Candied Crime

by Dorte Hummelshoj Jakobsen

  “Now that I have you here, I have been meaning to ask you how a blind man can buy and sell antiques?” Toffee had wanted to know, but she had certainly not meant to ask such a rude question so where did those words come from? She squinted at the cup in her hand, wondering what they put in that tacky brew up here.

  Miss Mistletoe laughed gaily. “Jim Partridge has a seventh sense, you might say. Just follow his nose and it´ll lead you to the good stuff.”

  A Goth butler picked up her empty cup and put a new one between her fingers. “Exquisite hair, granny. Who´s your hairstylist if I may ask?”

  Toffee was on the brink of tears, but she was on a mission. She had come to speak to Sir Bellini. She looked around her for some place to put down her cup, but all she saw was taller people´s elbows. Well, down it would have to go. She drained it surreptitiously and let the cup slide down into someone´s very large tweed pocket.

  With a determined hiccup, she squeezed through the throng and swooped down on her tanned host. “What a pleasure to have you on my own,” she flashed, conveniently ignoring two-three hundred villagers.

  “Why, nice to meet you, Miss Brown. I hope you´re enjoying yourself. A Christmas cracker?” He handed her one end of a glossy twist of paper, and she had no options but pull at it though the bang always made her heart flutter.

  “Hahahahaha,” Toffee laughed shrilly, sensing that this might be her one and only chance. She ignored the paper hat but rolled out the small strip of paper and cried out, “Someone in our midst is a famous writer!”

  She heard a gasp behind her. “But how could you…?”

  Sir Bellini had already switched his attention to those supercilious vicar´s daughters, and when Toffee turned around to see who was behind her, she stumbled over the wheelchair. She caught hold of the armrest and found herself eye to eye with the blind antique dealer.

  Jim Partridge clenched his fists and drawled, “So you´re having a bit of fun, are you, Miss Brown?”

  “Sorry to interrupt you two turtledoves, but it´s high time to get home and feed the cat, Jim.” Agatha Mistletoe released the brake of the chair and wheeled it away so swiftly that Toffee landed very inelegantly on her silken bum. Ouch.

  IV Rhapsody poured herself a generous glass of cold water in the kitchen. It was the day after the party, and eggnog always made her feel out of sorts.

  What was that? Miss Brown´s Pekinese darted up and down the pavement outside her semi, yapping furiously. And Miss Brown´s front door stood wide open. Something must be wrong.

  “Psally. Psalmonella, where are you?” Rhapsody showed her sister the open door and the agitated dog.

  “Something must be wrong,” Psalmonella declared while she put on her coat. “Perhaps Miss Brown had too much eggnog.”

  They crossed the street and ran towards the new development of ugly, semidetached houses. Tweedledee bared his teeth and tried to look thrice his size, but in a no-nonsense movement Psalmonella grabbed his collar and told him to sit.

  Rhapsody threw one glance into the living room and stepped back. “This is a case for the police,” she informed her sister. “I´ll call Archie immediately.”

  Constable Archibald Primrose was Rhapsody´s fiancé. He arrived on his bicycle a few minutes later, all ready to cordon off Miss Brown´s house and garden with yellow tape.

  Someone had killed the old woman in the most horrible fashion and left the axe behind. Rhapsody and Psalmonella told Primrose what they knew while he was waiting for reinforcement.

  Back in the kitchen Rhapsody put the kettle on. “Do you remember she claimed she was a famous writer?”

  “Of course I do. Poor woman.”

  “Her house was full of paperbacks. Hundreds, or probably thousands of romances.”

  “Surely you don´t believe it´s true?” Psalmonella wasn´t inclined to fantasize and made short thrift with anyone who did.

  “No, of course not, but… Well, if she was just a harmless, old pensioner, why should anyone kill her?”

  Constable Primrose dropped in as soon as possible to tell them what he had learned so far and enjoy a nice cup of coffee. “Weird case. Nothing stolen. It´s not as if she had much to steal, of course, but she had a gold wrist watch and some pearls that look expensive.”

  “So the motive seems to have been personal?” Rhapsody tried.

  “Personal, or perhaps even worse.”

  “Worse? What could be worse?”

  “A mass…” Primrose glanced at Psalmonella and shook his head. “No, it´s far too early to say yet. But he left something behind. Or we think he did.”

  “What? Please tell me!” Rhapsody urged.

  “A postcard. It only says ´Santa was here´ on it, and it hasn´t been delivered by the postman because there´s no address or stamp on it.”

  “A Christmas card.” Rhapsody couldn´t hide her disappointment. Anyone could have slipped a Christmas card through Toffee Brown´s letterbox, and though they had no clue, she might have known who ´Santa´ was.

  “No, not really. It´s not a Christmassy motive but an ordinary postcard from Stockholm.” He took a gulp of his coffee. “It reminds me of something I´ve read in a book recently, but I can´t for the life of me remember which one.”

  V Rhapsody didn´t really have time to solve a murder mystery in between all the Christmas preparations in the large vicarage so she tried her best to leave it to Archie and his colleagues. She was very pleased, though, when he came to ask for her help the next morning.

  “I have something I´d like you to take a look at. The forensic team have left so you can come in and tell me what you think about her books.” Primrose knew when it was best to call in an expert, and Rhapsody worked as a part-time librarian.

  Rhapsody followed him and took her time to study the sagging shelves thoroughly. As she had guessed yesterday they were all romances. Not really Rhapsody´s taste – at least not if anyone asked her.

  “But this is crazy! No one does that … unless?” She chose one of the pink paperbacks and pulled at it until she succeeded in wringing it off the shelf. She checked the back flap and when she found a picture of an old, white-haired woman she let out a low whistle. “So she was actually… Darling, our Miss Toffee Brown was really the famous writer Barbara Cartwheel.”

  Primrose nodded. “I thought so but I wanted to hear what you said before I ran out and told the superintendent. This is awful. When the press find out…” He tore at a tuft of his short hair.

  “But then we´ll just have to solve the case before they do!” Rhapsody raised her chin and looked around her, ready to strike down on any clue the police force had not found yet. All she saw was Barbara Cartwheel paperbacks from floor to ceiling. Thousands of them, mostly in garish colours, and many of them were not even in English.

  How sad. So Toffee Brown had really come here to get away from the limelight. And now she was dead.

  “The neighbours are getting really curious,” Primrose complained. “They march up and down the street all day as if they have all sorts of errands. It´s just a question of time before one of them will inform the local rag.”

  Rhapsody looked out of Toffee, or rather, Ms Cartwheel´s windows. Agatha Mistletoe was struggling to push Jim Partridge´s wheelchair over a kerbstone. “I´d better offer to help her. Perhaps I can divert their attention a bit.”

  “Hello, Mr Partridge and Miss Mistletoe,” she began while she took charge of one of the handles of the chair. “But where is your sweet cat? I have hardly ever seen you without Kitty.”

  “We´ve had to keep her indoors since yesterday,” Agatha Mistletoe snapped. “With that ferocious dog at large poor Kitty has been frightfully upset.”

  “Eh, you mean Tweedledee?” Rhapsody didn´t know what to say as her goal had been to keep their minds off the murder of Ms Cartwheel.

  “Awful brute,” Jim Partridge grumbled, and Rhapsody had a feeling he didn´t refer to the dog only. She stared at a black leather shoe that stuck out underneath the warm
coverlet which covered Partridge´s useless legs.

  “Pardon me, but I just remembered something.” She ran back to the cottage and grabbed Primrose´s uniform sleeve. “I´m sure I have found your murderer. You must come with me immediately!”

  They caught up with the wheelchair right in front of Partridge´s door.

  “Look at those shoes,” Rhapsody exclaimed. “See those salt stains on the leather.”

  For a moment, Partridge seemed to forget that he could not see. Swiftly, he adjusted the coverlet so the stained leather was invisible.

  “Get down!” Rhapsody wailed.

  Agatha Mistletoe raised a heavy frying pan and let it crash down where Primrose´s head had been a split second earlier. The pan continued its trajectory and hit Partridge´s right shoulder. He jumped out of the chair, bellowing like a wounded bear.

  “Oh, no. Poor James.” Miss Mistletoe broke down, weeping inconsolably. “I knew it would go wrong.”

  “And now you´d better explain what this is all about.” Primrose had not quite forgotten that the nurse had tried to bash his head in as he pushed them both in front of him into Partridge´s house.

  Jim Partridge had turned so white that Rhapsody feared he would faint. His right arm hung down, and she suspected it was broken.

  “If you´ll call a doctor, I promise I´ll tell you everything.” He sank down on a sofa, wincing when his arm touched the seat.

  “You see, I´m here incognito. My real name is James Prattlesome. The thriller writer?” He was vain enough to check that they had recognized his name before he went on. “Somehow, the daft goose in there must have been able to hear us through the wall.”

  “James, no, don´t tell them…” Agatha Mistletoe whispered.

  “It´s too late now, Agatha.” He smiled bravely. “The other night at Sir Bellini´s party she as good as told everybody who I was. I sort of lost it and went over there and killed her before she could tell the press that it is my dear, old nanny, Agatha, who has written all my bestsellers. Nanny has a wonderful imagination. She began by making up the most gruesome nursery rhymes for me, and later her stories sort of developed into those scary novels all my fans love so much.”

  “Oh, James. And now the whole world will know that I have switched from my cosy puzzles to those gory thrillers.”

  12. Casualty

  Poor Betty lost her little dog and her husband on the same night. To the same accident, to be exact.

  They had just celebrated Miles´ fifty-seventh birthday with a few close friends. The evening had been so quiet and mild that they had moved out on the terrace with an assortment of drinks. “A really enjoyable evening,” they said to each other.

  Shortly after midnight the last guests said their goodbyes, leaving the untidy house to Betty and Miles. Not that Miles used to do much on these occasions as Betty emphasized, but for once he seemed steady on his bandy legs. He grabbed a tray and filled it with glasses and bottles.

  “Are you really sure you should…?” Betty exclaimed, watching her antique crystal.

  “I´m okay, don´t fuss, will you?” With his fragile load he aimed for the door and succeeded in giving the first threshold a wide berth. He took the next one with flying colours, and it wasn´t until he had to manoeuvre the step between the living room and the kitchen that things began to get out of hand.

  Betty´s dear little pug, Trixie, loved to snuggle in the warm kitchen, but she heard their voices and waddled closer, hoping for a titbit. She was somewhat plump, even Betty had to admit that, and when she tried to wag her curly tail, her whole body shook in convulsions. “The spitting image of Betty in her grey fur coat,” Miles would say to his mates down the pub.

  Miles took an exaggerated step to circumvent the dreaded obstacle and put his size twelve foot on top of an overgrown, furry sausage. After a rather impressive flip-flop, still clutching the red lacquer tray, he ended up on the living room carpet, buried underneath a cascade of shattered glasses and half-full liquor bottles.

  Betty threw up her hands in bewilderment while looking from one to the other. Poor little Trixie was whining helplessly, bone ends sticking out through red patches of fur, and Betty just knew this was the end of her dearest friend. Miles, on the other hand, hadn´t uttered a sound.

  “Dear me, his jugular vein was cut by the neck of a bottle of white wine. A first class South American Sauvignon Blanc, will you believe it? You should have seen the blood splashes on the wallpaper. And that lovely, beige carpet.”

  Betty babbled about the accident to her mother and her sister, her friends and her neighbours, her hairdresser and any old passer-by. And to the local police, of course, who wanted to know how a suburban birthday party could go so horribly wrong. Over the days and months the number of details grew, but Betty just couldn´t stop recounting the most dramatic moment of her life.

  “I saw my poor little Trixie gasping helplessly on the floor. Miles always hated my little baby and he would say the most awful things about her. I was sure Miles was going too, he was all white and quiet beneath the heap of glass, but suddenly he lifted his head and started swearing at Trixie. He had fragments of glass all over, and he was bleeding on our lovely carpet.”

  “And there was I, with my little darling and a raging, cursing husband. You see; I just had to do something so I grabbed one of the broken bottles and cut his jugular vein to stop his foul mouth."

  Betty´s cellmate fanned a cloud of cigarette smoke away from her eyes. Indifferently she continued flicking through the pages of her weekly. “The trouble with you, Betty, is that you don´t know when to shut your trap.”

  13. The Red Shoes

  Olivia Cadbury-Flake took a quiet stroll in the dark, rainy night. She ought to go to bed; it was late and she was in for another long day tomorrow. She needed to digest the official convention dinner plus she had several things to think through, and she preferred to do so before she crawled into her comfortable hotel bed. She was determined that she would make a decision before she returned home on Sunday: should she continue her well-paid, respectable life as the headmistress of Much Boredom Girls´ School in the vicinity of Knavesborough, or should she plunge into her secret life here in London? Lots of pleasures and excitement, but absolutely no safety net.

  Absentmindedly she turned back into Fond Street an hour later. As she approached the entrance of Barton´s Hotel, the uniformed attendant bowed in recognition and opened the door wide. “Good night, Ms Cadbury-Flake.” He tried to hide a cigarette behind his back, and she knitted her brow to show she had noticed his misdemeanour.

  With an icily “Goodnight, Doorman,” she scurried upstairs to avoid running into any of the other attendants of the CPA convention. She wasn´t up to meeting anyone right now.

  She opened the door to her room and uttered a sigh of relief. Her feet were killing her so she kicked her brand-new shoes off. They were so red and so beautiful she could write a sonnet about them, but perhaps not right now. The rain had not been good for them, though. She decided to leave them outside her door, certain that somehow they would be polished in the dead of night. She straightened her tired back and looked right into the eyes of the gentleman in the room opposite hers. Confused and embarrassed, they both retired in haste.

  ********************

  Not much later a door stole open and someone tiptoed across the corridor. Lord Mars-Wrigley, the retired Chief Inspector from Knavesborough looked up and down the corridor before he bent down and reached out for the seductive red shoes. Oh dear, a price tag was still stuck to the bottom of one of them! The pristine sight made his mouth water.

  “My goodness, Lord Mars-Wrigley! Are you also here?” The tipsy woman asking one of the silliest questions in the world lifted up her cheek and waited for the obligatory peck before she continued her stream of unconsciousness.

  “Sssh, I am afraid we´ll wake up someone, my dear. Let´s go down the bar, shall we?” He managed to control himself and Selina Crazy´s torrent of words, and taking her arm, he
almost dragged her downstairs to an unobtrusive table in the bar she must have left quite recently.

  The following morning

  The faithful little chambermaid, Miss Porridge, knocked on the door, opened it quietly and put the breakfast tray on the bedside table before she drew the heavy curtains. Remembering her low class, she let out an imbecile scream and a couple of sobs for good measure before she collected herself and summoned the manager, Mr Humpfries.

  “I´m sure she´s been poisoninged, Mr ´umpfries. She looks like the woman who ate that tainted ´erring last week,” she informed him, as pleased as punch. “Puke all over the place.”

  “Will you shut up, you twerp. Besides it was a kipper.” He glared at her and raised his hand as if he wanted to strike her, but he changed his mind at the last moment and patted her ruddy cheek instead. “Oh, doctor Emlock, already here? But that… that´s excellent. The patient is in here so if you will just follow me, please.” Mr Humpfries let the doctor into the classy but malodorous room and shot the door in the long faces of three curious attendants of the annual CPA convention.

  Miss Penderghast and Mrs McVities looked at each other. “What on earth is going on in Olivia´s room?” they wondered. Ms Crazy wanted to chirp in but feared that if she opened her mouth, she would be sick. What a disagreeable smell! Perhaps she should have turned down that last sherry in the bar. She opened her purse and while she was rummaging for something stimulating, she caught sight of the footwear on the floor. “How odd! Who has left those old clodhoppers outside Olivia´s room?”

  ********************

  Despite Mr Humphries´ efforts at discretion, the guests had already gleaned that poor Ms Cadbury-Flake had died in her room early in the morning. “Poisoned,” they whispered eagerly, in between mouthfuls of egg and bacon.