“Oh heavens,” one villager said.
“We’re doomed,” another added.
“I don’t know why they make such a to-do,” Betty said to Lorna. “It happens all the time.”
Yes, it was storming again with thunder and lightning and fierce winds. The leaves blew off the trees and cascaded through the streets. Signs blew off of shop fronts and the rocking horse in front of Crabtree Antiques rolled down High Street and into the Slumber, where he traveled all the way to the sea and finally to France. That traitor.
“Is that blood?” one villager cried, looking at a small pool of red on the table.
“It’s ketchup,” another explained, and all eyes turned on Lorna yet again. Americans and their bloody ketchup.
I hate ketchup, Lorna mouthed silently.
The villagers clutched one another in terror and wondered how they were going to get home. They cried out for more sandwiches and were refused. Finally, out of desperation, Jackie Abrahms said that everyone should come to the Golden Bough to get good and shnockered, and Lorna was glad for it.
“About time,” she said to herself as she ran from the café to the Golden Bough. Everyone made the same mad dash, some holding plastic bags over their heads. The Union Jack on the facade of the public house whipped back and forth in the wind, and it broke the villagers’ hearts to see it. It was as though the Queen herself were out there, being pummeled by the dreadful weather.
Inside the Golden Bough, the mood began to shift. Jackie started serving up ale and Ralph went in the back to heat up the fryer.
“I know the circumstances are frightful, but I have to say that this is all utterly charming,” Lorna said to Betty, who was wearing one of those plastic old-lady caps that protects their hair on a rainy day.
“Isn’t it, though?” Betty replied conspiratorially.
It was warm and cozy, like being inside a hunting lodge. The fireplace was going in no time, the overstuffed chairs and banquets were populated by happy guests, pictures of horses and hounds were framed on the walls, and a collection of ye-olde tin and brass cups hung from the ceiling.
Within an hour’s time, the atmosphere inside the Golden Bough was so cozy that one could be forgiven for forgetting that a murder had even taken place. Would you believe it? Elizabeth Larkin sat at the bar, drinking a Guinness and grading papers. It was a surreal sight.
The storm continued fiercely outside, and Lorna secretly hoped that maybe Benjamin from the supermarket would drive her home in his Peugeot. Certainly not Flo. No, Flo had thrown Lorna under the bus. She promised herself that the next time she shopped at the Super, she would buy one of every different kind of produce and take the stickers off them all so that Flo would have to look them up one by one. Yes, she would have her revenge.
But until then, Lorna was seriously enjoying herself. Ralph brought out platters of fish and chips, and Lorna had to consider the fate of the marinating chicken that waited for her at home. She decided to not worry about it. Heck, she might just let that chicken marinate overnight. Lorna would live on the edge.
“Who do you think did it?” Lorna asked, leaning towards Betty.
“It’s a good question,” her friend replied. “I’m not getting any strong signals at the moment.”
“It’s because you’ve had two beers,” Lorna quipped.
“In fact, you might be right,” Betty said, taking another sip of her Guinness.
“Well, I think that we can figure this out,” Lorna said with assurance.
“You do?”
“Absolutely. Small town, clear motives, terrible police force,” Lorna said, looking over to Bumblethorn who was dancing the Macarena. “If we don’t do it, no one else will.”
“I believe you are quite right,” Betty said, lifting her beer.
The women clinked their glasses in a toast. Together, they’d get to the bottom of who killed John Larkin. And if they couldn’t figure it out, they’d pretend like they never intended to.
Chapter 9
The tension rose over the next few days, until Lorna thought she could not bear it a moment longer. The fear instilled in the villagers was palpable. Business carried on as usual—Lorna and Betty would go to Muriel’s Café for pancakes—but the patrons eyed one another with suspicion. At the supermarket, folks pushed their carts with hostility. Those riding their bikes in the park were on edge, ready to get out of dodge at a moment’s notice.
Even Lord Nottingham eyed Lorna with scorn.
“I didn’t do it!” she told him on more than one occasion.
This wasn’t the Tweed that Lorna had come to love so quickly. No, it simply wouldn’t do. The murderer needed to be brought to justice so that the village could return to its natural cheer. But where to begin?
Lorna looked over her notes while drinking tea at the library.
“You can’t drink that in here,” Rachel, the old librarian chided her from the front desk. She was reading a dusty old ledger and looking at Lorna as though she were the murderess herself.
“I didn’t do it,” Lorna told the woman, but her words fell on deaf ears. The accusatory stares continued.
Lorna heaved a sigh and returned to her notes. There had to be a way to come to a conclusion.
Maurice didn’t like John Larkin
Evie is far too cheery
Elizabeth’s hair is flawless
Revenge on Flo?
Was she a five-year-old? Jesus. Lorna’s notes were pathetic. She was going nowhere fast. Thank goodness in the days following the murder Betty was the only one that didn’t eye her with suspicion, but that’s because she couldn’t see! Oh, enough with the blind jokes, Lorna thought to herself.
No, she had to admit that she wasn’t the only one that was getting “the look.” Everyone was subject to it. There was no point to taking it all personally. There was a murderer in their midst, and everyone had the right to be afraid.
Lorna sneezed.
“Shh!” Rachel said, putting a finger over her lips.
The library was stifling. She had gone there for the silence, to collect her thoughts, but she found it all deafening. No, she needed some fresh air in order to think.
Lorna stepped out onto High Street in the warm sunshine. That’s better, she thought to herself. The world seemed much more manageable without Rachel’s oppression. Her prejudice. Her Esprit pantsuit.
As Lorna walked up the street, she saw a man lying on a bench, and screamed.
“Oh God, is he dead?” she wailed. Upon inspection it was determined that the man was taking a nap.
Lorna kept walking, eventually finding herself in the parking lot of Super Supermarket. A young girl was spotted sitting in her car, and an elderly man pushing a cart hollered, “I think she’s dead!”
There was a rush of commotion as villagers pushing carts ran to the girl’s car and discovered that she was sitting there. Just sitting there. Things were rapidly getting out of hand.
Despite having previously decided to boycott it after Flo accused her of murder, Lorna entered the supermarket, determined to buy some oregano. She made her way to the produce section and found herself listening to Whitney Houston, yet again.
Procuring a bunch of the herb and putting it into a plastic bag, Lorna was walking to the checkout stand when she ran into a rather portly priest.
“Is that oregAhno?” he asked, rather snootily.
“It is, why?”
“Seems rather odd, doesn’t it? Buying oregAhno,” the man of God said.
“It’s orEgano, and there’s nothing suspicious about it,” Lorna said, in huff. She was fast losing her temper. She had been losing it all day and she didn’t like the feel of it.
“I didn’t do it!” she yelled back at the priest. To think, she was yelling at a priest! Things really had gotten out of hand.
Approaching the checkout stand, Lorna spotted Flo and stiffened. She felt a growl in her throat.
Lorna decided to take the high road. She wasn’t going to bring
up the incident from the day before, where she was made the scapegoat. No, she was going to hold her head up high, pay for her oregano, and leave the past behind her.
Flo was chewing gum, as she was wont to do. Her eyeshadow had changed from blue to teal.
“Good afternoon,” Lorna said, using a faux British accent. Why did she do that? Flo looked at her quizzically.
“What’s with the oregano?” Flo asked suspiciously.
“I’m making shepherd’s pie,” Lorna replied casually, still with the accent.
“You don’t put oregano in shepherd’s pie,” Flo countered, lifting her brow.
“What makes you say such a thing?” Lorna asked, looking at Flo accusatorially. Flo couldn’t stand the tension. The way Lorna was looking at her filled her with anxiety.
“I didn’t do it,” Flo said.
Lorna sighed heavily. Realizing that she was getting nowhere, she thanked Flo for her time and strode towards Muriel’s Café, in search of the one lady who may have some answers.
“Have you heard the latest?” Muriel asked as soon as Lorna reached the counter.
“No, but I’m dying to know,” Lorna replied.
“Chief Bumblethorn received an anonymous tip,” Muriel said, pouring Lorna a cup of tea. “Although perhaps it wasn’t—the writer signed it ‘Anonymouse.’”
“Finally,” Lorna breathed, stifling a giggle. “Maybe it will help to bring some peace to this town. The pressure is killing me.”
The woman sitting next to Lorna glared at her.
“I’ve been on edge for days,” Muriel moaned, but from the looks of her, Lorna wasn’t convinced. The café owner was wearing head-to-toe red lace, topped off by a red feather cap. Within moments of sitting, she placed a portion of blood pudding in front of Lorna, along with a fat slice of red velvet cake and a giant bowl of tomato soup. It was a rather suggestive meal.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” Lorna said, but Muriel ignored this and began working on a Bloody Mary behind the counter.
“The anonymous letter came to the police station,” Muriel began to explain, pouring the tomato juice into the shaker and adding the hot sauce. “Since there is no postal service to speak of at present, it must have been delivered by hand,” Muriel went on, squeezing a lemon wedge and adding copious amounts of black pepper.
“What did it say?” Lorna asked.
“There was one person in particular named,” Muriel said, drawing out her tale as she added horseradish, paprika, and Worcestershire sauce.
“Well, who did it mention?”
“Maurice Crabtree,” Muriel replied, putting the cocktail mixture aside as she grabbed her blender and began preparing a milkshake using strawberries, cherries, raspberries, and pomegranate, adding grenadine for good measure. Lorna’s stomach turned as she noted that the contents would look like a mashed-up heart.
“Are you serious?” Lorna replied.
Upon consideration, though, Maurice really was the most obvious suspect. Boy, did he hate John Larkin. But was the old man sturdy enough to hack him to death?
“I know,” Muriel said, unable to hide her delight. “I’ve called half the village already, and by late this afternoon, everyone will know to meet at Crabtree Antiques for the interrogation.”
“Does everyone need to be involved?” Lorna asked dubiously.
“Everyone,” Muriel replied, taking a bottle of vodka and pouring a generous shot of it into the Bloody Mary. She garnished it with celery and handed it to Lorna.
“Oh, it’s far too early—” Lorna protested, and the frightened woman seated beside her snatched the cocktail up quickly, just as her plate of beef tartar arrived. Muriel, meanwhile, began blending the horrifying milkshake.
“Something isn’t right about it,” Lorna said, thinking it all over. “Maurice Crabtree is a tart old man, but would he go so far as to murder someone?”
“This afternoon, we’re going to find out,” Muriel said victoriously, dumping the beet-red milkshake into a glass. It splattered all over the counter.
Lorna was convinced that the folks of Tweed-upon-Slumber had lost their minds, including herself. She needed grounding. She needed a sign. She went home and took out her cauldron.
She had stopped using the darn thing months ago. It was like an old Cuisinart stained with memory. The last time that Lorna had used it was to gain clarity on whether or not she should leave Cliff Miller. She had put in a mixture of bay leaf, goat yogurt, and edible flowers, and all the cauldron had told her was that goat yogurt gives her indigestion. Just looking at the mixture made her reach for Tums.
But Lorna was determined. She went through her book of incantations and spells and came across a recipe for finding the answers to a crime. Yes, there was a whole page devoted to it.
“It calls for oregano!” Lorna said joyfully. How propitious. It also called for peas from her garden, the wing of a butterfly, and black jellybeans. Hm.
After throwing in the peas and oregano, then adding salt and bits of cured ham, Lorna decided to give up on the spell and just make pea soup. She wasn’t going to pull the wings off a butterfly, and would be hard-pressed to find black jellybeans.
“What a terrible witch I am,” she said to Lord Nottingham, stirring her soup.
Lorna felt down on herself. It didn’t used to be so. She used to practice her craft, and she had gotten pretty good at it before she let it all slip away. She recalled the glance that Betty had given her, the one that suggested that she embrace her powers in order to strengthen them. She was amazed that she and Betty had that whole conversation without using words. Heck, maybe it had all been in her head.
“Do you like pea soup?” she asked Lord Nottingham, and he put his paw over his face. She guessed that to be a no. Could cats even eat peas? She had to wonder.
The benefit of making the soup became apparent. Lorna was beginning to relax. The smell of soup filled her kitchen, and it wasn’t long before Betty came knocking on her door.
“I brought cheese sandwiches to dip in the soup,” Betty said, and Lorna was impressed.
“I must have known that you would come, because I made enough for two,” she replied, grinning.
The two ladies ate their soup out of mugs and cooed. Oh, it was so good to dip the cheese sandwiches in it.
“You’re the only person that hasn’t accused me of murder today,” Lorna said with gratitude.
“I do know what you mean,” Betty replied. “Sir Eats-A-Lot followed me about the house all day. Everywhere I went, I would turn to find him staring at me. He was filled with suspicion.”
“At least he was up and walking. Sounds like he could use the exercise.”
“I couldn’t agree more. He wouldn’t touch his food, which was a dreadful sign.”
“Why on earth not?” Lorna asked.
“For fear that I might be poisoning him.”
“Did you hear the news?” Lorna asked, confident that Muriel must have called.
“Yes, I plan on heading over to Crabtree Antiques within the hour.”
“Is it really necessary that the whole village go? I mean, wouldn’t you think that a matter like this deserves a little privacy?” Lorna said.
“No, everyone wants a front seat,” Betty explained.
“Crowd mentality,” Lorna said darkly. She thought about it for a moment. “Actually, I can’t wait to go,” she admitted.
“Me too, I keep checking the clock,” Betty added.
So, the pea soup and sandwiches were done and there was washing up to do. While she fussed in the kitchen, Betty sat at the table and placed her hand over the book of incantations.
“This is my favorite recipe book,” Betty said, amusement in her voice. Lorna was speechless. “The Joy of Cooking, I believe,” Betty added.
“Yep, that’s the one,” Lorna replied, thinking that Betty knew better.
“The lamb stew is particularly good,” Betty added. “Particularly if you like cockroaches.”
Betty and
Lorna walked to Crabtree Antiques together. They felt like they were going to a bullfight, or an ancient show of gladiators at the Coliseum. Whatever it was, it was going to be messy.
“The whole village is here,” Lorna said once they had made it to High Street.
Truly, the street thronged with villagers outside the antique shop. Maurice was under siege. He had locked the door to his shop and refused to open it.
“But I’m only here to buy a gravy dish,” one man protested through the window. Still, Maurice would not budge.
Chief Bumblethorn arrived ceremoniously, the lights to his police car glaring and the siren piercing. The villagers stepped aside so that he might park just out front. What came next was shocking, to say the least. When the police chief stepped out of his vehicle, two other officers stepped out of the car as well.
When Chief Inspector Bumblethorn called upon officers from nearby Whitley—which Lorna was told was a rather charming town—then you knew that things were serious.
As Bumblethorn approached, he brushed off some pastry crumbs from his trousers. The other two officers wore aviator glasses.
“Step aside,” Bumblethorn said, even though the villagers had already done so.
“Yeah, step aside,” the other officers said. The men would continue to repeat everything that Bumblethorn uttered.
“Open up, Maurice” Bumblethorn said, employing a megaphone.
“Yeah, open up,” the other officers cried.
Inside the shop, Crabtree shook his head and turned the “Open” sign to “Closed.” As if that would do any good.
“You’re not fooling anyone, Maurice,” Bumblethorn said into the megaphone.
“Yeah, you’re not fooling anyone.”
“Bill, get a hold of yourself,” Muriel said, stepping in. “Put down that bullhorn.” She took it from his hands. “And you two, stop acting like parrots,” she said to the other officers. They adjusted their aviators sheepishly.
Muriel began to pound on the door of the antique shop.
“Open up. Now, Maurice.”
In light of the fact that the entire town was outside his door—not to mention that if he didn’t obey Muriel, he’d never be served Christmas pudding in that town again—Maurice opened the door.
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