Dial P For Poison (Movie Club Mysteries, Book 1): An Irish Cozy Mystery

by Zara Keane

  “And you don’t see any connection between that and seeing UFOs?”

  Lenny stared at me balefully. “No. Hey, any time you want to come out with us, lemme know. We can show you our equipment.”

  “If any other man said he and his friend would show me their equipment, I’d interpret it a whole different way.”

  “Eh?” Lenny looked genuinely baffled. “Well, maybe the game nights are more your thing.”

  My lips twitched. “Probably. I’ll see you next Thursday.”

  “I’ll see you before then.” Lenny indicated the coffee cup in his hand. “I buy a take-out decaf every evening after work, along with one of Noreen’s vegan scones.”

  “You’ll meet Maggie at the Movie Club as well,” Noreen added. “She won’t want to miss that.”

  “You’re a member?” I asked Lenny. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You made me and Julie sit through old Vincent Price films, remember?”

  He grinned. “Those were good times. Yeah, I’m a member of a lot of clubs. There’s not much else to do on Whisper Island in the evenings.”

  Except hunt aliens, apparently. I swallowed a giggle.

  “When does your Movie Club have its next meeting?” I asked my aunt. “You said it rotated weeks with the book club.”

  “We’re meeting tomorrow,” Noreen replied. “I’d like you to be there to serve cocktails and snacks, just in case I can’t make it back to the island in time. And don’t forget to wear a nice evening gown. We don’t dress up for every meeting, but we try to make an effort on film nights, usually an outfit that reflects something about the film or the era it’s from.”

  “Dressing up sounds like fun, but what did you mean when you said you might not make it back to the island on time? First, I thought you said you’d only be at the hospital for one day, and second, no way should you be attending a club meeting right after having surgery.”

  “What a fuss pot you are, love. If everything goes well, I’ll be home tomorrow evening, but general anesthetics are unpredictable. The doctors might keep me overnight.” She addressed Lenny’s questioning look. “I’m getting my wisdom teeth out tomorrow. Unfortunately, the dentist says they’re the stubborn kind. They need to be removed at the hospital, so it’s off to the mainland for me.”

  “Are you going alone?” Lenny asked.

  “No. Sister Pauline is coming with me, and Maggie is looking after the café.”

  Or trying to…

  “If you need help serving drinks at the Movie Club meeting, let me know,” Lenny said to me. “Film nights attract a lot of people.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” I said, trying and failing to keep the relief out of my voice. “I enjoy mixing drinks, but it’s been a while since I needed to make cocktails for a crowd.”

  Lenny’s easy smile was infectious. “No worries. I’m happy to help.”

  “What movie are you guys planning to watch?”

  “We’re doing a series of Hitchcock films. This month’s pick is Dial M for Murder.”

  “Seriously?” My smile widened. “That’s one of my favorites.”

  Lenny picked up the paper bag containing his scone. “I gotta make tracks. I’m supposed to repair Colonel Richardson’s computer this evening, and Sandra Walker has been hounding me to install a new RAM chip in hers.”

  “A what?”

  “It’ll upgrade the memory on her laptop.”

  “Are you a computer repair guy?” I asked, recalling the mountain of tech equipment Lenny had kept in his room as a teenager.

  He shrugged. “Kind of. I work a few doors down at my parents’ electronics shop, but I do some repair work on the side. My main side gig at the moment is helping your aunt Philomena digitize the island’s library catalog.” He laughed at my aghast expression. “Yeah, we’re way behind the times on Whisper Island.”

  Lenny waved goodbye and ambled out of the café with the same easy lope he’d had as a kid. A lot had changed on the island since my last visit, but Lenny Logan had not.

  I served tea and toasted sandwiches to old ladies named Miss Flynn and Miss Murphy, both of whom I recalled from childhood summers and neither of whom I could tell apart. Both ladies wore their iron-gray hair pulled back into tight buns and favored tweed twinsets offset by pearl necklaces. I doubt they realized how much they characterized the stereotype of the elderly spinster.

  “It’s lovely to see you again, Maggie,” the one in the green tweeds said.

  “You’ve turned into a pretty young woman,” her friend in pink added in a tone of surprise.

  I suppressed a grin. “Yeah, I was an awkward teen.”

  “You were tall and gangly and hadn’t grown into yourself yet,” said Joan Sweetman from the next table, where she was enjoying an after-work coffee with her fellow golf club captain. Joan, a local gallery owner, was an elegant woman in her early fifties and the widow of Smuggler’s Cove’s former mayor. Her companion, Cormac Tate, was the principal of the island’s elementary school. I’d met both Joan and Cormac when I was a teenager and had vague but warm memories of both.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Sweetman. You’re looking well.” Apart from a smattering of wrinkles, Joan’s good looks were unaltered.

  Joan’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Good makeup cleverly applied hides a multitude of sins.”

  I laughed. “Can I get either of you another coffee?”

  Joan shook her head. “One is enough for me.”

  “I’ll take a second cappuccino,” Cormac said, “but go easy on the froth.”

  “Got it.” I carried a tray laden with used plates and cutlery back to the counter.

  The bell above the door jangled, and I glanced over my shoulder. Sandra Walker sailed in, wearing a pantsuit that had been fashionable back in the Eighties. A tense silence descended over the café. Sandra surveyed the crowd and fixed her pale blue eyes on me. “Well, well. So you’re working here now, Maggie? That’s a comedown, isn’t it? Didn’t your wealthy husband pay you a decent divorce settlement?”

  I clenched my teeth and tightened my grip on the tray. “I know divorce takes a few years in Ireland, Mrs. Walker, but it’s not lightning fast in most U.S. states. Mine won’t be finalized for another few months.”

  Sandra cocked her head to the side and gave me a slow once-over. Her smug smile indicated she wasn’t impressed by what she saw. “You’ve filled out since I last saw you, but then, you did join the police. Is it true that American cops eat donuts all day?”

  For crying out loud. Couldn’t Sandra at least show originality in her choice of snide remarks? “Oh, yeah,” I replied, deadpan. “Forget the war on drugs. We’re fighting the war on fast food. It’s our duty to get donuts off the streets, one box at a time.”

  Before the baffled Mrs. Walker could formulate a response, my aunt cut in. “Are you here to collect the donation box for the Whisper Island Runathon, Sandra? I told Mary I’d send it over to her this evening.”

  Sandra collected herself, pulled her padded shoulders back, and sauntered over to the counter. “Yes, so she said.” Sandra Walker’s smug smirk slid back into place. “But as treasurer, it’s my responsibility to make sure that all local business owners are doing their bit to raise money for the event, and it was my idea to conduct a preliminary count.”

  Noreen rolled her eyes. “I have a poster about the Runathon on the door of the café and sign-up forms on the counter and by the cash register. The collection box is right here on the counter. I’m doing my bit, as you put it, to raise awareness, but I’m not prepared to shake a box under my customers’ noses. If they decide to participate in the Runathon, they’ll pay an entry fee. Surely that should be enough to cover expenses. Why do we need to collect extra money?”

  Sandra Walker’s sneer froze, and a flash of anger burned in her eyes. “We’ve been over this before, Noreen. The extra money is for charity.”

  “A charity you have yet to specify. If you want people to cough up donations, you need to be crystal clear on
which charity you’re raising money for.”

  Mrs. Walker’s nose twitched. “As I told you last time you brought this up, the committee is still debating which charity we’ll choose this year. We’ll let people know in due course.”

  “When you do, I’m sure the people of Whisper Island will be more willing to donate.” My aunt shook the box. The faint rattle of coins indicated it didn’t contain many. “There’s no need for you to count the money. Two people have donated so far this week, and they both dropped in a two-euro coin.”

  “Either you’re not making much of an effort to persuade your customers to donate—” a wicked glint appeared in Mrs. Walker’s eyes, “—or you don’t have many customers. Given how queasy I felt after your chicken and mushroom soup last week, I’m not surprised.”

  With this parting shot, Sandra Walker sauntered out of the café.

  I whistled. “What a cow. Is it my imagination, or has she gotten worse?”

  “It’s The Change,” Joan Sweetman said, making Cormac blush to the roots of his receding hairline. “It hit her hard.”

  The spinster in the green tweed twinset addressed my aunt. “Ignore her, Noreen. Your soups are delicious. Sandra loves to stir up trouble.”

  “Much as I wish she’d keep her snide remarks to herself,” her pink-clad companion said, “I find her odious gossip column far worse.”

  “Whoa.” I gawked at them. “Sandra is paid to shovel dirt?”

  My aunt gave a disdainful sniff. “We suspect the local rag hired her to write a gossip column. Officially, Sandra covers island social events and club meetings for the paper. Apart from the odd dig, those pieces are fairly harmless.”

  “Why do I sense an all-caps ‘but’ coming?” I asked dryly.

  Noreen laughed. “BUT there’s also a monthly blind gossip column in the paper, and some of those pieces are vicious. I’ve complained to Sean Clough, the Whisper Island Gazette’s editor, but he says the weeks they include the blind gossip column are the paper’s best-selling editions.”

  “I never read that column,” Cormac Tate announced in a wholly unconvincing manner. “Absolute rot.”

  My aunt shrugged. “Rot or not, those blind items have generated plenty of ridiculous rumors and caused hurt feelings.”

  “Is there any truth in them?” I asked, my brow furrowed. “Even if Sandra invents most of the stories, she’s bound to hit close to the truth every once in a while.”

  Cormac Tate’s already ruddy complexion turned purple. “It’s all nonsense,” he roared, apparently forgetting his insistence that he never read the column. “Inventions of Sandra Walker’s sick imagination. She ought to be outed and sued for slander.”

  “Libel,” Joan corrected gently. “Slander is oral defamation, not written.”

  I exchanged a loaded look with my aunt. What had Sandra written about Cormac to produce such a violent reaction from him? I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Sandra sure knew how to stir up trouble wherever she went. She’d only been in the café a few minutes, but the tense atmosphere she’d generated lasted well after she’d left. “Right,” I said with determined cheer and picked up a plate of sweet treats. “Anyone want a muffin?”

  4

  On Friday morning, Noreen headed for the mainland, leaving me with the keys to her car and the café, and as much prepared food as possible. Her faith in my ability to run the café in her absence gave me a much-needed confidence boost. I could do this. With the dough for the scones and bread already made, all I needed to do was put them in the oven. The soup of the day—leek and potato—required reheating, leaving me with just the full Irish breakfasts to cook from scratch. Surely even I couldn’t screw up a few fry-ups? My newfound self-assurance lasted until the moment I set off every smoke alarm in the building.

  Ten minutes after he’d come to my rescue, Tom Ahearn, the chief of Smuggler’s Cove’s volunteer fire department, removed his helmet. Amusement twinkled in his eyes. “Well, the fire’s out, but it’ll take a while for the smoke to clear.”

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and pushed a stray curl out of my face. “Thanks. How did you get to the café so fast, anyway? Did one of the customers call you?”

  “If the smoke alarms in the café aren’t switched off immediately, they trigger an alarm at the fire station. When I got the call, all I had to do was run across the road—I own the sporting goods shop farther down Main Street.” Tom gestured at the blackened frying pan, which was currently soaking in the sink. “What were you trying to cook?”

  “Eggs à la inferno,” I quipped.

  Tom’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “You managed to set scrambled eggs on fire?”

  “It’s a talent of mine.” I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at my scuffed boots. “Are you going to tell my aunt about this?”

  “No need,” Tom said cheerfully. “Some helpful soul will have texted her by now.”

  I swore beneath my breath. The fireman was right. Between the people who’d been in the café at the time the fire broke out, and the crowd that had gathered outside on the pavement in the aftermath, somebody was bound to contact my aunt. “Thanks for your help,” I said through gritted teeth, wishing Tom didn’t find the situation as amusing as he apparently did. “I’ll try not to cause any more fires before Noreen gets back.”

  “No problem. All part of the job.” He leaned over to examine a batch of scones that I’d removed from the oven before the fire. “Can I take a couple with me?” he asked, hand poised to grab a few. “I’ve always been partial to Noreen’s scones.”

  “Sure. Just make sure you take one from the middle of the tray. The ones on the outside could be marketed as weapons of mass destruction.”

  Tom blinked and pulled back his arm. “Uh, thanks, Maggie. Maybe I’ll pass.”

  I nodded sagely. “Probably wise.”

  “I’ll see you around. My wife wants to catch up with you while you’re on the island. Maybe you remember her. Rita Clooney? She’s a friend of Julie’s.”

  “Yeah, I remember Rita.” Unless things had changed, calling Rita Julie’s “friend” was a stretch. The Rita I remembered was a spiteful telltale, but perhaps she’d matured since the summer I’d turned eighteen.

  “Well, good luck,” Tom said, giving me a mock salute before he left the café.

  I surveyed the mess in the kitchen and swallowed a sigh. Then I flexed my shoulders and grabbed a basket of scones. I strategically hid the singed ones at the bottom. Time to do some damage limitation. Plastering a smile on my face, I went into the café. Even with the door wide open, it still stank of smoke, and only a few stalwart regulars remained. “Anyone want a scone?” I asked. “They’re on the house.”

  “I’d love one,” said the tweed-clad spinsters in unison.

  I flashed Miss Flynn and Miss Murphy a smile of gratitude and deposited four of the most edible scones on their plates, along with a ramekin filled with clotted cream and another containing Noreen’s homemade strawberry jam. (I’d made the grave error of referring to it as “jelly” on my first day at the café, and the customers’ expressions of horror had taught me my lesson.)

  The Spinsters were seated at their preferred table, Bette Davis. Beside them, two elderly gentlemen were seated at Cary Grant. They resembled Statler and Waldorf, the grumpy old dudes in The Muppet Show. According to my aunt, both men were called a variation of the name Gerald and were known as the Two Gerries in consequence, especially because they tended to travel as a team.

  “Would you like a scone?” I held the tray aloft, angled to display the unburned offerings.

  Gerry Two eyed me with distaste. “Harrumph,” he said, imbuing the exclamation with a wealth of meaning. “Am I likely to break my dentures? The one you served yesterday nearly killed me.”

  “Do you call this tea?” Gerry One frowned into his cup, and his bristly white mustache quivered. “Do you not drink real tea in America?”

  “Fine,” I said, shoving a stray curl
behind my ear. “My scones suck, my cooking’s worse, and I can’t make a decent cup of tea. But I’m willing to learn, and I want to try to keep this place going for the twenty-four hours my aunt isn’t here. You’re the customers. How can I salvage this situation?”

  “For a start,” Miss Flynn said, “you can learn how to make tea with tea leaves. You’ve only used tea bags before, haven’t you, dear? I can always tell.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “And only for guests. I’m not a tea drinker.” I regarded them hopefully. “You guys want a coffee? I make a mean espresso.”

  Four pairs of eyes stared back at me balefully.

  I sighed. “Okay, then. Tea from tea leaves it is.”

  Miss Murphy shuffled to her feet and followed me behind the counter. “Let me give you a lesson in proper tea preparation.”

  “Is this an act of self-preservation?” I asked.

  She gave me a wry smile. “Let’s just say I’m picky about my tea, and I’m fond of Noreen. I’d like her still to have customers by the end of the day.”

  I grinned. “In that case, I’ll gratefully accept a lesson in the fine art of tea making.”

  Thanks to Miss Murphy’s 101 in Tea Prep, and Miss O’Flynn’s advice on the correct temperature to bake scones, the café remained a fire- and disaster-free zone. Sister Pauline had kindly sent a text to say that my aunt was well after her operation and that they were catching the six o’clock ferry in the hope of making it to the Movie Club on time.

  At seven o’clock, the café closed for the day, and I started setting up for the Movie Club meeting. I was putting the finishing touches to my killer punch mix when Julie arrived, armed with two trays of homemade cookies.

  I hadn’t seen my cousin in years, but I’d have recognized her anywhere. She was a couple of inches shorter than me, and curvier, with auburn hair, hazel eyes, and a heart-shaped face that made her look younger than her twenty-eight years. Her face lit up with a warm smile when she saw me. “Hey, Maggie. I told Noreen I’d stop by and help you set up for the Movie Club. Let me dump these trays and give you a hug.”