The Windmill Cafe Part 2 Autumn Leaves

by Poppy Blake

  ‘I think Brad said it was a dog…’

  ‘What dog?’

  Rosie realized a little too late that she would only be digging her hole deeper by continuing.

  ‘Never mind…’

  ‘However,’ interrupted Matt, rolling his eyes at Freddie before his expression became more serious. Rosie knew Matt wouldn’t make fun of her and her confidence edged up a notch. ‘If the two incidents are connected, and I think they probably are, then Rick can be struck from our list and the spiking of our coffee is something altogether much more ominous.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Mia.

  ‘Well, another scenario to consider is that the assailant put the sedative in everyone’s bedtime drink apart from Rick’s, and, knowing he was the type of person to take advantage of the situation and maybe get up earlier than everyone else to hike up alone, followed him at a distance and shot him when he entered the grounds. They then hid the bow and returned to camp where they woke up with everyone else to find Rick gone. Perfect alibi – for everyone.’

  Rosie glanced at Matt and a spasm of heat spread from her chest to her face. His deep blue eyes, framed in long curled lashes the colour of straw, held hers for what seemed like an eternity. It took immense effort to drag her thoughts back to the present.

  ‘When you spoke to the police, did they mention whether they’d found the weapon yet? The bow?’

  ‘DS Kirkham said they were sending a team to search the area but as you know, the woodland is dense over there. I don’t suppose anyone mentioned an Olympic gold medal in archery when they checked in, did they?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, if we rule out the four of us, we have five suspects,’ said Rosie, keen to start whittling down their list before the closure of Ultimate Adventures could have a detrimental impact on Matt’s business. She briefly wondered whether she should have said six suspects, to include the man they had seen Helen with that morning, but the conversation had rushed on.

  ‘Five? There were only four members of the Myth Seekers Society with us, including Rick. I make that three,’ said Freddie, his forehead creasing into parallel lines.

  ‘What about Helen? And Steph?’

  ‘Oh, it couldn’t have been Steph!’ declared Mia. ‘She’s lovely. Why would she want to hurt Rick? I’m sorry but I just can’t see her holding a bow and arrow and shooting anyone – even someone as obnoxious as Rick Forster.’

  Rosie had to smile as she pictured Steph in her Laura Ashley dress, her feet planted firmly apart as she drew back the string of a recurve bow and aimed an arrow at Rick’s puffed out chest, like the Crazy Housewife of Nottingham.

  ‘All sorts of people are driven to malice, Mia.’

  ‘And Helen, I don’t think…’

  ‘We shouldn’t rule anyone out,’ interrupted Matt. ‘Rosie, can I ask you a huge favour?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Would you be able to arrange some sort of cookery classes in the Windmill Café tomorrow, like you did last time when we were trying to gather information about Suki’s poisoning, something that everyone can join in with?’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Well, it’s better than everyone sitting around drinking tea and speculating on who shot Rick, isn’t it? It’ll keep their hands busy and their minds on something else – and people are much more forthcoming with gossip when they’re involved in cooking.’

  ‘No problem, Mr Holmes!’

  ‘And is there any chance of rustling up something decent to eat now, Rosie?’ asked Freddie. ‘I’m starving!’

  Chapter 9

  Rosie’s stomach growled in objection to her lack of consideration for either breakfast or lunch. She checked her grandmother’s silver watch and was shocked to see that it was six thirty. No wonder Freddie was hungry! She and Mia set about making a huge pan of Bolognese sauce and the delicious aroma of baking bread and childhood nostalgia – it was her father’s favourite meal - tickled her nostrils. She watched Mia stoop forward to slide a magnificent garlicky focaccia, pricked with sprigs of fresh rosemary and dripping with warm olive oil, from the oven, a smile playing at her lips when she saw her friend’s apron.

  ‘Loving the seashells theme, Mia.’

  ‘Oh, no, they’re not seashells, they’re snails!’

  Mia lifted the hem of her apron to show Rosie who tried her utmost not to grimace. Who in their right mind would want to wear an apron covered in snails, even if they weren’t real? Well, only Mia Williams of course.

  ‘Looks like you’ve cooked for the five thousand. Why don’t we extend our hospitality to the guys over at the lodges? Helen will still be at the hospital so that’s just an extra four?’

  ‘I’d say that’s a very generous gesture, Matt, if I didn’t know you have an ulterior motive,’ said Rosie, her wooden spoon poised above a steaming pan of spaghetti. ‘But I agree, it’s a great idea to sit down together to eat. I’m sure everyone is exhausted from all the emotional turmoil and can’t be bothered to cook.’

  ‘Great! I’ll hop over and fetch them!’

  Mia cast aside her tea towel and dashed from the café on her mission of culinary mercy, her ponytail swaying like a pendulum behind her. Rosie was relieved to see that the morning’s escapades hadn’t had a lasting effect on her friend’s mood, and that her face had recovered its natural bloom whilst they had been engaged in their favourite activity. Mia gave the impression to everyone who was fortunate enough to cross her path that she was older twenty-three. From spending the last year travelling around Asia and blogging about it, she had developed a maturity beyond her years. After the initial shock of discovering Rick’s crumpled body at the priory, she had simply rebooted her modem and joined in with the task of ensuring everyone was fed and watered and Rosie was proud of her.

  Rosie picked up the discarded tea towel and hung it on its designated hook, aware that Matt was following her every move whilst he busied himself setting the table next to the French doors with the Windmill Café’s peppermint-and-white china and silver cutlery. However, before he could say anything about her addiction to tidiness, their guests had arrived.

  ‘Rosie, Mia, this is fantastic, thank you,’ said Steph, who looked amazing in a magenta, scarlet and cream belted dress and a purple angora cardigan with pearl buttons.

  ‘Freddie and Matt helped too,’ smiled Mia. ‘And we’ve made two huge apple and cinnamon pies for dessert and a jug of homemade custard. Or you can try a slice of the sticky toffee gingerbread with lemon icing that Rosie and I baked yesterday.’

  Rosie set out eight china bowls on the island unit and filled each one with a mound of spaghetti before Mia topped it with a dollop of rich Bolognese sauce, a sprinkling of freshly grated parmesan and a few fresh basil leaves. Everyone carried their food to the table and dug in with relish.

  ‘Delicious!’ declared Brad, as a flick of tomato sauce landed on his cheek and Emma reached over to wipe it away with her thumb.

  A swirl of contented chatter rotated around the café’s circular walls, just as it had every day of the week until recently, and soon every last morsel was hoovered up. Rosie wondered if it was right to be enjoying a fragrant meal whilst one of the lodge’s guests was lying in the hospital waiting for an operation on his ankle, and another was having to endure the distress of seeing her husband in agony, but they had to eat to keep going.

  ‘So, when do you think the police will want to question us?’ asked Brad, a note of apprehension in his voice. ‘I think they’ll want to know all about our Myth Seekers Society, don’t you? Phil, maybe we should take a look at the minutes of our last few meetings just to refresh our memories. I take it you’ve brought your laptop with you? And I reckon they’ll also need to see the accounts. Why don’t you print everything off so it’s ready just to hand over when they ask? Perhaps there’ll be something in there that can point the police in the direction of who did this to Rick.’

  Phil looked up from his plate of spaghetti. Unlike everyone else, he had
barely spoken a word during their meal, twisting the strands of spaghetti round and round with his fork whilst Steph looked on, her face a picture of spousal concern.

  ‘What’s up, Phil?’ asked Emma. ‘You look like you lost a pound and found a penny?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Phil gulped, his face pasty white and tinged with an unattractive hue of green around the gills as he shot towards the bathroom.

  ‘Poor Phil. He’s never been interviewed by the police before,’ explained Steph, helping Rosie to clear away the plates and hand out the dessert bowls.

  ‘None of us have,’ countered Emma. ‘It’s a scary prospect.’

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ said Freddie, as though he was a seasoned expert. ‘Just tell the truth and everything will be okay. We all want to find out who did this to Rick, and the sooner we do, the sooner the cosh can be lifted from Ultimate Adventures. Now, I don’t know about you but there’s nothing better to calm the soul than a generous slice of Rosie’s famous apple and cinnamon pie with lashings of custard.’

  Despite their anxiety, everyone, including Phil when he returned, polished off two portions of pie each and then retired from the table to the comfort of the overstuffed white sofas. Rosie finished wiping down the worktops and storing every utensil and pan in its correct place before pouring herself a coffee, adding a drizzle of cream, and going to stand at the French doors.

  Darkness pressed against the glass, turning it into a blackened mirror which reflected the activity within, giving the impression that the café was filled with twice as many guests. She took in the immaculate grounds, lit with a necklace of solar lights winding like stars along the pathways to the car park and the holiday lodges. A shiver ran down her spine as she imagined a dark spectre of malevolence stalking the fields beyond those doors – until that shiver turned into fear when she realized that the ‘spectre’ might be sat amongst them.

  She closed her eyes briefly in an effort to crush down the rising panic, trying instead to conjure up happier memories of the times she and Mia had spent in the kitchen whipping up cupcakes, whisking meringues, slicing pineapples and mangoes. She inhaled a deep, steadying breath and eventually her heartrate returned to normal as the sweet aroma of warm sugar and caramelized apples sent a welcome blast of pleasure into her brain.

  ‘Have you always wanted to be a chef, Rosie?’ asked Emma from behind her, clearly keen to steer the conversation away from the approaching police interrogations.

  ‘I’ve loved baking ever since I stood on a wooden stool at my grandmother’s side helping her to beat the butter and sugar for one of her signature Victoria sponge cakes. But, actually, my childhood dream was to qualify as a solicitor like my dad.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’

  ‘I lost my dad when I was fourteen, so I decided to pursue my second passion instead. We lived above a bakery so I had plenty of free tutorials in the holidays!’

  Rosie laughed, but the sound rang hollow in her ears. However, she had no intention of explaining to Emma that after her father had passed away, her mother had been so consumed with grief that she had let the household finances slide to the extent that their house was repossessed. With the help of her father’s brother, her Uncle Martyn, they had paid off all their debts from the proceeds of the sale and bought a tiny flat in a different part of Hampshire which had meant moving schools. Leaving her friends and the teachers who understood why her studies had slipped had been one of the most difficult things Rosie had had to deal with and she knew it was at the root of her continuing issues with cleanliness.

  ‘Actually, I’m glad things worked out this way. The thought of being hemmed into a glass cube of an office, hunched over a desk overlooking the rooftops instead of trees and green fields holds little appeal. I love it here in the little Windmill Café, I love the friends I’ve made in Willerby, and I love our nights out at the local pub, the Drunken Duck. Even though being a café manager wasn’t on my list of career options at school, it’s a dream come true!’

  ‘I totally agree with you,’ said Emma. ‘We should be allowed to change our career paths if we want to. I was brought up by my aunt and she’s never been happy with my choices. She hates that I work at a gym. She hates my friends. She even hates my current choice of hair colour. She says I should appreciate my “gorgeous copper waves”, but who’s happy to be tormented for being ginger?’

  Clearly Emma had overlooked the fact that she had the same colouring as Rosie did.

  ‘She absolutely freaked out when I dyed my hair, but why shouldn’t I be allowed to express my individuality? She criticizes the way I dress, the jewellery I wear, even my choice of perfume. And don’t get me started about her views on my taste in music! We can’t be expected to live out our family’s dreams for us – it’ll only destroy who we really are.’

  Rosie saw a flash of something she couldn’t fathom shoot across Emma’s face and she wondered what had happened to her parents. However, she wasn’t going to find that out tonight because Emma had grabbed Brad’s arm and dragged him towards the door.

  ‘Thanks for the dinner, Rosie. I think we’ll leave you to your coffee.’

  ‘Yes, I think we should go back to our lodge too,’ said Steph, hooking her arm through Phil’s and leading him gently in Emma and Brad’s wake. ‘In the circumstances, I don’t think we could have asked for a better evening. Thank you, Rosie.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Hopefully we’ll have some more information from the police in the morning.’

  ‘Hopefully,’ said Steph, not altogether convinced that was a good thing.

  ‘I really don’t think I’m going to get much sleep tonight,’ muttered Phil, strands of his mousy hair fluttering in the breeze as he stepped out onto the veranda. ‘My brain’s jangling so much it’ll take me ages to drop off. Got any of those herbal sleeping tablets you swear by, darling?’

  Rosie closed the door behind them and turned towards Matt, Freddie and Mia.

  ‘Did you…’

  ‘We heard!’

  ‘So we definitely can’t strike Steph or Phil from the list! And they could have done it together – Phil could have doctored the coffee, whilst Steph could have done the shooting.’

  ‘It’s certainly another theory.’

  Unsurprisingly, despite the lateness of the hour, Rosie didn’t feel ready to say goodnight to her friends and climb the spiral staircase to her flat above the café. Matt must have seen her anxiety and as usual came to her rescue.

  ‘Rosie, why don’t you and Mia go upstairs and freshen up? I think a trip to the Drunken Duck will do us all good, don’t you, Fred?’

  ‘You know me, never say no to a pint at the Duck!’

  ‘Thanks, Matt.’

  Rosie almost wept when she saw the expression of gratitude on Mia’s face as she skipped from the room. If she were a betting person she would wager that Mia would be back downstairs, ready to leave in five minutes.

  She was wrong – it was three.

  Chapter 10

  Rosie struggled to decipher her emotions as she drove to Willerby in her battered Mini Cooper. Freddie had offered Mia a lift, which she had been thrilled to accept, and Matt was driving in his own Ultimate Adventures SUV so she had a few moments to herself to collect her thoughts and yet she could make no sense of them. It had been a long and emotionally draining day, and she couldn’t wait to hold a glass of red wine in her hands to soften the peaks of her anxiety.

  The Drunken Duck was straight out of central casting as the response to a Hollywood director’s demand for a typical English village pub. Its white-washed façade shone in the moonlight and the bold golden signage glowed under the soft light of the brass lanterns. Only a few vehicles dotted the adjacent car park, so Rosie hoped she would find some privacy in which to unburden her constantly circling questions and increasingly outlandish theories about what had happened at the Garside Priory.

  She loved what the landlord, Archie Chapman, had achieved with the Drunken Duck. Matt had tol
d her that Archie had used the compensation money he’d received after his medical discharge from the army to buy the Willerby village pub. Prior to his arrival, the place had become frayed at the edges, catering only to a smattering of locals and day-trippers wanting sustenance before their assault on the coastal pathways or after a strenuous day of team-building at Ultimate Adventures. In the space of just twelve months, Archie had turned the fragile old lady into a sparkling duchess with regular offerings of guest beers from local artisan breweries, and even a selection of sparkling wines produced in the UK.

  Rosie parked her car next to a pristine white Range Rover and jogged round to the front door. On the scrubbed stone step was a silver bowl filled with fresh water for the hiker’s best friend and when she stepped over the threshold, she was immediately draped in the familiar mantle of warmth, comfort and the unquestioning welcome she experienced every time she visited. The fragrance of burning logs, pine cones and yeasty beer hung in the air and sent her senses into overdrive.

  ‘Hi Archie. Can I get a glass of Merlot, please?’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  ‘And a pint of Wherry for me,’ said Mia, sliding onto the bar stool next to her.

  ‘The drinks are on me tonight, girls. Mia, is it true that you found the guy who was shot over at Garside Priory?’

  ‘Yes, that was me. You know, the image of his body just lying there, with an arrow sticking out of his foot and blood oozing through his trousers, will remain with me until I take my last breath. I actually thought he was dead!’

  Mia inhaled a long draught of beer that would have made a seasoned member of the Campaign For Real Ale proud. Rosie was initially taken by surprise, until she remembered that Mia had been a student and then a gap year rambler for the last five years, and could probably drink her under the table.