The Marmalade Murders

by Elizabeth J Duncan

When they reached Carwyn Lewis, he extended his hand to Haydn. “Hello, Haydn.” After returning his greeting, Haydn introduced Penny. Carwyn’s eyes were the same unusually deep blue as Macy’s, and they crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her. His teeth were white and even. Penny estimated him to be in his late forties, possibly early fifties, but he looked trim and he was better dressed than most of the other exhibitors. His beige trousers fit well, and his blue shirt was clean and pressed.

  “Taid’s not wearing his vest,” said Macy. “It’s dark green, and it’s got buttons and pins on it, and he wears it when he looks after the chickens, but not today.”

  “Well, I had it on earlier, when I first arrived, but I took it off because it’s so warm in here, I don’t need it.” He smiled at her. But Macy had already lost interest in the vest and wandered over to peer at the chickens.

  “Can I show Penny our chickens?” Macy asked her grandfather. Without waiting for an answer, she grasped Penny’s hand and pulled her closer to the cages, explaining as she pointed with her other hand, “Here they are. They’re called Silkies, and my granddad’s ever so proud of them.” Penny admired the striking-looking birds; with their furlike white feathers and such fluffy crests on their heads, they looked as if they were wearing adorable little caps.

  “They’re so soft,” said Macy. “I love holding them.” She pointed to the bottom of their cage, where a few feathers had fallen. “Sometimes Taid gives me the feathers and I put them in my dolls’ hats.”

  “Oh, they’re very glamorous birds,” Penny said. “They look as if they’re all dressed for the red carpet.”

  Haydn touched Penny gently on the arm. “The judges are coming. We’d best leave Carwyn to it. He’ll want a few minutes to prepare himself, without us as a distraction.”

  “Of course,” replied Penny, and after a hurried good-bye to Carwyn, Macy, and her little terrier, they walked to the other side of the exhibit and admired a pen full of brown-and-white lop-eared rabbits.

  “Michelle mentioned that her parents are separated,” Penny said casually, with a quick glance over her shoulder at Carwyn and Macy. “Do you know if Carwyn’s”—she groped for the right words—“seeing anyone?” From the crisp crease in the sleeves of his shirt, unless he was fond of ironing—and to be fair, some men enjoyed it and were good at it—she thought it likely that there was a woman in his life. He had that well-cared-for look about him that suggested he wasn’t on his own. The exact opposite of bachelor Haydn, actually, whose clothes were always rumpled and mismatched.

  Haydn looked blank, and Penny remembered from a previous time, when he’d been fond of a woman but helpless to do anything about it, that he was a little on the naïve side when it came to relationships and women. No matter. Mrs. Lloyd would probably know all about Carwyn Lewis’s personal life.

  “I really would have liked to ask him if he knew anything about his ex-wife’s whereabouts,” Penny said, “but it wouldn’t have been right to say anything about that in front of Macy. I’m not good at guessing children’s ages, but she’s only what, six or seven? You don’t want to upset her, and besides, she shouldn’t be involved in such a grown-up problem as her grandmother going missing.”

  “Why would you want to ask Carwyn about that?”

  “Well, I’m concerned about her, and just curious, I guess.”

  “Never mind. We don’t know that she’s missing. Maybe there’ll be news of her when Michelle returns.”

  “Maybe.”

  They reached the area that led to the judging rings, and Haydn joined the crowd heading to see the horses. Penny checked her watch. Almost lunchtime. She rang Victoria, who had taken the shuttle bus back to town and returned to work at the Spa. Penny decided that she, too, would go into work for the afternoon. She hoped to bump into Michelle Lewis as she left the show grounds, but when she didn’t, she decided to return at the end of the day, in case there was news about Michelle’s missing mother.

  Six

  “Well, Florence,” said Mrs. Lloyd at the end of the afternoon, “that’s another show almost over, and I don’t know about you, but my arches are killing me. It’s been a long day and I could do with a sit down, so I suggest we make our way to the tea tent for a little refreshment. It’s almost time to pick up your jam, and once we’ve done that, hopefully Victoria will be here to give us a lift home. We’ve seen everything there is to see and done everything there is to do. When you’ve seen one sheep, you’ve seen them all.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Florence replied. “There were several really nice varieties I’d never even heard of, and I thought they were all lovely, especially the ones with the black faces.”

  “Well, yes, they are nice, but when you’ve lived in Llanelen all your life, as I have, you’ve seen your fair share of sheep. Lovely as they are, black faces and all, and much as I do like them.”

  “I wonder how Penny got on with the prize giving this morning,” Florence remarked. “She seemed a bit wound up about it. I thought we would have bumped into her at some point.”

  “Oh, she’ll have been fine. How hard can it be to hand out prizes for cuddly rabbits and friendly dogs? And I doubt Penny was here all day. Victoria said she was going to slip back to the Spa and work for the afternoon, and I expect Penny joined her. There wasn’t all that much here to keep them entertained all day, and besides, they’ve got a business to run.”

  Mrs. Lloyd checked her watch as she and Florence approached the marquee.

  “Now that most of the prizes have been handed out, folk are starting to leave. It’s almost four-thirty, so the women who want to pick up their jams and cakes will be along any minute. The farmers will be packing up soon, too, and that’ll be it for another year. So much planning and work goes into the show, and then it’s all over in one day.”

  They entered the marquee, to find just two tables in the tea area occupied. When they were seated, a middle-aged woman wearing a flowered apron offered them a choice of fruitcake or a slice of lemon drizzle cake with a cup of tea or coffee.

  “Oh, lemon drizzle for me,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Just the thing. How about you, Florence?”

  “I’d like the fruitcake, please. With a cup of tea.”

  The server disappeared and then a few minutes later set down a slice of fruitcake in front of each woman, along with a cup of tepid tea in a disposable cup.

  “Sorry,” she said. “The lemon drizzle’s off. That’s all that’s left. No charge.” She retreated to the serving area as Mrs. Lloyd looked sadly at the fruitcake, took a sip of tea, and made a little blech sound. She started to turn in her seat to see where the server had gone, but Florence put a restraining hand on her arm.

  “You can’t complain, Evelyn,” she said evenly. “It’s the end of the day and they’re giving away everything that’s left because no one wants to take it home. You’re not paying for this. If you don’t like it, just leave it.” Mrs. Lloyd folded her arms, saying nothing, just as Penny entered the tent. Catching sight of Mrs. Lloyd and Florence, she headed over to their table and took a chair facing Mrs. Lloyd.

  “Hello, Penny,” Florence said. “We’d hoped to see you after the pet show to find out how it went.”

  “Oh, I left shortly afterward and managed to put in a few hours at work. Saturdays are our busiest day at the Spa, as you can imagine.”

  “What did I tell you?” Mrs. Lloyd said to Florence, then turned her attention back to Penny. “So, on your way home, are you?”

  Penny nodded. “Since I walk right past, I thought I’d pop in and see if you were still here.”

  “Only for a few more minutes, probably,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “We’re just waiting to collect Florence’s jam. But tell me, how did you get on with the judging of the children’s pets? Any problems? Tantrums or the like?”

  “All right, I guess,” said Penny. “I made up silly categories as I went along, and the children and their parents seemed happy enough. Except for one little girl.” She described the winner of th
e two-of-a-kind class in floods of tears because her grandmother wasn’t there to see her and the little Yorkshire terrier dressed in the matching pink tutu netting with sparkles.

  “Oh, that sounds adorable,” said Florence.

  “It does,” agreed Mrs. Lloyd. “And what is this little girl’s name?”

  “Macy she’s called.”

  “Macy,” repeated Mrs. Lloyd. “That’s not a common name around here. The only Macy I know is Gaynor Lewis’s granddaughter.”

  “That’s the one,” said Penny. “Gaynor Lewis’s daughter was very concerned about her mother. Hadn’t heard from her all day. Not answering her phone. So after the children’s pet competition, Michelle—that’s Gaynor’s daughter—decided to pop round to her mum’s house to check on her. She asked Haydn Williams and me to walk little Macy over to her grandfather at the fur-and-feather area, and after we’d done that, I went to work. I haven’t heard anything more. That’s really the reason I dropped in. To see if there was any news. I hope nothing untoward has happened to her.”

  “Well, that is interesting,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Now that you mention it, I didn’t see Gaynor today, and that’s very strange. A regular fixture here at the show, Gaynor is, checking out how all her Women’s Guild friends did in all their classes, but most especially, she’s concerned about how her own entries placed. And somehow she managed to win first place in the marmalade competition, although I still think Florence’s was better.”

  Florence leaned forward as if to say something, but before she could speak, a group of chattering women burst into the tent, carrier bags draped over their arms, or carrying small boxes. They headed for the home-craft and floral tables, and as some women congratulated the winners, who graciously wished their rivals better luck next year, they swooped down on the displays like scavenging birds of prey. In moments they’d picked the tables almost clean, gathering up their entries and bagging or boxing them for the journey home. Their entries collected, they departed quickly.

  When they had left, Mrs. Lloyd rose from her seat and, followed by Florence, with Penny at her side, the three trooped over to the display tables. Florence picked up her jar of raspberry jam and its first-place certificate and tucked them in her handbag. They scanned the few remaining entries. Gaynor’s first-place marmalade had not been claimed.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Mrs. Lloyd, cross and upset all over again. “First your cake—which we took great pains to deliver on time—apparently doesn’t make it into the competition and neither does your marmalade. And now Gaynor Lewis can’t be bothered to claim her so-called winning entry with its unequal distribution of fruit. What on earth is going on?”

  “I hope you’re not going to kick off, Evelyn,” said Florence. “We agreed earlier that we’d leave it for now. Let’s give Penny and Victoria a chance to find out what happened to my cake and marmalade.”

  “Well, I hope they get some answers soon,” bristled Mrs. Lloyd.

  As she finished speaking, Joyce Devlin’s black Labrador, Billie, bounded into the tent, followed by Joyce herself, with Barbara, the woman who’d been assisting her the evening before, trailing along behind, clutching her clipboard to her chest. Mrs. Lloyd nodded a vague greeting in their direction and then commented to Florence, “Well, here comes Joyce, probably making her final rounds, so I guess you could say the fair’s officially over. And I’m sorry, Florence, I know I said I’d let it be, but I really must have a word with her about your missing cake and marmalade. And now’s as good a time as any.”

  Florence laid an imploring hand on her friend’s arm. “Oh, please don’t. This just isn’t the time. We agreed that Penny and Victoria would look into it.” Mrs. Lloyd, now bent on her mission, lightly shook off Florence’s hand. Bustling toward the new arrivals, she called out, “Joyce! I need a word with you.”

  Florence sighed. “When she gets a bee in her bonnet, there’s just no holding her back. I know she means well, but honestly, I wish she’d just leave it. Joyce’ll have had a long, stressful day and this just isn’t the right time.”

  While Joyce and her companion turned their attention to Mrs. Lloyd, Billie made her getaway and struck out across the marquee to the area where the tea had been served. Nose to the ground and tail wagging, she took careful stock of the area, and finding nothing edible of interest, she veered back toward the display tables. The dog hesitated in front of the table where the jams, marmalades, and chutneys had been displayed, ignored what remained on the flower tables, and stopped in front of the crumbs of the cakes, pies, breads, and biscuits just as Mrs. Lloyd and Joyce wrapped up their conversation. Joyce and her assistant set off for the tea area. Mrs. Lloyd glared after them, let out a frustrated sigh, and rejoined Florence and Penny.

  “It didn’t go well, I take it,” said Penny. “What did Joyce say?”

  “She said she’s too busy right now to even think about it, and that if we want to lodge a protest, we can.” Mrs. Lloyd made a little noise that signalled her exasperation. “She’s not telling me anything I didn’t already know, and besides, a right lot of good a protest would do. Florence already came in first with her jam, and her cake and marmalade never made it into the competition, so what’s to protest? The protest rules cover if you disagree with a judging result, but how can we do that when two of Florence’s entries weren’t judged? They weren’t there to be judged. I’m certainly going to bring this up at the next committee meeting. What’s needed is a proper investigation and perhaps an overhaul of how items are accepted for entry.” She turned her full attention to Florence. “Seems to me someone’s got it in for you.”

  Penny thought back to the snatch of conversation carried on the evening breeze the previous night when she’d returned to the marquee looking for her program booklet. “I don’t care who wins as long as it’s not her,” the woman had said. As long as who didn’t win? Had she been referring to Florence? With two of Florence’s entries somehow missing, that seemed possible. And if she had meant Florence, who didn’t want her to win, and why not? Although Florence was a relative newcomer to Llanelen, she had a growing reputation for her baking and catering skills. The refreshments she’d provided for a recent exhibit opening at the museum had garnered high praise from the mayor herself. It was certainly possible that someone with much deeper roots in the community than Florence, used to winning rosettes year after year, and feeling she deserved to win, did not welcome this threat to her dominance of a specific category.

  Penny wished she’d recognized the voices. People always describe small towns as being places where “everybody knows everybody,” but Llanelen had a population of more than three thousand, and nobody could possibly know everyone.

  “Well, I think you’ve done all you can for today, and then some,” Florence said to Mrs. Lloyd. “Please, let’s leave it for now. We’re all tired and it’s time we were off home. We can think about this later. I’ll just check the table where we had our tea to make sure we’ve got all our bits and pieces, and then as soon as Victoria gets here, we can be on our way.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Mrs. Lloyd gave in, adding, “I’ll wait here for you.” As Florence returned to the tea area, Mrs. Lloyd and Penny idly perused the baked goods table, where only a few plates remained unclaimed.

  Something brushed against Penny’s leg and she looked down and saw Billie tucking her nose under the white tablecloth and the front half of her sleek black body disappearing under the table. “Off, Billie!” Joyce’s voice boomed across the tent from the tea-service area, where she was speaking to the woman loading the last of the cups and saucers into the caterer’s red plastic boxes. “Leave it! Come here!” In response to her voice, Billie’s tail began wagging and she backed out from under the table, leaving the tablecloth swaying gently behind her. Licking her lips, she charged past Penny, a white blob clinging to the top of her black nose. Curious, Penny raised the tablecloth and, lowering her head, peered under the table. Then, she lifted the cloth higher and steadyin
g herself with one hand on the table, sank to her knees.

  “I think we’ve found Florence’s carrot cake,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Mrs. Lloyd. “And that’s not all.”

  Seven

  As Mrs. Lloyd instinctively took a step closer to the table, Penny rose to her feet and held up a warning hand. “Best stay where you are, although there’s been so much foot traffic through and around here today, I suppose it really won’t matter. Still, for the sake of appearances, don’t come any closer.”

  “But what is it?” demanded Mrs. Lloyd, her wide blue eyes expressing concern and puzzlement in equal measure. “What have you found?”

  “Let’s go and sit down,” Penny said, steering a protesting Mrs. Lloyd in the direction of the empty tables in the refreshment area. They reached a table and Penny pulled out a chair for Mrs. Lloyd. Florence joined them and Penny gestured to the chair beside Mrs. Lloyd, indicating that Florence should sit with her. When the two bewildered women were seated, Penny stepped away and placed a call on her mobile. When she had finished, she rejoined Florence and Mrs. Lloyd, sinking into a chair and resting her chin on her hands.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Lloyd asked again, a small tremor in her voice. “Will you please tell us what’s going on?”

  Penny’s mind raced over what she had just seen, trying to find the right words to describe it. Should she mention the blue-veined dead hand, with a gold wedding ring, resting lightly on top of a smashed cake, its white icing smeared with splotches of orange and green that had once been decorative carrots? And what about the ashen, blood-drained face with the parted lips and staring, sightless eyes?

  “There’s no way to soften this, so I’m just going to tell you,” Penny said. “It’s a body. A woman’s body. I didn’t recognize her. I don’t know who she is. I just rang Gareth, and he’s on his way here now to take charge.”

  “A body!” Mrs. Lloyd gasped. “Here, in the marquee? Are you saying there’s a dead body under the cakes and biscuits table? Oh my Lord. How long has it been there?”