The Marmalade Murders

by Elizabeth J Duncan

  “I just want to check to see if that friend of Joyce’s, Barbara Vickers, is listed as a member of the organizing committee, or even as a judge,” Penny said. “I think Joyce referred to her as the show secretary, but I wondered if that’s an official role or if she’s an unofficial helper, like a volunteer.”

  “Any particular reason you’re interested in her?”

  “No, not really. It’s just that we know so little about her, and yet she was everywhere with Joyce before and during the show, so I’m curious about her.”

  While Victoria poured the coffee and added a teaspoon of sugar to her mug, Penny leafed through the booklet, examining all the categories. “Barbara Vickers is not listed as a judge, but I didn’t really think she would be,” Penny said. “If she had been, I’m sure someone would have mentioned that, and anyway, she was too close to the organizing end of it to serve as a judge. But oh, wait a minute, here we are.”

  Penny pointed to the inside back cover. “The executive committee. Barbara Vickers is listed as the general secretary. According to this, other secretaries look after various events—there’s a trophy secretary, for example—but Barbara seems to be the one in charge.” She ran her finger down the list of names. “Hmm, this is interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “Joyce’s husband, Daffydd Devlin, is the treasurer.”

  Victoria’s eyes met Penny’s over the rim of her coffee mug. She leaned forward and set it on the table between them.

  “Why do you find that interesting?”

  “Well, we were talking on the drive home about how the Devlins don’t seem to be paying their bills on time, and yet Dev is the show treasurer. If he’s not managing his own money well at home, why is he managing the show’s money? I wonder if the show’s bills are being paid on time.” Penny sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. “You know, Dev being the treasurer raises a possibility about where the money might have come from for the new kennel.”

  Victoria thought about that for a moment.

  “Are you suggesting that Dev stole from the show funds to pay for the kennel?”

  “No, no. Suggesting is much too strong a word. I’m just … musing … indulging in a bit of ‘what if.’”

  “Okay. Well, we’re not suggesting he did, but we’re saying let’s suppose for a moment … what if he did … and if he did … then Joyce must have known about it,” said Victoria, “because, well, she’s the committee chairman, so she knows how much money the show has on hand.…”

  “Or she should know,” said Penny, emphasizing the word should. “You’re in charge of business operations at the Spa, and you know all about our financial situation, but I don’t. Maybe I should, but I don’t. I just don’t pay attention to that. I trust you, and I just let you get on with the job. So if Dev was stealing from the show, it doesn’t necessarily follow that Joyce would know.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Victoria. “But I think she would know about the money from the kennel end. She took great interest in the design of those kennels, so surely she’d know where the money to build them came from.”

  Penny nodded. “Yes, I think she would. So, let’s say Dev stole the money and Joyce knew about it. And what if Gaynor somehow found out and threatened to go to the authorities? She and Joyce didn’t get on. There was no love lost between them, according to Joyce. And we know that Joyce met up with Gaynor in the tent after we’d left, so she might have had the opportunity to kill her.”

  “So Joyce, and possibly Dev, too, killed Gaynor to keep her quiet.” Victoria mulled that over. “It’s possible, I suppose. They’d be worried about the kennels and the dogs, and Joyce would want to protect her standing in the community.”

  “Not to mention that one or both of them—Joyce and her husband—could be charged with embezzlement, or whatever it’s called, and the consequences of that would be serious. People have killed for less, that’s for sure.”

  Victoria nodded. “Much less.”

  “I suppose we could ask Mrs. Lloyd if the show’s books have been audited recently or if anyone’s noticed any unusual financial activity,” said Penny.

  Victoria winced. “We have to be really careful here. We have no proof of anything, and to even suggest that the Devlins could have been stealing from the show committee’s accounts, especially to Mrs. Lloyd, could be risky. The slightest hint that something might be amiss, and she’d be all over it. We don’t want to say anything that could affect the Devlins’ reputations. That could land us in big trouble, and even affect our business.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right. I knew as soon as I said it that it was a terrible idea. Just forget I said anything. But speaking of our business, you take care of our accounts. If someone wanted to steal from a company, how would they do it?”

  “There are a few ways. But first, people who steal from a company or charity usually don’t think of it as stealing, and that’s one of the reasons why smaller organizations, like the rural show, are so vulnerable to theft. The people who steal from organizations like that think of it as borrowing. Just a temporary loan, to tide them over until they get back on their feet, sort of thing, and then they’ll pay it all back before anybody finds out. I’m pretty sure if the Devlins are involved in something like this, that’s how they’d see it.” Victoria paused, taking a breath before continuing.

  “Anyway, if Dev was stealing from the agricultural show, he could have set up a fake set of books that seem legitimate. There’d be payments to nonexistent suppliers. Companies that don’t exist. So for example, it would look like the show paid four hundred pounds to the Best Lighting in the World Company, when in fact there is no such company, there was no such payment, and the four hundred pounds went straight to the Devlins.”

  “I see. And could there be pretend payments to real companies?”

  “There could. And they’d look legitimate, and probably wouldn’t be questioned. Say there’s a recorded payment of, oh, I don’t know, one hundred pounds to the Women’s Guild for catering, when in reality the good ladies of the WG donated all the pies and scones that were served in the refreshment tent. So the WG actually gets nothing, and the Devlins take the one hundred pounds for themselves.”

  “You’re making it sound very attractive, and not all that difficult.”

  “It isn’t difficult, really, and that’s another reason why a lot of small charities do become victims to this kind of fraud.” Victoria took a sip of coffee. “And there’s another way. They could inflate the bills and skim some off the top. So let’s say they’re invoiced five hundred pounds for something. Dev pays the invoice, but he enters it in the books as a six-hundred-pound expense.”

  “And he pockets the one-hundred-pound difference.”

  “Correct. But to be honest, I’m feeling a bit uncomfortable even talking about this, and using their names, as if they’re actually doing it. We have no proof that any of this has been going on.”

  “No, we don’t,” Penny replied. She sighed. “Do you think we should do anything?”

  Victoria considered her answer carefully before she spoke. “I’m not sure we should do anything. We need much more to go on—this is really only vague speculation. And I’m not sure if I should even suggest we poke around and see what we can find out.”

  “All right, then. Let’s set that aside for a moment and think about this. What kind of expenses would a show like this normally have?”

  “The usual. Advertising, printing. Are the judges compensated? Do they rent the fields?”

  “Rent! They do rent the marquee,” said Penny, a trace of excitement in her voice. “Mrs. Lloyd said something about that. She said the marquee rental cost—oh what was it? Six thousand? Six thousand pounds for one day? Does that seem like a lot to you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never rented a marquee. I imagine the cost would depend on what size you want.”

  “If we could find out what the company charged for the marquee, and what the show paid, that would
be a good start.”

  “Start to what?”

  “To seeing if the Devlins were fiddling the show’s finances. And like we just said, if they were, and if Gaynor Lewis found out about that, or even suspected them of it, that could be motive enough for murder.”

  “I don’t see how we can find out how much a marquee would normally cost when we don’t have the exact measurements.” Victoria finished her coffee and set the mug down. “What about this Barbara Vickers?” she suggested. “She seems close to Joyce. She was always making the rounds with her at the show, and she seemed in charge of the paperwork. What about trying to talk to her?”

  “We could try. She shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  “The thing is,” said Victoria, “if you do approach her, you don’t want to scare her off. She doesn’t look the chatty type. So just ringing her up out of the blue and launching into a lot of questions probably won’t get you very far. ‘How big is the marquee? How much did you pay for it?’ You need to be subtle and start off slowly. It might be best if you do it in a casual situation, if you can. She’d be more likely to talk to you if she’s relaxed.”

  “True, although she didn’t look like the sort who relaxes very much.”

  “But there’s another woman of interest here, and that’s Elin Spears,” said Victoria. “Don’t forget about her.”

  “Oh, right. The other woman.”

  “Joyce said Elin’s been after Carwyn to marry her, and now that Gaynor’s out of the way, maybe now he and Elin will tie the knot. I wonder just how badly Elin wants to marry Carwyn, and what lengths she’d go to in order to make that possible.”

  “Bumping off an inconvenient spouse has certainly happened before,” Penny agreed, “although I wouldn’t say that’s a solid foundation on which to build a marriage. Still, I’d like to know more about her.”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll find a way to do just that.”

  Victoria stood up. “Well, thanks for the decent coffee. I’d best be off. Want to get the week off to a good start with some laundry and cleaning out of the way. And all that talk about invoices reminded me I’ve got a few to pay tomorrow. I don’t like to keep suppliers waiting.”

  Penny reached for her keys. “Let me just grab a bag and I’ll go out with you. Time for a little walk before an early supper.”

  “Litter picking?”

  Penny locked her door and they walked together to Victoria’s car. And then, with a cheery flap of her hand out the car window, Victoria drove off, leaving Penny to follow on foot along the lane that led into town. She didn’t plan on walking that far, though. She intended to walk only as far as the site of the agricultural show, picking up litter and recyclables from the roadside.

  She took her time, picking up a crushed beer can here and an empty crisp packet there that had been thoughtlessly tossed onto the verge or into a hedgerow. Bloody hell, she thought as she tossed one more empty plastic water bottle into the bag. What is wrong with people? They have the good fortune to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, and they have to spoil it by throwing rubbish all over the place.

  Her carrier bag was almost overflowing by the time she reached the site of the agricultural show. The fields that just yesterday had been filled with the sights, sounds, and smells of show animals and spectators now lay silent and almost empty in the soft, slanting light of late afternoon. Only the marquee remained. She could make out a uniformed police officer silhouetted against its whiteness, with blue-and-white crime-scene barricade tape behind him, cordoning off the entrance. Two police cars and a forensic services van with their distinctive blue-and-yellow checkerboard livery were parked nearby.

  As Penny gazed at the scene, an investigator dressed in white overalls emerged from the marquee. The uniformed officer lifted the tape and the white-clad figure ducked under it, then walked purposefully toward the van. Penny watched for a few more minutes, her mind churning, and then she set off at a comfortable pace for home.

  She could think of two people who might gain from Gaynor’s death: Joyce Devlin, if she and her husband had stolen from the agricultural show funds to pay for their new kennels, and Elin Spears, who would now be in a legal position to marry Gaynor’s widower.

  After a few minutes of allowing her mind to flit back and forth between the two women, she realized she was mentally spinning her wheels. She didn’t even know Elin Spears, so how could she possibly speculate about her? And as for Joyce, she had no evidence of financial wrongdoing. Penny forced herself to stop thinking about the murder and allowed her mind to wander in rhythm with her steps.

  Walking is so much better with a dog, she mused. She loved when Emyr Gruffydd left his black Lab, Trixxi, with her when he had to be away from home. The long rambles, the companionship of a lovely dog, the emotional satisfaction she got from the simple act of giving Trixxi a drink of cool water at the end of their walk. Seeing Joyce’s puppies this morning had filled her with longing for a dog of her own. Not a puppy, though, an older dog. Possibly a retired breeding dog, like Billie, or more likely, a shelter dog in need of a loving home.

  Feeling a slight twinge of guilt at the thought of how her grey cat, Harrison, would adjust to a dog in the house, she sped up just a little.

  And just as she made her way up the stone pathway flanked by lavender bushes that led to her candy-apple-red front door, surrounded by climbing white roses, Penny thought of an easy way to meet Elin Spears. She let herself into her cottage, then pulled her phone out of her pocket and rang Victoria, who had just arrived home.

  “It’s so obvious, I’m surprised we didn’t think of it,” Penny said, gazing out her sitting room window at the lightly moving branches of her apple tree. “We go to the Women’s Guild meeting on Wednesday. I expect everyone can manage without us for a couple of hours.” She listened for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, I’m sure Mrs. Lloyd will be there. Probably wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Twelve

  Three days later, Florence locked the front door and she and Mrs. Lloyd set off for the Women’s Guild meeting, held at the community centre on the last Wednesday afternoon of every month. “There was really no need for you to come with me,” grumbled Florence. “Sometimes I like doing things on my own, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know that. But as I told you, I used to be a member of the WG, although that was many years ago. It wasn’t really right for me at that time, but I thought I’d come along today to see if things have changed. I’m sure they must have. Nothing stays the same, does it? You have to move with the times if you want to stay relevant.”

  “What a load of tosh,” said Florence with a light laugh. “You just want to go to the meeting today because of what you might hear about Gaynor Lewis. Whereas I have a genuine interest in the Guild’s activities.”

  The Welsh Women’s Guild was loosely modelled on the Women’s Institute, a British institution since 1915. The WI movement spread from Canada, where it had begun eighteen years earlier, and was taken up by British women eager to contribute to the World War I home-front efforts by helping with food production. The WI flourished in rural areas, towns, and villages, providing women with an opportunity to share and celebrate skills such as baking, sewing, and gardening. As the twentieth century passed, the organization also took on social causes, campaigning and fund-raising for serious global issues as wide ranging as protecting honeybees, preventing and rescuing victims of human trafficking, and improving access to prenatal care.

  Florence opened the door to the community centre and they passed through the vestibule, pausing to read the notices pinned to the bulletin board, then entered the meeting hall.

  Light poured in through tall windows, casting rectangular shapes across dark blue carpeting. Straight-backed chairs with seats and backs upholstered in a gold fabric had been neatly arranged in two rows, facing a wooden table covered in a forest green felt cloth with yellow letters spelling out Llanelen WG sewn on in a curved pattern. Under the lettering was an appliq
uéd version of the organization’s logo.

  Seated at a small table just inside the door was Bronwyn Evans, the rector’s wife.

  “How nice to see you both,” she said to Florence and Mrs. Lloyd. A small woman with faded blond hair worn in the same pageboy style she’d had since she was a girl and dressed in a plaid pleated skirt with a powder blue twinset and pearls, Bronwyn greeted each of them with a warm smile. “Quite a turnout today,” she remarked. “We don’t usually get this many at our meetings. Most of the members are already here, plus several visitors, like yourselves.”

  “That’ll be the murder,” Mrs. Lloyd said easily. “Murder always draws a crowd, don’t you find?”

  “Well, I’m not sure.…” As a flummoxed Bronwyn found herself lost for words at how to respond to that, Mrs. Lloyd continued. “Penny and Victoria are hoping to come today, too. I knew they’d want to be here. When I rang Penny to remind her about the meeting, she said Victoria was juggling their schedules to give them enough time to get away from the Spa for a few hours this afternoon. I’m sure they’ll find a way.”

  “Yes, it’s often a challenge for working women to get to our meetings,” said Bronwyn. “And mothers with young children.” She turned an official-looking legal-size ledger toward them. “If you would just write your names under the heading where it says ‘Visitors,’” she said, pointing to the place, “under the names of these other ladies. And visitors pay a small fee of two pounds.” She held up a small brown basket, and when Mrs. Lloyd and Florence had finished signing in, they each dropped their coins in the basket. Bronwyn frowned as she set the basket on the table.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Florence. “You look a bit worried.”

  “I am, a little. We may have to put out more chairs. And although I’m not on the tea rota, I do hope there’ll be enough cake. If not, I suppose we could always nip round to the bakery, although here at the WG, it’s traditional to serve only what we ourselves bake. Ties in with who we are, you see, and what we expect of ourselves.”