by Carrie Marsh
“Good!” Laura enthused. “Could you bring him through? Tell him I'll be a minute...” she quickly finished writing down a booking, and, refreshing her lipstick, ran through to the breakfast room. The hotel was surprisingly large: a renovated farmhouse that had (Laura guessed) belonged to a wealthy farmer in the early nineteenth century. Traces of old-world elegance still remained in the elaborate staircase and the inlay in the floor of the entrance. Laura did not notice these now as she ran past, skidding to a halt in the breakfast-room door.
“Mr. Duvall?”
A man of average height with very blue eyes and gray hair stood there. He was a solid-looking man. He looks like a chef, Laura thought. Had she been asked – she would not have known she had such an expectation of what a chef would look like.
“I'm Peter Duvall.” He held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you...Laura?” he asked questioningly.
“Yes. Pleased to meet you, too.”
Laura shook his hand, surprised by the size of it. He seemed more like a blacksmith than a chef this close, with large, strong hands. He looked at Laura unsmiling, and she blinked, surprised.
“Let's get on with it.” he said, somewhat brusquely.
“I think it would be best if I showed you around a bit.” Laura began, feeling a little uncomfortable – she had never actually employed someone before, and it would have helped if her first try was not with someone so abrupt and unpleasant. She swallowed and searched for her manners. “I'll show you the kitchen. Then, perhaps you can show me some of your products. Does that work for you?”
The man shrugged easily. “That works,” he said. “There are some things I want to be able to produce fresh for you, so that makes sense.”
“Well, then,” Laura said with forced cheerfulness. “Come this way.”
Her heeled shoes clicked as she led Mr. Duvall down the stairs and into the kitchen. She stood back in the entrance, allowing him to walk past.
He seems a bit melancholic, Laura thought, As well as being a bit of a bully. She dismissed her misgivings and carried on downstairs to the kitchen.
“Mrs. Poole!” she greeted their chef warmly. The chef was an imposing lady with a shock of white hair.
“Laura,” Mrs. Poole remarked, looking up through thick glasses. “Who might this be?”
“This is Mr. Duvall. I want him to work with us. Making pastries.”
“Pastries?” Mrs. Poole looked insulted, and Laura groaned inwardly. Why are village-folk so suspicious, and so offended by any implication that they aren't doing a good enough job?
“No one is going to replace you, Mrs. Poole,” Laura said gently. “I wouldn't want to do that for the world!” She touched the older woman's shoulder fondly. Mr. Duvall snorted and turned away.
Laura blinked. This man is so rude! She carried on addressing the older lady as if nothing had happened.
“I just thought it would be something novel – something they don't have at the Worthington Heights Hotel in Hillcrest,” she said, deliberately mentioning their rival establishment in the next village.
“Oh,” Mrs. Poole looked at her thoughtfully, clearly considering the idea. “That's not a bad idea, lass. Not a bad idea at all.”
Laura nodded.
“Thank you, Mrs. Poole,” she said, relieved. “Now, if you could help us, I think Mr. Duvall would like to find out what we have down here.”
Mr. Duvall, still smirking, stepped forward and Laura stood back while the two chefs looked at everything in the kitchen. Mr. Duvall, evidently humoring the old lady, listened to her explanations with a slight smirk still in place. Laura felt offended, and hoped Mrs. Poole, who was a good friend, did not notice it.
“Ready,” Mrs. Poole said, beaming.
“Right,” Laura began, “and then we can...” Her phone rang. “Excuse me...”
She ran back up the stairs and answered when she reached the landing.
“Laura?” the voice on the other side of the line asked. Laura recognized it instantly.
“Oh! Howard!” Laura felt her cheeks warm as she heard the familiar voice of Dr. Howard Lucas, her best friend, and potentially more-than-friend. “What is it?”
“I just wanted to tell you I'd be late today. I'm afraid I'm being held up in the village – lots of work here. I'll tell you later.”
“Oh,” Laura said, feeling upset. “Thanks for letting me know. Will you still bring something, or shall I?”
“I'll still bring supper,” he promised. “Scout's honor. I'll just be about an hour late.”
“I can live with that,” Laura replied, feeling cheered. They said goodbye and hung up. She hurried back to the kitchen.
By the time Laura got back, Mr. Duvall was already halfway through a batch of dough. He worked intently, and, half an hour later, he had three different pastries fresh from the oven for Laura to sample.
“Oh, my...” Laura said delightedly, as she bit into an almond-flavored confection. “These are amazing!” Whatever she thought of the man and his manners, he could certainly cook.
Mr. Duvall looked down, clearly embarrassed. “Thank you,” he said gruffly.
These pastries were magnificent. Melting on the tongue, filled with almond paste and dusted with sugar, Laura could not recall their equals, even in the fancy coffee-shop in London she used to visit with Ron.
“You are hired, Mr. Duvall,” Laura grinned. She wiped the flakes of pastry off her mouth with a napkin and held out a hand. “You are so hired.”
Mr. Duvall coughed awkwardly and Laura shook his hand.
The hotel had a new pastry chef. Whatever she thought of him, she had to admit he was good.
After finishing the pastries and discussing the terms of employment, Laura led Mr. Duvall upstairs to sign the contract she had drawn up with the hotel owner.
“Well,” Laura sighed after he had left, “Step one of putting the Woodend Hotel on the map went rather well.”
She dabbed a flake of pastry off her lip and put on fresh lip gloss, ready to face the rest of the day. She did, after all, have dinner to look forward to. Even if Howard was going to be a little late.
CHAPTER TWO
FISH AND CHIPS
Laura walked out into the crispness of an early autumn evening in high spirits. The sun had just set over the low hills and the night smelled of dew.
“It's a beautiful da-aay...” Laura sang as she walked down the steps outside happily.
“Laura!”
Laura whipped around to see Janet, the hotel's receptionist, running down the stairs behind her, high heels clicking on the stairway. She balanced on the edge of the step beside Laura, smoothing a hand down her black pencil skirt.
“Yes, Janet?”
“How did it go?” Janet asked excitedly. “The interview, I mean.”
“Oh, we hired him,” Laura confirmed. “Mrs. Poole and I have it all worked out. He should start work at the beginning of next week.”
“Perfect,” Janet agreed. “And I have some exciting news, too...a kind of related topic. Or at least I will have, tomorrow...” Janet smiled secretively. An inveterate gossip and almost permanently on the lookout for potential lovers, Janet was a breath of fresh air in the small village which otherwise consisted mainly of people over eighty or under ten.
“That sounds interesting,” Laura commented. She looked at her watch. “Oh, is it nine-thirty already?” she exclaimed. “I have to go! See you...”
“See you, Laura,” Janet sang out as Laura ran down the front steps, high heels clicking on the stairs, and found her car in the darkened lot. The other pleasant thing about Janet was her inability to be ruffled by anything.
“Let's go...” Laura shouted at the engine of her ancient Renault, turning the key in the ignition. It coughed and jumped forward, and Laura smiled. She did not really need the car – she lived three blocks away from the hotel – but it was still very cold in the evenings and the walk could be less than pleasant. Besides, she liked the car: she had bought it with her fir
st salary as a receptionist, then paid almost three times as much having it repaired. It had a tenacious spirit, it seemed to Laura, and now that it was finally working she was reluctant to part from it.
“Home, sweet ho-o-me” she sang, as her little car wheezed off into the night. I should join the village choir sometime, she thought to herself, grinning.
She pulled up outside her little cottage and walked briskly to the front door, breathing in the scents of dew and cold night air. The crickets were already singing, and moths flew drowsily around the lamp over the door. This is why I love this place, Laura thought, drawing in the scents of evening as she walked briskly up to the front door.
“Monty!” Laura grinned at the house's occupant as she crossed the threshold, letting in a cloud of mist behind her.
Hello, Monty said gruffly. He looked up at her from his place on the mat. You took your time.
“Oh, Monty,” Laura said affectionately, “It's not late – only quarter to ten!”
I'm hungry, Monty said grumpily. I had a long day in the fields.
“You did?” Laura asked, as she went through to the kitchen, scooping food into his dish.
Yes. I would tell you, he began, but I think there is someone waiting for you outside.
“How do you..?” Laura said, just as she heard a knock at the door.
I heard his car door in the street, and his footsteps on the path. Not that hard, Monty said smugly, and took himself off to her bedroom.
Laura ran to the front door and opened it, feeling her heart beating faster.
“Howard!”
“Laura,” he greeted her, and put a hand on her shoulder. His other hand held a package, with which he gestured, smiling.
Laura lifted a brow.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Battered fish. And chips. Picked them up in Branley on the way back from the lab,” he explained succinctly.
Laura smiled. “Just what I wanted.”
“Really?” Howard remarked, and Laura felt her heart clench. He had such a boyish grin – it took years off his lean, serious face and made him seem a child, confiding secrets. “I'm glad.” He ran a hand through his dark hair distractedly, a gesture that suited his easy strength.
“Yes,” Laura affirmed. “Now, do come in before you freeze out there! I've got some wine to share.”
“Oh, good!” Howard said, warmly. He followed her indoors, closing the door behind them. He followed her to the kitchen, to which she bustled, ready to fetch the plates and glasses.
“And it's even white wine...” Laura said from the depths of the refrigerator, “So it will match with supper....”
Howard laughed and set the packages down by the stove. He took the glass of wine from her, smiling. Laura turned to face him, thinking as she did so what a strong, comforting presence he was. Nothing like Ron, she thought, reassured. Her experience with him had left her badly shaken and mistrustful, and all signs that Howard would never turn into such a person were encouraging.
“A toast?” Laura queried, seeing him lift the glass experimentally.
“To rest and relaxation,” he sighed, sounding exhausted.
“Cheers to that!” Laura agreed, raising hers in a toast as they drank. The wine was good – cool and sweet, with a lingering aftertaste. “Had a long day?” Laura asked, turning to the fish, which she popped on the stove to heat.
“You could say so,” Howard agreed. He leaned back on the counter, stretching his long legs. “Lots of 'flu going round.” He took a sip of wine and licked his lips, making Laura shiver.
“Really?” she asked, trying to concentrate on his words, not on his presence.
“Mm,” he nodded, “it's mainly the usual influenza, but it's having a bad effect on people. I am worried about some of my older patients,” he added, frowning.
“It's a bad 'flu?” Laura asked.
“It seems to be. I had to take Captain Radlet to the hospital,” Howard sighed.
“He will make it?”
“Mm,” Howard agreed, finishing his glass of wine. “Got him there in time, thank Heavens.”
“Indeed,” Laura agreed fervently. “I couldn't agree more. He's a nice man.”
They stood in silence for a moment while the chips heated in the microwave.
“How was your day?” Howard asked gently.
“Oh,” Laura shrugged, giving him an unfeeling smile. “Nothing like yours. I didn't save any lives, or anything...”
“That's not the point,” Howard said, bending over her. “Why would people want to be alive, if no one cared about things like nice restaurants or making sure people got the seats they book?”
He was very close. His eyes were very dark – almost black – and Laura breathed in sharply, taking in the scent of musk and spice that characterized him. She could not stop herself leaning forward. Howard leaned forward to meet her.
They kissed.
Laura closed her eyes, lost in the feeling of his warm, hard lips against hers. She gasped, slightly, and he leaned in closer, deepening the contact.
“Oh...” Laura sighed, as they ended the kiss. She felt dazed.
“The chips are overheating,” Howard mentioned lightly, inclining his head.
Laura blinked at him. Trust him to mention something so infinitely down-to-earth at a moment like this...
She turned to the microwave and then, gasping, opened it, revealing some dark brown chips, escaping from the newspaper covering.
They both laughed.
Dinner passed by in a blur of laughter and keen conversation, and Laura found herself surprised when it was past midnight.
“I should go,” Howard said gravely. “Early start tomorrow, and all that.”
“I suppose,” Laura agreed, surprised by how miserable the thought made her.
“See you tomorrow?” Howard asked earnestly.
“See you tomorrow,” Laura agreed.
She saw him off at the door and they kissed again. When he had left, she collapsed onto the couch, smiling.
It was at that moment that the telephone rang.
“Hello?” Laura asked, mind still foggy with the wine and the late hour.
“Ms. Howcroft?” The voice on the other side was crisp and alert.
“Yes. What is it?” Laura glanced at the clock. It was one o'clock a.m. She wasn't expected at work before eight o' clock. It couldn't be someone from there.
“I'm Browne, from the police force. We have some serious news about your new employee,” the voice explained.
“Employee?” Laura blinked. “Oh! Mr. Duvall?”
“Yes. If you could come to Bradley Cottage, where he lives, on Drake Street? We have some questions to ask you.”
“What? Why?”
“He's dead.”
It is currently at $0.99
CHECK OUT THE LINK BELOW
Click Here To See How The Story Ends . . .
THANK YOU
for reading my book and
I hope you have enjoyed this story as well.
“PAYING BACK THE DEAD” is a standalone story.
If you have enjoyed reading “Book 4 - The Dead Among Us” so far, I believe you will be interested in checking out “Book 3 - Paying Back The Dead”.
When Laura Howcroft discovers an unexpected murder and a cousin she didn’t know about, she knows that the only way to uncover the truth is to investigate for herself. Can she uncover the killer that left a tax-man horribly murdered?
The only thing worse than death is taxes…
With two solved murders behind her, Laura Howcroft is more than content with her calm, tranquil existence as The Woodend Cottage Hotel receptionist. Little more than a year in the small village of Millerfield and Laura has already seen enough bloodshed to last her a lifetime. Things have been quite recently in the small British village and Laura can only hope they stay that way. Peaceful, calm and simple.
But when Laura discovers she has a cousin in the village, an encounter that r
apidly uncovers the unexpected murder of her cousin’s husband, Laura knows that the only way to help out is to investigate for her. With the Police pointing fingers at Judy Hugh, the wife of the recently deceased local tax official, Laura, Howard, and Monty are on the trail again.
After all who in their right mind would want to murder a much-mistrusted tax official..?
Can Laura uncover the real killer that left a tax-man horribly murdered?
Or will her own recently-rediscovered cousin take the fall for the death of her husband?
I have enclosed a preview of “Paying Back The Dead”.
Check it out below…
It is currently at $0.99 for a Limited Time ONLY!
CLICK HERE TO GET IT NOW
CHAPTER ONE
A TAXING MATTER
“Death and taxes,” a voice said sonorously in Laura's ear.
Laura turned round where she stood in the queue at the tiny Millerfield municipal office. “I'm sorry?”
“Death and taxes,” the man behind her continued patiently. “Life's inevitabilities.”
“Oh,” Laura breathed out, relieved. After the last year in Millerfield – a tiny Kentish village deep in the British countryside – she had had quite enough of death. She couldn't blame herself for being twitchy whenever it arose in conversation: She and her friend Howard Lucas, the village doctor, had investigated two murders in the past year, and she was starting to think the small, idyllic village was more sinister than anyone would believe. The last thing she wanted any more of was death.
Taxes are coming a close second, she sighed as she looked around the office. The place was exactly as it should be: Office-style blue linoleum on the floors, white window frames, even a potted fern, pale and straggling, growing on the windowsill. The sunlight flowed in desultorily, casting greyed gold light on the linoleum flooring.