by Kris Pearson
We all responded with nods and noises of surprise and disapproval.
“So I told him I’d been driving farm trucks and tractors for several of his lifetimes,” Jim said. “And that I used to race motorbikes too. That seemed to go down well.”
I smiled to myself. Alex might not have found the father he hoped for, but a substitute grandfather was a really good deal. He’s offered to type up the first draft of the Drizzle memoir. I await the treat of editing that sometime in the future.
When I’d last seen Bruce Carver I’d plucked up the courage to ask him about the Black Ops files featuring John and Erik. He hemmed and hawed and wouldn’t answer properly. I’ve never heard a man use so many words to say so little. I’ve concluded they’re somehow working for the government as well as running the Burkeville Bar and Grill. That might explain Marion Wick’s exasperated sigh of “Riiiight… John,” when they came out to the cottage to question me.
And Vicar Paul? I have high hopes for him. We’ll have to wait and see if he has any in return for me.
THE END
A NOTE FROM KRIS
Thank you so much for choosing to read my book! And thank you even more if you write a review.
I want to acknowledge here the encouragement of two of my writer friends, Diana Fraser and Shirley Megget. We’ve been making each other laugh for a very long time and initially planned to write cozy mysteries as a threesome so we could produce books faster for you.
But life gets in the way sometimes and we each got tied up with other projects. However, Shirley keeps poking plotlines in my direction and I can’t resist taking over and writing them. MURDER IN THE AISLE is the first. XMAS MARKS THE SPOT will follow soon. (There’s an excerpt of that just below.)
More are planned. I have the fun covers already designed, and I’m enjoying myself very much. I hope that shows? But be warned – the Merry Summerfield cozy mysteries are totally different from all the contemporary romances I’ve written up until now.
I’d also like to thank the members of my local chapter of Romance Writers of New Zealand, and The Ngaio Writers Group. It’s great to have people to bounce ideas off. And most of all, I want to thank my husband, Philip. He’s so good at putting up with my eccentric queries and late dinners and computer hassles.
*
I began my working life as an advertising copywriter at my local radio station. After living in Italy and London I returned to my capital city of Wellington and worked in TV, radio again, several advertising agencies, and then spent happy years as a retail ad manager. Totally hooked on fabrics, I followed this by going into business with Philip as a curtain installer, working for some of the city’s top designers. Quite a turnaround! It was finally time to write fiction. In twenty years I haven’t fallen off my ladder once through drifting into romantic dreams, but I’ve certainly seen some beautiful homes and met wonderful people, some of whom I may just have stolen glimpses of for the books.
To see all my titles, go to http://www.krispearson.com
If you click on the book covers on the right hand side of the home page there, you’ll be taken to the stories behind the books, and photos of the settings. Hope you visit me soon.
Thank you,
Kris.
*
Xmas Marks the Spot – Chapter 1
You never know what’s lurking where you least expect it.
I finished the last bite of my toast and marmalade, slotted the plate into the dishwasher, and grabbed the spare smart-key to my brother’s Mercedes because I needed to remove his golf clubs from the trunk. All good so far.
The dogs bounded into the garage with me, barking and sniffing. Goodness – maybe there was a dead rat, because something was definitely whiffy. Dust motes whirled around in the air as I operated the auto-open function and the lid rose. Both spaniels whirled around too, dancing on their hind legs and craning their necks for a better view.
And phew – the smell once it was open. I clutched my throat, trying not to throw up. Not a dead rat in the corner of the garage. A dead….? Ummmm? Leg of beef? In the car. All my hair stood on end.
It was laid thoughtfully on a sheet of heavy plastic, so at least the carpet hadn’t got soaked through, but OMG, the stink! On top was a somewhat bloody piece of cardboard with a bold message in black marker pen. BEEFY HALDANE BETTER WATCH OUT.
Who the heck was Beefy Haldane? What did he need to watch out for? Who had put this in Graham’s car? And why?
This was no way to start a beautiful summer’s day in Drizzle Bay, New Zealand!
Graham is a lawyer, and currently at a legal conference in Melbourne, Australia, which is why I could nick his Merc. I surmised that Beefy Haldane was a client of his who was into something criminal. But how had anyone got an entire leg of beef into a locked car inside a locked garage on a property guarded by two uber-nosy dogs? How had they even carried it? It was enormous.
I hauled on Manny and Dan’s collars to stop them trying to eat the evidence, and eventually got them back onto the chains attached to their kennels. They weren’t keen to leave a prize like that, and continued to whine and bark and dance about with such fervor I thought they might drag the kennels behind them over the yard. In desperation I tore into the kitchen and brought out duplicate breakfasts. They fell to eating but continued to give me the evil eye for stealing such a treat.
They’d been acting rather strangely for the two days Graham had been away – sniffing around the garage as though they suspected me of locking him in there. Given the walks I’d taken them on, and the generous meals I’d provided, this seemed less than grateful, but now I knew why.
So much for looking forward to having our rather yummy vicar, Paul McCreagh, beside me for an hour and a half while we drove to the airport to collect his sister. She’s flying in from England for a Kiwi Christmas. Would the police let me have the car back in time? And how much of that stench could I get rid of, if so?
I’d better explain that I’m Merry Summerfield, a divorced freelance book editor, and I share the family home with Graham after our darling parents left it to us. They died far too young in a nasty car crash. Graham is six years older than my forty-four, and conservative beyond belief – hence his choice of a nice safe car like the Mercedes, and in the same shade of silver grey as everyone seems to choose.
His car is much more suitable than my little aubergine Ford Focus for collecting a passenger who’s travelled halfway around the world. She might have heaps of baggage. Her brother, Vicar Paul, certainly expects so, and as his car is currently out of action, I’ve offered to fill the gap.
Plainly I needed to contact Detective Sergeant Bruce Carver again. He of the severely bitten fingernails and over-applied cologne. Oddly, the latter might be a benefit this time because boy that meat really ponged.
Holding my breath and my cell phone, I approached the car, trying to persuade myself there was no need to be sick on the garage floor. I did my best to take a reasonable photo for him and beat a hasty retreat out into the fresh air again.
DS Carver’s card was pinned up on the corkboard in the kitchen – a reminder of poor Isabel Crombie’s recent murder in the aisle of Saint Agatha’s church. I sent him the photo and then rang.
And wouldn’t you know it – he was instantly available instead of roaming the coast interrogating crims and leaving his phone to take messages.
“Ms Summerfield,” he said in his nasal Kiwi twang. “I was just thinking about you.”
I really hoped he wasn’t.
Dismissing any thoughts as to why he possibly could be, I rushed ahead. “Did you get that photo I sent? That’s why I’m ringing. I’ve found a quarter of a cow in Graham’s car. It still has its fur on… ummm, hide on. It’s black, so maybe it’s an Angus.”
DS Carver cleared his throat very noisily. “Slow down, slow down, Ms Summerfield. I’m going to record this conversation if that’s okay with you?”
I clutched at my long hair with my free hand, imagining him plugging th
ings in or twiddling dials. “Yes, fine.” I could hardly turn him down.
“Soooo…” he drawled. “Not to give too much away, because we’ve been trying to keep this confidential, but Jim Drizzle’s farm has been the subject of a couple of rustling raids. If the beast still has its hide on, that could be very helpful.”
“Yes, definitely still has its hide on. Could you read that notice in my photo?”
“Loud and clear, Ms Summerfield.”
“The thing is; I don’t think it’s aimed at Graham. Whoever did this laid a sheet of plastic under it to protect the car’s carpet. What kind of crook bothers to do that?”
DS Carver cleared his throat again. “Have you touched anything?”
“Euw – you must be joking!”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.”
“Yes, that’s a no for sure. It stinks. It doesn’t seem to be fly-blown, and I guess that’s because the Merc’s seals are good. Graham’s forever going on about them.” I gave a nervous laugh. “Actually, it probably is fly-blown by now because I left everything open to try and get rid of the smell. Insects will be streaming in there as we speak.”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered. I could hear his irritation from miles away. “How long since the car was used?”
“Monday. It has to be Monday because Graham flew out to Melbourne early Tuesday. With another lawyer friend who’s going to the same conference. They took the friend’s car to the airport, so that’s why Graham’s is still here.”
“And explains why you’re phoning me instead of him. We’ll need to contact him and confirm that.”
“Of course you will,” I said in a sickly sweet voice. “But don’t do it yet for a while because he’ll still be asleep. Time difference between Australia and New Zealand, and all that…”
I pictured Graham peacefully snoring in his striped pajamas. I love him heaps, even though I make terrible fun of him sometimes. “He doesn’t know about it,” I added. “I got on to you straight away because there was no point waking him up and upsetting him. Are you going to send someone to take fingerprints? I could do with some help to lift the darn thing out. It must weigh half a ton.”
“Touch nothing!” DS Carver practically barked. “I’ll have someone there as soon as I can.”
“Good,” I agreed. “I need to get it cleaned up because the vicar and I will be collecting his sister and her luggage in it this evening. She’s flying in from England.”
“Is she indeed?” DS Carver said in a voice dripping with suspicion. I don’t know why, because right now Heather McCreagh was probably still high over the Pacific Ocean, and she would possibly have been high over Heathrow when the beef was ladled into Graham’s car.
“She’s landing in Auckland about now, being collected by an old school friend for lunch, and arriving in Wellington around five tonight.”
There – that was all I knew. “I’m going to duck down to the shops and buy some air freshener because we don’t seem to have any,” I added. “Only be gone five minutes.”
I disconnected while he was still hemming and hawing. There’d be plenty of time later to answer anything else, and for sure there’d be plenty ‘else’ if I knew him.
I went outside and peered into the garage again. Some buzzy flies had already arrived, attracted no doubt by the smell of very ripe meat in the hot summer air. Oh well, too late now. I left the car open but closed the garage door. Then I pulled my exuberant hair up into a ponytail, swiped a bit of lippy on, and hid my un-made-up eyes behind my biggest, darkest sunglasses, reminding myself not to take them off while I shopped.
I locked the back door to the house and hopped into my Ford Focus. Within minutes I was in Drizzle Bay village. At nine-thirty on a weekday morning the shops were quiet, Christmas lights along their veranda edges twinkling merrily but more or less invisibly in the bright sun.
As I trotted past the cafe, chubby cheerful Iona Coppington dragged some lightweight chairs out to put beside the tables she sets up each morning and pulls in again late every afternoon. “Chocolate cupcakes with caramel fudge frosting,” she bellowed as I hurried by.
“Put one in a bag for me. Back in a mo,” I responded, knowing I shouldn’t or I’d end up the same size as her. The woman could cook, that’s for sure, but I’d have to give up my toast and marmalade breakfast habit and eat something sawdusty and low-cal if I was going to scoff many more of her glorious treats. Sighhhh…
I wondered what sort of lingering fragrance Heather McCreagh would prefer. I dithered between Eastern Rose and French Begonia. I might not know much about gardening, but I’m pretty sure begonias have no scent in the real world.
*
I decided not to alert Graham. Why wreck his day? DS Carver would be sure to do that perfectly efficiently. Clutching the Eastern Rose air freshener, I collected and paid for my cupcake and zipped home again.
Should I tell you that Drizzle Bay is named after Jim Drizzle’s family farm, and not the weather? It’s on the coast of New Zealand’s North Island. The southern part of the North Island, to be precise. There are a couple of other small settlements nearby – Burkeville on the highway north, and Totara Flat – inland and very rural. Not a lot happens around here, and that’s the way we like it.
I made sure the gate was locked behind me and headed inside. Off came the sunglasses, on went the eye make-up, and I fluffed around with my hair for a while in case there were any particularly attractive and available fingerprint men.
No, but at least they turned up promptly. After taking assorted photos they dragged the huge piece of cow from the car by lifting the corners of the plastic sheeting so nothing gross escaped onto Graham’s precious carpet. Then they removed the carpet and the lining! I hadn’t expected that, but maybe there’d be some sort of evidence on it. Just as well Graham wasn’t there to see his precious baby being dismantled. This was followed by closing the garage doors so they could spray their special blood-finding chemical around. They were looking for luminol – I remembered that from editing a series of lurid crime thrillers for a man called Lee Wild (and I didn’t think that was a clever pen-name in the least.) No blood showed up on the floor, which was probably a relief.
During the whole time the spaniels whined, howled, and tugged at the ends of their chains by the far fence. I’ve no idea how they didn’t break their necks.
I tied my hair back in a pony-tail after they’d gone, and weeded the pots either side of the garage door – really the only gardening I bother with. DS Carver arrived later. He had Detective Marion Wick with him again – she of the huge, attractive eyes and unfairly slim body.
Why do some people have all the luck? She could probably eat Iona’s cupcakes every day and never put on an ounce. (Of course she might go running, too, and spend a heap of time at the gym.)
“Coffee?” I asked. They predictably turned it down so I led them through to the big front sitting room with its view out over the sea. We went around and around in circles with the questions because I really couldn’t tell them much more than what I’d reported on the phone, and I’d already handed on Graham’s cell phone number so they could ring him.
“Who’s this Beefy Haldane?” I asked when DS Carver finally stopped to draw breath.
“Ah,” he said unhelpfully.
“Something to do with the cattle rustling?” (Or possibly sheep rustling for all I knew.)
“Connected. Connected,” he conceded while Detective Wick opened her eyes even wider.
“Connected to Graham as well?” I pressed.
“It’s too early to know,” DS Carver stated, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning further toward me. I edged away to avoid the cologne, which even toward the end of the morning was still super strong.
Marion Wick smelled fantastic by comparison. Once again I imagined her cuddled up to John Bonnington from the Burkeville Bar and Café with him sniffing her neck and dropping kisses down the front of her shirt. I had no actual evidence of such a liaison, but plent
y of suspicions.
“Well, he’s got to be connected somehow, doesn’t he?” I suggested. “Otherwise, why choose Graham’s car? And how did anyone unlock the garage, unlock the car, avoid making the dogs suspicious, and then lock everything up again? In fact it might have been two people because that meat weighed a ton.”
DS Carver chewed the inside of his cheek for a few seconds. “We have a theory… and only a theory at this time… that the car may have been tampered with in the parking lot at his place of work.”
Huh! Not so stupid after all.
“But keep that to yourself please, Ms Summerfield. Currently we have no reason to believe your brother is involved in anything illegal.”
I’m sure my eyes shot so wide open they became at least as large as Marion Wick’s. “I certainly hope not!” I said in my best huffy tone. “He’s a lawyer. He doesn’t need extra money, and he’s boringly trustworthy.” I tossed my head and my pony-tail whacked the back of my neck. “For what it’s worth, I like your parking lot theory. I would have heard the dogs if it had been done here.”
“You haven’t been away on any of your pet-minding assignments?” Detective Wick asked.
“This week I’m pet-minding right here at home,” I snapped, adding a sniff to emphasize that fact.
There didn’t seem to be much more to say on either side, so they were gone well before lunchtime. I slipped into the garage, sprayed another dose of Eastern Rose inside the car, and retired, coughing, to let the spaniels off their chains now there’d be no-one else to chase.
*
“Hi, Paul,” I said as the vicar pulled his front door closed later that afternoon and the shiny brass knocker bounced with a bang on the equally shiny striker plate fixed to the glossy red enamel paint. He’s painted the church railings, too, and old Peggy Leghorn’s back porch. Jasper Hornbeam is the village’s ‘official’ handyman, but Paul McCreagh likes doing practical jobs too, as long as he can fly under the radar. They sometimes team up, and I think they both enjoy the DIY and the company.