by Carrie Marsh
Laura swallowed.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I have an appointment I have to attend to later. I should go.”
“Oh,” the woman blinked. “That's a pity.” she looked at her pale hands and swallowed hard, clearly distressed.
Laura felt miserable for her, and impulsively reached out to embrace her.
“I'll come back soon,” she promised. “I'll come back soon.”
She left, then, walking briskly out of the house, leaving the woman staring at her retreating form.
She climbed into the Renault and drove home. As she went, she noticed her face was soaked with tears.
“I have to do something about that woman. I have to,” she promised.
She could not leave a lady to suffer like that.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MAKING PLANS
Laura collapsed over the threshold of her house, completely exhausted. It was late and the rooms were hazed with a soft blue darkness. She sat on the welcome mat, face wet with crying. She wasn't even sure why she was so sad, except that the woman's plight had touched her. She hadn't thought about her own mother for years, and somehow, that bright-eyed face reminded her of her.
Are you okay?
Monty's mind connected to hers as he appeared, butting his head against her side, looking up at her with big anxious eyes.
“Oh, Monty,” was all Laura could say. She stroked behind his ears. “I'm fine. It's not me I'm crying for.”
As she cuddled Monty, her thoughts gained perspective. Her sadness was for the plight of the woman she had met in the run-down cottage. How could anyone be forced to live like that? The stoic humor with which the woman met it made it even worse. She was clearly a clever, funny, dignified character. How could anyone let her suffer so?
“We need to help her, Monty,” Laura said, after describing the whole incident to him. She hiccupped, the sobs slowly subsiding. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose.
We can, Monty assured her, following her as she walked through to the kitchen.
“How?” Laura asked, as she bent down to fetch his food dishes.
Well, Monty began, I know her cat. A small tabby, called Melissa. She's a good friend of mine and Keillor's, actually.
“Oh?” Laura asked, with interest. “What does Melissa say?” Laura bent to place the bowl on the ground, and Monty walked over to inspect it.
She says she lived there for four years but everything was a mess when she arrived.
“Really?” Laura reached up to the top shelf to find her tea, setting the kettle on the stove to boil. What she needed, she thought, was some hot tea. A scone would help, but she didn't have any.
Yes. Melissa says there have been rats in the roof and a blocked window and long grass since she moved in. She also says that her friend – the lady you met – is very sad and is getting ill.
“Ill?” Laura asked, worried.
Yes. She coughs and her joints hurt her.
“Howard could do something for her...” Laura realized. “That's it! Thank you, Monty,” she smiled. “I'll tell Howard, and he will know what to do. As the village doctor, perhaps he can even help track down some relatives, if she has any.”
I have to admit that is a good idea, Monty said stiffly, and Laura grinned.
“Oh, Monty. You don't really mind Howard, do you?”
I will reserve judgment on him, Monty said with formality. At least until he brings something better than fish.
Laura laughed and nearly choked on her tea.
“Oh, Monty,” she sighed, “what would I do if I didn't know you?”
I have no idea, Monty replied, though she could hear the smile in the words, teasing her. It's just as well we don't have to find out.
Laura chuckled, lifting her phone. She would text Howard and he would know what to do. It was only after she had finished dinner that Laura realized she had not done any investigating that day. She still had the problem of the two new suspects. Not to mention the frightening Mr. Priestly.
“I won't think about that today,” Laura declared aloud. There had been enough shocks today.
Laura stood and, lifting her novel and her nightgown from the chair by the door, walked through to the bedroom.
Monty jumped up to join her, and together they settled down for the night. Tomorrow was another day.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LISTENING IN
The next day, Laura was early at work. The day passed by quickly with few interruptions, which restored her energy somewhat. It was only towards midday that she remembered her resolution to look for the letter – the one the old lady had left. She seemed to remember putting it on her desk, just beside the book where she noted the reservations. When she looked there, it was gone. She pulled open the drawers and even looked on the filing-cabinet at the back, just in case she had settled it on the top on her way out, but it was not there. She was about to get down on her knees and look underneath her desk, when the first guests arrived.
“I'll look later,” she promised herself. She did not have the time just then. It was half past eleven, and the dining room at the Woodend cottage hotel was just filling up. Laura looked up from the list she had been making, hearing someone approach her desk and stop.
“Good day, Miss Howcroft.”
“Good day,” Laura said frostily, peering over her desk at the new customer. She had taken a dislike to Captain Browne the first time she called him with her news about Albion Priestly. Seeing him in the flesh, in her workplace, made her like him even less.
“I reserved a table.”
“Yes,” Laura agreed icily. “Table fourteen. Over there by the window.”
The man nodded and sauntered over to the table. A tall man, with receding brown hair and a weather beaten face, he looked, Laura thought, like a bully more than she would imagine like a police chief.
As she checked the list of reservations and oversaw the dining room, she kept an eye on Captain Browne, interested in what he was doing there.
About ten minutes after he had sat down, another man arrived to join him. Tall and balding, with stooped shoulders, it was the village parson. Laura was surprised. She drifted over to the corner, pretending to fetch a menu, to hear what they were saying.
“...so, Mr. Lawless,” the policeman was saying, “you have looked in the records for the family history of Mr. Duvall?”
“Yes,” the parson said, swallowing nervously. Laura was amused to see he seemed to feel as uncomfortable as she did when dealing with police. “I did. Only, I must say, there is not a lot to find.”
“Yes?”
“I cannot find mention of a wife or offspring. Or siblings. Of course, he was not born here, and he spent most of his life in York, I understand. Not a local man, no...” he shook his head. “I only have records of births, deaths and marriages in my own parish.” He looked down, clearly uncomfortable.
“Well,” the policeman was saying, “that clears a lot up. We can start looking in York, then.”
Why is he so interested in family? Laura thought privately. If his family is so obscure that no one in the village even knows about them, why would they have a motive to kill him? She said nothing, but drifted off to the counter at the front of the room, trying not to show she was listening.
She watched the two from her place at the front, lip reading them as much as possible. It is difficult to lip read a thick dialectic accent – which both of them had, to different degrees – and so most of the conversation was indiscernible to Laura.
When they had finished their lunch, the two walked to the door, and Laura tuned in as they neared her desk.
“...and so, if you get any information regarding next-of-kin, please report to me at once.”
“I will be sure to do so,” Mr. Lawless was saying. “Of course, the first person they will probably contact is Mr. Duvall’s lawyer, not me. Such is the way of this wicked world,” he sighed.
“Quite,” the policeman said tritely. He nodded fr
ostily to Laura on the way past, and Laura resisted the urge to glare at him.
What have you found out, with all your careful investigating, eh, Captain? Laura thought to herself angrily. Not a lot!
She had found out one thing to add to her notebook, however, and that was that Mr. Duvall had no known family.
While Bethany collected the dishes and Laura straightened tablecloths and reset places, she created a mental list of characteristics of Mr. Duvall.
Loner. Difficult personality. Lived on his own. On antidepressants.
It was not a rosy picture, and Laura found herself feeling sad for him. The possibility of his having taken his own life rose briefly in her mind, but was instantly dismissed.
“He couldn't exactly strangle himself, Laura,” she said under her breath.
“Sorry, Miss Howcroft?” Bethany, rearranging a vase of flowers on the table, looked up at her concernedly.
“Nothing, Bea,” Laura explained. “Just talking to myself.”
“Oh”, Bethany blinked. “That's fine, then.” She shrugged and smiled.
Laura went to her desk and wrote down her character sketch of Mr. Duvall, adding to it that he was the top pastry chef in the village and that he had moved there five years previously.
“It looks to me,” she said quietly, “far more like a murder about rivalry than family interest.”
The man seemed to have no living relatives. However, as the top baker and a new arrival, he probably had a lot of competition.
“I'll just keep on interviewing his competitors, until I find something important,” Laura said decisively.
She was not going to budge on her ideas. The rivalry was important. The pastry cloth was important. In addition, the whole village seemed to be going mad about pastry.
“There's something in this,” Laura said darkly.
Whatever Captain Browne said or did, she was sticking to her guns. There was so much more to this case than met the eye.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ANOTHER INTERVIEW
At breakfast the next morning, Laura felt as resolved as she did the previous day. She had very little faith in the police – and seeing Captain Browne in the dining room the previous day had done nothing to restore that faith. She felt more assured than ever that she had to continue her investigations alone.
Opening the lid on the pot that contained her breakfast, Laura breathed in the savory scents and felt revitalized.
“I need to go and speak to the franchiser,” she declared aloud to Monty.
Franchiser. A person who owns shops, right?
“Yes,” Laura said, surprised. “Basically, that's correct. How did you know that?”
Easy, Monty replied smugly, chewing on some gristle. You had a picture in your head of shops when you thought of it.
“You never cease to amaze me,” Laura replied, buttering her toast.
Good, Monty agreed happily. I would hate for that to happen.
Laura dressed smartly in a dark navy suit, with her high-heels, and walked out to the car.
At work, the day was mercifully slow. She waited until she saw Mr. Halston, the short man with the bottle-bottom glasses, appear in the restaurant.
“Mr. Halston?”
“Please, call me Mark,” the man said uneasily.
“Fine,” Laura smiled. “Mark. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? After your meal.”
“Of course,” he said easily. “If it's about the baking contest, though, I think you'd do better to ask Mr. Merrick. He's the brains there.”
“It isn't, but thank you.” Laura said tightly. “I wanted to ask you about your plans for opening a franchise in Millerfield.”
“You know about that?” Mr. Halston asked, mildly. Laura swallowed.
Not too fast, she thought to herself. This man is a murder suspect. Be more subtle.
“I do,” Laura replied, “through my connections in the pastry world,” she added airily. “I have a friend who might be interested in your offer.”
He might work out that you're lying through your teeth. Be careful.
“Interesting,” Mr. Halston said thoughtfully. “Perhaps we can meet at one o' clock? Right now I'd rather have my lunch. I'm getting hungry.”
“Of course,” Laura inclined her head.
She spent a tense hour, overseeing lunch and waiting for her meeting with Mr. Halston. At last, he arrived at her desk.
“You want to ask me about the franchising?” he said, smiling. “Fire away.”
“I wanted to ask...” Laura hesitated and swallowed dryly, “about the problem of competition. It must be a problem, right?”
“We don't usually worry about that,” the man laughed easily. “If we can't beat it, we eliminate it.”
“What?” Laura's voice was shrill, and she covered her mouth, realizing more than one person in the dining room stared at her. “I'm sorry,” she said tightly, “but could you explain?”
“Sorry if I scared you,” Mr. Halston smiled, showing straight white teeth. “All I meant was, we can out-compete pretty much anyone. I mean, we have a central kitchen that's more like a factory. All our franchisers do is heat the wares and retail them. It's a big enterprise, and we can supply demand so much better because of it.”
“Oh,” Laura said faintly. She was not fully reassured. She could not help wondering how much of that was true, and how much fabrication went into it.
“It's not so hard, lass,” he smiled. “When you're used to it.”
“I suppose so,” Laura said faintly. She wished he would just leave. She felt ill. She felt confused. She wanted this man and his easy smile and white teeth to just go away and leave her alone.
“If you don't have anything else to ask, lass,” he said, “I'll be off. I leave tomorrow, and I'd like to get some rest.” He looked at his watch pointedly.
“Oh,” Laura said quietly, “of course. Sorry to have kept you, Mr.…
“Mark.”
“Sorry, Mr. Mark,” Laura finished, and looked down, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. She did not look up until she heard his feet walk across the threshold of the restaurant.
Then she leaned back and looked at the ceiling, wishing she was at home.
I have three suspects now, she thought. And they all seem to insist on putting themselves indelibly on my list.
After an hour of reorganizing her files – Laura could think of nothing else on which she could concentrate – she heard a message tone on her phone, and dived for it.
Dinner tonight? See you. Howard.
Laura felt her heart soften, and she almost felt like crying with relief. She would see Howard, and she could tell him about the woman she found, and Mr. Priestly, and the franchiser. She would feel so much better after that.
Yes. Nine o' clock? Great.
Laura typed in the reply with speed and sent it. Despite all her worry, it felt as if the sun had come out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A SURPRISING PRIZE
Laura drove to work at the hotel the next morning, feeling uplifted. The clouds had blown away, and the fields sparkled with rain under a golden sunshine. The day matched her mood.
Laura clattered across the reception area in her high heels, breathing in the scent of furniture polish. She hailed the cleaners cheerfully on the way to her desk and sat down to begin her work.
She was writing down the day's reservations when she realized someone had just spoken to her, and she had not heard a word.
“Sorry?”
“...And so we can make cheese danish as our first entry. And what do you think about Quiche Lorraine as our second?”
Laura blinked, trying to follow the conversation she was having with Janet.
“Uh?”
“Come on, L!” Janet encouraged, “What's up with you this morning? I was just talking about the baking contest! It's this weekend, and we have to practice! What do you want to enter as our second entry?”
“Oh,” Laura paused. “How
about quiche?”
“That's what I was saying!” Janet said excitedly, “you make the best quiche pastry in the world!”
Laura shook her head. She had to love Janet for her enthusiasm. “Thanks, Jay.”
“Not at all! It's true. And with my granny's famous Danish recipe, we could actually win, Laura, really we could!”
“What would we win?” Laura asked absently, suddenly realizing how little she had been following events in the village since the time of the murder.
“You don't know?” Janet asked, amazed. “Well, we could win a thousand pounds, and a place working at Mr. Merrick's fancy hotel.”
“Oh?” Laura was suddenly interested. That was no small prize. A work contract like that would change someone's whole life. Would someone kill for that prize?
“Yes!” Janet added. “And that Mr. Merrick...he's really something, don't you think? Fancy him being rich, too. I wonder how he likes his pastry?”
Laura rolled her eyes, grinning. “Janet!” she chuckled.
“What?” Janet said defensively.
“Nothing.”
They both laughed. Janet's preoccupation with the wealthy and single patrons at the hotel – and almost anywhere – was legendary. She was a free spirit, and Laura found it hard to imagine her settling down, but she had a real eye for riches and Laura could easily imagine her marrying for money.
“Well,” she smiled, “we will just have to practice that Danish sometime soon. And maybe eavesdrop, to find out how he likes it. Is he tasting the entries?”
“Oh, Laura!” Janet threw out a hand in despair, grinning at her friend. “What do you think we've been organizing? The tent will have a big table in front, where the judges sit – that's where we're putting the balloons from Mr. Lewes, and the PA system I have to book today – and the tasting will be a really important highlight!”
Laura smiled. She had barely taken notice of the preparations, making calls when Janet asked her to, making reservations and organizing things on autopilot. She had only been half-present since the death. She needed to do something about that.