“No, sorry, but I’ll see what I can do. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” Max’s voice sounded odd, as if there was something he wasn’t telling. He changed the subject. “How’s Bear?”
“Listening to your every word.” It was true. The dog’s mouth gaped. Libby could swear he was smiling.
“Give him a treat from me.” Max’s voice took her by surprise. He sounded homesick, which was ridiculous, as he was about to come back anyway.
Libby found she was smiling, as broadly as Bear. “I will. Come on over when you get here.”
“Will you feed me?”
“Beans on toast?”
“Perfect.” He was still laughing as the call ended.
Scrambled eggs
As Libby yawned her way downstairs next morning, keen to retrieve her beloved Citroen from the garage and at the same time, winkle tit-bits of information about Kevin and Vince out of Alan Jenkins’ brain, she caught the whiff of fish. Mandy, in the tiny back room beyond the kitchen, emptied a tin of dog food into Bear’s bowl. “And you’ve already fed Fuzzy,” Libby approved. “I can smell it. You’re trying to steal their affections.” She’d let yesterday’s pot-smoking go. Mandy was obviously on her best behaviour.
Bear finished his breakfast in three gulps and turned his attention to Fuzzy’s. In the kitchen, toast popped up from the toaster. A pan on the cooker held scrambled eggs. “You’ve made breakfast for me, too?”
“I found a recipe on line.”
Libby sniffed the air, catching an enticing whiff of herbs. “Oregano?” Mandy nodded. “Smells good.”
Mandy pushed across a piled plate, face pink. She watched, face screwed up, as Libby took a mouthful, chewed and pronounced her verdict. “Perfect. Did you have a nice evening with Steve?”
Mandy’s cheeks glowed. “I’ve said I’ll go with him to his Aunt Angela’s place today. The quintet are meeting to practice, though Steve says I have to call it a rehearsal.”
“Geoff Miles’s long-lost work. So, you’re getting a taste for classical music. Is Steve playing the saxophone?”
“Clarinet. He plays that too.”
“Talented young man. I’m going over to the garage to see if the Citroen’s fixed.”
Mandy spent an hour in the bathroom, finally leaving the house wearing a faux leather jacket. It was a size or two on the big side. Libby was sure she’d seen it on the back of a chair in Steve’s house.
***
Alan Jenkin’s garage appeared quite empty, except for a single old vehicle whose pointed wings were an especially glaring shade of pink. Seeing no sign of Alan, Libby was about to leave, when a spanner clattered on the floor, accompanied by loud and heartfelt curses. A long, grimy arm reached out from under the Cadillac, groped for and failed to find the offending tool. Alan Jenkins slid out, blowing on his left hand and muttering under his breath. He caught sight of Libby. “Sorry about the language, Mrs F. Scraped my hand.”
“Do you want me to clean it up?”
He grinned. “Nah. Happens all the time, when you’re around cars. Reckon the grease stops any infections.” His hand, filthy with oil, was a mess of old scabs. A new cut slowly oozed blood.
“Shouldn’t you have one of those pits so you can get underneath the cars?” Libby asked.
Alan grinned. “Where’s the fun in that? There’s one in the workshop, of course.” He jerked his head towards an adjoining building. “That’s where I work on your car. When I’m tending to this old lady, I like to do it here. You know, a bit hands on, you might say.”
Libby struggled to find something complimentary to say about the car. “It’s very―um―American.” What did people see in these old wrecks?
Alan patted the wing of the Cadillac. ”1969. She’ll be at the Show next week, if I can get her on the road by then.”
“Is it―er―she your only old car?”
He wiped a greasy hand over his face, leaving a trail of oil, his face screwed up as though in pain. “She’s not an ‘old car’, Mrs Forest, she’s a classic.”
“Sorry. She’s lovely, of course. I just wondered if you’d had time to look at my Citroen?”
The frown deepened. “Course I did. First thing after I brought it in, I gave it the once over.” Libby enjoyed special treatment at the garage. Alan owed Max a debt; something to do with legal advice when the garage owner stepped too close to the line. His gratitude extended to Libby. “What’s Max up to at the moment, then?” Alan rubbed his hands with an old rag and stuffed it back in the pocket of his overalls.
“He’s away. He’ll be back tonight.”
“Planning something special, are we? Going out for a meal?” Libby knew Alan’s idea of a night out was a few jars in the pub and a kebab, from the Greek take-away on the High Street.
Over in the workshop, the Citroen was buffed to a shine. “I can see my face in the bonnet.” Libby sniffed, detecting the smell of polish. “But is the engine OK?”
“She’ll stagger on for a bit, yet. A good goer, that’s what she is.”
“And this time, I want a proper bill. No discounts. OK?”
He shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” She held out her credit card. “First, though, I want to ask you a few questions about the cycle club picnic.”
Alan gazed at his feet, arms folded. “Yeah. Thought you might start on that. Bit of a private eye, aren’t you?”
She let the silence grow. Alan weakened. “Well, I was there when it happened.”
“Were you? I didn’t see you. Were you ill, too?”
“Nah, not me. Took my own grub, didn’t I? The wife made up some cheese and pickle sarnis and a piece of pork pie.”
“I never thought of pork pie as healthy eating, before.”
Alan’s brow furrowed. “Healthy eating?”
“Never mind. It was a joke. I’m glad you were OK, but I was really wondering about Vince. He’s not been around Exham long, has he?”
“That’s right. He’s new. Arrived about ten years ago, when they opened that new business park affair.”
“You mean the place by the M5 with the hideous green warehouses?”
He grinned. “That’s right. Vince drove a fork-lift truck.” Libby bit her lip. This was no time for jokes about lifting forks. “He used to come down here of a weekend, and work on the old girl with me.” Libby deduced he meant the Cadillac. “Kevin came over, too.”
“So the three of you were friends?”
The mechanic frowned, looking perplexed at the thought. “Suppose so. Used to do a day on the car, clean up and have a few drinks in the Lighthouse Inn of a Saturday. Vince used to keep on at us to go out to the clubs, but my wife wouldn’t have that. Kevin went, once or twice, I think.”
“Kevin and Vince were both single, then?”
“Kevin used to be married, until Sheila ran off with the window-cleaner. Good riddance, he reckoned. Don’t know about Vince. He might have had a wife once, but not living with him any more, if you know what I mean.” He was frowning.
“You’ll miss the two of them, won’t you?”
“Ah. Reckon I will, at that. We had some good times.”
Libby handed over her credit card. Alan grunted. “Yep, gonna miss old Vince and Kevin around here.” As an epitaph, it didn’t seem too bad.
***
Libby left the Land Rover outside the garage, to be picked up when Max got back from his mysterious, government affairs, and drove home to a quiet house.
She’d hardly hung her coat in the hall cupboard, when a white van drew up. She answered the door to a smiling Eastern European, who heaved a weighty cardboard box into her hall. “For Mrs Foster.”
“Foster? That’s not... Oh, Forest, you mean.” Was it what she thought? Heart thumping, Libby grabbed a knife and ripped open the box. Yes. Her brand new cookery books.
She lifted out the top copy and laid it on the kitchen table, with as much care as if it were a diamond necklace. A real book, with her name on it. She stro
ked the raised title on the front cover, ran her finger over her own name and opened it to the dedication. “To Robert and Alison.”
She replaced the book in the box, sudden tears pricking the back of her eyes. If the bakery had been open, she’d have taken a pile of them in. With Mandy out, Ali off on her own adventure in South America, and Fuzzy in the airing cupboard, there was only Bear to share Libby’s achievement. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s have that walk.”
Poisoned chocolates
Cheered by a long run with Bear in the fields, Libby put that moment of sudden loneliness behind her, humming as she lined her beautiful new books neatly along a shelf in the study. The doorbell rang again, but this time, Libby’s visitors were solemn-faced police officers. Her mood plummeted. “Mrs Forest?”
“You’d better come in.” She offered tea. “Milk, two sugars?” The older of the pair was Police Constable Ian Smith.
Arms folded across a round paunch, he eased himself on to a stool. “We’ve met before.”
He’d been one of Joe Ramshore’s team when Susie Bennett died. Libby forced a smile. “We have.”
“Made fools of us all, didn’t you?”
She swallowed. He wasn’t going to make this easy. “I like to help the police whenever I can.”
A brief smile flickered across the face of the younger officer, a slim blonde woman. “I’m Constable Sykes. Emily Sykes. We’ve just come from Sergeant Ramshore.”
“Is he home, then?”
No one answered her question. Constable Smith bit into a hob nob. “This is a very serious matter, you know.”
“Of course. Two people have died. It’s a dreadful affair, but it’s nothing to do with me, or the bakery.”
“Now, I never said it was, did I?”
Libby looked from one officer to the other. Neither was smiling, now. “Am I some sort of suspect?”
“We’re just making inquiries.” Constable Smith looked around the kitchen, shrewd eyes noting every item. “Make cakes and chocolates in here, Mrs Forest?”
“Yes.”
“Does your kitchen comply with health and safety regulations?”
She gulped. “The things I make here aren’t for sale, yet. The inspector’s due to come soon.”
He scribbled in his notebook. Constable Sykes nodded. “It’s a beautiful kitchen. Did you design it?”
So, this was ‘good cop, bad cop.’ “Yes.”
Constable Smith smiled, revealing a set of large, tombstone-shaped teeth with a gap between the front pair. “But there were chocolates at the bakery.” Libby’s heartbeat raced. “Were they yours?”
“They weren’t for sale.”
“The cycling club came in to the shop that morning, I believe.” Libby nodded. “Did they eat any of the chocolates?”
“Well, yes. I mean, we were trying them out―Frank, Mandy and me―when people came in to the shop, and I think a couple of people had a taste…” Libby’s voice trailed off, her mouth suddenly dry.
“I see.”
Forgetting her intention to answer questions as briefly as possible, Libby added, “There wasn’t anything wrong with the chocolates. I’m sure of it. I made them myself. They were samples. I’m starting a business...” She heard herself babbling, and bit her lip.
“Does Mandy live here?”
“She’s my lodger.”
“Does she come in the kitchen?”
“Of course. We often eat in here, and I’ve been showing her...” Be quiet, can’t you?
It was too late. “Go on. What have you been showing her?”
“Just some recipes.” Libby felt sick. She’d dropped herself and Mandy in a hole, and she was still digging. They’d think Mandy might have poisoned the cyclists. “Do I need a solicitor?”
“Now, then, we’re just trying to cover all the angles. Nothing to be worried about, but we might need to talk to you again.” Constable Smith’s suddenly avuncular tone did nothing to still Libby’s nerves.
Her hands were shaking when the police left. Could the poisoning possibly have anything to do with her chocolates? She closed her eyes and tried to think back, to the moment when the cyclists arrived in the bakery.
They’d been talking about Libby and Frank’s new partnership. Mandy had a champagne truffle in each hand. “Champagne to celebrate,” she’d said. Frank bit the top layer of chocolate neatly from a coffee cream. “You either love a coffee cream, or hate it,” he remarked. “Me now, I love ’em.” It was one of the longest speeches Libby had ever heard from the baker.
Kevin had been first to poke a head round the door. His little round eyes lit up. “Chocolates?” Mandy told him at length about the plans for the shop. Kevin leaned on the counter, much too close to Libby. Uncomfortable, she offered him a free sample. Next thing she knew, the shop was full of cyclists.
But, who had eaten the free samples? If only she could remember. Wait a minute. Mandy and Frank hadn’t been sick, had they? It couldn’t be the chocolates.
She groaned. What if it was just one flavour? The lemon meringue, perhaps? She’d had one of those. Kevin ate several. Head thumping, Libby sank on to a stool. She tried to concentrate, through rising panic. Come on, you’re supposed to be an investigator.
She had an idea. To rule out the chocolates as the source of poison, she needed to know who’d eaten which flavour. What’s more, she had to find out before the police decided the chocolates were to blame.
One part of Libby’s brain was shouting at her, telling her not to be irrational, but it was too late. She was sweating, her heart hammering. It wasn’t just about the police finding out, any more, or what might happen to her. She had to know it wasn’t her fault. She needed to be sure she hadn’t killed those two men.
If only Max was here, she could talk to him. It would be all right. He’d find a way to prove it wasn’t her fault. But, Max was away. There was no one else.
Wait. Simon Logan had been in the shop, had eaten chocolates, and hadn’t died. Libby could find out which ones he’d sampled. He was so calm and in control. Even the thought of speaking to him made Libby feel better. He’d know what to do. Why hadn’t she thought of him before? He’d made it clear he liked her.
How could she get in touch? Mandy would know. Mandy knew everybody. It took Libby three attempts to dial the numbers on the phone, her fingers shook so much. As Mandy answered, Libby gabbled, “Simon Logan, he was in the bakery with the cycle club. Do you know where he lives.”
“Ooh, Mrs F. You do fancy him, after all. I knew it. I said he was perfect for you.”
“No, I don’t fancy him.” Was that strictly true? “Stop giggling, Mandy, this is important. I need to speak to him.”
“Well, that’s easy. He’s here.”
“Here? Where are you?”
“I told you. I’m with Steve at his aunt’s house, rehearsing for the concert. Her room’s got good acoustics, apparently, whatever that means. Simon’s here too. He plays the violin.”
“I’m on my way.”
***
Angela lived in a small village, just outside Exham. The Citroen crunched up the gravel entrance and Angela waved from the window. “So glad you’ve come. Yes, let Bear come in. He’s very well-behaved.” She took off her spectacles and peered at Libby’s face. “You’re rather pale.”
“I’m fine, thanks. Still tired, that’s all.”
Angela patted her hand. “We wanted to get on with our rehearsal as soon as we could. Let me introduce you to everyone. You know Mandy and my nephew, Steve, don’t you?” Steve winked. “Marina’s here, of course, although she doesn’t play an instrument.” Marina never missed a social occasion. “And here’s Chesterton Wendlebury. Have you met?”
Libby’s hand was engulfed in Chesterton Wendlebury’s warm grasp. “Delighted to meet you again, dear lady.”
Angela explained, “Chester plays the cello. And here’s Alice Ackerman, a friend of Steve’s from Wells, who’s helping us out on the viola.”
Al
ice wore a very low-cut red T-shirt, skin-tight jeans and a winsome expression, and Steve was standing very close to her. Libby glanced at Mandy. Arms folded across her chest, eyes narrowed, she held Steve’s friend, Alice, in a steely glare.
Libby extracted her hand from Chesterton Wendlebury’s, “I’m sorry to interrupt you all.”
His voice boomed. “Quite all right, my dear. We needed a breather.”
Angela steered Libby to the back of the room. “Have a cup of tea while we finish, then we’ll all have a glass of wine.”
Libby whispered. “I had a visit from the police, just now.”
“No wonder you’re looking pale. Was it Ian Smith? He’s always been a bully. No wonder he’s still only a constable.”
Desperate to talk to Simon, Libby had no option but to wait and listen to the rehearsal. The players stopped from time to time, to repeat a phrase or correct a mistake, and Chesterton called a complete halt at one point. “I’ve lost my place, sorry to say. Afraid I’m getting old.” Libby had no chance to get near Simon.
Champagne
For what seemed like hours, the musicians played. Libby began to think they’d never stop. She ached with tension. At last, Chesterton declared himself exhausted, and offered everyone a glass of the ice-cold champagne he’d slipped into the fridge earlier. Angela dispensed cheese and biscuits while Bear squatted, alert for fragments of food to fall, ready to snaffle every tit-bit before it hit the carpet.
Simon handed a full glass to Libby. “Did you enjoy listening to our mistakes? I’m afraid age and lack of practice takes its toll. Chester and I are a bit past it, really. Most of the time I only teach, these days. Young Steve’s very talented, though, don’t you think? He’ll go far.”
Libby couldn’t wait any longer. She abandoned small talk. “I wanted to ask you about that morning in the bakery. You know, the day of the cycling club picnic.”
“I’ll never forget it.” Simon shook his head. “Two good people killed on a day out. I was one of the lucky ones. Hardly ill at all. Whatever it was, I hadn’t had much of it.”
Libby blurted out, “That’s the trouble. I think it might all be my fault.”
Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) Page 6