Christmas Crackers
A Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery (#10)
David W Robinson
Copyright © 2017 by David W Robinson
Cover Photography by Adobe Stock © DiViArts
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All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United Kingdom
First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2017
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The Author
David Robinson is a Yorkshireman now living in Manchester. Driven by a huge, cynical sense of humour, he’s been a writer for over thirty years having begun with magazine articles before moving on to novels and TV scripts.
He has little to do with his life other than write, as a consequence of which his output is prodigious. Thankfully most of it is never seen by the great reading public of the world.
He has worked closely with Crooked Cat Books since 2012, when The Filey Connection, the very first Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, was published.
Describing himself as the Doyen of Domestic Disasters he can be found blogging at www.dwrob.com and he appears frequently on video (written, produced and starring himself) dispensing his mocking humour at www.youtube.com/user/Dwrob96/videos
By the same author
The STAC Mystery series:
1. The Filey Connection
2. The I-Spy Murders
3. A Halloween Homicide
4. A Murder for Christmas
5. Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend
6. My Deadly Valentine
7. The Chocolate Egg Murders
8. The Summer Wedding Murder
9. Costa del Murder
10. Christmas Crackers
11. Death in Distribution
12. A Killing in the Family
13. A Theatrical Murder
14. Trial by Fire
15. Peril in Palmanova
The SPOOKIES Mystery series
The Haunting of Melmerby Manor
The Man in Black
Christmas Crackers
A Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery (#10)
The Headland Hotel
Following Sheila Riley and Brenda Jump, Joe Murray climbed out of his estate car and turned up his coat collar against a biting easterly wind.
“I love Whitby,” Sheila said with an air of exhilaration in her voice.
Joe gazed out across the town, nestling in the steep valley between the cliffs. The December, noonday sun shone weakly through thin cloud, and on the opposite headland, the ruins of the abbey stood dark and ominous. Close to them was the statue of Captain Cook, and just beyond him the famous whalebone arch. In the town below, a queue of traffic waited for the swing bridge over the Esk to close. The bridge effectively divided the town into two, unequal halves, and when it opened to let larger fishing and pleasure boats through to the marina, the traffic soon backed up. On the far side of the bridge, Joe could see throngs of shoppers milling around the narrow streets of Grape Lane, Sandgate and Church Street. Joe knew those streets well – the little gift shops, twee tea rooms, and of the course the bottom of the ‘Ninety-Nine Steps’ that led up the hill to the abbey.
“A hundred and ninety-nine if the truth be told,” he muttered, and threw open the tailgate to take out their luggage.
“Come again,” Brenda said.
“Nothing. Just thinking on the times we used to holiday here. My old ma loved Whitby, too. I can tolerate the place, but in this wind…”
He trailed off, yanked Sheila’s single case from the car, raised the sliding handle for her, and handed it over. After doing the same for Brenda, he took out his own case, and carefully picked up the zipped suit protector containing his hired dinner suit.
“I’m really looking forward to seeing Joe Murray in black tie,” Brenda said.
“Bloody stupid idea if you want my opinion.”
“You’re the guest of honour, Joe,” Sheila reminded him. “You have to look the part.”
“To present a gong to some overpaid hack? Do me a favour. What’s wrong with these people? Couldn’t they afford Agatha Christie?”
“Be a bit difficult,” Brenda said. “Agatha Christie passed away in the mid-seventies. Come on, Joe, you’re a celebrity. You’re the best non-police detective in Yorkshire and word spreads, you know.”
“Maybe I should start charging for these gigs, then.”
“Do that and we’ll stop inviting you.”
At the sound Rowena Armitage’s voice, Joe slammed the car’s tailgate shut, turned and beamed a smile of greeting on her. “How are you, Rowena? Long time no see.” They exchanged an air kiss. “Can I introduce my two partners in crime? Sheila Riley and Brenda Jump.”
The women exchanged handshakes. “Pleasure to meet you, Rowena. How long have you known Joe?” Brenda asked.
“He and I go all the way back to catering college. I branched into journalism and later crime writing, and Joe took over his father’s café, but I kept track of his exploits as a detective.”
“You’re originally from Sanford, then?” Sheila asked.
“Leeds. I moved up here many years ago.”
As she spoke with Sheila, Rowena led them to the grand entrance of the Headland Hotel. Brenda and Joe hung back a few paces and Brenda, with one eye on Rowena’s shapely behind whispered, “You’re a dark horse, Joe Murray.”
“Even darker than you think,” he agreed, “Cos I’m not going to tell you any tales.”
“Spoilsport.”
The grand entrance hall was all pillars and marble-effect Formica. Smart reception staff, dressed in the pale blue company uniform, handled their job efficiently. Joe was allocated room 404 on the fourth floor. His two friends would be in 405, just across the corridor, and Rowena took the opportunity to tell him she was in 402.
“Looks like Joe’s scored tonight, Sheila,” Brenda muttered, and Sheila giggled in return.
“Now, Joe,” Rowena said as they ambled from reception, “You are our guest of honour and you will be presenting the premier award. The North Coast Crime Writers’ novel of the year award. I’m not supposed to tell anyone who the winner is, so I’ll have to swear you to great secrecy. It’s…”
Rowena trailed off as a tall, striking brunette entered the hotel and swept towards them, her faux mink coat flouncing in her wake. She was followed by a smartly dressed forty-something man, dragging two huge suitcases.
“Ah. Rowena. I hope you’ve reserved the best room for me. If not, I’m afraid I shall be leaving immediately.”
Joe took an instant dislike to her. “She asked me to vacate it, but I said no, so it looks like we’re sharing. You’re not expensive, are you?”
The calculated insult astonished his two friends and Rowena, but the brunette took it in her stride. “Trust me, little man, if I was selling it, you couldn’t afford me.” She swept on past them to reception.
The man smiled apologetically. “Sorry about that. What Arabella wants, Arabella gets.”
“Really?” Joe asked. “What Arabella needs is a kick up the khyber. And if you don’t have the bottle, refer her to me. I will.”
“I think we’ve had enough trouble already, Joe,” Brenda suggested, and indicated the lifts.
“I knew she�
��d be difficult,” Rowena said.
“Who is she?” Joe demanded.
“Arabella Tremayne. She’s the winner of the Novel of the Year. She’s the one you have to give the award to.”
“And I don’t suppose I’m allowed to hit her over the head with it, am I?”
***
Room 404 gave Joe a panoramic view over Whitby, the abbey and south towards Scarborough.
“Donna has asked if you’ll join her for tea in the St Hilda’s Suite,” Rowena had said, leaving him at the door. “The awards dinner doesn’t get under way until about half past seven, so you have plenty of time.”
“Sure, Rowena,” Joe had agreed, and let himself in to the room.
His small suitcase unpacked, his dinner suit hanging on the wardrobe door, he sat at the escritoire by the windows, taking in the view, the sight of the placid seas inculcating a sense of peace within him, and thought about Donna Corley.
A bubbly blonde about thirty years of age, she had travelled to Sanford earlier in the year bringing the news that he had been invited to the award dinner as guest of honour. After negotiating places for Sheila and Brenda at the dinner table, Joe had learned that Donna wanted more.
“I’m a reporter, Joe. Chief crime correspondent for the North Coast Star. All right, so as newspapers go we’re not big, but I have been syndicated in the national dailies a time or two. I’m hankering after writing books and I don’t mean fiction. I mean factual crime. I read about your work in Windermere in the summer and Torremolinos in September, and what I’d like to do is turn out a book full of your cases.”
Joe had baulked instantly but found himself under pressure not only from Donna, but Sheila and Brenda too.
“It’s time you had some recognition for your work, Joe,” Sheila had insisted.
“I do it for free,” he retorted, “and I write them up myself.” He had gestured at his casebooks on the shelves of the Lazy Luncheonette. “I change all the names to make sure no one suffers more than they already have.”
“And I’ll change the names,” Donna replied. “Come on, Joe. All I need is five or six cracking tales from you, preferably with a Christmas theme.”
He frowned. “You’re gonna be cutting it a bit fine for Christmas, aren’t you?”
“Not this Christmas. Next Christmas. And I already have a publisher interested. I’ll make sure your caff gets a mention. Free publicity.”
The words ‘free’ and ‘publicity’ put together slowed down his reflex rejections. “I don’t know. I meanersay, I don’t know that we’ve had that many cases around Christmas.”
“We’ve had lots,” Brenda said. “What about that time your Lee was accused? That was Christmas, wasn’t it?”
Donna had placed a pocket recorder on the table in front of Joe. “Come on. Gimme the bottom line.”
“Well, as murders went it wasn’t particularly complicated, but as Brenda said, it was hard lines that the killer chose to blame it on my nephew.”
Heir to Murder
Joe’s favourite time of the morning was 10:30. By then, the rush was well and truly over, the schoolchildren were all in their classrooms, and the shoppers making for Sanford Retail Park had had their cups of tea and set about the morning’s retail therapy. But at the height of the Christmas rush, there was no time to relax and tackle the cryptic crossword in the Express.
With a queue of about eight people, a young brunette had approached Sheila and Brenda, asking about Joe’s booklets, his ‘casebooks’ as he described them.
“Joe,” Sheila called out as he passed a cup of tea across the counter and an order for a toasted teacake to Lee. “Young lady there wants to know if your books are for sale.”
“Now?” he demanded. “I’m up to my eyes in muck, bullets and mid-morning snacks.”
“It was just a question.”
“No worries,” Joe heard the young woman say to Sheila. “I’ll call back this arvo, when you’re not so busy.”
The bell chimed and the cafe door opened, and a man in a dark suit entered.
It was some time before he made the front of the queue, where Joe greeted him with his customary scowl.
“Morning squire. What can I do you for?”
Pinpoint eyes under a fringe of dark hair, framed Joe in their candid gaze. “I’m looking for Mr Murray?”
“If you’re from environmental health, the burned fat in those bins had nothing to do with me. It was from the chip shop.”
“I’m not from environmental health. My name is Victor Helmsley. I’m a private investigator, and I’d like a word with Mr Murray.”
“Well whoever sent you is lying. I don’t know any strange women.” Joe waved at the empty café. “We serve food here, not divorces. You want tea or something?”
“Oh. Yes. Tea would be fine, thanks.”
Joe snatched a beaker from the racks behind him and poured strong tea from a large, stainless steel pot. Stirring in milk, he passed it over. “One twenty-five.”
Helmsley’s eyes rose as if he were surprised at having to pay for it. He dipped into his pockets, came out with the cash and handed it over. “I don’t think you’re the Mr Murray I’m looking for.”
The door chimed again. When Joe checked the queue, the brunette woman had left. The suspicion came back to his eyes as he focussed again on the private eye. “How would you know whether I’m the right Mr Murray?”
“You’re too old,” Helmsley said.
His candour annoyed Joe. “Why don’t you just tell me exactly who you are looking for?”
“Mr Lee Murray.”
Joe waved at a nearby table. “Sit you down, I’ll get him for you.” He turned to the serving hatch. “Lee, there’s a suit out here wants to see you.” He turned back to Helmsley. “What’s he supposed to have done?”
“My business is confidential, Mr Murray, and it’s with Lee, not you.”
“Lee can’t even spell confidential, never mind understand it.”
“If he wants to tell you, he will, but I can’t.” Helmsley moved to the table across the aisle from Sheila and Brenda.
Lee emerged from the kitchen. “There,” Joe said pointing to Helmsley. “Any trouble, boy, I’m right here.” Joe rang the change into the till, closed the drawer and served the final customer in the queue before joining Sheila and Brenda at table five.
“Wonder what he wants with Lee?” Brenda whispered.
“As long as it ain’t bother, I don’t care,” Joe said.
Although Joe described Lee as a ‘lad’ he was in fact twenty-eight years old. A useful prop for the Sanford Bulls until torn knee ligaments ended his career. He was born in Sanford, but his father, Joe’s brother Arthur, had moved the family to Australia when Lee was a toddler. Less than five years later, Arthur’s wife, Rachel returned to England with young Lee in tow, and Joe had become a surrogate father to the boy, ensuring that he went to school and later, when he turned sixteen, catering college. A huge young man, clumsy, cumbersome, sometimes slow on the uptake, he was nevertheless an excellent cook and Joe dreaded the day when some fancy restaurant or hotel chain might steal him away.
“Considering the number of plates he breaks, it’s not likely,” Sheila had often reassured Joe.
Sat on the other side of the aisle from his nephew, unable to hear the whispered conversation between Lee and Helmsley, his eyes nevertheless strayed constantly to them, like a gooseberry on the fringes of a dating couple.
When Lee suddenly howled and then burst into tears, it was the signal for Joe to act.
“Hey, hey, hey. What the hell is going on? What are you doing to him?”
Helmsley looked helpless and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mr Murray. It’s something we come across a lot in this game. I can’t say any more than that, but I’m sure Lee will tell you.” The private eye stood and took out his card. “I’m staying at the Sanford Park Hotel. When Lee’s ready, when he’s calmed down a little, if he comes to my room, we’ll deal with the paperwork.” He stepp
ed away from the table, and walked out of the café.
Joe looked down at his nephew, sobbing like a child, comforted by Sheila and Brenda, the centre of attention for all the customers. Snatching up the business card, Joe hurried out into the freezing December rain.
Helmsley had turned towards the retail park to the left, and he already had a twenty yard start on Joe. “Hey,” he called after the suit’s departing back. “What’s going on? What have you said to Lee, and what damned paperwork does he need to get through?”
The private investigator stopped and turned. “I’m sorry, Mr Murray, but as I said, the business between your nephew and me is confidential. I will tell you this, when I’ve done with him this afternoon, he’ll be a very rich man.” Helmsley marched off towards the retail park.
His brow knitted, Joe hesitated a moment and then returned to the café where both Sheila and Brenda were comforting Lee. “Will someone please tell me what the hell this is all about?”
Lee looked up, his face lined in pain, tears streaking his cheeks. “It’s me dad, Uncle Joe. He’s dead.”
***
“When did you last see Arthur?”
Joe drew in his breath. “Let’s see. Probably the old girl’s funeral. Sixteen – no, seventeen years ago, now”
“Your mother?” Sheila asked and Joe nodded.
“She was sixty-nine, I’d be forty and Arthur was a coupla years older than me. He was never too friendly with Dad, but that was the old man’s fault. He never really forgave Arthur for shooting off to Oz instead of sticking to the café with me. Anyway, when the old feller died, Arthur didn’t bother coming from Australia, but when my old queen shuffled off two years later, he was as hurt as me, and he came over for the funeral. Stayed with Alison and me. Called to see Rachel while he was here.” He gave a scornful little laugh. “I don’t think that was a joyous occasion, either. There was a lot of bad blood when they split up.” His laughter dried up and he sighed. “And that was the last time I saw him. After that it was just the odd letter or occasional Christmas cards.” Toying with his a cup of tea, he stared glumly through the windows at the pouring rain. “He never said he was ill or nothing.”
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