wide mouth indicated he smiled a lot and his pronounced wedge of a chin put him in the nice-looking class instead of out and out handsome. The buttons of his brown tweed jacket strained to hold it together.
He crossed the lane to us. Royal kept the hand holding the clippers behind him as if braced on the stile.
“Darnel Fowler,” Fowler said in a rough voice like the other villagers’. “A very good morning to you. You must be our visitors from America.”
He didn’t offer his hand, we didn’t offer ours. I did not like the way his gaze traveled up my body, then tracked back down. “What brings you to Little Barrow of all places?”
Royal answered him with a cheerful smile. “I passed through last time I was in England, in 2007, and liked the look of the place. This is an interesting area.”
Darnel shrugged, his mouth hitched at one corner. “It is that.”
“And Little Barrow is central to the sites,” Royal went on. “Stonehenge, Salisbury, Bath.”
“Oh, aye. And don’t ignore our smaller towns. Devizes and Marlborough are worth a visit.” He smiled again. “Best be on my way. Nice meeting you.”
Royal nodded. “Likewise.”
Darnel Fowler went to his Bentley.
“He didn’t ask our names,” I commented as we watched him turn his car in the lane and drive toward the village.
“I am sure every person in Little Barrow right down to the children knows our names.”
Finally the only people in the lane, we hopped off the stile and peered at the clippers. To our relief, miniscule flakes of paint still adhered to the nail file.
We started back to the village. Royal handed me the clippers as we came abreast of Johnny.
As I crouched beside his scooter, Johnny asked, “What you doing?”
I squinted at the bike and the nail file. The paint could be a match, but we couldn’t be sure without the actual scooter and access to a lab. “This paint was on Fowler’s car. Looks like it came off your scooter.”
You don’t know how strange it is when a shade hoots out yet his expression does not change. It’s quite unsettling. “You got the bastard!”
I handed the clippers to Royal who dipped in his pocket, pulled out a plastic baggy and inserted the clippers. Keeping a supply of baggies is an old cop habit, although these came from a supermarket, not police-issue.
“Not yet, Johnny, but we will.”
Royal got on the phone again and tried the truck rental companies. These calls were more difficult. He again pretended to be Paul Norton, with the story he left something in the moving van. On the third call, to Pegasus Van Lines, the receptionist sounded angry and resentful when she asked what Royal was playing at. Royal hung up.
Tomorrow we would take a look at Pegasus Van Lines just outside Devizes. Peter Cooper’s office was in the same town. We didn’t need the Internet to locate Peter Cooper, we found him in the regional telephone directory. Peter Cooper was a private investigator.
Chapter Eight
Another day in Little Barrow and we actually made it to the restaurant in time for breakfast ala Hart and Garter. Meagan put a plate before me. “Bacon, and scrambled eggs American style.”
Thick bacon, well-cooked but not crispy. What did she mean by American style scrambled eggs?
“They generally eat their scrambled eggs moister,” Royal said from the corner of his mouth.
I resisted scowling at him. The Brit-English tutoring was wearing a bit thin. He meant well, but couldn’t he give me a break? So I was ignorant of British words and customs, so what? I didn’t need instruction or information on every little thing. Other visiting Americans got along just fine.
“You are so seductive when you pout.”
I swallowed my mouthful. “I do not pout.”
I felt Carrie nearby. Why did I only now sense her? Could English shades mask their presence?
I made a mental note to call Lynn when I got home. She is a telepath who sees shades, although not in the way I do. Lynn considered herself
He crossed the lane to us. Royal kept the hand holding the clippers behind him as if braced on the stile.
“Darnel Fowler,” Fowler said in a rough voice like the other villagers’. “A very good morning to you. You must be our visitors from America.”
He didn’t offer his hand, we didn’t offer ours. I did not like the way his gaze traveled up my body, then tracked back down. “What brings you to Little Barrow of all places?”
Royal answered him with a cheerful smile. “I passed through last time I was in England, in 2007, and liked the look of the place. This is an interesting area.”
Darnel shrugged, his mouth hitched at one corner. “It is that.”
“And Little Barrow is central to the sites,” Royal went on. “Stonehenge, Salisbury, Bath.”
“Oh, aye. And don’t ignore our smaller towns. Devizes and Marlborough are worth a visit.” He smiled again. “Best be on my way. Nice meeting you.”
Royal nodded. “Likewise.”
Darnel Fowler went to his Bentley.
“He didn’t ask our names,” I commented as we watched him turn his car in the lane and drive toward the village.
“I am sure every person in Little Barrow right down to the children knows our names.”
Finally the only people in the lane, we hopped off the stile and peered at the clippers. To our relief, miniscule flakes of paint still adhered to the nail file.
We started back to the village. Royal handed me the clippers as we came abreast of Johnny.
As I crouched beside his scooter, Johnny asked, “What you doing?”
I squinted at the bike and the nail file. The paint could be a match, but we couldn’t be sure without the actual scooter and access to a lab. “This paint was on Fowler’s car. Looks like it came off your scooter.”
You don’t know how strange it is when a shade hoots out yet his expression does not change. It’s quite unsettling. “You got the bastard!”
I handed the clippers to Royal who dipped in his pocket, pulled out a plastic baggy and inserted the clippers. Keeping a supply of baggies is an old cop habit, although these came from a supermarket, not police-issue.
“Not yet, Johnny, but we will.”
Royal got on the phone again and tried the truck rental companies. These calls were more difficult. He again pretended to be Paul Norton, with the story he left something in the moving van. On the third call, to Pegasus Van Lines, the receptionist sounded angry and resentful when she asked what Royal was playing at. Royal hung up.
Tomorrow we would take a look at Pegasus Van Lines just outside Devizes. Peter Cooper’s office was in the same town. We didn’t need the Internet to locate Peter Cooper, we found him in the regional telephone directory. Peter Cooper was a private investigator.
Chapter Eight
Another day in Little Barrow and we actually made it to the restaurant in time for breakfast ala Hart and Garter. Meagan put a plate before me. “Bacon, and scrambled eggs American style.”
Thick bacon, well-cooked but not crispy. What did she mean by American style scrambled eggs?
“They generally eat their scrambled eggs moister,” Royal said from the corner of his mouth.
I resisted scowling at him. The Brit-English tutoring was wearing a bit thin. He meant well, but couldn’t he give me a break? So I was ignorant of British words and customs, so what? I didn’t need instruction or information on every little thing. Other visiting Americans got along just fine.
“You are so seductive when you pout.”
I swallowed my mouthful. “I do not pout.”
I felt Carrie nearby. Why did I only now sense her? Could English shades mask their presence?
I made a mental note to call Lynn when I got home. She is a telepath who sees shades, although not in the way I do. Lynn considered herself
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