by Agatha Frost
Thankfully, it wasn’t her only option.
While Barker typed away at his desk, and after a quick nappy change for Olivia, Julia settled into the cushions of the antique red chesterfield in the corner. To her surprise, the old cellar under her café had become one of her favourite spots to escape the hustle and bustle of the village above.
Thanks to Barker’s secret talent for interior design, little of the cellar’s starkness remained. A porch and door had been built where a trapdoor, once hidden by paving stones, led down a staircase into the space as big as the footprint of the building upstairs. He’d panelled and papered the walls, hung Cotswold landscapes in thick gold frames, installed a new floor, covered it in rugs, and then covered those with warm-toned furniture all bought from her father’s antique shop.
A ceiling-grazing Kentia palm loomed from the corner where Julia had once discovered the body of Evelyn’s long-missing daughter. On the B&B owner’s request, a selection of crystals and stones poked out from the soil. Learning the fate of her daughter was the last and time Julia had seen Evelyn so distressed until the padlock appeared on the shed. Julia could feel the lack of Evelyn’s warmth in the air.
Storm clouds could block even the brightest sunshine.
But the storm in the cellar had cleared.
Olivia’s content gurgling attested to that.
Maybe it was Julia’s imagination, but Olivia always seemed calmer in her daddy’s office. Dot swore it was the below-ground peace; Barker, the soft lights; and Evelyn declared that Olivia had been a private investigator, like Barker, in a previous life and still loved the smell of the old wood.
Julia would happily retreat to the red chesterfield whether or not Barker was in, though she preferred when he was. Seeing her husband in his element, deep in a case and scratching at his hair with a pen, warmed her heart.
Today, he was scratching extra deep as he compiled his findings for the Wellington Manor case. He hadn’t told her the results, and she hadn’t asked, aware of the line of being too closely related to Katie.
An hour of floor play and eye training with animal puppets, just like Sue had shown her, wore Olivia out to the point where reclining in her slightly bouncy lounge seat was enough entertainment for her. Kicking off her shoes, Julia pulled her notepad and pen from her bag and scanned the numbers she’d copied from Katie’s email over rushed corn flakes that morning. Over three hundred scones sold so far, with the trio-sampler box making up the bulk of the sales. A fair few had been sold in the stand she hadn’t known her father had set up in his shop, and Barker taking a crateload and a card machine to the station had nudged them into a small profit.
Scribbling away, she worked out that if they bought extra butter, were content with a little leftover flour, and froze half the strawberries, the last batch could be the final one. It wasn’t difficult to work out. Fractions and ratios were some of the few maths lessons from school that she’d used enough over the years to know them by heart.
But her pen scribbled on.
Page after page.
Numbers tumbled through her stream of thoughts, but they were ages, dates, and times, rather than grams, millilitres, and quantities.
The crack of Barker’s joints as he stretched his arms over his head brought her back. She flicked to the next page in her pad, the last before she’d need to pull a fresh one from the dining room drawer at home.
“Time to get Katie,” he said, closing his laptop as he rose and rolled his neck from side to side. “Sounds quiet up there.”
Julia pointed her ear towards the ceiling. At some point in her trance, the peak afternoon bustle had faded to the late afternoon stragglers to the solitary sweeping and scraping of chair legs moving around on tiles.
Barker fetched Katie, leaving Julia to pick up Olivia, who’d drifted off in the calm, for her next feed. When she’d latched on, Julia flipped to the last page, where she’d summarised her final thoughts.
Or rather, written the questions she hoped to answer.
What did ‘You were right’ on the flowers mean?
Why did Ethel tell Gus to send her love to Vicky?
Why did Desmond mention Johnny’s ankle?
How did Evelyn correctly pull out ‘Ca . . . ’ during her séance?
“Johnny’s upstairs for you,” said Barker as Katie followed him down the wooden staircase. “He seems . . . excited.”
“Practically doing back flips.” Katie tugged off her apron, and the chesterfield let out a sigh as she collapsed back into the cracked leather. “If I hear the word ‘agenda’ one more time, I’m going to scream. I still don’t fully understand what it means.”
“Well, there can be two meanings—”
Katie’s fingers went into her ears, and she gargled gibberish. Olivia laughed and bobbed her head, no doubt sensing a kindred spirit.
“Now,” Katie said, rubbing her hands together and reaching for Olivia as her feed ended, “you can leave the burping to Granny Katie. Can’t get Vinnie over my shoulder for a back rub these days.”
“Katie, Olivia,” he said, offering the chair across from his desk as he tucked in. “If you’ll take a seat, then I’ll show you my—”
“You come here.” Katie produced Olivia’s first burp. “We’re comfy.”
Leaving Olivia in Katie’s capable hands, Julia headed upstairs. As promised, Johnny was waiting for her by the string of postcards. His nose was so close to the latest one, he looked as though he was trying to smell the tulips through the paper.
“Did you see it?” he asked giddily, rushing over to meet her at the counter. “Also, notice anything?”
Johnny performed a small spin, repeating it twice with increased speed before Julia spotted the obvious.
“Crutches!” she cried, pointing at his leg. “Cast!”
“I’m a free man!” He gave his leg a wiggle. “Two months of being confined. I’m back! Let me tell you, it never felt so good to wash my leg. Anyway, did you see it?”
“If you mean your scandalous front page, then yes.” She offered a slight bow. “I hope you’re going to frame that one. You’ve caused quite the stir.”
“They had to do a second lunchtime press.” Grinning, he scratched at his uncharacteristically stubbly jaw; Johnny was usually clean-shaven to within an inch of his life. “Hasn’t happened in years, and the higher-ups have noticed. Who knew a little rejig would have such an impact?”
“How long have you been working on this?”
“Since about twenty minutes after we dropped you off last night?” He collapsed into a chair, his blink dragging out until he shook his head and forced his eyes open. “Haven’t slept.”
“Explains . . . a lot.” She hovered by the coffee machine but thought better of it. “Camomile tea!”
After making a quick cup, she set it in front of Johnny and sat across from him. Leftover copies of The Peridale Post were scattered around the empty tables, though it was likely most villagers would save a copy; this was one they’d be talking about for a while.
“Who’s your anonymous source?”
He grinned, biting back a laugh.
“Johnny . . .”
She hoped Percy hadn’t bet that gold coin.
“Made them up,” he whispered. “And don’t give me that look. Everything I said was based on the information we’ve been gathering all week.” He sniffed the steaming tea. “It smells like a hamster cage.”
“You never had a hamster.”
“It’s not hard to imagine.” He took a sip, and it dribbled back into the cup. “Tastes hot.”
“Johnny, relax.” She slapped his arm. “You’re acting like . . . Well, you’re acting like you haven’t slept, which makes sense. Not so easy to hide at our age.”
“What do you mean?” He looked at his reflection in the back of the spoon like he couldn’t see his red eyes and ashen skin. “And how could I? When Leah and I got back to my place, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything I read on Dot’s board, so I w
ent back.”
“To the B&B?”
“Snuck in.” He sipped the still-steaming tea and winced. “Door wasn’t locked, but people are always coming and going.” He grimaced at whatever he saw on her face and said, “Relax, I was there for five minutes, and besides, Dot left my camera there, remember? I took pictures of Dot’s notes and went straight home. I had to work in the bathroom so the light wouldn’t distract Leah.”
“You didn’t sit too close to the cleaning products, by any chance?”
“Huh?” He blew on the hot liquid before risking another sip. “Whatever. Turns out your gran had the agenda all laid out. She was just too close to see it. Pieced together my version, it made the most sense, so I wrote it up and sent it off.”
“So, essentially, it’s a work of fiction?”
“That’s exactly what my boss said,” he recalled, “right before he fired me.”
“Fired you?”
“Relax.” He repeated, fanning out his palms and leaning weirdly in the chair like he could barely keep himself upright. “Because when they heard that the three of them, the leftover Peridale’s Eyes—”
“It’s just Ethel and her bridge club now.”
“Maybe, but then Ethel, Gus, and Desmond walked into the station and confessed to everything in the paper.” A yawn longer than any Julia had ever seen split Johnny’s face in two, giving her a sustained look at his tonsils. “Penelope was covering for Callum, her beloved grandson, and she used the group to stir people up about parking and whatever else. Classic distraction techni – Look!”
Johnny pointed across the café, and Julia spun.
“See,” he said. “It’s easy to distract people. I thought she was just harassing you and a few others, but the more I dug into it last night, the more people I found. Start talking to people about Penelope, and I’d bet the bonus they’re about to give me that they have a dispute.”
“Not personal, then.”
“Like half the people in the village, it turns out you’re just a low-level criminal breaking a law only Penelope cared to check for. All while she was covering for a grandson breaking much more serious ones.”
“So, you had your job back at noon?” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “And you’re still awake near six in the evening for what reason?”
“After the three of them waltzed in to verify everything I’d figured out and confess that they’d been keeping their discovery of Callum’s break-ins a secret since their bust-up, the police wanted to talk to me. Naturally. I had to claim confidentiality for my source. I thought they were going to lock me up, but it seemed to be enough.”
“Let me get this straight.” Julia’s brows furrowed. “You stayed up all night, wrote an exposé that just happened to be correct, were fired, tore the group apart, rehired, and lied to the police.”
“And I sold a record number of papers doing it.” His sip of tea turned into a lip-curling slurp. “And I didn’t lie, I just chose not to tell the truth.”
“By telling them nothing?”
“Exactly!” He slapped both hands on the table. “You get it.”
“You sound deranged.”
“I sound like a journalist,” he said, digging into his pocket. “No. Today, I feel like an editor. The Peridale Post: a dying paper no more. Johnny Watson saves the day.”
“You know you haven’t solved the murder, right?”
“As good as,” he said, digging deeper. “And that’s not all.”
“I’m not sure I can take another—”
Johnny pulled a small black box with gold trim from his jacket. With a snap, he popped back the lid. A large, pear-shaped diamond glittered against a solid gold band.
“Julia—”
“Johnny, I thought we were past—”
“It’s not for you, you wally!” He kicked her lightly under the table. “Just happened to arrive today. I’ve been planning this for months, and now I’m too excited to sleep. Then I realised I didn’t want to sleep, and that I wanted to propose tonight, so I had two energy drinks.”
“When was that?”
“About ten minutes before I came here?” he said with a hard sniff. “What do you think?”
“First of all, this is gorgeous,” she said, taking the box and turning it so the stone glinted under the light. “Knowing Leah, this looks like it was designed for her.”
“It was,” Johnny said, pulling out his phone. “I’ve been back and forth with the jeweller all month as they’ve been working on cutting it perfectly. Been saving up all year for the ring.” He turned his phone to show her the image on it. “Designed it to be a blend of all the rings she had saved on her ‘My Wedding’ Pinterest board. Do you think she’ll like it?”
Julia rested her hand on her chest, fighting back tears of joy . . . and a bit of relief at knowing he was neither seeing someone else nor trying to propose to her.
“I think she’ll love it, and I don’t doubt she’ll say yes,” Julia said. She took a deep breath, preparing to deliver the middle of her compliment sandwich. “But I need you to promise me one tiny thing.”
He clicked his fingers and pointed two finger guns at her.
“Shoot!”
“Two things,” she said, returning the ring. “Never do that again, and whatever you do, do not propose to her today.”
“Wh—”
“You both deserve a special moment when you’re not so . . . excited.”
Julia reached out and rested her hand against his. He was clammy and cold, and he trembled like a washing machine warming up for the big final spin.
“Really?” He investigated the spoon again. “Am I that bad?”
“You’ve been better.”
“That’s what friends are for, I guess.” He jutted his chin at the spoon before letting it clatter against the table. “Special. You’re right. So, I won’t propose. Not tonight. I’ll go figure out a way to make it special.”
“You’ll go home,” she ordered, “and you’ll drink as much water as you can stomach, have a shower, and crawl into bed. And if you have any alarms set, you’ll turn them off so you can sleep as much as you need.”
“What a strange day,” he said, a little more calmly. “You should have seen what they were saying about me on Peridale Chat. Someone called me a legend.”
After patting himself down, he pulled his phone from the back pocket of his trousers. As he tapped on the screen, his ever-drifting brows dropped into a deep crease.
“It’s gone,” he muttered, scrolling quicker. “All traces of it. It’s just pictures of landscapes, people complaining about the council and the buses, and ads for old tat nobody wants to buy.”
He showed her a local lady’s post. She was trying to sell a mirror cracked in three places for forty-five British pounds, claiming it was in ‘decent condition.’
“Can they censor groups?” she asked. “Seems to be happening a lot lately.”
“You still haven’t accepted my invite request.”
“I talk to my fellow villagers quite enough, thank you.”
“Admins can censor,” he said, more focused now that he had a task. “Well, well, well! Would you look at that. The picture grows clearer still. What a turn up for the books. An absolute—”
“Johnny!”
“Right.” He slid the phone across the table. “Turns out Penelope wasn’t the only one going out of her way to protect her grandson.”
Four people, two women, two men, and all at least fifty plus from their profile pictures, were listed as admins. Only one name was familiar.
“Desmond,” she read aloud, pushing the phone back. “You’re not the only one who’s had a strange day. I saw him at the library, and he mentioned you. Asked how your ankle was. Before I could say a word, he walked off.”
“Weird.”
“Very.” Her fingers drummed against the tabletop. “Does Desmond have any connection to your ankle? Any vested interest?”
“Don’t even know the guy.”<
br />
“Then why bring it up?” Her mind flicked through the pages of notes. “Could be nothing.”
“He is seventy,” he said, rising. “Speaking of old people, what’s going on with your gran? I heard Evelyn and Shilpa quit the group and now your gran’s in meltdown mode.”
“First of all, I’m going to tell her you used the line ‘speaking of old people’ to bring her up,” she said. “And secondly, I wish I knew. This whole group thing has got to her.”
“Who didn’t see that coming?” He yanked open the door so hard it banged into the wall. “Saying that, none of today would have happened if she hadn’t put everything together in her only-Dot way. Maybe I’ll go and tell her that?”
“Maybe you’ll go home like I said, and you promised.”
Johnny inhaled the cool early evening air, and a smile spread from ear to ear as he released it.
“Today’s been a good day.”
“I’m glad it has been for some.” Her mind returned to the question about Desmond, the one that was gnawing at her the most. “Desmond seems to think you have quite the imagination.”
He leaned into a deep bow.
“But he also thinks you’re missing something,” she said. Johnny snapped straight. “He made a point of mentioning it.”
“Was he taunting you?”
“Maybe.” Standing on the café’s doorstep, she folded her arms against the light breeze. “From what I’ve seen, he has a quick temper.”
“Whatever it is,” he said, stepping backwards and tripping off the pavement and into the road, “I’m sure the police are close after today.”
“I’m sure they are.” She waved him off. “Go home, Johnny. Sleep. I mean it.”
Alone in the café, Julia continued closing for the day where Katie had left off. Her months off hadn’t tampered with the autopilot she’d honed over the years, and her hands and mind were equally busy as one dealt with closing and the other spun with questions.
With the café gleaming, she settled at the counter and pulled out one of the salads leftover from her fateful lunch. Katie crept through the back door, clutching the folder Barker had spent all afternoon compiling to her chest.