Trick or Murder?: A Sophie Sayers Village Mystery (Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries Book 2)

by Debbie Young

  Mary delved into her handbag and pulled out a WI pocket diary. “Two Thursdays’ time?”

  “Oh good, no pressure, then.” For two pins I’d have rescinded my offer, but seeing their anxious faces, I resolved not to let them down. After all, I counted the remaining Players as my friends, and I had made them a promise.

  I held up my hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll come up with something by then. Just leave it with me.”

  I stood up, hoping they’d get the hint to leave. I needed all the time I could get between now and then to come up with a script from scratch. Then, feeling guilty for not inviting them to stay for a cup of tea, I darted out to the kitchen to grab Joshua’s basket.

  “Like some runner beans to take home with you?”

  Mary smiled at me pityingly. “Sophie, haven’t you learned yet? You can’t give runner beans away in the country at this time of year. We’re all sick of the sight of them by the end of the season. But I’ll take them off your hands. It’s kind of you to offer. You’ve done very well to grow such big ones in the short time you’ve been here.”

  Once I’d ushered them out of the door, I lay down on the sofa to rack my brains as to what kind of play I might write to keep everyone happy – the Wendlebury Players, the audience, and our strange new vicar.

  5 Solidarity Between Shops

  After Ian and Mary left, I ended up abandoning my brain racking in favour of watching a feel-good movie, curled up on the sofa under a blanket with a ready-meal, before a hot bath and bed. Next morning, I awoke with a brilliant idea about where to find inspiration for my script. I’ve noticed your subconscious solves problems for you while you’re asleep. I was glad it had come to my rescue again.

  As I walked up to work through the crisp autumn sunshine, I tried not to dwell on my disappointment at having to watch yet another romcom on my own the night before. My relationship with Hector had not progressed beyond that tantalising first kiss, but I didn’t want my unrequited affections to distract me from the task in hand for the Players.

  I’d left home a few minutes early for once, to allow time to call in at the village shop to consult Carol about the Wendlebury Players’ wardrobe, of which she was manager. As the bell above the door pinged to announce my arrival, Carol looked up mournfully from behind a mountain of runner beans which she was trying to arrange in a neat stack, Jenga style. A small heap of offcuts lay beside a pair of scissors she’d used to trim them to equal length to make the task more feasible. In the clear, cool morning light, the acid-green pile of fresh pods was almost fluorescent against the pyramid of shiny orange pumpkins behind them. The beans’ familiar astringent fragrance was swamped by the smell of Pledge, which I suspected Carol had been using to give the pumpkins a good polish.

  “Can I interest you in some nice locally-grown running beans?” she asked doubtfully. “Mary’s just brought me even more.”

  I hoped that if Joshua came up to the shop, he wouldn’t recognise his own produce. “No thanks, Carol, I’m not food shopping right now. I’ve just come to see you about wardrobe matters.”

  Carol pointed listlessly towards the back of the shop. “You’ll find mothballs between menthol crystals and mouthwash.”

  “No, not my wardrobe, the Wendlebury Players’ one.” I set my handbag down on the counter. “You see, I’ve been asked to write them a play to replace their cancelled Henry VIII show, and I can’t decide what it should be about. Given the short notice, I thought I’d take my inspiration from whatever costumes you’ve got already made up in the wardrobe.”

  “There’s my lovely Tudor ones. I spent hours on those blessed frocks. Those muffs were a nightmare to iron, but the overall effect was beautiful. It would be a treat to see those on stage.” It was true, except she meant ruffs, not muffs – snow-white pencil-pleated linen ones. “Apart from the outfits the police took away as evidence for the trial of Linda’s murderer, of course.”

  I hesitated. “It might be a little insensitive to bring them out again so soon, especially as Linda’s relatives might be in the audience.”

  Carol fiddled with the top layer of beans. “Then I’m not sure I can be of much help, Sophie. We’ve only got the costumes for the last couple of shows that we’ve done. We had to have a big clear-out last year, because some squirrels had nested in the costume cupboard over the winter and made a real mess.” She wrinkled her nose at the memory. “We had to throw almost everything away and start again. The only other outfits I can offer are nuns or oversized children’s outfits made of old chintz curtains.”

  I grimaced. “That is a bit limiting.”

  “Or you could borrow costumes from my Halloween rail.”

  I didn’t know about her Halloween rail, having never been in the village at this time of year. “What’s that?”

  “I make costumes all year round ready for children – and adults – to buy for Halloween. All sorts, I’ve got. Disney princesses, superheroes, witches, wizards, dragons, goblets, elvers. I’ve been doing it for years. Until now.”

  “But why stop now?”

  “That blessed new vicar, that’s why. That Reverend Neep called in last night to tell me Halloween’s cancelled. He doesn’t want anyone to go trick-or-treating. But to look on the bright side, we’re all welcome to join him in church a couple of days later for All Souls’ Day.” She gave a watery smile. “I usually go to that anyway, to remember my dear departed mum and dad. But not in fancy dress.” Carol sighed. “I did try to tell him how nicely we do Halloween in the village. No tricks, just treats, with children going around in costume to entertain their neighbours, wishing them ‘Happy Halloween’. Not everybody joins in, but those that do get right into the spirit of it. Some of the grown-ups even dress up themselves to hand out sweets to callers. We have a good system. If you’re happy for children to knock on your door for sweets, you just leave a lighted pumpkin lantern on your front wall. What’s the harm in that?”

  I pursed my lips. “Halloween isn’t cancelled, Carol. It will still be Halloween on the thirty-first of October. It’s just that the vicar doesn’t approve of it. And there’s the PTA Halloween Disco Saturday week, on the twenty-ninth. People will still need costumes for that.” I was pinning my hopes on the PTA Halloween Disco to move things along with Hector. It had potential as our first date. “Besides, the vicar has no power to stop us doing anything. I think he’s just throwing his weight about. He tried to pull the same trick on Hector yesterday. When he saw us decorating the window for Halloween, he told us to take the whole lot down again and ditch our seasonal stock. As you can imagine, Hector will be doing no such thing.”

  Carol started picking hairs off a particularly thick bean.

  “Besides, it’s your shop, Carol. He can’t tell you what to do. What’s the problem?”

  She kept her eyes downcast. “The thing is, Sophie – and please don’t say anything to anyone else about this – but living out here at my age, I don’t meet many eligible single men. And I hear the vicar’s a widower. I don’t want to get on the wrong side of him before he’s been here five minutes. You never know, he might be my last chance of happiness.”

  I couldn’t begin to fathom just how lonely Carol must be to consider hooking up with that prince of darkness. I reached out and stilled her fidgeting hands, covering them with my own.

  “Don’t say that. I had no idea you were looking for a partner. Believe me, there are better places to look, better men out there than Mr Neep. I’ll help you find someone much more suitable, I promise. Stick to your guns, set up your Halloween rail and vicar be damned.”

  She looked up at me wide-eyed. “Sophie, you’ll be struck down, damning a vicar.” Deep in thought, she brought a piece of bean up to her mouth and chewed it contemplatively. “But you’re right. I don’t want to disappoint anybody, and I can’t afford not to sell my Halloween costumes. It wouldn’t matter as much if I could make the money up by selling fireworks for Guy Fawkes’ Night the following week, but I can’t get a licence. I haven’t
got a lockable cupboard to store them in, and there’s no room between the false eyelashes and the flour for them. Anyway, most people don’t go in for fireworks at home any more. They’re too worried about their children getting hurt. If they want to see a firework display, they go down to the big council one at Slate Green, where no-one can get anywhere near the bonfire or the fireworks.”

  “Well, there you go, decision made.”

  Carol nodded sadly. “Yes, you’re right, Sophie. I just hope it doesn’t put the vicar off me for ever.”

  Disappointed that I had not convinced her that Mr Neep wasn’t her only romantic hope, I wondered who else I might be able to rustle up for her. I decided to put that plan on hold till I’d resolved my playwriting crisis. I’d get the play out of the way first and make Carol’s love life my special project after that. How wonderful it would be if I could play matchmaker in time for Valentine’s Day, or even Christmas.

  At that moment, the church clock struck nine, making me realise that my immediate priority should be to get to work. I grabbed my handbag. “Excuse me, Carol, I must get on, or Hector will be after me.”

  “I wish Hector was after me,” I heard her say as I dashed out of the door into the cold morning air.

  6 Printer’s Devil

  By the time I arrived, breathless, at Hector’s House, the bookshop was well and truly open. A couple of middle-aged tourists were sitting at one of the tearoom tables, poring over an Ordnance Survey map of the Cotswolds.

  “We didn’t get you up, did we?” asked Hector, quietly enough for only me to hear, as I dashed in, shrugged my coat off and unwound my long knitted scarf from around my neck. I slung my handbag behind the shop counter, and Hector stepped neatly aside to prevent it hitting his ankles. He pretended to fix me with a stern look, but I spotted the twinkle in his eye. “Still, it’s good to see you’ve had plenty of beauty sleep.”

  “Hector, you are such a sexist sometimes.” I hoped he could not tell that his comment had made my morning.

  Once I’d served the tourists morning coffee and advised them on the best route to drive from Wendlebury to Cheltenham, I returned to the shop counter to fill Hector in on the conversation I’d just had with Carol about Halloween. I didn’t mention her secret plan to marry the vicar, but inwardly pledged to be on the lookout in the bookshop to find her someone more suitable. Except Hector.

  Then the business of the morning took over.

  When Billy arrived for his elevenses, Hector put Frank Sinatra’s “One More for the Road” on the sound system to welcome him, and I added Billy to my list of exceptions for Carol.

  “Do you dress up on Halloween, Billy?” I asked, placing a pot of tea on the table in front of him. I was hoping the occasion might cause Hector to get out the Greek toga he’d worn as Homer on the Wendlebury Writers’ carnival float.

  “Yes, this year I’m going to dress up as a bloody vicar. That’ll teach ’im. How about you, girlie? Fancy being my tart?”

  Hector, sitting behind the till, spluttered into his morning coffee, but quickly recovered. “Oh, I see. Tarts and vicars. Very funny, Billy. No, Sophie will be dressing as something much more suitable.” That was news to me. “A character from a children’s book, as part of a programme of Hector’s House Halloween events on the day itself, Monday the thirty-first of October.”

  Billy fixed Hector with narrowed eyes. “There’s tarts in Alice in Wonderland.”

  “I was thinking more of something like The Worst Witch,” said Hector.

  “Can’t I be a competent one instead?” I asked.

  Hector considered. “All right then, how about the Narnia witch? I’ll be the Lion, you can be the Witch, and Billy can be the Wardrobe.”

  I liked that idea. I was fond of Turkish Delight, and Hector did have the sinewy strength of a lion. Lifting heavy book boxes all day can do things to a man.

  Billy was not amused. “I think we should all be vicars.”

  “What, you mean like the ‘I’m Spartacus’ scene in the Kirk Douglas film?” Hector laughed. “‘I’m the vicar.’ ‘No, I’m the vicar.’ ‘No, I’m the vicar.’”

  I made a mental note to Google “Kirk Douglas Spartacus quotes” when Hector wasn’t looking.

  “That’s all very well, so long as no-one decides that Halloween is the perfect night to bump off Mr Neep,” said Billy, tipping more cream into his cup. “Which it would be, because everyone would just blame the devil. I don’t want to go getting myself killed for the sake of a joke.”

  Hector came across to remove the cream jug from Billy’s table and put it back in the fridge. He didn’t completely abdicate responsibility for Billy’s alcohol consumption for the sake of the shop’s profits. “If Mr Neep was bumped off, you’d be number one suspect.”

  Billy pointed to the spidery Mr Neep still suspended in the shop window. “I think that honour lies with you, young Hector.”

  Billy had a point. Hector didn’t usually risk upsetting customers, never mind displaying effigies of them in his shop window. The fact that Billy had made the effigy did not excuse him.

  Hector went quiet, leaving Billy to continue.

  “Actually, I think I’ll go as God. Pull rank, like. That’ll put the frighteners on the old bugger. I’ve got the beard for it. You told me so yourself, Hector Munro.” He got up to retrieve the cream jug. “And if you don’t show a little more appreciation, Father Christmas will be on strike this season.”

  Incredulous, I swung round to face Hector. “You’ve got Billy playing Father Christmas? Billy?”

  “Oh, it’s all right.” Hector waved my concerns aside. “I always tell the children he’s not allowed to say anything, and that he just comes to listen to what they ask for.”

  I watched Billy drain the cream jug into his tea. “You’d better tell him not to breathe on them either.”

  Once Billy had wended his way home, or rather to The Bluebird for lunch, I gave the tearoom a quick clean. Then I took the opportunity while the shop was empty, which it rarely was, to buttonhole Hector for a private conversation that I needed to have soon or I’d go mad.

  I began slowly and cautiously. “Hector.” So far, so good.

  “Hmmm?” He didn’t look up from his computer screen, no doubt stuck in to typing his latest romantic novel. He moonlighted under the pen-name Hermione Minty to help fund the upkeep of the shop, and I was the only one in the village who knew his secret.

  “Hector, you know the other day?”

  “Any particular other day?” His voice was mild. “There have been a few.” A staccato flurry of keyboard strokes suggested he was saving and printing his latest chapter. I’d picked a good moment to pin him down, yet I had to wonder at his deliberately being so obtuse.

  “You know which day.” I swallowed, trying to muster my courage. I could have done with a quick swig of the bookshop’s cream. “The day you told me I’d won those writing prizes. The day you kissed me.”

  I’d won first prize in the Village Show’s new writing competition for penning 250 words about Auntie May’s garden, and a week at a writers’ retreat in a national contest for which Hector had entered me without my knowledge.

  He stood up and looked directly at me, his green eyes apologetic beneath his dark curls.

  “Well, the thing is, I thought at the time that it meant you liked me.”

  “It did. I mean, I do.”

  He looked at his nails awkwardly.

  “No, I don’t mean just liking me. I mean, as in fancying me, or wanting to go out with me. But as nothing like that has happened since, I’m now wondering whether I took it the wrong way. I must have misconstrued it.” I hesitated, hoping he’d interrupt to cut short my misery. Silence. “Ah. I see now it was your way of congratulating me. But I had to ask, just to be sure.”

  Hector rubbed at a non-existent mark on his thumbnail as I rambled on.

  “You were just being kind. I apologise for any confusion. My fault entirely.”

  There was another
moment of silence, then, “Sophie.” That one word, spoken huskily with a slight tremor in his voice, was enough to make my spirits do a swift about-turn. “Sophie, that’s not how it is at all. I’m sorry, I’m just bad at reading relationships.”

  I tried to alleviate his obvious embarrassment with a joke. “Bad at reading relationships? That’s an unfortunate trait in a bookseller. Anyway, you are very good at reading people. Look at how you know which music to play to keep each customer happy.”

  He smiled, proud of his party trick. Then his expression became more serious. He stared at the floor. “I thought when I kissed you I’d overstepped the mark. After all, I am your employer. I was worried that I was taking advantage, harassing you with unwanted attentions. Billy did say something along those lines at the time.”

  “Sexy harassment” was how Billy had put it when he’d walked in to the shop and caught us in the act.

  “Ha! Since when did you take etiquette advice from Billy?”

  Hector looked sheepish. “I know. But even so, I thought I’d offended you and didn’t know how to make amends.”

  “Offended? Me? If that was offensive, I’m Virginia Woolf!”

  I wished I hadn’t been so transparent. Retaining a little mystery never does a girl any harm.

  Hector chuckled. “Well, I always did love a bluestocking.” He inhaled sharply as he realised he’d said the L word. “Maybe I should reiterate.”

  He leaned towards me over the counter, grasped my right hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it. His half-apologetic smile sought permission to proceed. With the edge of the counter digging uncomfortably into my waist, I clasped my hands behind his neck and pulled him towards me. He kissed me gently at first, as if still half-afraid I might pull back and slap his face. Then he relaxed, and started kissing me with such passion that I realised he’d been bottling it up ever since the day of our first embrace. As had I.

  Always leave them wanting more, I told myself, wishing to keep the upper hand.