopping under one of the decorative wrought iron street lamps. "I arrived earlier this evening. I planned to speak to Giles Trelawney. I understand the Sayer & Brown jar will come to the museum, and I wanted to discuss purchasing it."

"Trust me, Giles isn't going to let it go. I wouldn't be surprised if he already has a display case for it."

"I always believe that it can hardly hurt to try. Where can I take you?"

"Oh--I'm fine. Really, I can just--"

"Nonsense. You were injured in the fall. Is your shop nearby? I can escort you that far, perhaps assist you with your arm."

So, he'd seen the blood as well. "Sure. It's up ahead, on the right."

When they reached the door, she fumbled in her pocket for the keys. Edward took them from her and unlocked the door, waiting for her to walk in first, before he closed and locked it behind them.

"Do you have a first aid kit?"

"Under the front counter."

She lowered herself to the closest chair, and eased her jacket off. Her elbow and forearm were scraped, and bloodier than she expected.

"Here, now." Edward pulled up a second chair, and opened the kit on a display table. "Let me take care of this."

He laid her arm on the table, using pre-moistened antibiotic wipes to gently clean the scrapes. Maggie clenched her jaw as the liquid burned into her raw skin. When he finished, Edward started talking, obviously to distract her from the pain.

"I imagine you are wondering how I happened to be on the street when you were attacked."

"It did--cross my mind." She hissed when the gauze pad touched her elbow.

"I am sorry for the pain, Maggie. The ointment I laid on the pad should start taking effect any moment. To continue, I spent the evening in one of your charming pubs, and had a surprisingly tasty meal."

"The Bonnie Prince Charlie?"

"I believe so. It has a naval blue and gold façade."

"That's it. The owner, Chris, was a Michelin star chef in London. He sold his restaurant, moved here, and opened the pub."

"Not Christopher Belgard?"

"That would be him."

"I thought I recognized his style." Edward wrapped her elbow and forearm, tearing a couple of strips of medical tape to secure the bandage. "There we are. It will do until you can see a doctor in the morning."

"Thank you. For this," she lifted her arm off the table and cradled it against her chest. "And for coming to my rescue. I think Rich was just trying to scare me, but he's kind of intense."

"Shall I walk you home?"

"I'm going to spend the night here." She didn't know Edward well enough for him to find out where she lived. Alone. "There's a flat upstairs, with everything I need."

"Well, then. I will leave you to your rest..." His voice faded, and Maggie knew he'd spotted the carrier box. "Is this the box you purchased? Would you mind if I had a look?"

"Tomorrow." She didn't want him to see what she and Martin had revealed. A man like Edward would immediately recognize its provenance. "I'll be happy to show it to you when my arm isn't throbbing."

"Forgive me, Maggie. My enthusiasm can sometimes get the best of me." He stood, and took her left hand, kissing her fingers with an intimacy that left her shaky. He was such a good looking man, even if he was almost old enough to be her father. "I will see you tomorrow. Sleep well, darling."

The endearment sent up serious warning flags. She smiled at him, and waited until he unlocked the door and left the shop before she stood. She locked the door, peering through the wavy glass fan window in the top half. Her heart skipped when she saw him on the street, studying her shop with an intensity she had seen once before.

At the auction, when he had been looking at the apothecary jar.

Edward wasn't a man who would take being told no easily.

Hopefully, he would get so caught up with Giles, he'd forget about her box.

She wouldn't count on it.

With a sigh, Maggie walked through the dark shop, maneuvering around the displays without a second thought. She knew this place better than her house. The climb to the flat seemed to take forever, and she had a throbbing headache to go with her throbbing arm by the time she reached the landing at the top.

Rich's attempt to scare her told her one thing--she was on the right track. She had a feeling Giles had been behind the intimidation, and it wouldn't surprise her to see guilt on Giles' face if she showed up at the museum tomorrow, with her battle wounds.

Instead of facing Giles, she was going to take what she knew straight to Drew. Maybe with Spencer as an escort.

At the very least, it would give Drew someone else to look at. She'd even relate the battle at the auction, and how angry Giles had been when Angus outbid him.

With her morning planned, she slowly undressed, flinching and gasping every time fabric brushed her right arm.

"Add going to the local clinic to the itinerary."

It would take more than the ibuprofen she planned to swallow to cut the pain. She also wanted to make sure there hadn't been any damage to her elbow beyond scraped skin and bruises.

Maggie left her camisole on. It would serve as a night shirt--and she wasn't up to trying to pull it over her head with only one working arm. What seemed like hours later, she finally climbed into the double bed, and pulled up the duvet.

The pillow smelled like Martin--slightly spicy, with a warm, musk undertone. She pressed her face into the pillow, relaxed her muscles, one by one. The ibuprofen kicked in, taking the edge off the pain in her arm, as well as her headache.

She remembered, as she fell asleep, that she didn't eat dinner.

# Fourteen

Spencer's voice woke Maggie just before her stomach started growling. Loudly.

She pushed herself up, carefully, and brushed sleep tangled hair off her face.

"I'm in here, Spencer."

He appeared in the doorway, frowning at her. "Why didn't you go--what happened, Maggie?" He strode to the bed and sat next to her, gently cupping her chin. "Who hit you?"

"No one. Do I have a bruise?"

"On your jaw. Don't you feel it? I guess not," he said, spotting her bandaged arm. "Explain."

She told him what happened last night, leaving out her mixed feelings about Edward. "Don't you dare go after Rich. I know Giles put him up to it."

"Which means he's feeling guilty about something."

She leaned against the padded headboard. "My thoughts exactly. I'm going to open the shop a little late today."

"You shouldn't be opening at all."

"It's Friday. I can't afford not to be open. The first tour bus doesn't show up until noon, so we have until then."

He raised a blonde eyebrow. "To what?"

"Talk to Drew. This is reasonable doubt, Spence. Why would I be attacked for questioning a museum curator if Martin is the murderer?"

"To give reasonable doubt."

"What did he do--smuggle a note out to a boy he doesn't even know?"

"Right. Sorry, Mags. I can't quite trust him yet."

"I have my moments." After what Giles hinted at yesterday, those moments had been happening more often. She really needed to talk to Martin. "Can you drive me home? The only clothes I have here are bloody."

"Not the only clothes." He grinned at her, and Maggie caught on a second later. She had an entire section of vintage clothing, and most of that clothing fit her petite figure.

"I have had my eye on the sundress."

"And that three quarter sleeve sweater. They'd be perfect together..." His voice faded when he realized what he was saying. "I need a surf holiday."

"You mean time with other men, who know nothing about antiques."

"Exactly." He stood, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "I knew you would understand. I'll head down and fetch those clothes for you. Did you need help out of bed?"

"I think I can manage."

She did, though it took much longer than she expected. Her right side was stiff, the bruises purple and ugly. Spencer skidded to a halt in the doorway.

"Maggie--why didn't you tell me you were so beaten up?"

"I didn't realize, until I started getting out of bed."

He set the clothes on the bed, then guided her out to one of the chairs at the small kitchen table. "Sit." His fingers were gentle as they probed her bruised skin. Maggie had stopped being modest around Spencer years ago. They used to skinny dip in the pond at the back of Aunt Irene's property, when the summer days got sticky. "You will live, most likely. I want you to go to the private clinic, have them check you over."

"Already on the agenda."

"Good. Did you need help dressing?"

"I'm good. Why don't you head over to The Tea Caddy and buy us breakfast? I want to leave as soon as I'm ready."

"Money?"

She shook her head. "You really need to start carrying a wallet, Spence. Take a ten out of the register. And mark it down," she said, raising her voice so he could hear her over his pounding footsteps.

Once she heard the front door slam, she started the arduous--and painful--task of getting dressed.

***

"PC Cooperman is unavailable."

Maggie braced her hands on the counter and tried to look taller. The high counter hit her just above the chin, and made her feel twelve.

"Do you know when he'll be available? I have some important information for him."

"I imagine you think so, Miss." The older woman who sat behind the counter was new, and obviously had pegged Maggie as a troublemaking tourist. "If you would care to wait." She waved at the trio of uncomfortable chairs along the wall.

"Tell him Maggie is waiting to see him. He'll know who you mean."

Maggie gave her a smile and limped over to the chairs. Spencer frowned as she approached; he met her halfway, hovering until she lowered herself slowly to one of the chairs, leaning on her left side.

"You look worse than you did when we left the shop."

"That's good, because I feel worse." She closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath. "Spence, I think I should go to the clinic now."

"Right. Let me help you up." He wrapped his arm around her waist and slowly pulled her to her feet. "Don't try to help me help you, Maggie." The anger edging his voice told her that he was worried. "You tell me if you need me to carry you."

"I can walk on my own, Spencer. I just hurt, and I forgot to take some ibuprofen this morning."

"The clinic is a few doors down. Take it one step at a time--and if you so much as wobble, I will be carting you there, like it or not."

"I've been warned." She gave him a weak smile, then leaned against him as he led her to the door. It opened when they were almost on top of it.

Drew skidded to a halt, his eyes widening when he spotted Maggie. "What's happened?"

"A misunderstanding. I want to talk to you, Drew, but I'm taking a little trip over to the clinic."

"Bring her to my car." Drew talked over her head to Spencer.

"Will do."

"No." Both men looked down at her. "It will hurt less if I walk."

Drew pressed his lips together, but he finally nodded. "I will come fetch you, when you're ready. I need to talk to you as well, Maggie, about your conversation with Giles Trelawney."

Dread shot through her. "Why?"

With a sigh, Drew ran one hand over his hair. "Because Giles is wanting to file harassment charges against you."

"What?"

"Maggie." Drew took her hand, holding it longer than she felt comfortable. He must have realized; he let go and cleared his throat. "I want you to stop poking around. You are an amateur, and whoever killed Angus is dangerous." His voice sounded hard, and ruder than she'd ever heard him. "Do you hear me?"

"Loud and clear. I'd like to go now."

"Right. Be careful, Maggie, please."

She felt his gaze on her as Spencer led her to the door.

Saying no to that dinner invitation sounded like the best plan.

***

Maggie endured the examination, knowing at the end of the doctor's probing that she would receive painkillers strong enough to help her get through the next couple of days.

He put her right arm in a sling, and gave her a few sample packets. "This should be enough for you, Miss Mulgrew. If you need more, we will revisit your condition."

"Thank you."

The nurse brought her a glass of water, and she took the prescribed number of pills, her muscles already relaxing in anticipation of the relief. With the nurse's help, she dressed, and made her way out to the small waiting room.

Spencer paced the length of the room, halting when he saw her.

"You look better."

"Drugs." She smiled at him, already starting to feel a little loopy. "I want to go see Giles, before they kick in."

"You're in no condition to--"

"Which is exactly why I want to go. If he shows the least sign of guilt, I'm going to wring the truth out of him." She also wanted another shot at getting him to trip himself up.

"Fine. But we are driving down to the museum. No argument."

"None from me."

He guided her outside, then leaned her against the wall. She watched him sprint up the high street, where she knew he kept his brightly painted van. The wall held her up, and she forced herself to take a few deep breaths, pushing away from the wall when Spencer's van appeared. It always made her smile.

The van was painted ocean blue, appropriate for a rabid surfer. What she loved most was the mural painted on the driver's side, of his favorite beach.

Fortunately, the clinic was on the part of the high street that allowed car traffic. He rumbled to a halt next to the curb, and left the engine running as he hopped out.

"Can you climb up on your own?"

"I think so. Give me a starting boost."

Using her left hand to hold the bar on the dashboard, she used her thigh muscles to heave herself up. Spencer handed her the seatbelt, and she waited for him to slide into the driver's seat, so he could snap it into place for her.

He grabbed the steering wheel and glanced over at her. "Where did you want to ambush him?"

"Hilarious. I just plan to talk, maybe hint at extortion." She gave him what she hoped was a fierce smile. She couldn't tell. "Take Ivy Street, and pull around to the back. I can ask one of the employees where he is."

"Got it." He swung out and took the two-lane side street to the back of the museum. "I'm going with you. No argument," he said, when she opened her mouth to argue. "Giles has a temper, he's already miffed at you, and you are in no condition to defend yourself."

"Fine." She wanted to tell him he was wrong, but she couldn't. The painkillers started kicking in hard on the way to the museum. "Just let me do the talking. He likes you even less."

Spencer nodded, and moved around the van to help her down. He kept his arm around her, and she was grateful for the support. Her right leg felt a little wobbly at the moment.

They took the ramp up to the back door, found it open. Spencer led her in, flagging down the first person he saw.

"Hey--we're looking for Giles Trelawney."

The man pointed across the vast storage room. "He should be in the receiving room. We just now unloaded the pieces for a new exhibit."

"Thanks." Spencer held on to her when they crossed the room. "Still with me, Mags?"

"Right here." She blinked, and the door in front of her cleared. "Remember, Spence, I'm doing--"

"All the talking. It's been less than five minutes since the last time you reminded me."

"Was it? Okay." After an eternity, they reached the door. Spencer opened it, holding the hinged door in place until they got through, then let it slam. "Spencer."

"Call it our announcement."

No one rushed out of the receiving room. Maggie figured that Giles was immersed in whatever new exhibit had just been delivered. They moved to the open doorway, and she started talking before they crossed the threshold, to let him know someone was in the room.

"Giles, I wanted to talk to you about Rich Danner. We had an unexpected meeting last night and I--"

She stumbled when she saw the blood.

"Stay here." Spencer started to let go of her, and she grabbed his arm.

"No." He frowned at her. "We go together, Spence."

"All right."

They inched around the waist high table. Giles came into view, his body pressed up against the legs of a second table. His wide eyes, and the blood on the floor, told Maggie all she needed.

"Can you check him?" she whispered.

Spencer nodded, leaning her against the first table before he crouched next to Giles, careful not to step in the trail of blood, and pressed his fingers to Giles' throat. He glanced over his shoulder and shook his head.

"I'll ring Drew." He stood, and wrapped his arm around Maggie's waist. "Come and sit." He helped her to a stool at the far end of the room, where Maggie couldn't see Giles. "I'm going to let someone in the museum know what happened. Don't try to investigate while I'm gone."

"Yes, sir." Her voice sounded hoarse.

When Spencer left, she felt completely alone. A chill brushed against her neck, ruffling the papers on the table next to her. She forgot about being alone with a recently dead man when she saw the top page.

It was an inventory description. Of the Sayer & Brown apothecary jar.

Paper clipped to the inventory was a handwritten note, placing the jar in the custody of the museum, until the trial date. Maggie frowned. There should have been some kind of official form...

The thought faded as she scanned the room. No jar stood on any surface, just a clipboard, a pocket watch, several beautiful statues that looked Roman. One of them had blood on the base.

"Whoever did this likes hitting people with statues."

Since it looked like the transfer had already happened, whoever did this now had the apothecary jar.

Maggie slid off the stool, and moved along the table. She glanced down at Giles, trying to be objective as she studied him. Objective didn't last long; tears stung her eyes, and she turned away, hugging herself with her left arm.

She had never been overly fond of Giles, but no one deserved this--to die alone, killed for an object.

The chill brushed her hand this time, and she huddled in her sweater. The room was cold, but the chill seemed almost--focused.

"Stop even thinking like that, Maggie." She clenched her teeth, cold wrapping around her like a cloak. "There's no such thing as ghosts."

# Fifteen

Martin stood when Drew Cooperman appeared. His muscles were stiff from a rough night on the too narrow, hard bunk.

"Good morning, Professor." Drew slipped one of the keys on his ring into the cell door, clicking the lock open. "You are free to go, for now. I want you to stay in town. You are still a suspect in Angus Fitch's murder."

"What happened to drop me from prime suspect to merely a suspect?"

"Another murder." Drew's jaw clenched as he delivered the information.

"Who?" Martin had a feeling he knew the answer already.

"Giles Trelawney. He was found in the receiving room, in the basement of the museum. His death was nearly identical to Angus." Drew paused, then continued. "Maggie and Spencer Knight found him."

Martin cursed. "How is she?"

"Fine. A little shaken, which is to be expected. She is out in the waiting area, with Knight." Drew stepped in front of him. "You should know, before you see her, that Maggie was assaulted last night, by a student assistant who works for Giles. It's the reason she was at the museum this morning. She wanted to talk to Giles about what happened."

His heart pounded, one hand closing over the bars of the cell. "Is she all right?"

"She was banged up a good bit, but she will recover. She told me a man she had met at the auction came to her assistance. An Edward Carlisle."

"Sir Edward Carlisle. A dilettante of the first water. Did he try to buy the Sayer & Brown jar?"

Drew nodded. "Maggie said he begged off early in the bidding."

"He must no longer have unlimited access to his family's fortune." Edward Carlisle had bought more artifacts out from under Martin than he cared to admit. The man was mostly harmless, and he knew his way around on a dig site. But his pompous, self-righteous attitude had always rubbed Martin wrong. "Is he still in Holmestead?"

"From what I understand, yes. He came to buy the jar from Giles, which I delivered to him last night. It will be returned for any trial, but I needed to keep it intact, and Giles planned to keep it locked in the acquisitions vault. Even if Giles had been so inclined, he wouldn't have been able to sell the jar. It is still evidence in a murder."

"May I see Maggie now?" The thought of her finding Giles, dead, left him shaky. He cared for her, more than he should after knowing her for such a short time.

"This way."

Drew walked him out of the holding area, reeling off a list of things Martin was not to do. He heard only half of them, and stopped hearing Drew altogether when he caught his first glimpse of Maggie.

She sat in one of the torturous chairs in the waiting area, Spencer hovering at her side. When she lifted her head, he sucked in his breath. A dark bruise marked her right jaw, her usually bright blue eyes dulled with pain. Her right arm was cradled in a sling, and he could tell by the way she sat that she hurt.

He moved past Drew, headed for her. Spencer stood, putting himself in Martin's path.

"She's still a little wobbly, so tread carefully."

Martin nodded, raising his eyebrow when Spencer still did not move. With a final warning glare, Spencer stepped aside.

"Maggie." She looked up at him, offering a watery smile. Up close, he saw that some of the dullness was due to medication. "I am so sorry you were the one to find Giles."

"He didn't deserve that."

"No one deserves what happened to him. Please, let us take you home."

"Okay."

Spencer picked her up and cradled her against his chest. Martin expected to be jealous, but he saw how Spencer looked at her. Like a brother protecting his sister. Any animosity died.

He followed Spencer outside, and almost smiled when he saw the van. If he did not already know that Spencer enjoyed surfing, the van would have pointedly informed him.

"Martin, can you sit in back? Maggie took some painkillers, and she no longer has the dexterity to climb into the front seat. I need you to keep her from sliding off the seat."

"Of course." Martin slid the back door open and climbed in, turning to help Spencer with Maggie. "Just a little farther, now, then you can sit."

"Thanks." She leaned against him, dragging her feet with every step. Martin wanted to lift her and settle her in his lap, but he simply kept her upright until they reached the bench seat. It was only a few steps. Maggie's progress made it seem as if they had crossed the street. "Sorry," she mumbled. "Moving a little slow."

"We are in no hurry. Ready to sit?"

"Yeah."

Martin guided her down to the seat, and held onto her as he sat beside her. She immediately laid her head on his shoulder, letting out a quiet sigh. He kissed the top of her head without thinking, and she snuggled closer.

It took all of his control not to wrap his arm around her; he knew the damage was on her right side. So he contented himself with inhaling the scent of her wild, rich red hair.

She smelled of wildflowers, and the ocean. Martin wanted to bury his face in her silky hair, take her in his arms and kiss those full lips that smiled so easily--

He cut off his thought before it could finish forming. Maggie was hurting, and she hardly needed him drooling over her like a randy teenager.

"Martin?"

"Yes, Maggie."

"You're off the hook."

"For Giles, yes. I was otherwise occupied."

She smiled against his shoulder. "I love hearing you talk. I lost track of how many times I've watched your shows. I have them all on--oh, I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Now you'll think I'm a--that I'm a--ˮ She seemed to be stuck for the word she wanted, so he made a suggestion.

"Stalker?"

"That's it. I'm not--a stalker, I mean. I just really like how enthusiastic you are about archaeology, and whatever you happen to be looking for." She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. He studied the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, sharper against her pale skin, tried not to feel the way he felt when she looked at him, like he was the only one in the room. "Martin?"

"Yes?"

"You're staring at me."

"Forgive me. I am worried about you, Maggie. I suppose watching over you may look like staring." Her smile warmed him. "I sounded like a thesaurus entry just then."

"Yep, you did." She laid her head on his shoulder again. "I like you, Martin."

He opened his mouth to tell her the same, and was met with a soft snore.

Smiling, he leaned back, and carefully draped his arm over her shoulders.

"I find myself liking you as well, Maggie Mulgrew."

He would protect her, no matter what it cost him.

# Sixteen

Maggie woke in her own bed, with a drug-induced hangover that made her wish she could sleep it off. But she knew that sleeping wouldn't help. Food, fresh air, and movement would. That started by dragging herself out of bed.

She pulled on her most comfortable robe, a blue chenille that wrapped her like a warm blanket. Her right arm wasn't as stiff this morning, the pain a dull ache that didn't feel like a hot poker digging into her elbow. She checked the bruises on her side, then her leg. They looked about the same.

She knew they would take a while to fade: she bruised easily anyway, and deep, ugly bruises like these tended to hang around, slow to heal. Feeling more like herself, and less like a zombie, she headed toward the curving staircase. Halfway down, she heard the voices.

Spencer she recognized. The other voice--

"Martin. Oh, no." She vaguely remembered their conversation in Spencer's van. Heat flushed her cheeks at one particular memory. She couldn't face him, not after practically draping herself over him and telling him how much she liked him. "You have to face him sooner or later."

She really wanted to choose later.

Instead, she took a deep breath and kept going.

Spencer and Martin stopped talking the second she appeared. It was a race to see who could get to her faster.

"Mags." Spencer won by a hair, wrapping his arm around her waist. "How are you this morning?"

"Much better. Being unconscious for twelve plus hours made a difference."

"You look better. There's color in your face again. I got breakfast for you, in case you woke hungry."

"Thanks, Spence." She kissed his cheek, and let him guide her to the scarred farmhouse table in the kitchen. Maggie had always loved this kitchen, with the long marble countertops, a butcher block island, and faded blue cabinets. She had made a vow not to change a thing when she moved in. "You got bagels?"

"With cream cheese, and--what do you call the cold salmon?"

"Lox. Where--ˮ

"Martin found them." Spencer sounded grudging as he gave the credit. "You'll never believe where."

She made a guess. "Not Green Goddess?"

"The very place."

Their local hippie cafe, selling bagels and lox? She must have bumped her head when she fell, because that didn't sound right. "Any explanation for the sudden addition?"

"Two." Spencer grinned at her. "The owner's husband deciding that vegan wasn't for him. And tourists."

"Where are they getting the bagels? Lilli," she answered herself, and Spencer nodded.

"Martin had this conversation, so I'll let him continue." He waved in Martin's direction, and started spreading cream cheese on what looked like a jalapeno cheese bagel.

Martin nodded. "I saw the bagels when I went in for tea, and Shelly, the enthusiastic American waitress, gave me the entire story. Whether I wanted it or not." His crooked smile told Maggie that he had enjoyed the conversation. "According to Shelly, the owner came over and all but begged Lilliana. It seems that his marriage was at stake, or as Shelly put it, the very bedrock of their relationship."

"So, Lilliana said yes. She has a big heart." Maggie eyed the bagel in Spencer's hand, hoping that it was for her. When he laid the two halves of deliciousness on a plate and slid it over to her, she could have kissed him. "Thank you."

The combination of spicy, cheesy bread, cool, rich cream cheese, and slightly salty lox was like a party in her mouth. She may have moaned a little as she ate the first half. She knew she did on the second half, because by the time she finished, both men were staring at her.

"It's good."

"Apparently," Martin said. He gave her another crooked smile, and her heart skipped.

Don't get involved--he won't stay, not with his position at Oxford, and his work.

She dropped her gaze to her plate, and focused on the rest of her bagel.

"About this list of yours, Maggie." Martin's voice jerked her head up. "I want you to stop. If Cooperman knew what you were doing--ˮ

"He'd lock me in a cell. For my own good would be his point of view." She poked at the crumbs on her plate, wanting another bagel, but not wanting to look like a pig in front of Martin. Then again, if he spent any time with her, he'd find out about her large appetite. She shrugged and reached for a bagel, ignoring Spencer's grin. "You obviously didn't kill Giles, since you were behind bars at the time. But Drew still has you pegged for Angus' murder. I want to help you--ˮ

"No." His voice was quiet, but steel edged the usually even tone. "You've already been hurt because of your association with me." He stood, and Maggie knew what he was going to say before he said it. "I will see if Elisa has an available room."

"You don't have to--ˮ

"Thank you for your assistance, Maggie. It will be better if I--ˮ

"Stay," Spencer said. Both Maggie and Martin stared at him. "It makes sense. Someone is obviously out to frame you," he pointed at Martin. "And if we stay together, this person can't use one of us against the other. Plus--if they want you out of the way, permanently, it would be so much easier if you're alone, in a semi-public building."

Martin looked at him, then at Maggie, who did her best to keep hope off her face. Spencer made sense, even if it was grisly sense. And she knew, in her heart, that if Martin walked out now she'd never see him again.

Finally, with a defeated sigh, Martin lowered himself to the chair. "I suppose if I am silenced, the real murderer will get away with what he's done." He took his glasses off, and looked at Maggie, his grey blue eyes vulnerable. "If there is even a hint of danger, I will leave. If anything else happened to you because of me--ˮ

"It won't," Spencer said. He laid his hand on Maggie's left shoulder. "I will take them down before they get close enough."

"Spence." Maggie turned to him. He sounded so angry, it scared her. "You've been watching too much American television."

It took a few seconds, but he relaxed, enough to smile at her. "Guilty pleasure." He looked from her to Martin, his blue eyes serious. "So, what do we do now?"

Maggie swallowed. She really wanted this to be over, but she refused to back away--not with Martin's life and future at stake.

"We smoke out the real killer."

# Seventeen

A week went by with no success.

Maggie spent that week watching Enid closely for any sign of guilt, visiting the tacky souvenir shop more than she had in months. Every time she stepped in, Enid jumped a foot, and found an excuse to be as far away from her as possible.

Monday morning, she headed out of the house, leaving Spencer and Martin sound asleep. Spencer had told her that he was staying with her until the killer was caught--no argument.

Martin had just looked at her with those serious grey blue eyes until she gave in.

She was grateful for their presence--it helped her sleep at night. Even if she did have dreams about Martin.

Heat flushed her face at the thought of last night's dream. She pushed it out of her mind and rounded the corner to the high street.

The street felt different this morning. The usual bustle of shops preparing to open and greet the day's tourists was subdued. Maggie knew why; the announcement of Giles' funeral had laid a damper over everyone in the village.

Angus' family had come and taken him back up north, where he was from. But Giles was born and raised in Holmestead; he may not have been well-liked, but the village would turn out to honor a resident.

Maggie planned to go to the funeral for more than one reason. For Giles, of course. She felt responsible, since she had been the one to find him. But with the attendees essentially trapped in the church for the funeral, she would have the chance to catch Enid off guard, and finally get the answers she needed. She also expected the killer to show--and she wanted to be there.

Her injuries were healing, and her fear that there might be permanent damage to her elbow faded with each day. She had almost full movement in her right arm now. Her bruises still looked like she'd been beaten with a stick, but they no longer hurt.

Thank heavens the bruise on her jaw had finally faded. Even with makeup, she had difficulty covering it up.

She waved at Lilliana before stopping at the door to her shop. Just as she pushed the key in the lock, she felt a presence behind her. Strong fingers closed over her wrist.

"Inside, Miss Maggie. Now."

The familiar voice startled her. "Henry--ˮ

"Now."

He sounded angry, and scared. No one had seen him since the night of Angus' murder. Maggie didn't want to suspect him, but running like that made him look guilty.

"Okay, Henry. I'm going to unlock the door, then we'll go inside and talk."

"Fast now, Miss Maggie, before anyone sees me with ye." The angry desperation in his voice shook her hand. She managed to get the door unlocked and open. Henry crowded her, almost pushing her inside the shop. He closed and locked the door behind him. Maggie took the time to put as much distance between them as possible. "I won't be hurtin' ye, Miss Maggie. Forgive me for makin' ye think that."

"What do you want, Henry?" Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat. Despite his assurance, she kept going, behind the solid mahogany counter.

He twisted his hands together, looking so miserable she wanted to console him. Instead, she stayed where she was, and waited for him.

"I didna kill him, Miss Maggie."

"Then tell me what happened." When he started to shake his head, she gave into her instinct and moved around the counter, closing her fingers over his. "It's all right, Henry. Let's sit down,"

He nodded, let her lead him to the back room, and settle him at the small table she kept there. After she sat in the opposite chair, she held out her left hand. He gripped it like a lifeline, took a deep, shaky breath, and started to talk.

"I did find Mister Angus dead, like I told ye that night. But I never touched him. I was startin' to stand, after checkin' to see if he breathed, and someone hit me on the back of the head."

He lowered his head, and Maggie stood, gently parting his thick red hair. A nasty, lump marked his scalp.

"This is proof, Henry. Instead of running, you should have gone to Drew. You know he would have believed you."

"But the blood, and ye findin' me--I panicked, Miss Maggie, and that's the truth of it."

"Would you talk to Drew now? I'll be happy to go with you, Henry, vouch for you." She took his hand. "I know the evidence pointed at you, but I wanted to believe you were in the wrong place, at the wrong time."

"Ye pegged that right on the head, Miss Maggie." For the first time since he forced her into the shop, he looked hopeful. Maggie was relieved that she had been right about him. "Will ye go with me?"

"Of course. Let me put up my open late sign, and let's go talk to Drew."

She mentally crossed Henry off her list as she pulled out the sign she needed from her small selection. She would update her actual list after they talked to Drew.

Next up--corner Enid at the funeral.

# Eighteen

Martin wandered down to the kitchen, finding Spencer already there, sitting on the butcher block island and eating leftover bagels.

"Good morning, Professor." Spencer sounded all too chipper. Martin was no good before coffee.

He kept moving to the coffee pot, and poured a cup, silently thanking Maggie for her own addiction. The rich aroma started waking him; he inhaled the intoxicating scent, then took his first sip.

"Good, there, Professor? I know Maggie makes a great cuppa, but you look like you're falling in love with it."

His reaction shocked him.

He was falling for Maggie.

His older brothers would howl with laughter. Pembroke, the youngest, most bookish of the Deauville brothers, finally struck down by a woman.

"Hello--earth to Professor. You still with us?"

"Yes, right." He set down his coffee unfinished. His realization woke him faster than a jolt of caffeine. "I believe I will go into the village, and--ˮ

"Help Maggie?" Spencer grinned at him. "You show your emotions like Maggie--an open book. Never play poker, Professor."

Martin braced himself, waiting for Spencer to warn him off. He knew the younger man was like a brother to Maggie, and he protected her fiercely.

Instead, Spencer kept eating his bagel, his blue eyes amused.

Nodding as casually as he could, Martin walked out. By the time he closed the door behind him, he wanted to run--to Maggie, to the kind of life he could have with her.

All he had to do was prove his innocence.

***

Martin strode quickly toward the shop, his heart pounding by the time he reached the door. It opened before he could reach for the latch.

"Martin." Maggie stood in the doorway, pale and disheveled.

"What happened?"

She stood aside, waiting until she locked the door--in the middle of the morning--and turned to him. "Henry was here."

Panic had him rushing over to her, wanting to check every inch for new bruises. "Did he harm you?"

"No. He was scared, Martin, but not violent. That isn't in Henry's personality." She let out a sigh, and walked over to the nearest chair, easing herself down. "We went to see Drew. Henry is still there, but I have a feeling he'll be free and clear by the end of the day. Whoever killed Angus knocked Henry on the back of the head. The lump was still there."

Martin wanted to sag in relief, then shout at her for facing the man on her own. Instead, he crouched next to the chair, and took her hand.

"Are you all right?"

She let out a shaky breath. "After it sank in, I was a little unsteady. But I'm better now. Another suspect off my list," she whispered.

"Hey." He kept his voice gentle, shoved down the anger threatening to boil over. "The truth will set me free, Maggie."

"Will it?" She clapped her free hand over her mouth. "I'm so sorry. I--"

"Have every reason to doubt me." Martin let go of her hand and stood. "I understand your hesitation, Maggie." It hurt, so much more than he expected, but he understood. "I will find other accommodation."

"Martin." Her voice halted him at the door. "I'll find the truth--"

"Please, don't place yourself in danger." He turned to her, taking in her worried blue eyes, the red waves tumbling over her shoulders. How did she manage to become so important to him? "I will prove my innocence. I hope that we can speak again, once I do."

He did not give her time to accept or deny his request; he unlocked the door and opened it, closing it between them before she could open her mouth, and possibly break his resolve.

Hearing her say no might possibly break his heart.

Martin did not want to find out if that were true.

# Nineteen

The day of the funeral turned out warm, sunny, and picture perfect. Not the type of weather for mourning.

Like Maggie expected, most of the village filled St. Mary's Church, the 17th century stone church in the middle of the high street. Edward was also there, and since they had been classmates at Oxford, she wasn't surprised to see him.

Edward raised his hand to her when she passed the pew he sat in. She nodded, and kept going, her heart skipping a little at the interest in his gaze. Then she saw Martin, and everyone else faded.

He sat next to Drew, and wore a dark suit that brought out his grey blue eyes. His dark brown, wavy hair brushed the collar of his jacket, and an image of him in a dirt-streaked khaki shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbow to highlight his strong forearms, flashed through her mind.

Her reaction to seeing him again, after he had left her house and moved into La Fleur days ago, shocked her with its intensity.

Maggie cared about him--more than she should.

He's leaving, so stop even thinking that there could be anything--

"Mags." Spencer appeared at her side and draped an arm around her shoulders. "All right, love?"

"I expected this to be hard, since I found Giles. But I just feel--odd," she whispered, keeping her voice low. "I feel like I don't belong here."

"You live here, work here, bring in the tourists that sustain this village. You belong, Maggie." He shook her gently. "You always have."

Tears stung her eyes. His quiet words brought back memories of Aunt Irene, calling them in for a cold glass of fresh lemonade. "I miss her so much, Spence."

He pulled her in until her head rested against his chest. "So do I, love. She would be the first to tell you to get over it."

Maggie smiled, and lifted her head, meeting Spencer's eyes. "You're right."

"As usual."

"Smart aleck."

"You know it."

She hugged him. "Thanks, Spence. I love you."

"I love you back, Mags." He let her go, gesturing to Martin. "Why don't you go sit next to him? You know you want to."

She did--so much. Instead, she sat with Spencer, across the aisle. Martin turned to her as she sat; when she met his eyes, that same shock jolted her.

Heaven help her. She had it bad.

The ceremony started, distracting her. Martin nodded his head, and turned his attention to the front of the church. Maggie watched him, studying his strong profile. Spencer elbowed her, and she jerked, aware that she was staring.

She faced forward, not seeing or hearing anything--until they stood to sing, and Martin's rich voice rose over the others. This time she stared openly, along with most of the people around them.

Martin didn't seem to notice. He kept singing, oblivious to the fact that he was the only one singing, until the music stopped, and he realized that everyone was watching him.

Reverend Walker cleared his throat, directing everyone's attention back to the funeral.

"Giles will be interred in the cemetery outside the village. His family has extended an invitation to any who would care to attend."

Giles' older brother, Gareth, and his wife, sat in the front row, both of them quiet and clearly uncomfortable. Maggie knew from local gossip--meaning Enid--that Gareth had left Holmestead to go to school in London, and had never looked back.

After a final prayer, the ceremony ended. People stood, murmuring to each other as they made their way out of the church. Maggie and Spencer stood, and she stepped into the aisle, almost running into Enid.

"I'm sorry, Enid..." Her voice faded when she looked at the older woman. Tears ran down Enid's face, her eyes so filled with grief, it sparked Maggie's. "Come with me."

"I don't think--ˮ

Maggie tucked Enid's hand in the crook of her arm and led her into one of the side chapels. It was cool, and quiet, the perfect place for confessions. She took Enid's hands, and squeezed them.

"Tell me why you've been avoiding me."

"I--oh, my dear." Her voice shook, and Maggie let go of one hand to wrap her arm around Enid's hunched shoulders. "Giles and I were having a clandestine affair." She took a few seconds to compose herself, which gave Maggie time to get past the shock, then continued. "When you were accusing Giles of hurting Angus, I simply--lost control of myself. Now, he's gone, and I am alone--"

She started sobbing. Maggie held her, rubbing her back, letting her vent her grief. After a few minutes, Enid pulled away, wiping her face with an already soaked handkerchief.

"Thank you, my dear. Your concern is unexpected."

"I like you, Enid. Your shop is--not my taste, but I have always wanted to be friendly. You don't really give a person the chance."

"I will." She glanced at Maggie, almost shy. "I know my shop borders on tackiness. Would you be willing--never mind."

"I'd love to help you, Enid." The older woman stared at her, and Maggie smiled. "I happen to be a huge Sherlock Holmes fan. We can turn your shop into a destination--especially for those tourists who come here thinking Holmestead is Holmes R Us."

"I--thank you, Maggie." She patted Maggie's hand. "I expected you to be like Irene, but you have a kind heart. A good heart."

Maggie felt her cheeks heat at the compliment. She wanted to defend Aunt Irene, but she knew how much Irene had disliked Enid. Instead, she cleared her throat. "We'll talk when you're ready, okay?"

For the first time, Enid looked like she might want to go on past today. "Okay."

After a last hug, Maggie left her alone, and stepped out of the chapel, almost running into Martin.

"Hello," he said. He sounded so--distant. And it hurt. "Are you going to the cemetery?"

"No. I'm not feeling well."

Concern cut through the distance, and he moved toward her. "What is it, Maggie?"

"Nothing. I just--there are too many recent memories."

"Of course." He retreated, without moving an inch. "Since Giles was once a friend, I feel an obligation to attend." He pulled a pocket watch out of the inside pocket of his jacket, and opened it. "I do have long enough to escort you home, if you like."

She didn't hear a word after he opened the watch.

"I have to go." She pushed past him, looking for Drew. He stood at the end of the aisle, studying everyone who walked past. Her heart pounding, she forced herself to walk down the aisle, instead of sprinting. "Drew, I need a favor."

"I am a bit occupied at the moment."

"I need--ˮ She moved in and lowered her voice, so only he could hear. "I need to see the inventory of the receiving room, where Giles was killed."

Drew looked at her like she'd been hit over the head. "Whatever for?"

"I think I know who the killer is."

# Twenty

Drew kept her waiting while he went into the church to tell Ian he was leaving, then took her to the station. He refused to let her talk until they were inside.

"Convince me, Maggie."

"There was a pocket watch at the scene--on the work table. I don't think it was Giles' watch, but I need to see the inventory to be sure."

He rubbed one hand over his hair, and let out a sigh. "If you were anyone else, I would point you to the door. Don't make me regret this, Maggie."

"If what I think is there is actually there, you'll be the first to know."

"All right." He strode into the back of the station, leaving Maggie with Ian Reynolds, who chose the short straw for duty. The rest of the small force was at the funeral. Maggie paced the waiting area, hoping she was right, but not wanting to be. Endless minutes later, Drew returned, holding a slim file folder. "Five minutes, Maggie. I shouldn't be giving you that much. The inventory is the third page of the report."

"Thank you, Drew."

He handed her the folder, halting inches from her reaching hand. "This will cost you dinner. With me."

"Deal." Anything to get that file.

He smiled. "I'm happy to hear that. I need to take care of a mess in the back, but I'll return in five minutes to take that file out of your hand."

"Got it."

"Ian." He gestured to the hall. "I need your help back here for a minute."

"Right away."

Drew handed the folder to her before he followed Ian into the back. She opened it, flipping to the third page. Her finger shook as she scanned the inventory list--and her heart jumped when she found it.

Entry number twelve. A Patek Philippe watch.

Just like Edward's.

She felt the presence just before something hard and cold pressed into her back.

"So clever, Maggie." Edward's voice stilled her. She swallowed, and sucked in her breath when what she knew was the barrel of a pistol dug into her still tender right side. "Too clever. Now hand over the file, like a good girl." She did, and he snatched it out of her hand. "Now, we are going to walk out of here, slowly. If you make one sound to alert the PC, then I will be forced to take care of him. Are we understood?"

She nodded, figuring that even a whispered yes would be considered a sound.

Edward backed her away from the counter, and turned her to the door.

"Now," he said, his breath warm on her cheek. "We will walk up the high street, to the car I have there. Then your actions will decide what happens next."

He moved to her side and wrapped his arm around her waist, keeping the pistol pressed into her side. Maggie tried not to breathe deeply, or move anything aside from her legs. Edward set an easy pace, smiling at the tourists already strolling the pedestrian street.

They nearly reached the car park when Martin burst out of a side street. He skidded to a halt when he saw her and Edward.

"Let her go, Ed."

Edward snarled at him. "You are more than aware that I hate being addressed by that name, Pembroke." He let Martin see the pistol. "Your appearance has forced me to change my plans. You will walk ahead of us, into that--ˮ He waved at the tiny 12th century church across the pedestrian area, on a small side street. "Then I must deal with you."

Maggie stared at Martin, shaking so badly she was afraid her legs would give out. Martin nodded slightly, then focused on Edward.

"If you harm one hair, one inch, I will destroy you."

"Who has the weapon, Pembroke? Your threats mean nothing to me." Maggie heard a tremor in his voice. She wasn't surprised that they knew each other; Edward obviously collected artifacts, and like Martin had told her, archaeology was a small world. "Now move."

With a final glance at Maggie, Martin walked across the street, maneuvering around a group of tourists listening to one of the local guides talk about the church they were headed to.

The pretty young guide pointed. "Behind you is the Chapel of Edward the Confessor, dedicated to the King by his loving subjects."

Everyone turned to look, just as she, Martin, and Edward stepped in their line of sight. Edward froze, then after digging the pistol into her side so hard she was afraid he'd break skin, he gave Martin a warning glance before he smiled down at her.

"Looks like we became part of the tour, darling." He turned his charm on for the guide. "Forgive us for interrupting your lovely talk."

"Oh, please, don't concern yourself." She practically started drooling when he smiled at her. "We're heading down to the harbor next."

"Come, darling." He prodded Maggie with the pistol. She bit her lip to keep from gasping at the pain. "I would love to take a closer look at this church."

"You'd best not take too long. There's a special ceremony planned there for tonight."

"Thank you for the information. Will it be open to the public?"

"Sorry, no."

"Well, then, we will enjoy the exterior." After another charming smile, he guided Maggie toward the small church.

Martin kept walking in front of them, his shoulders stiff, his hands clenched in fists. Maggie could tell by his body language that he wanted to do something, but he was helpless. One small movement from Edward's finger, and she was dead.

They walked down the steps to the small stone courtyard in front of the church. Edward pretended to play tourist until the group left. "Check the door, Pembroke. If it happens to be locked, find a way to open it. Quickly."

He put more pressure on the pistol, and this time Maggie gasped. Every breath hurt, her healing bruises throbbing like they were fresh. Martin looked like he wanted to punch Edward, but he moved to the arched wood door. It opened when he twisted the old latch.

"What now, Ed? You take us inside and kill us? How far do you think you will get after leaving bodies in your wake?"

Edward smiled, a smile so cold Maggie shuddered. "All the way to a new life. Move." Martin glanced at Maggie, and Edward closed his free hand around her throat. "Do you want to watch her die right now? Stop thinking about how you plan to attack me and get inside. Stay in the center of the church, arms out, or I will shoot her."

"Fine." Martin spat out the single word, fury almost pouring off him. "We will dance, you and I, before this is done."

Edward's laugh shot dread through her. "You will be dead before this is done, Pembroke. I have wanted you out of my way for years. It seems my patience is finally bearing fruit."

Martin disappeared inside, and Edward hauled her forward, into the dim interior. As ordered, Martin stood in the center of the tiny church, arms spread. Edward finally moved the pistol, and she took her first deep, painful breath--only to have it stick in her throat when he pressed the barrel to her temple.

"Find something to tie both of you. Something sturdy, Pembroke, or she will suffer for any attempt to allow you to escape."

Martin stalked over to the small, plainly dressed altar. A wide, low wood bowl and a clay jar sat in the middle, probably for whatever ceremony was planned for later. They weren't dusty, and too new to belong to the church.

I can't believe I'm dating objects with a pistol pointed at my head.

Her mind kept inventorying what she could see, like it knew the rest of her needed the distraction to keep from falling apart, and getting them both killed before they had the chance to escape.

Martin's return stopped her mental inventory. He held up two thick, silk ropes. Maggie recognized them as decorative ropes used to close off special pews. Since there were none here, they must have been brought in for some other use today.

Perfect.

Edward leaned down and whispered in her ear. "Put your hands together in front of you, my darling Maggie."

She swallowed, and obeyed. Her right elbow ached from tensing her muscles since he had grabbed her, and when Edward tied her wrists together--not gently, for all his sweet talk--the ache flared to pain.

"Now you, Pembroke." Edward had the pistol back at her temple. "On your knees, arms behind your back." Martin lowered himself to the dusty stone floor, and put his arms behind him. Edward let her go, and stepped behind him, stripping his jacket off. "No need to bloody such a well-made jacket."

Edward tucked the pistol in his waistband just long enough to tie Martin's arms together, from wrist to elbow. She knew the awkward position had to hurt him. After Edward finished, he smiled at Maggie, and shoved Martin forward.

She let out a hoarse cry when he toppled and rushed forward to stop him. Edward yanked her back, letting out a satisfied grunt when Martin smacked the floor. The sound of shattering glass told her that his face had hit the floor hard enough to break his glasses.

"You son of a--ˮ

"Now, now. Such words, from a woman as lovely as you." He dragged her over to Martin's prone figure and pushed her to her knees. "Help him, if you must. It will be wasted effort."

Maggie ignored the threat behind his words, leaning forward to help Martin up. It wasn't easy, but she managed to give him enough leverage to straighten on his own.

"Are you all right?" She raised her bound hands, and awkwardly, carefully removed his broken glasses. Shards of glass had cut his left cheek, and she could tell the left side of his face would bruise from the impact.

If they lived that long.

Stop it--think of a way out.

"I've been better," he muttered. Pain edged his voice, and he kept shifting his shoulders. "I am so sorry I dragged you into this."

"I'm the one who bought the box."

"I practically forced you to show me where Giles lived--ˮ

She lifted her hands and pressed her fingers to his lips. "It wasn't like that, and you know it."

He studied her, his eyes so intense her breath caught in her throat. "Maggie, I--ˮ

"Enough of the bleeding heart goodbye." Edward moved to Martin, and lifted the pistol until it sat in the hollow of Martin's throat. "I did want you to watch Maggie go first, but I no longer have the patience to wait. I want you to die, Pembroke, slowly, and in as much pain as I can manage."

"Why?"

Edward looked offended. "You have blocked my career at every turn! When I went after a grant, or approached a benefactor for support, they always told me that they were already sponsoring you. You--the poor, youngest son of an Earl, who was ashamed of the most important part of himself." He sneered as he said it, sliding the pistol down to Martin's heart. Maggie tensed, ready to ram into Edward if he even thought of pulling the trigger. "I want to watch you suffer, in payment for all the years you have--ˮ

"Edward."

Maggie swung around at Drew's voice, and the hope that he had come to help them died with a sickening thud when she saw that the pistol in his hand was aimed at her. Martin's quiet voice confirmed the betrayal.

"I don't believe he is here for us, Maggie."

"Drew--what are you doing?"

"Securing my future." He moved to Edward's side, his eyes cold as he looked at her. "I know you were leading me on, Maggie, just to get information out of me."

"I wasn't--ˮ

"I might believe you, if you didn't look at him," he waved his pistol at Martin, "like you had just found the Holy Grail."

She swallowed, tried again. "You didn't kill Angus."

"No." Edward answered for him. "I killed the selfish fool. No matter how much I offered him, he refused to give up the bloody jar."

"Then how did Drew become involved?"

"I managed to wipe the room clean--except for the watch I planted." Edward smiled at Martin. "That was an inspiration of the moment. Giles gave it to me in exchange for some frippery for his museum. Your fingerprints were not on it, Pembroke, but mine were."

Drew took over. "I had Edward brought in, ready to arrest him. Then he offered me a deal I couldn't refuse."

"You betrayed your oath," Maggie said. She put as much scorn as she could into her voice, satisfied to see Drew flinch.

He recovered quickly. "I had plans, and they didn't include being trapped in a stifling village, pretending I cared about the fools who thought they were living the ideal life. When you arrived, Maggie, I thought I might be able to stay. But you treated me as a friend, not the lover I wanted to be."

"I never knew--ˮ

"Yes, you did!" He took a deep breath, visibly controlled himself. "I could have waved a sign in front of you, and you still would have refused what I offered. You're just like your aunt, nose in the air, above everyone else." He strode forward and pulled Maggie to her feet. "I told you to stop poking around, to let me do my job. But you just could not let it go, could you? I was trying to protect you."

He hauled her forward and kissed her.

Maggie fought him, terrified at the desperate need in his rough embrace. When he tried to force her mouth open, she bit his lip.

He shouted, and shoved her at the altar. "Even with a last chance, you throw it away. For him?"

She clutched the side of the altar, her right arm throbbing from impact. "For Giles. For Angus. You killed Giles, didn't you?"

He lifted his chin. "The stubborn fool wanted money for the jar, after he had been given the bloody thing."

Edward turned on him. "And I told you that I would be happy to offer him a finder's fee! But you were already swinging the statue at the back of his head, like the mindless commoner you are."

Drew clenched his fists, and Maggie waited for him to punch Edward. Instead, he relaxed. "I may be a commoner, but it was my idea to lay the blame on him." He pointed at Martin.

"Which would have worked, had you not killed Giles while Pembroke was locked up."

Drew's nostrils flared. "I would have covered it up, after his unfortunate accident."

Maggie couldn't believe what Drew was saying. "You were going to kill Martin, and make him the scapegoat?"

"I was going to think about myself for a change. What is so wrong about that?"

"When it costs the lives of innocent people, all kinds of wrong."

Drew started toward her, and she knew she'd let her tongue speak before her brain could stop it. Edward caught him, whispering to him furiously.

Maggie took advantage of their distraction, and used the altar to push to her feet. The jar had been upset when Drew threw her against it, spilling some of the contents. A familiar scent tickled her nose.

She looked at the stain on the altar cloth, then at the jar.

And had a crazy idea.

She took a deep breath, closed her hands around the jar, and glanced over her shoulder.

"How much?" she said.

Her words stopped the argument mid whisper. They both looked at her, and Edward spoke first.

"How much? What are you asking, Maggie?"

"How much to leave us here, alive, and walk away."

Edward glanced at Drew, who shrugged.

"Are you bribing us, darling Maggie?"

"My great aunt left me a sizable inheritance. Enough for both of you to create new lives. It will buy our silence. Write a letter of resignation, Drew, and no one will question your sudden disappearance."

Edward turned back to Drew. "You were right. Our Maggie does have an intriguing mind. How much are we talking?"

She knew appealing to their greed would grab their attention. Now it was time to show she could lie like a pro. She'd lied to her parents--and herself--for years.

"Five million pounds," she said. "Liquid."

Edward's eyes gleamed at the amount. "Liquid?"

"It's all in the bank, easily accessible by wire transfer." As she talked she inched the jar closer to her, working her fingers up to the lid of the jar. It was a small, inset lid that flipped open, and she needed it open for her plan to even have a chance. "All you have to do is say yes, and I can do it on the closest available mobile. In a public place."

Drew started to shake his head. "I don't believe you."

"Aunt Irene owned the shop and the flat above it outright, as well as her house. She sold her other property when she knew she was not going to recover, to leave an inheritance for me." It took all her control not to look at Martin, convey to him that she had a reason for trying to make a deal. "Her banker, Grey Roscommon, will be happy to confirm the amount."

That sucked them in. Grey was her aunt's banker, and now hers. But there was nowhere near five million in her account. She didn't plan for it to get that far.

"Very well," Edward said. "You have just bought your life back."

"Our lives." Her heart pounded so hard, she could hardly breathe. "It's both of us, Edward, or nothing. And I want you and Drew to shake my hand on the deal."

They started whispering again, which terrified her. If the answer was no, they could turn around and just shoot her and Martin. She kept working her hands up the jar, flying blind, and almost sagged in relief when her fingers touched the small clay lid.

After several tries, she knew she had flipped it open when the scent of frankincense wafted up to her. Worst case, she could hit at least one of them.

Drew's voice startled her so much she nearly dropped the jar. "You drive a hard bargain, Maggie. But we agree." He gave Edward a hard look. After endless seconds, Edward nodded. "I want Martin face down on the floor, since we'll have to turn our backs to him. I will do it." He grabbed Edward's arm when Edward started moving. "You may lose control before we can complete the deal."

"But you promised me--ˮ He cut himself off, but Maggie knew what he was going to say. Drew had promised to let him kill Martin.

"If Edward touches him, the deal is off. Two point five million pounds, Drew. Free and clear. All you have to do is keep him under control."

He stalked forward, and Maggie was afraid she'd pushed too hard. When he dug his fingers into her right shoulder, she waited for him to drag her over and shoot them both.

"Someday, I will return for you." He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. Maggie hunched forward, desperate to hide the bottle in her hands from him, but he was too busy nibbling her ear, with a wet enthusiasm that made her want to shudder. "Stay here."

He paused next to Edward long enough to whisper something to him, then moved to Martin. For the first time, Maggie risked a glance at him, and almost fell over when he winked at her.

It was sly, fast, and with the eye facing away from Drew, but she saw it. Somehow, that one small gesture boosted her fast-fading courage. She turned her attention to Edward, gave him a smile she hoped said "I trust you," and watched him approach.

After Drew shoved Martin to the ground, with more force than necessary, Maggie stopped feeling the least bit bad about what she planned to do.

She tightened her grip on the jar as Drew sauntered over, like he had the world at his feet. The timing had to be perfect; with her hands tied, she lost some of her control.

Her muscles tensed. She forced herself to relax, to visualize the movements and the result.

The second Drew reached Edward's side, Maggie struck.

She swung around, gauging distance as she raised the jar and tossed the oil in their faces.

Edward screamed, clawing at his eyes. Drew came at her, even though his eyes must have been burning, his arms outstretched, searching for her.

"You are dead, Maggie! Do you hear me--when I catch you, you are--ˮ

He grunted and toppled forward. Maggie saw the reason as he fell.

Martin.

Somehow, he'd used the time she was distracting them to get to his feet. Dirt and sweat stained his once pristine white shirt.

"All right?"

She leaned against the altar, her adrenaline draining so fast she felt lightheaded. "I think so."

He moved in until his breath brushed her lips. "That was incredibly foolish, Miss Mulgrew." She opened her mouth to defend herself, shocked into silence when he kissed her. It was fast, but tender, and she wanted more. "Thank you for risking it."

He turned around, and she managed to untie him. With a groan, he eased his arms down, and fumbled her knots loose. She knew he wasn't completely recovered when he moved to the hunched, moaning figures.

"What was in the jar?"

"Frankincense oil."

Martin flinched, and rolled Drew over, tying his hands behind him. "Remind me never to anger you, Maggie Mulgrew."

She smiled. "You'll be fine, as long as you don't drag me to a deserted church and threaten to kill me."

He gave her his crooked smile, and she needed to sit. "Good to know. So, exactly how much of that was truth?"

"Everything, except the amount."

"How much?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Significantly less than five million--and that's all you're getting out of me."

Drew started cursing, and Edward just moaned louder.

Once Martin finished tying them, he pushed to his feet, obviously in pain. "What will counteract the oil?"

"Milk is the easiest. It will stop the burning."

He rubbed his left shoulder, then held out his right hand. "Shall we go and find some milk?" Maggie took his hand. When he pulled her up, he kept pulling, until she was in his arms. "You scared ten years off my life, Maggie."

"Sorry. I wanted to try and signal you, but I couldn't give myself away."

"It was perfect." He led her past the two men, putting as much space between them as the tiny church would allow. "I take it your skill with throwing knives came in handy?"

"Throwing liquid is much trickier, especially with my hands tied. It's why I had to get them as close as possible."

They walked outside, and Maggie turned her face up, letting the wind cool her flushed skin. Martin pulled his mobile out of his pocket and phoned the local emergency services. Edward had been too distracted to confiscate it.

"Have them bring milk," he said. After a pause, he smiled, winking at Maggie again. "They will understand, once they arrive at the scene. These men are the prime suspects in two local murders, and one of them is a Holmestead PC. There are two witnesses to their full confessions. You are speaking to one of them." Another pause, and his smile widened. "Who am I? Lord Pembroke Martin Deauville, son of the Earl of Berkshire."

Maggie covered her mouth at the expression on his face. He finished the call and tucked the mobile in his trouser pocket before he took her hand, twining their fingers together. It felt right; being here with him felt more right than anything in her life.

"What next?"

"We are expected at the Kent Police headquarters. We will give a statement, identify the suspects, then go home."

"You sound awfully sure of that, Lord Pembroke."

"I am." He kissed her, pulling her in until her hand was braced against his chest. When they came up for air, he cupped her chin, his grey blue eyes serious. "Do me one favor."

"Anything."

"Never call me Pembroke again."

# Twenty One

News of Drew's arrest spread through the village like wildfire.

After being left unconscious, bound and gagged, Ian Reynolds had come to, managed to untie himself, and was at headquarters when Martin had called in. He was put in charge of the investigation--and Maggie figured he would be in charge of the local station, sooner rather than later.

She knew he'd be perfect for the position, one he should have been given, instead of Drew Cooperman. That decision was going to take time to wash over, and she knew that certain individuals would lose their jobs because of it.

It was hard to feel sorry for them, especially after Drew's past indiscretions became public. He had been quite a bad boy in London, beating witnesses and suspects, losing his temper on a regular basis, and harassing female constables. His transfer to Holmestead had not been voluntary.

As far as Maggie was concerned, that transfer should have been straight to the nearest unemployment line.

Things worked out in the end, but not before innocent people suffered. Drew and Edward would never breathe free air again. Maggie and Martin were already set to testify against them, to make sure of it.

Now, days later, it was time to face the villagers.

Maggie used to walk to the high street to brace herself--and she was accosted by locals the second she appeared. Thankfully, Martin and Spencer flanked her, protecting her from any potential grabbing hands.

"Go on," Spencer said. "You'll hear all about it soon enough."

That got them as far as her shop. Enid stood in front of the door, arms crossed, her eyes narrowed.

Maggie halted, not wanting to deal with Enid's scorn. Not after a sleepless night, filled with bad dreams--when she actually slept.

Spencer took the hit for her by stepping up, hands on his hips.

"Maggie doesn't have anything to say."

"Well, I do, young man." She eyed him, her glare cold. "Now stand aside."

"It's okay, Spence." Maggie touched his arm. "I'm good."

He stood just behind her, probably ready to jump Enid if she so much as looked at Maggie wrong.

Enid marched forward, pointing at Maggie. "What were you thinking? Standing up to murderers like that? If you had been harmed, I never would have--ˮ To Maggie's shock she burst into tears.

Martin came to her rescue; he gently guided Enid away from the door, giving Maggie room to unlock it, then led Enid inside and sat her in the closest chair.

The shop was ice cold. Maggie went back to turn up the heat, only to find it already set at the normal temperature.

"Another thing to put on my list."

She sighed, making a mental note to hire Henry for the work. He had been moving quietly around the village since his return, and was unable to find work. Maggie wanted to help him find his way back into the village's good graces.

When she walked back out to the shop, she found Enid standing next to the counter, looking embarrassed.

"Maggie--ˮ

"No apologies, Enid." She moved around the counter, and hugged the older woman. "Thank you for caring enough to yell at me."

Enid chuckled. "I never thought I would warm to you, my dear. But you do have a way about you." With a final pat on her back, Enid let her go. "Speaking of warm, is your radiator out, dear?" She rubbed her arms. "It's nigh on to freezing here."

"Aunt Irene put in central heat, and yes, it's working. I already have it on my long list of things that need to be done."

"Then I won't add to it by delaying you." She hesitated, like she was about to ask something. Then she shook her head and stood, heading for the door.

Maggie thought she knew what that question was. "Enid--we'll talk about the changes to your shop next week, all right?"

"Yes, of course. That would be nice, dear. Spencer, Professor Martin." She nodded to each of them before she opened the door and left.

Spencer practically pounced. "What was that about?"

"I offered to help her change the ambiance of her shop."

"Make it less tacky and off-putting?"

"Spence." She smacked his arm, and he grinned. "Enid's not as bad as I thought. She's been through a rough time, and I want her to have a shop she'll be proud of. Besides, it'll allow me to indulge my love of all things Sherlock." Spencer rolled his eyes, but she knew he'd want to help. He was almost as much a fan. "Now, I want you to go home--your home, and get some sleep. I know you stayed up most of the night, watching over me."

"I'm fine, Mags."

The giant yawn right after he said that made her laugh. Which made her right side hurt. "Go home, Spence. For me."

"Right." He kissed her cheek, and surprised her by pulling her into his arms, careful of her bruises and scrapes. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."

He kissed the top of her head before he let her go, waving at Martin on his way out.

Martin waited until he door closed behind Spencer before he said anything.

"May I make a suggestion?"

"You may. It doesn't mean I'll take it."

"So I've learned." He started to push up his glasses, and realized he wasn't wearing them. His frames had been twisted beyond saving. "Close the shop today. You look exhausted, and by tomorrow, the official report will be in the paper, answering most of the questions you will be forced to spend the day fielding."

"I don't--ˮ The lights flickered on and off. Maggie sighed, shaking her head. "That's on my list for Henry to take a look at."

"Your lights are fine, Maggie." He took her hand, tugging on it until they stood toe to toe. "Your ghost is making herself known."

"I don't believe in--ˮ This time, the lights went off. "Shoot."

She started to tug her hand free. Martin responded by wrapping his other arm around her, leaning down until his lips were inches from hers.

"Time to start, love."

He kissed her, holding her as carefully as one of his precious artifacts. For the first time since Angus' murder, she felt safe. His fingers slid into her hair, and she eased back, looking up at him. In the dim light, his grey blue eyes looked dark, serious.

"Martin?"

He stared past her. "I did not want to burden you with this so soon after what happened."

"Now you have to tell me." She poked him in the chest, careful to avoid the bruises she knew marked most of his torso. Edward and Drew hadn't been careful with him. "Spill, Professor."

With a sigh, he met her eyes. "I'm afraid I am no longer a professor."

Shock jolted her. "What?"

"Because of the murders, and my association with them, the university feels that my continued presence will result in unpleasant difficulties."

"Good lord. Did you memorize that from the letter?"

"Email." He closed his eyes briefly, but not before she saw the flash of pain. "I am a man without a position, and without a home. I lived in a university owned flat."

"Stay here." The words popped out before she thought them through. But they felt right. "You're one of the best at finding things, Martin. Instead of doing it for the university, do it for people who will pay you for your skill."

"And where would I live?"

With me.

"In the flat above the shop. Your landlady will be very generous with the terms of the lease." When he opened his mouth to object, Maggie pressed a finger against his lips. "I told the truth about this building. Aunt Irene owned it outright, and passed that ownership to me. I wouldn't need you to pay rent until you're in a position to do it without stretching yourself."

Martin studied her for endless seconds, before he sighed, and laid his forehead against hers. "What did I do right to deserve you?"

The lights turned on, revealing the need in his eyes. Without his glasses, every emotion was easy to read.

"You walked into my shop, Professor Martin, and called me a Yank."

His laughter echoed through the shop. The lights flickered in response, and Martin's eyes widened.

"Maggie, meet your ghost." He turned her around, his hands on her shoulders.

She understood why when she saw the figure standing next to the counter.

It looked like her Aunt Irene, but much younger, in a gown that screamed Regency England.

Between one pounding heartbeat and the next, the figure disappeared.

"I--what--I think I have to lie down."

Chuckling, Martin led her to the settee near the window, and sat, pulling her down next to him. She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder.

"Welcome to my reality, Maggie Mulgrew."

"Have you--ˮ

"On more than one occasion. I seem to attract them. Even in my family home--which is thick with ghosts--I could see them as a child. I never lost the ability. The stories behind why they stay after death intrigues me."

"What is the story behind the apothecary jar?"

He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and she snuggled against him.

"The story is this: a woman fell in love with the wrong man, and he used the contents of the apothecary jar to poison her. It is the reason she's attached to the jar."

Maggie lifted her head. "That's not very romantic."

"Ghost stories are not always romantic, Maggie, but I'm not done." He gently lowered her head back to his shoulder. "The man accidentally spilled some of the poison into his own cup, and died just after her, while toasting his success in killing his wife for her money."

"Karma."

"Sometimes she doesn't wait." He kissed the top of her head, and continued. "The man who had loved her all her life found them. He knew that her husband was the culprit, and had already been punished for his crime. So this man gently picked her up, carried her to the sea she loved so well, and set her body on the waves. The tide carried her out, and he thought he had set her soul free."

He paused, and Maggie nudged him. "But?"

"Yes." He smiled down at her. "But, in death she discovered the love of her life, and she didn't want to lose that. So she followed him home, where he kept the jar in a place of honor, in memory of her."

"What happened to him?"

"He went off to war, and died in a foreign country, lost to her forever. She tied her spirit to the jar, hoping he would return to her."

"That's too tragic. Is it true?"

"The deaths are real. I looked them up when I first heard about the jar. And her grave is empty. So, the question is, does she really pine for the man she loved only after she died? Or is it a bedtime story?"

Maggie sat. "You hunted for the jar, so you could see if she was real."

"I did."

"And?"

"It was stolen from me before I had the chance."

"But--you're getting it back, right? After the investigation?"

"I am. I would like you to be there when I receive it."

She kissed his cheek. "I'd like that, too."

With a sigh, she snuggled against him, her eyes closing without permission.

The last thing she remembered was Martin's quiet voice, soothing her to sleep.

***

Martin held Maggie while she slept, hardly daring to believe he had found her.

She was a strong, courageous woman, who loved history almost more than he did. More important, she respected it, and did her part to preserve the pieces she came across, with care and love.

He had never felt like he belonged anywhere--not even at Oxford. The name of Deauville followed him, no matter how much he accomplished, or how many artifacts he brought back to the university museum.

But here, with this woman, he felt a sense of belonging. A sense of peace he had never known.

"You bewitched me, Maggie Mulgrew," he muttered, kissing the top of her head. He smiled at the wild, rich red hair that brushed his cheek. It was as much a part of her as her smile, and her generous heart.

If she let him, if he let himself, he could make his long-held dream come true here, find his purpose again.

No more fighting for grants, or living by the schedule of men who had no understanding of what he did. He could do anything, be the man he wanted.

Maggie made him want all that, and more.

"Thank you, love."

He would tell her again, first thing, when she woke. For now, he would carry her up to bed, and find a place to sleep in the living room.

With a smile, he lifted her in his arms, and headed through the quiet shop.

He had finally found a place where he belonged.

He had finally found his way home.

~ * ~

Thank you for joining Maggie and her friends as she solves her first mystery! Written on the Wind, the next Maggie Mulgrew Mystery, is now available.

If you enjoyed Ghost of a Chance, I would love it if you took a moment and left a review. They are so important, and help other readers discover the books they want to read. Thank you!

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I'll leave you with a sneak peek of Written on the Wind. Enjoy!

# Excerpt from Written on the Wind

The box was waiting for Maggie when she and Martin returned, just like she'd left it.

"Not feeling motivated, Spence?"

Spencer leaned on the counter and flashed her his grin--the one that usually got him out of trouble. "I figured you would want to finish unearthing whatever treasures you bought."

She laughed. "Good answer."

Martin excused himself and headed for the door to the flat, and she caught Spencer looking after him. "What was the talk about, Mags? You're not crying into a beer, so I am assuming it ended well."

"Hilarious, Spence." She moved around the counter, laid her head on his shoulder. The toll from their emotional conversation slapped her. "Help me with this box, okay? Then I'm going to close up early."

Since it was Monday, she could afford to close up. The tour buses converged in the morning on Mondays, and were long gone now.

"You got it, love."

They tackled the box, pulling out more cheap, dusty souvenirs, and a few items she could actually sell. Martin showed up when they reached the bottom of the box, his gaze moving to the one item Maggie knew would interest him--a small jade vase. She decided to surprise him with it as a gift.

Spencer pulled out the last item. A square, fabric wrapped object. He hefted it, letting out a low whistle. "I would guess book, but this is heavy for such a small book."

He handed it to Maggie, and she carefully unwrapped the thick blue and gold damask. Inside was a book, like Spencer guessed. An old, leather bound book, the brown cover dark with age.

"Martin--can you look at this?"

He nodded. "I will need a pair of gloves."

She handed him a pair of the white cotton gloves she always kept behind the counter, and grabbed a pair for both her and Spencer. Martin slipped on the gloves before he accepted the book, and took his time as he studied every inch of the cover, then the binding. Maggie wanted to shout at him to hurry when he finally opened the cover. A folded piece of paper fell out, landing on the counter.

Spencer snatched it up before she could even start to reach for it, and carefully unfolded the heavy, yellowed paper.

"Whoa," he whispered, his eyes widening as he read it. Without another word, he handed the paper to Maggie.

She read it once, then cleared her throat and read the note out loud.

"Hold these books close ~ they are the key that will unlock the treasure you have worked so hard to acquire. Whether you deserve that treasure is for Fate to decide.

And she may not be kind, as you murdered me to make it your own."

A chill touched the back of her neck, like an icy hand. She jerked around, and caught a glimpse of the ghost she had recently learned about, and finally met face to face.

This couldn't be related to her--whoever she was. Could it?

Maggie shook off the thought, and held her hands out for the book. Martin carefully laid it in her palms, keeping the damask between her gloved hands and the book.

"It is heavy." She looked over at Martin. "Explanation, Professor?"

He smiled, his first real smile in some time. "The pages are double the thickness, and the cover is the thickest leather I have ever seen on a book. It is meticulous, the binding as close to perfect as a professional bookbinder."

She looked up at him. "This wasn't professionally bound?"

"The stitching is too uneven." He tilted the book up, so she could see the stitches along the top of the spine. "Bookbinders took pride in their work. The quality is good, but not up to the standard I normally see."

Maggie took a closer look, and saw what he meant. The stitches were farther apart, and not a uniform size. She set the book on the counter and turned the page; what should have been the title page was blank.

"That's odd." She carefully closed the book. No title on the front, or on the spine. She turned a few of the pages, only half surprised to see the cramped handwriting. "It's a journal."

Spencer leaned over her shoulder. "Any deep, dark secrets in there? The directions to this treasure?"

She patted his cheek. "Nothing so exciting. It looks like," she read a few lines, and opened to the middle of the journal, reading a few more. "It's a household log. See--the entries are separated by date."

Martin joined them, brushing his finger down the page as he read.

"13, July, 1829.

Nothing remarkable today. The house is run so well by the indomitable Mrs. Sever that I find myself with little to do, beyond dressing for my husband's infrequent appearances. The walls feel as if they are closing in on me. I thought that marrying, and living in the country with my beloved Jeremy, would give me more freedom than my family's small house in the village. Instead, I find myself more confined than ever. If Jeremy does not return from his business in the city tonight, I may go mad with it."

~ * ~

# List of British Slang

Here is a list of words, proving that English and American are two different languages. You will find some of them in Ghost of a Chance, and I guarantee more will appear in future Maggie Mulgrew Mysteries. Enjoy!

Daily life

advert \- advertisement, commercial

anticlockwise \- counterclockwise

bank holiday \- legal holiday

Beefeater \- nickname for the Yeoman Warders at the Tower of London

bobby/The Bill \- a policeman

cashpoint machine \- ATM, cashpoint for short

cheers \- goodbye, thank you, also a toast

concession \- discounted admission

dear \- expensive

fancy \- to be attracted to someone - I really fancy her!

football \- soccer

fortnight \- a contraction of fourteen nights, or 2 weeks

fringe \- hair bangs

half eight \- 8:30 - think half past (insert hour) and it will be a breeze to remember

holiday \- vacation

interval \- intermission (in theatres)

jumble sale \- rummage sale, usually for charity

left luggage \- place to check luggage for the day, replaces luggage lockers

lift \- the elevator

loo \- the toilet - ask for the bathroom only if you want a bath

mate \- your friend

naught/nought \- nothing

on offer \- for sale

pavement \- the sidewalk

pillar box/letter box \- public mailbox (look like short red pillars, hence the name!)

Police Constable/PC \- police officer

power point \- electric wall socket

queue \- line

queue up \- line up

Remembrance Day \- Veteran's Day

ring/ring up \- call on the phone

ring off/rang off - hang up or end phone call

self-catering \- rental accommodations, a flat or house that is rented by the week

solicitor \- an attorney

stone \- 14 pounds in weight

ta \- thank you

tick \- check mark

toilet \- just what it says

top up \- refill - also refers to adding minutes to pay as you go mobiles

Vice-Chancellor \- administration at university

WC \- short for water closet - just another name for the loo or toilet

wee \- small

zed \- the letter Z

Everyday items

bin \- a trash can

biro \- a ballpoint pen

braces \- suspenders

brolly \- an umbrella

clingfilm \- saran wrap or plastic wrap

cooker \- the stove

cotton buds \- Q-tips

cozzy \- a bathing suit

draughts \- checkers

dummy \- a pacifier

duvet \- a comforter, with removable cover - often it will replace the top sheet on your bed

flannel \- a washcloth

fag \- a cigarette

fiver \- £5 note

hob \- the stove burner

hoover \- the vacuum cleaner

jersey/jumper/pullover \- a sweater

knickers \- ladies' panties

ladybird \- a ladybug

mac \- a mackintosh raincoat, can also be generic for a raincoat - rain mac

mobile \- a cell phone

moggie \- a cat

nappy \- a diaper - not a napkin

pants \- underwear, briefs

plaster/sticking plaster \- a Band aid

pound note \- a dollar bill

quid \- another name for a pound note

rubber \- an eraser, not the other kind of rubber

Sellotape/sticky tape \- Scotch tape

serviette \- a napkin

skip \- a dumpster

smalls \- underwear

spanner \- a wrench

surgical spirit \- rubbing alcohol

suspenders \- garters, as in the kind that hold up stockings, not your trousers

telly \- the tv

tenner \- £10 note, or ten pounds

tights \- pantyhose, any type

tin \- a can

torch \- a flashlight

trainers \- sneakers or tennis shoes

trousers \- pants, slacks

Wellingtons/wellies \- rubber boots, rain boots

English food

afters \- dessert

aubergine \- eggplant

banger \- sausage

bangers and mash \- sausage and mashed potatoes

bap \- a soft, round, floured roll

beetroot \- beet

bill \- your restaurant check

biscuit \- cookie - and to confuse you further, biscuit can also refer to crackers, as in biscuits for cheese

bitter \- dark ales served a little below room temperature - order beer and this is what you will get

black pudding \- sausage made from cooking animal blood with filler until congealed

bubble and squeak \- pan fried potatoes and cabbage (other veg can also be used)

Cadbury \- creamy, delicious chocolate in loads of different flavors - if you have had Cadbury in America, it is nothing like this

candyfloss \- cotton candy - just as sticky, just as tooth-achingly sweet

chicory \- endive

chips \- French fries

cider \- fermented apple juice - and quite potent!

clotted cream \- thick, incredibly delicious cream to spread on scones, or served with cake coriander \- cilantro

cottage pie \- minced beef and veg, topped with mashed potatoes - not to be confused with shepherd's pie

courgette \- zucchini

cream tea \- consists of a pot of tea, scones and strawberry jam, with the previously mentioned clotted cream - delicious!

crisps \- potato chips - in a million and one flavors

crumpet \- what we think of as an English muffin, but loads tastier

cuppa \- cup of tea - ah, instant relaxation

digestives \- tasty round cookies, made for babies and toddlers

entree \- appetizer - not the main course

fairy cake \- cupcake

fizzy drink \- pop or soda

Flake \- a long, crumbly stick of Cadbury chocolate - heaven!

gammon \- ham

gateau/gateaux \- a rich cake, usually served with cream

golden syrup \- a thick syrup used for sticky pudding and desserts - my nephews have it on their peanut butter sandwiches instead of jam or honey - yum!

hot pot \- a one pot stew, usually made with lamb, veg and sliced potatoes on top, slow cooked in a low oven

jacket potato \- baked potato

jelly \- jell-o

kippers \- smoked herring - I've had them cut in half and served on a plate for breakfast - beautiful!

ladyfingers \- light, crispy, sweet sponge cakes

lady's finger \- okra

lager \- closest to American beer, drunk from a pint glass instead of a bottle and served cold, but not as cold as you're used to

lemon squash \- lemonade, still

lemonade \- lemon lime soda, carbonated - think Sprite or 7-Up

mash \- short for mashed potatoes

mince \- ground beef or other meat

mushy peas \- dried peas that are soaked overnight and simmered until they go all, well, mushy - much tastier than they sound

pasty \- (pass-tee) savory half-moon shaped handheld pie, originally from Cornwall - a good one is heavenly, a bad one is like eating flavored glue (I've had both, unfortunately)

pickle \- a mixture of veg, spices and vinegar - looks like a brown lump on your plate, is a surprising burst of flavor when you eat it

pickled onions \- shallots in pickling vinegar - lovely with a good, creamy cheese

pub grub \- aka pub food - can be surprisingly good, and a good value as well

pudding \- general name for dessert

rasher \- slice of bacon

sausage roll \- sausage wrapped in pastry

savoury/savouries \- pastries that are savory instead of sweet

Scotch egg \- hardboiled egg wrapped in sausage meat, coated with bread crumbs and deep fried, then eaten cold

shandy \- lager and 7-Up

shepherd's pie \- minced lamb and veg, topped with mashed potatoes - not to be confused with cottage pie

soda \- soda water

soldiers \- finger size slices of toast - perfect for dipping in egg yolk

squash \- a concentrated drink for kids - add water and you're good to go

starters \- appetizers

stone \- the pit in your fruit

stout \- dark beer or ale

sultanas \- golden raisins

swede \- rutabaga

take-away \- fast food places like Pret a Manger or EAT will ask if your order is eat in or take-away - it means to go, and unless you're dying to sit in that noisy, often narrow room for an extra charge, say "take-away, please!"

tart \- like our pies, with fruit or jam - I've always had mine served with cream or custard

toad in the hole \- sausages cooked in Yorkshire pudding batter

treacle pudding \- steamed sponge cake with a thick syrup topping - can also be served with custard or cream

Yorkshire pudding \- a light batter that is baked in a tin with hot oil at very high heat until it rises - similar to popovers in America... but not really... just another unique bit of English cuisine

Places

apothecary - place that dispensed medicine and medical advice - now the modern chemist

bridleway \- public right-of-way path for walkers, horseback riders, and cyclists

bungalow \- single story house

canteen \- a cafeteria

casualty \- emergency room, may also be called A&E for accident and emergency

chemist \- pharmacist/ pharmacy - what you know as a drugstore, plus loads more on offer than you would ever expect

chippie/chip shop \- fish and chip shop

cinema \- movie theatre, where you go to see a film, not a movie

dress circle, upper circle \- the upper rows in the theatre (may also be called royal circle, grand circle, depending on the theatre) - these seats are close together, so you will be nose to knees with the person behind you

cupboard \- any closet in the house

en-suite \- bathroom is attached to the room and not shared

fell \- hill, mountain or high plain (Lake District and Pennine Dales)

first floor \- second floor (our first floor is the ground floor in England)

flat \- apartment

gallery \- balcony

gangway \- aisle in the theatre

gaol \- jail - pronounced the same

garden \- the entire yard, not just the flower or veg beds!

heath \- open land with low growing plants and vegetation

High Street \- the main street or road in a town

licenced restaurant \- restaurant with a license to sell alcohol

lift \- elevator

listed \- protected historic building

loft \- attic

London School of Economics/LSE \- well-known university in London

lounge \- living room

mews \- stables built behind 17th-18th century London houses, now converted into modern dwellings

newsagent \- similar to our convenience store

off-licence \- liquor store

pitch \- playing field

public footpath \- right of way path on private land that gives walkers the legal right to travel, also known as public rights of way

public school \- private school, i.e. Eton

stalls \- the best seats in the theatre, close to the stage

state school \- public school

theatre \- live theatre

to let \- to rent

towpath \- trail or road along the river, originally used to tow boats

Transport

bonnet \- the car hood

boot \- the car trunk

call \- as in call at the station, rather than stopping

caravan \- a trailer - and the cause of many a tailback

car park \- the parking lot

cat's eyes \- road reflectors

clearway \- section of road where it is illegal to stop

coach \- a long distance bus

diversion \- a detour

dual carriageway \- divided highway with a minimum of 2 lanes in each direction

flyover \- the overpass

ford \- low water crossing

gearstick \- the stick shift

give way \- yield

hand brake \- the parking brake

lorry \- a truck

motorway \- the freeway

petrol \- gas

return ticket \- a round trip ticket

roundabout \- a traffic circle

service areas \- freeway rest areas (also called motorway rest areas or MSAs)

single ticket \- a one way ticket

sleeping policeman \- a speed bump

slip road \- an entry or exit ramp

subway \- an underground walkway

tailback \- what we refer to fondly as a traffic jam

taxi rank \- a taxi stand

Tube/Underground \- the subway

verge \- grassy edge of the road

way out \- the exit

zebra crossing \- (rhymes with Debra) the crosswalk

English slang, or what did he just say?

all agog \- excited - I'm all agog!

bloody \- less offensive expletive - not bloody likely!

Bob's your uncle \- there you go, that's it!

brilliant \- magnificent, excellent

cheap as chips \- inexpensive

chuffed \- delighted, pleased

codswallup/codswallop \- nonsense (I've seen several spelling variations of this one - they all mean the same thing, a load of nonsense)

dicey \- risky

donkey's years \- ages, a long time

full Monty \- the whole thing, going all the way

gander \- to take a closer look at something - take a gander at that!

give over \- stop, give me a break

gobsmacked \- shocked, amazed, speechless

hen night/hen party \- bachelorette party

homely \- homey, cozy

hump \- to carry something heavy

just a tick \- just a second

loads \- lots - as in I use this word loads of times!

mean \- tight fisted, stingy

natter \- to talk incessantly, go on and on

nick \- to steal, take without permission

knackered \- exhausted

knock up \- to be woken up - please knock me up at 7 am (I had a B&B proprietor ask when I would like to be knocked up in the morning - fortunately I knew what she meant!)

over the moon \- ecstatic - he's over the moon about it!

pear-shaped \- gone wrong, become a disaster

pissed \- drunk (not something you want to say to someone of new acquaintance!)

put a sock in it \- shut up

rubbish \- nonsense

skive \- to avoid responsibility, as in skiving off work

snog/snogging \- kiss, kissing, making out

sod off \- piss off, get lost

sorted \- fixed the problem, worked things out

spend a penny \- go to the bathroom/loo

splash out \- spend far too much money!

stag night \- bachelor party

suss out \- figure out

taking the mickey \- making fun of someone

whinge \- (rhymes with hinge) to whine or complain in an exceedingly annoying fashion

wonky \- unstable, crooked

Yank \- American

# Ghost of a Chance

Maggie Mulgrew Mysteries Book 1

Cate Dean

Copyright, 2016

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author's imagination alone.

# About The Author

Cate Dean has been writing since she could hold a pen in her hand and put more than two words together on paper.

She grew up losing herself in the wilds of fantasy worlds, and has had some of her own adventures while tromping through the UK, and a few other parts of the world.

A lover of all things supernatural, she infuses that love into her stories, giving them a unique edge.

When she's not writing, she loves cooking, scaring herself silly in the local cemeteries, and reading pretty much anything she can get her hands on.

There - I got the official biography out of the way. I love to write, and yes, I have been doing it most of my life. I've made up stories in my head for as long as I can remember, and I am thrilled to be able to write them down and share them with you.

I love writing different types of stories, and jump from fantasy, to mystery and paranormal, then over to romance and YA. So many genres, so little time...

If you want to be the first to know when the next book is released, or be in on some fun, exclusive contests and giveaways, join my list here: <http://catedeanwrites.com/join-my-list>.

You can learn more about me and my books at my website: <http://catedeanwrites.com>

I look forward to meeting you. :)
Did you love _Ghost of a Chance_? Then you should read _More Than A Feeling_ by Cate Dean!

**The story of The Claire Wiche Chronicles begins...**

When Annie Sullivan steps into The Wiche's Broom, all she wants is a crystal, and a distraction from her life.

What she finds is Claire Wiche, owner, witch, and the distraction she never even dreamed of - an encounter with a ghost, and a request that throws them both into a murder mystery stretching back two hundred years.

 **The Claire Wiche Chronicles:  
Prequel - _More Than A Feeling_  
Book 1 - _Rest For The Wicked_  
Book 2 - _A Gathering of Angels_  
Book 3 - _Carry On Wayward Son_  
Book 4 - _Annie's Song_  
Book 5 - _What Doesn't Kill You_

Box sets:  
The Claire Wiche Chronicles Volumes 1-3  
The Claire Wiche Chronicles Volumes 4-5**

Read more at Cate Dean's site.
