“Already got tickets, buddy.”
“Oh. Right. How about the great Easter egg hunt, then?” Freddie gestured to a leaflet pinned to the wall on Joe’s left. “Clifftop Park, tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. Only a hundred places available.”
“Yeah, the girls were on about it when we came in along the prom. There’s supposed to be a hundred events going on all over the country, isn’t there? I know there’s one in Wakefield, not far from where we live. This one’ll be sold out, won’t it?”
“Last I heard there were still some places available. Same with the Easter Bonnet Parade at the Winter Gardens on Sunday afternoon. You might have to look sharp if you’re gonna get your lady friends in on them, mind.”
Joe dug out his wallet again. “You got any tickets?”
“Don’t work like that, Joe. Take yourself along the prom to Regent Street, opposite the Grand Pier. Walk up there, you’ll come to the Weston Carrot—”
“The Weston Carrot?” Joe interrupted.
Freddie laughed again. “It’s a piece of functional artwork, they reckon. Tall thing, huge spire on the top. Looks like a carrot. Well, so they say. You can’t miss it. At the bottom it’s a bus shelter, newsagents and the local tourist centre. They’ll sell you tickets for both events there. Cost you a tenner a ticket, mind, but it all goes to charity.”
Joe pointed to his companions. “It’ll cost them a tenner a ticket.”
***
“I dunno about a carrot,” Joe said. “Looks more like a turnip to me.”
Standing almost eighty feet high, it was impossible to miss the Silica, the site’s proper name. Shaped like a beehive at the bottom, its spire, circled with metal rings at regular intervals, tapered to a fine point at the top. Its pale grey colouring was what had prompted Joe’s remark, made as they ambled along Regent Street towards the structure.
The Silica stood in a part-open area known as Big Lamp Corner – according to Sheila, reading from her guide book as they walked along.
“It’s street art. Designed to improve the local environment.”
“How does sticking an eighty foot turnip in the middle of the street improve things?” Joe wanted to know.
“It’s a focal point, Joe,” Brenda explained. “A meeting place. If you had a date, you could arrange to meet at the Silica… or carrot… or even the turnip, if you like. You’d be sure to use some of the shops and cafes nearby, wouldn’t you, and that’s good for business, and aren’t you the one who’s always saying good business is good for the town?”
Joe could see what she meant. The area immediately around the Silica was an open triangle lined with shops and cafes, and along the sidewalk were several free-standing market stalls. Above them a banner fluttered in the wind. Weston-super-Mare Easter Street Market. As they neared, Joe saw that the market ran off along another street to the left.
“Tell you what,” Brenda suggested to Sheila, “let’s get the tickets for the two competitions, then we can have a wander along the market and pick up the bits to make our Easter bonnets.”
In the act of lighting a cigarette, Joe paused and stared at her, his eyes wide with disbelief. “If you think I’m making an Easter bonnet, you’ve another think coming.”
“You can join the great egg hunt, though,” Sheila said.
“I can think of better ways of spending my time on a Good Friday morning than looking for chocolate eggs in a rainy park.”
“You don’t know it will rain,” Brenda objected as they arrived at the tourist centre.
After some negotiation and more nagging, Joe conceded defeat and paid for three entries to the Great Easter Egg Hunt and two entries for the Easter Bonnet Parade.
“That’s stretched the plastic close to breaking point,” he complained as they came back out onto the street. “Fancy a cuppa? Only you’ll have to pay, cos I’m broke.”
“Where’s me violin?” Brenda joked.
“Later, Joe,” Sheila said. “We need bonnets and bits and pieces to stick on them.”
“I’ve a suggestion,” he said. “Buy a model cow, call it Joe, and label it ‘cash cow’.”
“Shut up, Joe,” they ordered in unison.
They ambled along the side street, checking the stalls on both sides. A sweet stall reminded Joe that he had not bought an Easter egg for his nephew’s son, so he rang the Lazy Luncheonette.
“Lee, it’s Joe.”
“Hello, Uncle Joe.”
“Listen, lad, I forgot to get an Easter egg for Danny. Take money from the till and get him one from Patel’s next door.”
“Will comb, Uncle Joe.”
“Wilco, you idiot,” Joe muttered as he cut the connection.
Ambling along the street, the two women bought identical hats of fake straw, and then began to gather the paper flowers, fluffy toys and plastic models they would need to decorate them.
“We need to be different,” Brenda said.
“I’m going for flowers,” Sheila agreed.
“And I’m going for livestock,” Brenda said.
“And I’m going for a pint,” Joe chipped in. “I’ll be in the pub over there.” He pointed to the dark-painted front of the Sword & Shield Inn along the street.
A black-haired woman, her stall displaying a vast range of Easter eggs in attractive, multi-coloured packaging, was shouting abuse at another woman, whom Joe took to be a customer. Above the stall a homemade banner read, Ginny’s Sweets.
On closer inspection, he recognised the second woman right away. Swathed in a white anorak, middle-aged, her hair a shock of red, carrying a large handbag over one arm, and a large, boxed Easter egg clutched under the other, she was the same person who had crossed so carelessly in front of their bus. She appeared to show the same degree of disinterest in the stallholder’s shouts as she had in Keith’s annoyance.
The same could not be said of the passing shoppers, who watched with interest at the stallholder’s increasing vehemence.
“D’you hear me? Bugger off. And don’t you come near me again.”
The redhead paused, turned, and stared back at the stallholder. “That’s the trouble with people like you. You don’t know when someone’s trying to do you a favour.” She turned again and continued walking away.
Usually as inquisitive as any other passer-by, the incessant rain prompted Joe to ignore the argument, and he crossed the street putting himself between the furious stallholder and the redhead for just a few seconds. As he did so, something hit him on the shoulder, with a splat! Chocolate and cream spread across his cagoule and his left cheek.
The redhead turned, saw what had happened and cackled madly. The stallholder, whom Joe took to be Ginny, hurried out, and for a moment Joe thought she was after the redhead, but instead, she came to him.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t aiming at you, but that cow.” She pointed indignantly at the redhead, who stuck up two fingers, then carried on walking away.
“It was a bloody rotten shot,” Joe grumbled, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping the chocolate and cream from his cheek.
“I’ve made an awful mess of your coat.”
With a grimace, Joe angled his head so he could peer down at his left shoulder. The pale blue cagoule was smeared with a nasty mess from the cream egg. Ginny made an effort to clean it up as Sheila and Brenda joined them.
Brenda grinned. “Tsk. I’ve told you before about hassling women in the street, Joe.”
“All I was doing was walking along,” he protested.
Ginny glanced at the two women, and eyed the wedding ring on Sheila’s left hand. “It was my fault, not your husband’s.”
Sheila frowned. “He’s not my husband.”
Ginny transferred her attention to Brenda, who quickly denied any ties.
“He’s not mine, either. We just look after him cos it’s better than leaving him wandering the streets.”
“Bugger off, you two.” Joe concentrated on the stallholder. “There are ways and means of handling awkwar
d customers, Mrs…”
“Virginia Nicholson. Most folk call me Ginny. And it’s Ms, not Mrs. It’s my stall, and she wasn’t a customer. She’s… well, let’s just say we had a disagreement.”
“I’m Joe Murray, and these are my friends Sheila Riley and Brenda Jump. I have disagreements with people in my café, Ginny, but I don’t throw pies at them.”
“Only because his pies are so stale, he’d probably kill them,” Brenda put in with another broad smile.
“I really must remember to get you to work on my public profile, Brenda.”
Before they could be sidetracked any further, Ginny said, “I’ll pay for your jacket cleaning.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Joe said. “Laundry is tax-deductible in catering.”
“Are you sure?”
Joe smiled into her concerned blue eyes. He guessed her to be in her early forties, a good ten years younger than him. A spreading waistline hinted that she probably dipped into her stock more than she should, but he nevertheless found her attractive, and he noticed the lack of jewellery on her hands.
“There’s no harm done, but if you want to make amends, we’ll be in the bar of the Leeward Hotel this evening. You can buy me a half of bitter.”
Ginny appeared relieved. “I’ll see if I can make it.”
Chapter Two
Having spent his entire life in catering, no matter where the Sanford 3rd Age Club stayed, Joe’s initial concentration was on the food.
“I run a pit stop for truckers and shoppers,” he would say, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t know my onions when it comes to food.”
The pun was intentional and backed up by his college diplomas in catering, or food technology as it had become known.
The half empty dining room, a long, narrow annexe added to the rear of the Leeward Hotel, was cramped, leading Joe to the suspicion that Hazel and Freddie Delaney were determined to cram in as many bodies as possible. Sitting down to dinner on the first evening, along with Sheila, Brenda, Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson, he nevertheless found the pork loin steaks excellent.
“And perfectly complemented with a glass of Chateau John Smith’s,” he chortled as he drank his glass of bitter.
“Ever the connoisseur, Murray,” said Tanner.
“And how long has the Town Hall canteen been serving peppered venison in red wine and rosemary? I know good food when I taste it, Les, and I know good ale when I drink it.”
The thinly masked antagonism between Joe and Les had a long history, but the food and ambience mellowed them almost to the point of conviviality, leaving the three ladies to lead the conversation.
“Brenda and I are going in for the Easter Bonnet Parade,” Sheila declared.
“So am I,” Sylvia said. “And Julia Staines has bought a hat and the trimmings to go on it.”
“Are you tackling the Great Egg Hunt in Clifftop Park, too?” Brenda wanted to know.
Sylvia, a hypochondriac fusspot in Joe’s opinion, shook her head. “The forecast is for rain, and with my arthritis and my diabetes, I don’t think it would be wise to wander around looking for Easter eggs. That’s what we agreed, isn’t it, Les?”
Joe concentrated on his meal while Les, whose relationship with Sylvia was one of the worst-kept secrets in Sanford, agreed.
“I know it’s for charity, and all,” said the captain, “but charity must have its limits. I felt it would do no good Sylvia putting herself at risk in order to do good for others.”
“Joe’s taking part,” Sheila pointed.
“Now there you do surprise me, my dear,” Tanner said, eager to goad Joe again. “I’ve always felt that when it comes to charity, Murray believes in starting and finishing at home.”
“Now, Les,” Sylvia chided him. “I happen to know Joe does more than his share for good causes.”
“Thank you, Sylvia,” Joe replied. “If nothing else, Les, I pay my taxes to keep you in the Town Hall where you can’t do any real harm.”
The ping-pong game of mild insult, carried by the banter of the three women took them through a selection of desserts, and coffee, before they followed the rest of their fellows, leaving the dining room in small groups, to cross reception into the bar.
It seemed to Joe that the STAC were the only residents, and for a brief moment he felt sorry for Freddie and Hazel. Running a business this size, he was certain they would need more than the seventy or so third-agers from Yorkshire to profit from the Easter holiday, especially considering the generous discount Joe had managed to negotiate.
The last time Joe noticed the small, wooden dance floor, it had been buried under the STAC luggage. Now it was clear, and in one corner of the room was a hi-fi set up and an amplifier.
“Entertainment,” he commented.
“The brochure did say there’s live entertainment throughout the Easter holidays, and a disco on Sunday night,” Sheila reminded him.
“In that case, I need a drop of Campari to lubricate my dancing legs.” Brenda smacked her lips. “Your shout, Joe.”
“It’s always my shout.”
Sylvia and Tanner joined the Staineses on the far side of the room near the inner exit to the accommodation. Sheila and Brenda secured a table by the window, away from the hi-fi equipment, from where they could look out on a grey, rainy night settling on Weston-super-Mare. Across the half mile of sea, the lights of the pier could be seen barely breaking through the gloom and in the background, the darkening sky remained turgid and colourless.
Leaving the two women to sort out seating, Joe crossed to the bar where Freddie, Hazel and an additional barman were rushed off their feet filling the STAC members’ orders.
“With you as fast as I can, Joe,” Freddie assured him.
“No rush, mate. I know my lot. They may be slow on their feet, but there’s no crowd faster when it comes to shifting ale.”
Stood alongside him, Mort Norris took exception. “You’re a fine one to talk. Always first off the bus.”
“I have to be,” Joe retorted. “I have to prepare these poor sods…” He gestured at the bar staff, “…for you lot.”
After serving one or two more, Freddie finally made it to Joe, much to Mort’s annoyance.
“I was before him,” Mort complained.
“Yes, but I look thirstier than you.”
Freddie smiled. “What is it, Joe?”
“Half of bitter, gin and tonic and a Campari and soda.”
“Ice and lemon?”
“Yes, but not in the beer. I—”
A shout from Hazel at the other end of the bar cut Joe off.
“Bitter’s gone. Fresh barrel, Freddie.”
The landlord gave Joe a wan smile. “Sorry, mate. Five minutes.”
Taking a large, open-ended wrench from the shelves behind him, Freddie disappeared through a rear door.
“I dunno what you’re grinning at,” Joe said to Mort. “You drink bitter, too.”
“Yes, luv?” Hazel said to Mort.
With a superior smile at Joe, Mort ordered, “A pint of Guinness and a port and lemon, please.”
Several minutes later, Joe joined his two companions by the window while a forty-something man came in through the doors carrying a guitar and a case which they soon learned was filled with microphones, CDs and several bundles of cable.
“I like this place,” Brenda declared.
“Wait until he starts playing Black Sabbath,” Joe suggested.
“My Peter had a thing about Black Sabbath. He rather liked that heavy metal, er…”
“Racket?” Joe suggested when Sheila trailed off.
Brenda giggled. “Be a bit of a bugger is he starts paying Neil Diamond.”
“Why? I like Neil Diamond.”
“Yes, Sheila, so do I, but we are going to see a Neil Diamond tribute show tomorrow night.”
“Oh. Of course, I see what you mean.”
They need not have worried. By the time Eddie Carson was set up and ready, it was dark outside, but the i
nclement weather soon faded while he ran through a first spot that began with Jeff Beck and ended with Lionel Ritchie, backing music coming through his hi-fi, which he augmented with his guitar.
He stepped down just after nine, promising to return when he had ‘oiled’ his vocal cords, and Joe returned to the bar for refills.
He stood at the opposite end this time, waiting for Hazel to serve him. Leaning forward, holding out his money, shouldering George Robson to one side, he glanced along the bar, and saw Ginny Nicholson at the far end talking to Freddie. He made an effort to attract her attention, but instead, managed to draw Hazel to him.
“Yes, Joe?”
“Oh, er, sorry,” he apologised. “Miles away, then. Half of bitter, Campari and soda, gin and tonic, ice and lemon with the shorts.”
While Hazel pulled his drinks, Joe again glanced along the bar. Freddie was ignoring the crowds clamouring for drink, leaving it all to his wife and the barman. The big, cheery man was gone. Freddie’s face was a picture of concern while he talked earnestly with Ginny.
People and their motives had always been a puzzle to Joe, and he freely admitted that he did not always handle them well. But he could not be fooled; body language and his keen sense of observation told him when others had problems, when others had encountered sudden change in their lives. He did not know which it was in the case of Ginny and Freddie, and while he had never seen Ginny anything but angry, it was obvious that something had tipped the scales for the landlord.
“You need more help,” he said to Hazel when she delivered his drinks. He nodded towards her husband.
She took his money and smiled at him. “I’ll kick him where he won’t dare show his mum.”
Joe returned to the table and related the tale to Sheila and Brenda. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there was something between Freddie and Ginny.”
“How do you know there isn’t?” Brenda asked finishing off her first drink and sipping at the second.
“With his wife stood not ten feet away?” Joe shook his head. “I know Freddie’s a big bugger, but I’ll bet that Hazel can go some if you wind her up the wrong way.”
The Chocolate Egg Murders Page 2