Murder in the Morning: An absolutely unputdownable cozy murder mystery novel (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 2)

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘You’re not going to believe this!’

  ‘Something to do with that crazy young boyfriend, I suppose.’

  ‘She’s convinced he’s innocent of Angy’s murder and she only wants me to play detective and find the real killer! According to her, Rick Lawrence is caught in a web of circumstantial evidence. While he languishes in gaol, the real murderer will go free unless I unmask him!’

  ‘Could be right,’ said Iris, her eyes still fixed on Melissa’s face.

  ‘You aren’t serious! You think I should . . . ?’

  ‘Of course not. Stay out of it. But if circumstantial evidence is all they’ve got . . . ’

  ‘You wait till you hear the whole story. Come in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Sure. Just go in and clean up.’ Iris retreated behind her cottage, reappearing a short while later at Melissa’s front door. She listened in silence to the story of Lou’s visit, seated straight-backed and cross-legged on the floor.

  ‘I feel desperately sorry for the poor kid,’ said Melissa when she had finished. ‘She’s got no one of her own to turn to in this country, but the notion that I can help her to clear Rick is so fantastic it isn’t true. She’ll just have to face up to the fact that he’s guilty, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Think so?’

  Melissa stared at her friend in dismay. ‘You mean, you believe their story?’

  ‘You want it to be him, don’t you?’

  Melissa shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Scorn at the feeble prevarication glittered in Iris’s eyes. ‘Yes, you do. If Rick didn’t do it, we come back to your lover-boy, don’t we?’

  ‘Iris, you’re hateful! I know Barney didn’t do it!’

  ‘More likely him than Rick Lawrence.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘Be logical, like your detective character . . . Norman Thingummy.’

  ‘Nathan Latimer,’ Melissa corrected frostily.

  Iris brushed aside the interruption with a wave of a hand. ‘What was the motive?’

  ‘Revenge, of course. She’d hurt his pride . . . brought about a rift with his family . . . ’

  ‘Forget the wounded pride. Soon consoled himself with his old flame, didn’t he? And getting the ring back would solve the family problems.’

  ‘Suppose Angy changed her mind about letting him have the ring?’

  ‘Knew where she kept it. He’d just have taken it.’

  Melissa shook her head. ‘She’d have tried to stop him. She was quite a determined little thing under that gentle exterior.’ Suddenly, it all seemed clear. ‘Yes, that must have been it! He went to take the ring from the drawer . . . there was a struggle . . . he picked up a knife . . . ’

  ‘The knives were in the kitchen.’

  ‘So he went and fetched one.’

  Iris’s grin was a mixture of pity and condescension. ‘Be your age! Hefty young chap like that could have swatted her out of the way with one hand!’

  Melissa had to admit that was true. ‘But there could have been an argument about something else,’ she pleaded, reluctant to abandon her theory altogether. ‘Something that brought all the old resentment and tension and violent feelings back to the surface.’

  Iris clasped her ankles and rocked gently to and fro, shaking her head. ‘Don’t believe it.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  Iris shrugged. ‘Just doesn’t smell right. Not a nice type, not good enough for Lou . . . but not a murderer.’

  ‘So what’s your theory?’ snapped Melissa in exasperation. ‘No, don’t bother telling me. I know you think Barney did it.’ She got up and began slamming the tea-things on to a tray.

  Iris stayed where she was, a troubled expression on her face. ‘Never said that. Only that he was the more likely of the two. Could have been someone else. This chap Eddie, for example. She might have had other irons in the fire as well.’

  ‘Don’t let Barney hear you say that,’ Melissa murmured with a faint smile. She put down the tray and went back to her chair. ‘It appears that Eddie has a cast-iron alibi. I did wonder about Rodney Shergold, though.’

  ‘Shergold?’ Iris screwed up her face in amusement and disbelief. ‘You serious?’

  ‘When we were waiting to be questioned by the police, Doug Wilson was saying that Rodney had been making a play for Angy and hinting that he might have got somewhere.’

  ‘Wilson? The randy English teacher? Just trying to stir things for Shergold, more likely.’

  Melissa grinned. ‘Maybe. There’s no love lost there. But it’s possible, you know. Remember what Lou said. And I’ve told you before that I’ve noticed an atmosphere in the office now and again. Incidentally, I met Eleanor this morning and she’s scared out of her wits that the fuzz suspect her beloved.’

  Iris gave an unfeeling cackle. ‘Serve him right if they do. Teach him a lesson. Sorry for Eleanor, though, poor little rabbit.’

  ‘The way things look at the moment, Barney Willard and Rick Lawrence are rivals for the role of chief suspect. At the moment, the odds would seem to be on Rick but . . . ’ Melissa gave a sigh. Iris, her common-sense unclouded by emotional involvement, had forced her to face reality. ‘I’d give a lot to know what forensic evidence they’ve found.’ A lock of hair had fallen across her face and she raked it back wearily with her fingers. ‘It’s so frustrating. I wish I could do something!’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe Lou’s notion wasn’t so crazy after all. I might turn up something the police have missed.’

  ‘Something to clear Barney and nail the killer?’ suggested Iris, looking alarmed. ‘Forget it, Melissa. Your job is writing about crime. Leave the real thing to the professionals. Must be going now.’ She rose gracefully to her feet and made for the front door, with Melissa following. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Thanks for listening.’

  ‘And stay out of trouble! Stick to writing and gardening.’ The grey eyes were serious and the mouth and chin set in a stern line.

  ‘You sound like Joe!’ taunted Melissa.

  ‘Now there,’ said Iris with unusual gentleness, ‘is a nice man. Much safer bet than an artist!’ Her features relaxed into an impish grin. ‘Oh, and by the way, you’ll be telling your policeman friend about Lou’s visit?’

  Melissa sighed. ‘I know I should, but I hate the idea. It seems like a betrayal of trust.’

  ‘Don’t be wet!’ Iris snorted. ‘You of all people. Suppose he finds out about it from some other source?’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like Lou. They’ll question her, you said so.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Melissa resignedly. ‘If Ken Harris thought I’d withheld information . . . ’

  ‘Wouldn’t make you flavour of the month, would it?’ Iris gave her a pat on the shoulder. ‘Do your duty. Get on that phone right away. Promise?’

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  Iris departed and Melissa went disconsolately to the telephone and called police headquarters. As she acknowledged the formal expression of thanks for the information she had given, she consoled herself with the near-certainty that they knew most of it already. She trailed wearily into the kitchen to clear away the tea-things, her thoughts turning to Barney. When the telephone rang and she heard his voice on the wire, her spirits soared.

  ‘Oh Barney, I’ve been thinking about you so much!’

  ‘That’s nice. I’ve been thinking about you, too.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Surviving. May I see you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘How about meeting for a meal this evening?’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Where would you like to go? Do you like American food?’

  ‘Do I? It’s wickedly fattening, but once in a while . . . ’

  ‘There’s a new restaurant in Stowbridge called the Mayflower. It’s opposite the library.’

  �
��I know it.’

  ‘Meet me there at seven?’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ Melissa put down the phone and ran upstairs, singing.

  When Melissa arrived at the Mayflower American restaurant, Barney was waiting near the entrance – a tall, distinguished figure in a well-fitting fawn suit with a paisley cravat tucked into the neck of his light red cotton shirt. He wore a sombre, brooding expression that relaxed into a half-smile as he caught sight of her, sending a surge of electricity round her nervous system. Careful now, she warned herself, this is not the time to get carried away . . .

  ‘I hardly recognised you in that sharp gear!’ she teased him.

  ‘Would you rather I turned up in my paint-stained jeans and smelling of turpentine?’ He smiled again, fleetingly, and her pulse gave another blip as he took her arm and led her through the entrance.

  The place was fitted out in dark, polished wood in the style of the twenties. A huge ceiling fan turned slowly above an open area in the centre which was laid out with bentwood chairs and marble-topped tables for the bar customers. The dining tables were tucked away in high-sided compartments like old-fashioned church pews. With the modern embellishment of piped music to smother conversation it was, Melissa reflected as they sat down, an ideal setting for meetings between lovers . . . or spies or plotters of stings or heists. For a moment, her crime writer’s instinct took over and she made a mental note to jot down a description as soon as she got home.

  A jolly young waiter with a Gloucestershire accent and the stars and stripes emblazoned on his apron lit the candle lamp on their table and gave them each a menu. When he had retired with their order and the drinks waiter had served them with lime daiquiris, Barney planted his elbows on the table and leaned towards Melissa.

  ‘Haven’t they arrested Lawrence yet?’ he demanded. ‘Why hasn’t there been anything in the papers? No photograph, not even an artist’s impression or a description. People won’t know who to look out for.’

  ‘The police won’t name anyone publicly until they’re sure it’s the right person.’

  ‘You’ve got friends in the local CID – can’t you find out what’s going on?’ he pursued. His face was flushed and his eyes glittered.

  ‘Ken Harris has promised to keep me up to date with the press briefings . . . ’ she began.

  ‘Press briefings!’ He made a scornful gesture. ‘I can read the papers for myself.’

  ‘They don’t necessarily print every detail they’re given,’ she said. ‘As soon as I hear anything definite, I promise I’ll let you know.’ Already, she had decided against any mention of Lou’s visit and Rick’s claim to have found Angy’s body. Things were too uncertain and it would be wrong to raise false hopes.

  ‘You mentioned something last night about a ring,’ he said.

  ‘Surely you noticed the antique ring with the garnet that Angy used to wear?’

  ‘Of course. It was a family heirloom and she was very fond of it. What did it have to do with Lawrence?’

  ‘Everything. It was his family heirloom. He gave it to her as an engagement ring and when she took off, she never sent it back.’

  ‘And that’s why he killed her? To get back a miserable ring? If that’s the sort he is, it’s no wonder she was terrified of him!’

  For a moment, he reminded Melissa of Lou in his haste to defend a loved one, but she had seen how his knuckles whitened on hearing the story and guessed what he must be thinking. Little by little, he was getting to know the true Angy.

  She reached out to cover one of his hands with her own. It felt like ice. ‘You’re cold,’ she said. ‘You aren’t ill, are you?’

  He rolled his hand over so that hers rested in his palm. ‘I haven’t had much food today. I’ll soon warm up in here.’ He gave her fingers a brief squeeze, then released them and began drumming on the table.

  ‘Do try to relax,’ she urged.

  ‘How can I, when the brute who killed Angy is still free?’ He took a gulp from his drink and began fidgeting with the cutlery. ‘The sooner they get him, the sooner she can be laid to rest.’ There was a catch in his voice; he was on a knife edge and for a moment Melissa feared he would break down. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, pulling out a handkerchief and brushing it across his eyes and nose.

  ‘It’s all right, I understand.’

  ‘Yes, I think you do.’

  ‘I lost someone dear to me, very suddenly.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘My son’s father, in a road accident. I thought my world had come to an end.’ She hesitated. Knowing Barney’s standards of morality, she wondered if she was being wise, but it was best to be honest. ‘I was two months pregnant and my parents said I’d brought shame on their house and they kicked me out.’

  ‘That was inhuman!’ Barney stopped short in the act of lifting a spoonful of clam chowder to his mouth. There was no disapproval in the exclamation, only a shocked concern for her. ‘Whatever did you do?’

  ‘I was lucky. Guy’s parents looked after us – Simon and me.’

  They finished their first course in silence. Barney appeared to be mulling over what he had just learned; several times he looked searchingly at Melissa across the table. The flame of the candle in its amber glass shade threw shadows that accentuated the dark rings under his eyes.

  The waiter removed their empty plates and brought huge portions of southern-fried chicken. Melissa declined Barney’s offer of wine and asked for mineral water.

  ‘Living out in the sticks, I can’t afford to lose my licence.’

  ‘How very sensible. I’ll join you.’

  By mutual consent, it seemed, they spoke for the rest of the meal of anything but the one topic that was on both their minds. It was Barney who returned to it first, dribbling cream into his coffee and watching it swirl into a spiral on the surface.

  ‘How long do you think the trial will last?’ he asked. When Melissa did not immediately answer, he made an impatient movement with one hand. ‘You know about these things. You must have some idea.’

  ‘It’s impossible to say. Quite often, the police ask for a remand to give them time to make further enquiries, assemble their evidence and so on. And then it can be several weeks after committal before the trial takes place.’ Melissa concentrated for a moment on the unnecessary task of stirring her unsweetened black coffee. ‘Of course,’ she continued, avoiding his eye, ‘all this is on the assumption that he’s going to be charged.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  She flinched at the outraged disbelief in Barney’s expression and it took some courage to say what she had to say. It was only fair to forewarn him that Rick’s arrest, let alone his trial and conviction, were by no means a foregone conclusion.

  ‘I mean that without evidence, they can’t bring a charge.’

  ‘You mean, they’ll let him go? He’ll get away with it? That’s monstrous!’ He glared at Melissa as if holding her responsible for this potential miscarriage of justice.

  ‘There may be evidence – I don’t know. But if there isn’t, if he can convince them he’s innocent . . . ’

  ‘Innocent? Are you crazy?’ He was becoming agitated and his voice was getting louder.

  ‘Shsh! People will hear!’ she warned.

  ‘I tell you, he did it!’ he said in a frantic whisper. ‘He must have done it. His family declared vendetta or whatever they call it!’

  ‘You have to admit, that does sound a bit far-fetched and melodramatic.’

  ‘Italians are melodramatic!’

  ‘Sometimes, yes, but I can’t help wondering if it’s likely that a young man on the brink of a successful career and maybe planning marriage to another girl would . . . ’ Melissa broke off. What she was doing was unbelievable. It was Iris, throwing doubts on Rick’s guilt, who had cast her in the role of the devil’s advocate. Once again, the thought that if not Rick, then possibly Barney was the killer, returned to torment her. The indirect reference to Lou had been a mistake; if he pic
ked it up and she had to admit she knew more than she had told him, he’d never trust her again.

  Even so, it was plain from the mixture of resentment and hostility on his face that her words had wounded him. ‘You think I killed her, don’t you?’ he hissed, his voice barely audible.

  ‘No Barney, of course I don’t!’ She reached out to him but he drew his hand away and sat back, distancing himself from her. Across the table, his eyes reflected the candle-flame; the twin images seemed to grow and generate a searing heat of their own.

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ he said stiffly. His face had grown hard as flint, the skin taut and bloodless. He signalled to the waiter; during the brief ceremony of settling the bill, handing over a tip and saying yes thank you they’d had a lovely evening and enjoyed their meal, his avoidance of her eye was constant and deliberate.

  ‘Where did you leave your car?’ he asked as they stepped on to the pavement. His tone had the same finality as the sound of the door closing behind them.

  ‘Just round the corner.’

  ‘I’ll walk you there.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Perhaps you don’t feel safe with me in a side street!’

  ‘Oh Barney, please! You’re getting it all wrong. I never meant to imply . . . ’

  ‘Forget it. No one would blame you.’

  They reached the spot where the Golf was parked. He put out a hand for her key, unlocked the driver’s door and held it open while she settled into her seat.

  ‘I’ll see you around,’ he said, dropping the key into her outstretched palm and slamming the door.

  She wound down the window, trying to think of some way of putting things right. All she could think of was, ‘Thank you for a lovely meal.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said and turned away.

  Depression clamped itself round Melissa’s head and shoulders and the meal she had enjoyed so much lay like a stone in her stomach as she drove home. She put away the car, quietly locked the garage door and stood for a few moments looking out over the valley. A steady breeze sent shreds of cloud tumbling across the face of the moon. She closed her eyes and inhaled through her mouth, tasting the freshness, letting it play round her head and soothe its ache like a splash of cool water.