by Peter Boon
THE SNOW DAY MURDERS
AN EDWARD CRISP MYSTERY
PETER BOON
Contents
THE SNOW DAY MURDERS
Copyright
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
Acknowledgements
Copyright © January 2021 Peter Boon
Published by Meadowcroft Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
Cover design by [email protected] and Book Cover Zone
For the boys at Bowden House School - go forward and achieve your dreams, remembering We Not Me.
Map of Chalk Gap Village
1
Everyone always remembers a snow day. Especially if you work or study in a school. Your normal, dull, grey routine is replaced by a magical winter wonderland, where everything is pristine white and anything is possible.
Noah, my student library assistant and now my foster brother, was certainly buying into that last one.
‘What if we all get trapped in the village and a murder happens? Thick, deep snow as far as the eye can see. No one can go in or out so it must be one of the villagers. But who? The police can’t even get into Chalk Gap, so hotshot amateur detective, Edward Crisp, and his trusty teenage sidekick, Noah Oxley, must solve the crimes themselves.’
‘Not this again, Noah.’ I didn’t want to think about how last time Noah imagined us in a murder mystery, his prediction came eerily true.
There’s so many classic murder mysteries where everyone is snowed in! Murder on the Orient Express, The Mousetrap… even lots of modern ones, like -’
I’d heard enough. ‘Don’t be silly. We’ll have our snow day today and everything will be back to normal tomorrow. We’re not even snowed in yet, we’ll be fine.’
We were in fact soon snowed in; deep snow surrounded our cliff hidden seaside village, and no one could get in or out. We weren’t fine and everything wasn’t back to normal tomorrow. There were two dead bodies that day and there was no one to investigate them in person but me: a mere school librarian, an amateur with an interest in murder mysteries.
I told you everyone always remembers a snow day.
2
‘That Vicar and his cronies, they think they run this village!’
‘Mum, come away from the window, stop staring at them.’
‘Why not? You’re staring out of the other window.’
It’s true, I was. Mum had insisted I spend the morning of snow day in our family pub, The Chalk Inn, so she ‘could make sure I was okay.’ But my other offer was to go sledging down West Cliff path with my housemate Patrick. As I looked longingly through the glass at all of the people having fun down the cliff slope behind the pub, I wondered if I’d made the right decision.
‘Just look at them, Edward. All that snow and they’re still out there flogging their lukewarm mulled wine and their dodgy bratwursts. We’ll never get any customers to come in and warm up in here while they’re peddling their wares outside.’
Mum’s view at the other side of the pub was of the village square, where the winter market was set up. The market was, as Mum so delicately put it, ran by our Vicar ‘and his cronies.’
Chalk Gap Church was at the far side of the square to our pub, and has always been used by Reverend Flowers for various church events, including his very popular winter market from December through to mid-February. The village square is public and doesn’t belong to the church land as such, but it had been so long linked to the church that no one ever objected to such use.
Well, almost no one objected. Mum googled legal ways of stopping him every time she got annoyed about it, which looked likely to be today. ‘Why have they even opened this morning? We’ve got more than a foot of snow already. It’ll serve them right if they all get stranded there.’
I didn’t point out her flawed logic that the pub was also open in the snow, and that her objection was based on the market supposedly stealing customers.
‘Who’s out there?’ I regretted asking this as soon as the words left my mouth. I didn’t even need to know the answer. I knew which stalls were on the market; I walked through the village square at least once a week to visit my family. I also knew the market was depleted today, but had heard enough of Mum’s rants about the Vicar’s ‘cronies’ to take a wild guess who’d be keeping him company despite snowfall.
‘Who do you think’s out there? The usual lot – you know you only get a spot on that market if you’re mates with the Reverend. Come and have a look.’
I sighed and saddled over to the window. I looked out to see about half a dozen of the twelve traditional wooden huts in the square open, an array of reds, greens and festive lights, despite Christmas having been and gone (they deliberately called it ‘Winter Market’ rather than specify Christmas, so they could extend it beyond December).
The snow across the square looked quite deep already, and there were no browsers in sight. Reverend Flowers and a group of women stood huddled next to the Flowers’ Flowers hut, wrapped in hats, scarves and gloves, and nursing hot drinks in plastic cups. The Reverend himself was covering his bald head with a bright yellow beanie hat worn with a matching snood, both of which either belonged to his teenage son or he’d ill advisedly worn to try and look younger. A purple ski jacket and big blue snow boots completed his mismatching winter ensemble. Not that the circle around him seemed to mind. Even in this small huddle, you could see he was holding court with the group hanging on his every word.
‘The vicar surrounded by all the women, there’s a surprise!’ Mum remarked over my shoulder. Allan Flowers certainly had a reputation for being very friendly with his female parishioners, and there’d been rumours round the village for years about his various supposed dalliances. His female volunteers even ran the church’s market stall for him, selling homemade crafts and knick-knacks. None of them seemed to be around this morning but they often weren’t when Frances was there.
‘To be fair, Mum, one’s his wife.’ Frances Flowers was a grey, grubby, rat-like woman in her fifties, who in contrast to her husband was wearing dull, dark clothes which made her blend even further into the background. She ran Flowers’ Flowers on the high street, and her business was always a centrepiece of the winter market.
‘The rest aren’t though, are they?’ Mum retorted. ‘And before you say, I know those two are a couple. Like that would stop the Reverend.’
‘Those two’ were Kimmy and Claire Atkinson, the owners of the village B&B and close friends of Allan and Frances Flowers. Kimmy was a large, jolly woman whose voice boomed out before her and who wore patterned knitted jumpers whatever the weather. Her wife,
Claire, was smaller, quieter and more feminine, and always seemed the shrewder of the two; she was certainly the business mind of the pair. Their contribution to the market was a hut selling fresh cakes and pastries, which they baked in their B&B behind the square.
‘And look at her, mutton dressed as lamb, as usual. When will she realise she can’t compete with that young thing?’
‘Her’ was Gloria Hernandez, the most glamorous of the group in her leopard print matching hat and gloves and black velvet winter jacket. I was sure I’d be able to smell her perfume from where I stood if there wasn’t a window between us. Gloria runs her own online sweet shop Sweets For Your Sweet, but each winter her .com business becomes a real, physical market stall for a couple of months.
Gloria is English but her surname belongs to her ex-husband Pedro, who was also a member of Reverend Flowers’ social group until Pedro betrayed Gloria for ‘that young thing’ Cherry McDonald, who was half his age and a waitress in Pedro’s restaurant. Sides were soon firmly picked and Pedro lost out. In more ways than one, as it was well known locally that his restaurant had been on the downturn in the last year: likely due to his adulterous reputation.
Pedro runs the imaginatively titled Pedro’s and had been allowed to keep his hut at the winter market selling paella and mulled wine (although Mum told me it had seen hardly any business), but that was the only link he had now to his former friends. It didn’t surprise me that he wasn’t present this morning.
‘And don’t start me on that young chancer who’s appeared at the market this year.’ My eyes went over to where Mum was looking – the one oddity among the matching festive huts, a green van with the large red sign Burger She Wrote emblazoned on it. I had to give the stranger credit for the word play with the name; Noah had excitedly started planning all kinds of fast food related murder mysteries when he first saw it.
‘They’re not even real burgers, it’s vegan only,’ Mum added as I looked over at the hipster-looking man in his thirties sat in the burger van. His golden hair fell effortlessly out of his neat blue beanie hat, matching his beard. He seemed engrossed by his phone and was paying no attention to Flowers and his harem stood nearby.
‘He’s a good looking lad, I’ll give him that much. Mind, I’m not the only one who thinks so.’ Mum added. ‘Someone needs to tell Reverend Flowers that’s how you pull off one of them beanie hats. Probably not the only thing he’s been pulling off, I’ll bet.’
As Mum salivated over the potential gossip, it was then I noticed a sign on the burger van that I knew Mum shouldn’t see. I had to get her out of the window.
‘Anyway Mum, should we have a drink?’ I offered as I tried to usher her away. But it was too late.
‘Wait a minute, why the hell are they selling craft beer?’ Oh dear. I knew my family and Reverend Flowers had always agreed they wouldn’t sell any alcohol on the market, apart from mulled wine (‘They’re welcome to it – stupid novelty drink, I can’t be bothered keeping it warmed up’).
‘I’m sure there’s an explanation, Mum,’ I said, attempting to keep her calm.
‘Oh, I’m sure there is! Let’s find out what it is, shall we? I’m going to see what Reverend Flowers has to say for himself.’
And with that, Mum flew out of the pub. God help the Reverend.
3
‘Excuse me, Vicar! I want a word with you!’ Mum barked from the pub doorway, as soon as we’d barely made it outside. Her voice carried through the cold air as I saw Kimmy nudge Claire with a knowing look, while Gloria shot Mum a glare as icy as the weather.
Reverend Flowers smiled at the women around him as he stepped forward from them, keeping his composure despite Mum’s tone. ‘Yes, Mrs Crisp, how may I be of help?’
‘Don’t you “Mrs Crisp” me. You ‘may be of help’ by explaining -’
‘By explaining what exactly you’ve been doing with my girlfriend!’
That wasn’t Mum’s voice. The owner of the voice shot across the square in front of us, colliding with Flowers as he grabbed him by the neck, sending them both crashing to the floor. It was only once they were on the ground I realised it was Pedro Hernandez.
Everything from then seemed to happen in a blur. Someone screamed – I think Frances Flowers. Someone shouted ‘get off him, you idiot!’ – probably Gloria Hernandez to her ex-husband. Someone cheered – almost definitely Mum. But what I was definitely sure of: several pair of eyes all on me, expecting me to do something.
I remember last year when a fight broke out in the school library between two boys. They were sixteen and both taller than me already, but I was the only adult in the room so I was expected to break it up. I had no idea what to do; I went into panic mode. Apparently, I shouted out ‘someone stop them!’ before a girl took me up on the offer and accidentally ended up being hit in the face. Her parents complained that I put her in danger.
There were no parents to complain this time, but I didn’t want to endanger others again by not acting. I stepped forward as Pedro had Flowers by his ski jacket, repeatedly slamming him into the ground below him. I only realised afterwards that the thick snow underneath them would have cushioned the blow a little. At the time, I just knew I had to do something.
‘Excuse me Pedro, can you get off him now please?’
‘Oh, get out of the way, Edward,’ I felt someone push me aside as I saw Mum dart forward and grab Pedro from behind. ‘Alright you, that’s enough!’
‘I’m going to kill him!’ Pedro moaned as he stumbled around with Mum clung to him like she was about to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre.
‘No you’re not, you moron, go home!’ Gloria barked to her ex-husband as she stood blocking his path to the dazed Reverend Flowers, who Kimmy and Claire were helping to his feet. I noticed that Frances was stood rooted to the spot, her face frozen in terror.
‘He’s been sleeping with Cherry,’ Pedro blurted out as he struggled under Mum’s grasp.
‘I have most certainly not,’ Flowers managed as he attempted to brush snow off himself. The snow was still falling thick and fast and looked so peaceful around us, creating a bizarre atmosphere among the chaos.
‘No one in their right mind would sleep with Cherry!’ Gloria said as she moved forward to Pedro. ‘Now get out of here before I call the police.’
‘I’m not actually sure the police will be able to get through,’ I said before I realised I’d spoken. The snow was falling rapidly and was predicted to get much worse later on that day; the road to our village off the main road would almost certainly be blocked soon, if not already.
‘I’ll deal with him myself then,’ Gloria said menacingly, as she looked at her former husband straight in the eyes.
‘Okay, okay, I’m going,’ Pedro replied, as he shrugged Mum off him and brushed himself down. But then we heard a blood-curdling scream from behind us. What now?
We all turned towards the church, where the noise came from, to see Jacob Flowers running in our direction. I noticed that the church path was the only place in view that had been cleared of snow.
‘Leave my dad alone!’ Jacob screamed as he hurtled towards us. Mum was on the ball straight away, moving towards Jacob to stop him, along with Kimmy who was the nearest side of Reverend Flowers to the church.
In contrast, Frances Flowers remained frozen to the spot, but with a bigger look of terror on her face. And Gloria simply stepped aside to clear the path to Pedro, evidently wanting him to get attacked. Jacob was a lanky, pale eighteen year old with greasy dyed black hair and a distinctly goth look. Despite his rage, he couldn’t look menacing if he tried.
Almost to prove that point, as he reached the end of the church path and came on to the square, his feet went from under him. He moved through the air before landing in a heap on the thick snow below. ‘For god’s sake!’ he cursed, picking up a ball of snow and throwing it in Pedro’s direction.
‘Do not use the Lord’s name in vain!’ Reverend Flowers said to his son, speaking for the first time since the
incident started. He stood up straight and stepped forward, as if he’d visibly decided to take control of the situation. ‘Let’s put a stop to this little kerfuffle, shall we?’
He waited for everyone to stop still and look at him, commanding us like he did his congregation on Sundays. ‘You,’ he said first to Pedro. ‘Get out of here, and don’t come back. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s for the best if you don’t continue on our market for the rest of winter.’
‘Fine, whatever,’ Pedro snapped back. ‘But you haven’t heard the last of this, Reverend. Oh, and Jacob? You’re fired.’ With one last look of disdain, he turned and started to wade his way though the deep snow.
‘Yes, off you go!’ shouted Gloria after him.
‘Thank you, Gloria,’ Flowers said firmly, in a way that told her that was enough. He turned to his teenage son, who was now back on his feet and looking particularly surly. ‘Jacob, please help your mother look after the market for a while, so I can take these ladies in for a cup of tea, they’ve had quite the shock.’
Both Jacob and Frances nodded obediently, and moved back towards the festive huts. Why was Frances being made to stay outside and not be included in the ‘ladies’ who needed a cup of tea? The poor woman looked more shocked and upset than anyone.
But that seemed to barely matter to the Reverend, who had started to usher Gloria, Kimmy and Claire towards the church house. Glancing over his shoulder, he added, ‘Linda and Edward, thank you for your help. We’ll be fine from here.’
As they disappeared from view, the hipster guy from the Burger She Wrote van appeared, kicking snow out of his way to join us. I noticed his muscular arms under his thin cotton jumper; he would have been the ideal person to help with the Pedro incident.
‘Is everything okay, guys? Can I help at all?’
‘You could have about five minutes ago,’ Mum snapped. ‘Honestly, Edward, men are useless.’