Might need to tinker with that recipe.
Genny was behind the counter, talking with her husband, Martin. Martin was a slender, cheerful man with a round, freckled face and neatly trimmed beard. Emma had bonded with him, one pale-skinned ginger to another. They had been known to trade tips on hats and favorite brands of sunscreen. When he wasn’t helping with the chip shop or wrangling the kids, Martin volunteered with the local lifesaving service, something he’d done since his school days. In fact, he and Genny had actually met during her one ill-considered attempt at windsurfing.
Genny noticed Emma first. “Hullo, Emma! I was just going to call you.” Genny came out from behind the counter and gave Emma a long hug.
“Thought I’d save you the trouble.” Emma hugged her friend back. “Are you all right?”
“Just about. Martin’s been great, as always.” She flashed her husband a grin. “And Josh is a little amazing.”
“He’s got a great mum.” Emma rubbed Genny shoulders.
“Aw. Thanks. How about you? How are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” Emma admitted. “I may have just made a colossal mistake.”
Martin struck a pose, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. “My husband senses tell me there’s about to be a long talk here,” said Martin. “Why don’t you two go outside? I’ll get the tea.”
“You are the best possible man in the whole world,” said Genny.
“No fish?” Oliver lifted a pair of mournful eyes toward Emma.
“And could we get an order of the haddock?” asked Emma. “We missed lunch and Oliver is growing faint.”
“A noble corgi never faints!” Oliver jumped to all four feet. Martin heard the bark and laughed.
“Coming right up.”
Emma and Genny settled at one of the outdoor café tables. Oliver took up his favorite position, right under Emma’s chair.
“All right,” said Genny. “What mistake? When? How? And with who?”
Emma sighed. “Daphne. She’s asked me to find out what happened to Marcie.”
Genny didn’t even blink. “Why?”
“Pearl told her about the thing with Victoria last year, and Daphne said she’s afraid that one of her uncles will try and cover something up—”
“Bert, I’ll bet,” said Genny.
“You know about Bert?”
“Oh, lord, Emma, the whole village knows about Bert. Fancies himself a regular power behind the throne. Gets most of his money from the estate and spends it like a drunken sailor. Takes all the right people to lunch, sits on all the right boards.”
“He’s on the council?”
Genny raised her eyebrows. “What, and risk an actual election? Not his style. He prefers buying drinks, playing golf and charming the socks off all and sundry.”
That certainly sorted with Emma’s brief impression of the man. Next to Bert, the other Cochrane brothers had faded into the background.
Emma wondered how Bert and Marcie had gotten along, especially after Marcie inherited all the property.
“So, I take it that Daphne doesn’t believe Marcie killed herself?” Genny asked.
“That’s the problem,” Emma said. “She’s afraid Marcie did, and that it’s her fault.”
“Oh, the poor girl! But why on earth would she think that?”
Emma explained what Daphne told her, about the talk with Marcie, and about turning down an inheritance she was afraid would turn into a prison for her the way it had for her aunt. In the middle of the story, Martin came out with a tray with two mugs of good, strong tea and a basket of delicious, fresh fried fish and chips. And something else.
“What’s this?” Emma blinked at the pretty little salad.
“Vitamins.” Martin put the dish of bright greens, carrot, strawberries and crumbled farm cheese in front of her. “With balsamic dressing. You’re not the only one who can help class up the menu.” He grinned, kissed Genny, tucked the tray under his arm and headed back inside.
“Emma?” Oliver emerged from under the chair to wag and give her the full tragic-puppy-eyes treatment.
“Yes, Oliver.” Emma scratched his head. She also put down some fish, strawberries and carrot. Humans were not the only ones who needed vitamins.
“That’s so awful for Daphne,” said Genny once Emma had straightened back up. “I mean, I’m sure Marcie meant well, but . . .” She shook her head. “Maybe it will turn out to be an accident after all. That would be awful, but just . . . not quite as awful.” She gestured helplessly.
“I know,” said Emma. “But there was something else I didn’t tell Daphne, because she was already upset and I’ve got no idea what it means.” She leaned forward, as if she was afraid of being overheard. “Caite Hope-Johnston was in the house.”
“Wait. Stop. You’re kidding!”
“I’m not. She got in, even after Raj tried to keep her out, and she was using Marcie’s computer.”
“That cannot mean anything good.”
“No, but it doesn’t mean it was anything connected with Marcie’s death.”
“Emma.” Genny looked down her nose at Emma, which since they were both the same height when sitting down, was a pretty good trick. “If you want me to believe you believe that, you’re going to have to try harder.”
“Well, it doesn’t. It just means she was afraid of something.”
“Or maybe she was looking for something.”
“I suppose,” admitted Emma slowly. Maybe something to do with the missing money?
“Have you told DCI Brent?”
“Yes. I’m not sure how seriously she took me.”
“That you can’t do anything about.” Genny broke open a chip and examined the interior with a professional eye before she popped half in her mouth.
Emma finished her piece of fish. “I wish I knew what was happening now. I mean, with Marcie.”
“Well, I’m no expert,” said Genny, “but I expect our good detective will have shepherded the body to the morgue and they’ll do an autopsy. And if the pathologist finds anything funny, they’ll get the coroner to call for an inquest. Raj thinks it’ll be a couple of days at most,” said Genny.
Emma paused with a chip halfway to her mouth. “Raj does?”
Genny shrugged. “Raj enjoys a bit of fish and chips and a Jackie Chan movie when he’s had a hard day,” Genny told her. “Puts mayonnaise on his chips, of which I cannot necessarily approve but we all have our little ways, don’t we?”
“Yes,” agreed Emma blandly. “It seems we do.”
“So what are you going to do next?”
“Go home and hide under the bed for a bit and wonder what got into me?”
Genny smiled. “And after that?”
“Well, I’ve got to go back to the grange as of Monday, don’t I? I told Daphne I would.”
“You mean we’ve got to go back to the grange as of Monday.” Genny made a back and forth gesture indicating the both of them. “We’ve got to pick up all those bins of stuff we left behind.”
In the rush to get Daphne out of the way of her bickering family, they had in fact left several bins behind. “Listen, Genny, you do not want to get involved in this.”
“Too late,” Genny said cheerfully. “Already in.”
Emma blew out a sigh. “Oh, all right. We can go after my appointment with Brian.”
“Fantastic. I can take you. You’ll need a chaperone, anyway.”
“What are you talking about?”
Mischief sparked in Genny’s eyes. “Word on the grapevine is that you are exhibiting all the signs of becoming romantically infatuated with our local auto mechanic and vintage car enthusiast.”
“I am going to kill Angelique,” Emma muttered.
“Who says Angelique told me? If you’re going to insist on flirting during high tea
in a small village, people are going to notice.”
“I do not flirt.”
“If you say so, but you sure do know what you like, don’t you?”
Emma folded her arms. “You’re awful and I disown you.”
“You can’t. You’re addicted to my haddock.”
“You’re right. Darn you.” And to prove it, Emma helped herself to another piece of fish.
Genny laughed. “Look, I’ve got to get back inside. I’ll meet you here Monday, take you car shopping. And don’t make any more rash promises before then, yeah?”
“Nope. All done with that.” Emma crossed her heart to emphasize the fact.
Genny nodded once firmly and headed back into the shop. Emma stayed where she was, drinking tea and nibbling the excellent fried fish, and trying to make sense of everything that had happened over the past three days.
“Did I make a mistake, Oliver?” she asked. But this time, there was no answer. Emma peeked under her chair. Oliver was sprawled on his back, legs splayed, and sound asleep.
Emma sighed. Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? She’d promised she would try to find out what happened. She wasn’t going back on her word, especially when Daphne was hurting so badly.
But if she was honest with herself, Daphne was not the entire reason for wanting to go back to the grange. Deep inside, Emma felt like she owed it to Marcie to do whatever she could to help. As hard as she tried, she could not shake the idea she’d let Marcie down last night. She should have tried a little harder to keep her at the B&B, or asked just one more question, and then maybe everything would be all right.
Emma glanced in the window of the chip shop. Genny would tell her she was being ridiculous. So would Angelique. And Pearl.
But, I wonder, what would Marcie say?
20
Saturday proved to be a long, tense day. Pearl and Angelique were not happy with each other. That happened sometimes. Both were strong-willed women with ideas about the business, and each other’s lives, that sometimes clashed. On days like that, Emma tried to stick to her scones and stay out of the way.
The only semibright spot was the phone call from Tasha Boyd saying the board had agreed to accept their proposals, even without the tasting.
“They’ve agreed to the deposit amount, and I’ve agreed that we’ll return the deposit if the festival is ultimately canceled,” Angelique said.
“Any idea how likely . . .” asked Emma, but Angelique just shook her head.
That question of whether the festival would go forward threw a damper over the good news that they’d secured the job. It was not helped by the fact that, if it was all still on, they had just thirteen days to get ready.
Despite her best efforts though, Emma couldn’t escape into her work today. The topic of conversation for everybody, whether they came in for a a quick bun or a cream tea, was Marcie’s death. From the bits Emma picked up, Marcie had always been well-liked but not particularly well understood. To the village in general she seemed to be a sad and somewhat mysterious figure while she was alive. Very much the lady in the tower. Now she was a quiet tragedy. Competing rumors about old lovers, new debts and other suicides in the family were chewed over along with the apple cake and ginger biscuits.
Emma hoped Daphne was staying well away from the village this weekend. She also hoped they’d hear something from the police. Or the du Maurier society.
“Not likely,” muttered Pearl. “Ned Giddy practically ran the other way when I saw him in the Tesco this morning.”
Emma found herself thinking highly uncomplimentary thoughts about Ned Giddy, and even Tasha Boyd. Not that she really expected solid answers yet, but any bit of news would be better than suspense and speculation.
Unfortunately, all they had by the end of the day was more silence. All the uncertainty, combined with Angelique and Pearl snapping at each other, left Emma with a feeling she didn’t get very often.
“Oliver,” she said as they headed up the winding village high street. “I think we need a drink.”
“Excellent,” said Oliver. “The pub has very good treats. There will be treats, right, Emma?”
Emma laughed. “For both of us.”
There were two “locals,” in Trevena. The Donkey’s Win was mostly geared for the tourist trade. Emma’s favorite was the Roundhead, which was roughly as old as the King’s Rest. According to village legend, the original operators of pub and tavern had squared off in the Battle of Trevena during the Civil War. During that battle, the owners of the Roundhead had rolled hogsheads of beer down the hills at the owners of the King’s Rest. In the present day, this was widely regarded as a waste of good beer, but it had given rise to an annual festival that involved chasing a barrel downhill.
Oliver had gotten one look at it last summer and insisted that Emma enter him in the canine version of the race.
The Roundhead was a whitewashed stone building just off Trevena’s crooked high street. There was a little cobbled courtyard to one side behind a stone wall and an iron gate. The place was pretty bare-bones—a wooden bar tucked into the corner, some benches and tables all battered by age, exposed oak beams blackened by smoke from when the huge hearth was used for warmth and cooking. There was one side room that had used to be the snuggery, and now housed the obligatory television for match days. Which today wasn’t, so the pub was only partway filled with regulars enjoying a quiet pint. Dale Wilson and Dev Patel, Raj’s dad, sat in one corner, engaged in one of their cutthroat backgammon games.
“Hullo, Emma!” called Liza from behind the bar. “How are you doing?”
Liza Greenlaw and her husband, Sam, had taken over the Roundhead when Sam’s dad retired. She was the central casting version of a publican—a big woman with a cap of gray curls, red cheeks, pale skin spotted by age and the wrist strength to twist a drunken football fan’s arm behind him while she frog-marched him out the door, informing him that if he didn’t learn to act like a grown-up he could do his drinking over at the Donkey’s Win. Thank you very much.
Sam had held the door.
“Been better, Liza.” Emma climbed up on the bar stool. “Hullo, Sam,” she added as Liza’s cheerful, grizzled, red-faced husband came out of the back with a bin of clean glasses.
Oliver stretched up on his hind legs and barked in greeting.
“Hullo to you too, Oliver!” said Sam. “Hullo, Emma. Some cider?”
“Yes, please.”
Liza kept the pub, but it was Sam who “kept the cellar.” His dad, and granddads all the way back, brewed a delicious concoction from the local apples which was to be treated with the utmost respect. Emma had learned this the hard way.
After she’d recovered, that cider had become the secret ingredient in her apple cake.
Sam poured a judicious measure out of a crockery jug and set the glass in front of her. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” She raised the glass and took a careful sip. “Wonderful.”
The Greenlaws kept a jar of home-baked dog biscuits on the bar and Emma filched one and held it up for Oliver to nab out of her fingers. She rubbed his ears. Don’t know what I’d do without you. She smiled.
And looked up to see Bert Cochrane standing in front of her.
“It’s Emma, isn’t it?” Bert extended his hand. He had an easy, polished smile. It went with his carefully combed dark hair, his even tan and tidy clothing. Today the polo shirt was pea green and the trousers were gray twill. The shoes were elegant city loafers, and might even have been bespoke.
“Bertram Cochrane,” he reminded her. “Bert. We met up at the house the other day.”
“Yes, of course.” Emma took his offered hand. “So sorry for your loss.”
Oliver perked up and went over to give those expensive shoes a sniff.
“Petrol, rubber, antiseptic, dirt, coffee, beer . . .”
Bert dre
w his foot back. “Um, do you mind?” he said. “These are my good shoes.”
Emma remembered neither Bert nor Frank seemed particularly happy to have the dogs around them. She wondered who was taking care of Dash now.
“Come on, Oliver.” She patted her leg. Oliver obeyed, but he was grumbling.
“I wasn’t going to hurt his shoes. Why did he think I was going to hurt his shoes?”
Because under all that charm, he’s really kind of a git. “Good boy.” She rubbed Oliver’s head.
“Would you care to join me?” He gestured toward the table under the window.
Well. This is unexpected. “All right,” said Emma.
Bert picked up Emma’s drink and gave her a smile as he gestured for her to go first. Emma collected her bag and crossed over to the table. Of course everybody in the pub looked. The rest of the customers had doubtlessly heard about Marcie’s death, and were now wondering why Bert would want to talk to Emma.
“Do we like him?” Oliver settled down beside her chair rather than under it. His head and ears remained upright and alert. “I’m not sure we should like him.”
I’m not sure either. Emma might sometimes have her doubts about Oliver’s ability to accurately read people’s characters, but she harbored very definite prejudices about overly fussy humans who did not like dogs.
Bert was drinking the pale ale. He took a long swallow. Emma sipped her cider and tried to ignore the wordless, and probably groundless, suspicion stirring in the back of her mind.
He’s a little vain, that’s all. Doesn’t make him a bad person. Necessarily.
“I wanted to apologize if I was a little brusque when we met back at the grange,” Bert said. “You understand, I’m sure.”
“Of course,” said Emma. “No worries.”
“And I wanted to make sure somebody thanked you properly for what you did that day.”
Murder Always Barks Twice Page 12