by Mona Marple
“Please don’t tell me this might work out to be good for me.”
“What?!” Coral asked, her face incredulous.
“I was asleep, I don’t fancy doing this right now.” Sandy said, taking a seat on her settee and pretending she was watching TV. The programme she'd been watching before falling asleep had finished. In its place was an antiques show where an elderly man was sending a rare book collection to auction.
“What on earth is wrong with you tonight?” Coral asked, standing in front of Sandy to block her view of the programme she didn’t want to watch, anyhow.
“I want to mope a little. I know he’s entitled to open his own bookshop, but I also know it means I won’t be able to compete with him.”
“Compete with him?” Coral asked, stooping to Sandy’s level. “Sandy, he’s dead.”
**
It turned out that Coral had hoped Sandy would know more than she did, so she could land an exclusive front page story.
All that Coral knew was that Reginald Halfman had died that evening, and that the police considered it to be suspicious. That announcement by Jim Slaughter had been made outside the Waterfell Tweed police station, and broadcast on every news station. Sandy had slept through the news broadcast.
“I didn’t know about the shop.” Coral repeated. “He actually announced it in your cafe?”
“He stood on one of my tables and called for attention from everyone. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I hadn’t been there.”
The two sisters were sitting up in bed together, Coral borrowing a pair of Sandy’s flannel pyjamas. Neither of them felt like being on their own.
“Who would do such a thing.” Sandy muttered.
“He wasn’t the most popular man.” Coral said, which was true.
“And he didn’t win me as a friend today but, still, I wouldn’t wish the poor man dead.”
“I bet it's a burglary.” Coral said.
“You think?”
“Well, he’s not quiet about how much money he’s got, even if he lives - lived - in that dump. I think someone saw what valuables he had tucked away in there and he caught them."
“Hmm, I don’t know. Surely if anyone would be targeted like that, it would be the Harlows.” Sandy said. Benedict and Penelope Harlow lived in Waterfell Manor, the stately home set in 80 acres. Most of the village cottages had originally accommodated the Manor servants.
“I imagine they’ll have a better security system than Reginald.”
That was a good point. “You’ve got it all figured out.”
“Well, it’s what I do, isn’t it… solve problems, like putting a jigsaw together without the picture on the lid?”
“Poor Reginald.” Sandy said. She felt sick with guilt about her petty worries about her business. How could she have been so fixated on such trivial things? She remembered how just hours earlier she had even cursed Reginald’s name as she had stood over a hot pan in her kitchen. As she had heated soup for dinner, he had been taking his last breaths.
“I don’t think there's ever been a murder here.” Coral said. “It will be big news. Extra newspapers need putting out, we’ll have visitors coming to buy the Way and get the inside scoop.
“You never stop thinking about work, do you?” Sandy teased.
Coral laughed. “I’m still rehearsing for the nationals.”
Sandy reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed, then turned out the bedside lamp. She'd never told Coral, but she was pleased she hadn’t left for the bright lights of the city. Coral may have given up a career, but by doing so, Sandy had gained a lifelong friendship with her sister.
Sandy couldn’t imagine life without her sister by her side.
3
It was back to opening the shop alone before daylight the next morning for Sandy. Coral had left early so she could be the first one in the newspaper office as normal. Since then Sandy hadn’t been able to shake off an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She turned on all the lights in the shop and bolted the door behind her, then made sure she left the radio off. She wanted to hear if anyone tried to enter.
A single windowless envelope lay on the mat, addressed to ‘Sandy Shore’ in the unmistakable scrawl of Ignatius Potter.
Sandy’s landlord was an eccentric hermit who had made her life difficult ever since she had taken on the business. His random letters would appear overnight instead of a personal visit.
They were always hand-scrawled and addressed to the wrong name, and told her off for things that weren’t his business or suggesting ideas that were all ludicrous.
It was as if he imagined he was some silent partner and not just her landlord.
One letter had told her that selling cakes with nuts in would be the death of her business. Another advised that the first edition collection of Harry Potter books in the shop deserved a higher price tag.
She snatched the letter and moved into the kitchen.
She saw the kitchen and a wave of gratitude flooded her body that the kitchen was always thoroughly cleaned at night. It was dirty work, but she was always glad to arrive to clean work surfaces in the morning.
She placed the letter on the work surface and washed her hands. She was experimenting with a coconut and pistachio flapjack this morning and making the regular line up of cakes and cookies.
Sandy loved working with her hands, mixing ingredients, then celebrating the way they had rose or the glorious smell of a new combination. She got to see the success of her baking every day; twice - once as each cake was taken out of the oven and again when the customers savored them.
The morning went by fast as she focused on her work, and then her daily alarm went off to alert her to it being practically opening time. It had become daylight while she worked, the streets glistening from the rain that had fallen all morning. She unlocked the door and made herself a mocha, sitting with it in a seat that faced the door. She cupped the hot mug and had twenty glorious minutes of peace and quiet before the first face appeared at the door.
“Good morning.” Dorie Slaughter greeted, looking left and right before heading straight for the table where Sandy was already sitting. “Have you heard the awful news?”
“About Reginald? Yes, Coral told me last night.”
“Ah.” Dorie said, sitting opposite her at the table. “My Jim was the first to know.”
“Did he find him? Poor Jim.” Sandy said, imagining how awful it must be to discover such a thing.
“No, he didn’t find him. He got the call. First on the scene with the paramedics, but it was too late.”
“It’s so awful.”
“Who’d even have access to poison, that’s my question.” Dorie pondered out loud.
“Poison? I thought it was a burglary gone wrong.”
“Burglary? No!”
The door opened again and Cass walked in, her eyes red. She did just as Dorie had and joined the one table, grasping a hand of each of the two women already seated.
“What is the world coming to?” She asked, her voice breaking into a half-sob.
“Sandy considers it was a burglary,” Dorie said before Sandy could object. She tried to avoid the village gossip mill as much as she could. “But burglars don’t go armed with poison. It was planned, no accident.”
“Well, he made no friends yesterday,” Cass said.
“Cass!” Sandy exclaimed. Her friend always said precisely what she was feeling.
“I’m sorry Sandy, obviously I would wish no one dead.”
“When were you going to tell me?” Sandy asked, regretting her words as soon as she had said them. She saw Dorie’s ears perk up at the hint of tension and jumped up from her seat. “Let me get you drinks, ladies. The usual?”
She dived behind the counter and made their drinks, and by the time she returned, Penelope Harlow was hovering at the counter.
“Penelope, hello,” Sandy called. She placed the drinks in front of Dorie and Cass and returned to the counter.
“What can I get for you?” Sandy asked, deciding that she wouldn’t be the first to mention the murder to customers. They might be visiting the cafe to escape the awful news.
“Two Americanos to go, please. Benedict’s waiting out front.”
Sandy looked through the shop window and saw Benedict sitting in the large Range Rover, a mobile phone pressed to his ear. He gestured with his hands as he spoke. Penelope followed her gaze, then looked at Sandy again and shrugged.
“The fundraiser was a huge success,” Penelope said.
“Yes, everyone certainly threw themselves into it. I found out that you doubled the money raised?”
Penelope’s cheeks flushed. The Harlows constantly supported the Waterfell Tweed community, with their time and their vast fortune, and they did so expecting no praise or recognition.
“Don’t trust everything you discover,” Penelope said with a small chuckle.
“I saw the figures in the newspaper.” Sandy insisted. “I’m not trying to embarrass you, I wanted to say what a nice gesture it was.”
Penelope shrugged. “I think that when you are blessed, you should build a longer table, not a higher wall.”
Sandy nodded, realising the words summed up the Harlows.
“Well, lovely to see you, Sandy. This place is a little haven. Especially today.” Penelope said and left with no further mention of the huge news.
“Can we talk?” Cass asked as soon as Penelope left. She stood at the counter, her eyes still red. Dorie lingered in her seat, watching.
“Sure, come in the kitchen.” Sandy said, wiping her hands on a tea towel by habit and leading Cass into the kitchen space.
Cass was a ball of nervous energy, picking at stumps of former talons. One finger began to bleed and Cass hastily placed her hand in her pocket.
“What did you mean, when was I going to tell you?” Cass asked.
“You know what I mean. When were you going to tell me you were letting your shop to Reginald Halfman so he could compete with me?!”
Cass blinked, open-mouthed.
“I know it’s your business, Cass, and you don’t have to tell me everything that’s happening. But, hearing it from him was so humiliating.” Sandy said. The whole thing sounded trivial aloud, especially given what had occurred in the interim.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cass said.
“What?”
“I’ve hardly ever spoken to Reginald Halfman and my shop is busier than ever, why would I close?”
“But he told me. He came in here and announced it, yesterday.”
“And I’m telling you it’s not true,” Cass said, her expression firm. “Don’t you believe me?”
Sandy closed her eyes for a moment, imagining Reginald’s showmanship the previous day and comparing it to her friend’s quiet sincerity. “Of course I do. Of course, I believe you. Why would he have lied though?”
“Who knows? It’s not worth worrying about now.” Cass said.
“Reginald Halfman was well known for lying.” A posh female voice called out from the counter behind them. Sandy turned to see Charlotte Harlow in her Burberry coat at the counter. Afforded a private education, she somehow lacked the down-to-earth personality that her parents had retained.
“What do you mean?” Sandy asked.
“There was no truth in his little show about him opening any kind of bookshop. I had my father check the council records and there’s no mention of it at all. He was dreaming.” Charlotte said, with a shrug. “I’ll get a vanilla latte to go.”
“Sure,” Sandy said, busying herself with the intricate drink that Charlotte preferred.
“So it was all just a lie… how odd.” Cass said. “What a strange man he was.”
“He wasn’t strange, he was horrible.” Dorie Slaughter called from her seat. “He did some awful things and had no shortage of enemies.”
“Dorie, please. He was eccentric that’s all.” Sandy said.
“Eccentric? Hmm. Ask Elaine about him.” Dorie said, then sipped the last of her drink and stood up to leave.
Sandy watched the old woman leave the shop and brave the howling winds outside.
She certainly didn’t have time to get involved in village gossip when a man lay dead.
4
Coral breezed into the shop five minutes after closing time, to Sandy’s surprise.
“I’m in here!” she cried. She was sitting on the floor of the bookshop, making sure that the books were all in the right space. It was one of her favourite jobs. She turned the radio on to Classic FM and got to work, inspecting every single bookshelf to make sure everything was just so. It amused her to see how some browsers were utterly careless when it came to returning a book to a shelf; gardening books in the fiction section, true crime in the romance section, children’s books with the cookery.
The bookshelves and their stock were her pride and joy. She had amassed them for years before opening the shop, filling a storage unit in the next village with stock she had bought from car boot sales and online auctions. And then a book owner friend rang her and offered her first refusal to buy the whole of his stock so he could retire. It had been her time - time to either turn the dream into a reality or give it up for good. She’d accepted his offer, rented the shop, and never regretted it for a moment.
“Are you mad?” Coral called, standing at the end of the bookshelf.
“Sitting down here? I love it.” Sandy said. She was sitting with her legs crossed, something everyone commented on when they saw. A woman her age shouldn’t be sitting cross-legged on a carpet, they thought. Sandy didn’t care.
“No, leaving the door unlocked after closing when there’s a murderer on the loose?” Coral cried. Her words sent a shiver down Sandy’s spine. She hadn’t considered that.
“Geeze, you’re right.” She jumped to her feet to lock the door, to find that Coral already had. There was a man’s face looking in the door at her and Sandy jumped, until she recognised the face as being Jim Slaughter, the local constable. He gestured for her to open the door.
“Wow, it’s freezing out there.” He moaned as if the poor weather was a surprise. Waterfell Tweed had many selling points, its weather was not one of them.
“Are you here to speak to me about Reginald?” Sandy asked, only surprised that it had taken the officer so long to reach her on his rounds.
“What? No, no, unless you want to confess?” He asked, descending into a belly laugh. Jim was as round as he was tall, his hair thinning and he made even the police uniform look untidy. “I need a cake.”
“A cake? We’re closed, Jim.” Sandy said. “And I thought you’d be busy with the murder investigation?”
“Me? Oh no, police from the city have been drafted in for that. DC Sullivan. He’s a bundle of laughs… not.” Jim said, eyeing up the cakes remaining on the counter. “Can I get a cake? You are still here, and every penny helps.”
“What’s it for?” Coral asked, standing behind Sandy.
“Well, I’m in a bit of trouble.” Jim confided. “Today was mum and dad’s wedding anniversary and I forgot. I need to get her something, make a bit of a fuss.”
“That’s good of you Jim. How many years would it have been?”
“Forty-five. It’s been 28 without him, I barely remember him, but mum does. I think every year I need to put the date on my calendar and then forget.”
“Ok,” Sandy said, picking up her tea towel. “Here’s what we’ll do. Your mum’s favourite is the coffee cake and I’ve got none left. If you can hang around for thirty minutes, I’ll bake her a fresh one.”
“You’re a star, Sandy.”
“There’s one condition,” Sandy said. “Get your calendar out now and write it in. Even a brilliant
baker like me prefers a little notice.”
“It’s a deal,” Jim said, a huge grin plastered on his face, revealing too many teeth in too small a space. “Thanks, Sandy."
**
“So what do you think of the news that city police are on the case?” Coral asked. The two sisters were sitting together in the cafe, each drinking a hot chocolate with cream and chocolate sauce.
“It’s not a surprise, I guess. Jim’s lovely but I can’t imagine him catching a killer.”
“They’ll be dead formal,” Coral said. “I see it when I cover the big stories. They close down, won’t talk. Won’t give quotes.”
“But they’ll solve the case, that’s what matters?”
Coral shrugged. “I guess. Be nice to get an exclusive quote, though, and I could have done that with Jim.”
“Maybe you still can.” Sandy thought out loud. “Just because he’s not working the case doesn’t stop him having an opinion.”
“Ooh, I like your thinking sis… very devious!”
Sandy rolled her eyes. Her sister was always plotting, always looking for the scoop, the next lead. Sandy was happy focusing on her next book to read.
**
Sandy had left her car at home that day. As she set off to walk home in the dark, she regretted that decision. She had never felt nervous walking around the village before, it was one of her favourite ways to relax and get a little exercise, but every shadow felt ominous and every noise made her jump. She was overcome with an overwhelming anger towards the person who had killed Reginald Halfman and shattered the peace and safety of the village she loved.
As she made her way down Church Street, she noticed a dark figure ahead and slowed her walking speed. She unzipped her handbag and pulled out her mobile phone, but it refused to turn on when she pressed the home button. “Damn.” She cursed. No battery. She must remember to charge it more often.
As she put the phone back in her bag, she realised that the figure ahead had stopped walked and was standing, facing her. It looked like a man, and she could see in the half-light from a nearby lamppost that he was holding something long in his hand.