by C T Mitchell
Murder at the Fete
By
C T Mitchell
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 by C T Mitchell
Cover and internal design © Wood Duck Media
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Table Of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
About The Author
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Chapter 1
Unlike the name implies, Bangalow, New South Wales is probably one of the most serene communities in the county. The name actually appeared to have come from an Aboriginal word meaning “a low hill” or “a kind of palm tree”, and what better to be named after than a palm tree?
The small town is a beautiful destination for day-trippers who want a gorgeous small town to visit; it had the most darling village streets filled with shops and boutiques, and cafes bragging about their locally grown organic produce.
Like most of the little villages in Australia, it boasts a hotel and pub, a church, a police station run by Constable Greenaway, its own mayor’s office, and a small dance hall adjacent to the primary school. The town is set up so that the people who live there don’t have to travel far to do the things they need to do. It’s one of Australia’s smartest and quaintest regional centers, and Maggie Turnbull loves it.
She and her husband had visited friends in Bangalow two decades ago on the way back from a business trip, and she’d always wanted to come back and settle down. When her husband passed away, that’s just what she did. Admittedly, she still stood out a little with her thick British accent, and occasionally people would be brave enough to tell her that her voice and the way she carried herself made her seem a little pretentious. But those who know her realize nothing could be further from the truth.
Eventually, though, she didn’t let it bother her. Maggie, or Lady Margaret Turnbull as she was properly called, could have moved anywhere in the world when her husband passed of a heart attack, but she settled in New South Wales for the latter part of her life. The late Mr. Turnbull, a dot com millionaire, sold his sold email service to British Telecom for 157m pound, leaving Maggie to do as she pleased.
As she pleased, it turns out, was a newfound passion for cooking and eating healthy foods as a way to stave off poor health for herself. She loved it so much that she was eventually inspired to teach others, as well. She purchased Lawler’s Loft, an architecturally designed hilltop acreage home with old world charm and commanding views across the valley to the mountains in the west and Pacific Ocean to the east. Shortly after making her purchase she decided to teach others to live a healthy lifestyle, and the town’s bed and breakfast, became synonymous with the beloved busybody, Maggie Turnbull. Busybody in a kind way. Maggie was not your stereotyped, doddering fool type. Quite the opposite in fact.
Running the bed and breakfast, teaching her patrons to cook wholesome food for their own wellbeing and igniting a passion for food in others provided most of her satisfaction in life, but everyone needs an extra hobby; at least in the mind of a busy Maggie Turnbull.
In her spare time, her favorite thing to do was to irritate Detective Inspector Tom Sullivan; albeit not intentionally. It wasn’t her fault she had such a knack for knowing other people’s business before he did…maybe it was just woman’s intuition? Although the high academic marks she’d received all her life would suggest her brain was simply superior to his, which always made her grin.
As much as he tried to like her, it really did bother him to constantly be chasing her hunches. No matter how much Tom tried to do things by the book, he couldn’t ever figure out a way to beat Maggie to solving the crime. Tom’s uncomfortableness was evident particularly around Maggie, often getting a twitch in his eye. And that could be seen by all and sundry, something the locals would pick up on.
And she was the only person who drove him batty, even though he was thought highly of all over Bangalow. He did his job exceptionally well, which Maggie actually respected. The man had a real passion for justice after witnessing a hit and run when he was in high school. Tom’s best friend was killed, and it triggered something in him that took precedence over what he thought would be a future as a fisherman like his father. As it turned out, fishing was how he spent his downtime. He had the uncanny knack to balance work and family life, which so many people lack, and was well known in town for being a great family man. He spent almost as much time with his family as he did in his work, and in his moments alone, took to the outdoors for solace. Maggie always imagined he spent his off days fishing and contemplating revenge for her spoiling his arrests.
Once, when he was certain he’d caught the killer of Julie Duncan, a primary school aged girl, it was Maggie’s eye for detail that nailed what seemed like a random passer-by as her killer. Tom never would have even suspected; in spite of his thorough yet traditional investigation. Once again Tom’s inner anxiety was heightened; at least this time he could hide it from prying eyes.
“Morning!” Melissa Shepherd, the baker’s daughter sang as she waltzed through the doors of the bed and breakfast. She was here to do two things: break Maggie’s train of thought and deliver the morning’s pastries. Guests at Lawler’s Loft looked forwarded to their early morning croissants and Danish pastries; something the guesthouse had become known for with travelers who were food connoisseurs.
Maggie smiled and threw her arms around her, as she did everyone who walked through the doors. Maggie maybe a Lady in title but she was no stuffy aristocrat, rather a warm and endearing person that people naturally gravitated to. “Morning, dear! You know where they go.” She pointed toward the kitchen and followed Melissa through the foyer. “How’s Constable Greenaway?”
Everyone knew Daniel Greenaway, the town constable, was in love with Melissa. And why shouldn’t he be? She was as sweet as they came, very pretty in a plain sort of way, and as quiet as a mouse. Perhaps self-imposed as Melissa, born and bred in the district, had never ventured far from its borders and was not aware of worldly delights that lay beyond. It embarrassed Melissa when Maggie mentioned his name. The poor girl was smitten with the constable, but was too naïve to really think he fancied her back, and Maggie teased her endlessly about it.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” she answered, her cheeks reddening as she hurried to the kitchen. “He came by the bakery this morning and looked well enough.”
“I’m sure he did, dear.” Maggie pulled the dish towel from her shoulder and popped Melissa with it. As a woman who had her fair share of male suitors of the years, Maggie knew that Constable Greenaway had more than strawberry tarts on his mind whenever he visited the bakery.
If she was any good at setting people up, she would make it her hobby to get them together. They’d be perfect for each other, as the constable was also a quiet sort of fellow. He didn’t speak unless he was spoken too, and was generally revered as a vanilla kind of gentleman. He wasn’t much to look at, Maggie thought, but when he was arou
nd Melissa his eyes lit up like a schoolboy in a candy shop and it was adorable.
****
“Are you going to the charity fete?” Melissa asked, changing the subject.
“Well what else will there be to do in this town next Saturday, dear? Of course I’m going. I’ll bet the constable will be there, too,” she teased.
“Alright alright! That’s enough out of you. What are you, my grandmother?”
“Is your father ready to become mildly rich with that prize money?” Maggie knew when to change the subject, and it made her giddy thinking that old man Shepherd would finally be acknowledged for his wares. The man knew his way around the kitchen better than any female Maggie had ever met, and she’d been all over the world. No one, however, held a candle to Jack Shepherd’s scones and tarts, and he made one hell of a flat white sponge as well. Maggie could spend all day, every day in his bakery if she were of the mind to gain an extra few pounds a week. But being in her early fifties, Maggie knew that putting on those pounds was far easier than taking them off. She cut a trim, toned figure for a woman of her vintage; not unnoticed by quite a few of the town’s male folk; single or married.
Melissa laughed and nodded her head. For a shy girl, she knew her father had more talent than most and was fairly confident he’d win every category. There was to be a purse of five hundred dollars for the best strawberry sponge cake, two hundred dollars for the best English scones, and one hundred dollars for the best fruit tart.
“Who’s the weird old fella that’s putting it on, again? I can never remember his name,” Melissa asked.
“Mr. Stewart, that handsome old Scottish coot with all the money.” He obviously appealed to Maggie’s eye; albeit he was probably thirty years her senior.
“How’d he get so much money, anyway, Mrs. Turnbull? I don’t remember ever having a benefit before he showed up and it’s like he can just afford to do….anything.”
“No one knows, dear. But he doesn’t seem terribly strange in a bad way, so no one really cares!” Maggie laughed and imagined Mr. Stewart probably made money as a voice-over actor in secret, what with his thick Scottish accent. It drove the ladies mad and he found great joy in really working it when he was in front of a microphone. Maggie suspected that was why he did things like throw galas and benefit picnics, to fight the boredom of being incredibly wealthy and give the ladies something to fuss over. He probably considered himself to be a bit of a Sean Connery, although Maggie could never see His Majesty’s service employing him. Mr. Stewart was not the most athletic man she had ever laid eyes on. She couldn’t quite be sure he cared terribly about the Bangalow Boarding School receiving all the benefit money either…the man had never even stepped foot in the town’s home for disadvantaged and delinquent children.
****
For the last four years, the fete has been renowned for its good food, fun rides, and fantastic baking prizes. Everyone in the town loved going, as it gave them something to look forward to every year. All the proceeds from rides and games went to whatever charity or organization Mr. Stewart chose, and the soirée even attracted people from many neighboring villages of Byron Bay, Clunes and Lismore.
Even though Maggie was not a baker, herself, every year she was a guest judge of the baking contest. And every year, she vowed to learn how to bake properly, though her apple pies and the occasional lemon meringue were the extent of her efforts in that regard. Her big dream was to have a famous guest chef run a cooking school at her Lawler’s Loft bed and breakfast. Jamie Oliver was her ultimate wish, but she’d settle for some local Australian talent to mesmerize her guests with their culinary skills.
Her nephew, Simon, would be driving into town for the festivities and to spend some time with her. Maggie loved her nephew, he was a fine young man, but she wished he would get his act together quickly and settle down with a nice girl so she could have a little one to bounce on her knee.
That was the only thing she lacked in life, family with little ones running around. She loved when people brought their young children to the bed and breakfast, though it was mostly older couples or couples on vacation without their kids that came to stay. Occasionally, though, there would be five or six little ones running through the halls and racing up the stairs, and Maggie loved it. Simon was her best chance at having young ones around to spoil, and she couldn’t quite convince him to settle down.
****
When Saturday finally arrived, Maggie helped Melissa unload the truck with her father’s contest entries. They were there early enough that it was very quiet, though everything was already set up and ready for enjoying.
The children’s rides were set up overnight, the caterers had already set up the restaurant tent and snack bar, and the local carpenter, along with the assistance of several farmers, had set up the stage and judges table inside the large food tent. Maggie followed Melissa carefully toward the table along the far side of the tent that was labeled Baking Contest Entries, and a young boy held the rope aside for them to pass by without dropping their pies and tarts.
****
Maggie is quite impressed with the range of pastries and delicacies offered at this particular fete. It seems that the village ladies have outdone themselves this year. Once the judges will have awarded the prizes, she has already put her name down to purchase six of Mrs. Grant’s scones. “Her scones are the best in the county,” she tells her nephew, keeping her voice low so as not offend old man Shepherd who considers himself this year’s champion scone maker. Simon, whose favorite meal is a hamburger and fries, shrugs but smiles at his aunt’s delighted face.
“Thank you, dear,” Maggie crooned without looking at the young man.
“You’re welcome, Auntie.”
Maggie spun carefully to see Simon, who had arrived early to spend time with her before the festivities got started.
“You little! Come here and give me a kiss.” He leaned toward her, careful not to knock the pie from her hands, and kissed her on the cheek. Maggie walked past him and set the pie on the table, eyeing the other entries. “Wow, they’ve really outdone themselves, this year. Mrs. Grant’s scones are the best in the county…will you put me down for six of them, sweetie? I’m going to ask Melissa what else she needs.”
Chapter 2
It was nearly lunchtime when the winner of the sponge cake was declared, and it was well-deserved. Mrs. Davies would take home first prize and the five hundred dollars and, much to the dismay of Mrs. Grant and Maggie, Mrs. Neddles took the honor of best scones. Apparently they were “smoother to the palate” than Mrs. Grant’s, which Maggie highly disagreed with.
As for the fruit tarts, Melissa Shepherd had actually entered and won in that category. The look on Constable Greenaway’s face when she was announced the winner was the only consolation Maggie had after Mrs. Grant scones were snubbed. The boy looked positively in love.
****
As he had taken to doing every year, Simon walked Maggie to the restaurant tent to have lunch with her. It was Maggie’s favorite part of the day, because she could catch up on the gossip from Simon’s small town, which wasn’t too far away. She filed this information away systematically, to be retrieved later if needed.
Usually, the two of them would have hamburgers and chips, but today Maggie caught her nephew drooling over the Bangalow pork belly with plum sauce, so she suggested they each get a plate of that instead. Between that, the roasted potatoes, steamed broccoli and tea, the two of them were perched happily under the tent for the better part of an hour. For dessert, they each had a slice of fruit tart from Melissa’s award winning tray. Maggie knew she would have to do a few extra laps of her ten acre property tomorrow to wear off the extra calories she devoured today.
As Maggie was scooping the sauce from her last bite of pie, there was a commotion near the back of the tent. Someone was choking, and apparently no one knew what to do anything besides sit and stare. That is, until Mrs. Davies stood up and knocked her chair over, causing Jane Neddles to screa
m at the sight of her friend writhing on the ground for breath. At that point, people started clamoring around her, unsure what to do.
“Someone find Detective Sullivan!! Or a doctor!” Jane screamed, trying to pry Mrs. Davies hands from her face so she could help. Soon, though, the woman stopped thrashing, and relaxed her hands, then relaxed her whole body into Jane’s arms.
“Oh my God!” Jane cradled her friend, pushing the hair back on the top of her head as if she were petting a cat. “No no no…..”
“How can that be?” Mrs. Grant whispered as Maggie trotted up behind the crowd.
****
Tom Sullivan rushed through the front of the tent. He’d been visiting the fete with his family, just like everyone else, but was happy to help. Frantically, he searched for the choking victim. All he’d been told was to get to the food tent immediately because someone was choking. Pushing through the crowd, he knelt down next to Jane and lovingly helped her stand up and passed her off to a nearby onlooker.
“You there!” He pointed to an older woman who looked as though she could speak well enough. “Which table was she at?”