Bunburry--Drop Dead, Gorgeous

by Helena Marchmont

  The previous evening, Alfie had noticed nothing amiss with Rakesh when Betty said she was sure something was wrong. But today, he felt Rakesh was definitely behaving oddly. The restaurateur didn’t seem upset. He seemed almost hyper, excitable.

  “I had to give a statement to Emma,” Rakesh went on. “But what could I tell her? Nothing.”

  “I suppose it was helpful that you could tell her about Debbie being upset. With it being Debbie’s salon, and Debbie finding the body, Emma will want to get evidence showing Debbie isn’t the murderer.”

  There seemed to be a moment’s hesitation before Rakesh said: “Of course, of course, that will be it. I hope I have put everyone’s mind at rest. But what can I do for you? You would like to make another booking?”

  “Not a booking, but I do need a meal for three. Anything you can give me that I can heat up when Liz and Marge arrive this evening.”

  Rakesh tutted. “Heat up! You will have a meal that’s freshly made. Tell me what time the ladies are dining, and leave everything to me.”

  Liz and Marge had only just arrived when the doorbell rang for a second time. A schoolgirl, her bicycle propped against the wall, was holding a large cardboard box that exuded a seductive aroma of spices.

  “How on earth did you manage to balance that?” Alfie exclaimed.

  The girl grinned. “Tied it on with my school tie.”

  “That deserves danger money,” said Alfie, handing over a sizeable tip.

  “Another case for the Bunburry Triangle,” enthused Marge as she, Liz and Alfie began unpacking the box’s contents on the kitchen table.

  “I do wish you’d stop calling us that, dear,” said Liz.

  “Certainly,” said Marge. “Just as soon as one of you comes up with an alternative.”

  “And,” said Liz, “it’s not very seemly to be so cheerful when poor Eve Mosby is dead.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Marge, removing lids from containers. “She was horrible. Robert wasn’t bad as a landlord, but Eve just wanted to grind the faces of the poor. Not that they were necessarily poor before she got her claws into them.”

  “She was a businesswoman.”

  Marge banged down some cutlery on the table. “Stop being so reasonable, Clarissa. You never liked her. Nobody liked her.”

  “You mean women didn’t,” said Liz, putting out the plates. The ladies knew their way round Aunt Augusta’s kitchen better than Alfie did. “Men liked her.”

  “Rakesh didn’t.”

  “Yes, but she was his landlady. What was the name of that big cat? Oh yes, a cheetah. Mrs Mosby was a cheetah.”

  “Sorry?” said Alfie, baffled.

  “That’s what you call an older lady who’s fond of younger men,” Liz explained.

  “Not a cheetah, a cougar,” Marge corrected wearily. “Don’t try to get down with the kids, Clarissa. It doesn’t suit you.”

  She handed Alfie a bottle of red wine and the corkscrew, then set out glasses.

  “So,” said Liz as they sat down and began spooning the contents of the containers on to the plates, “we have a key witness here. Tell us all about it, Alfie.”

  “It’s a locked-room mystery,” said Alfie. “Mrs Mosby was Debbie’s first client for her new Royal Blowtox Treatment.”

  Marge snorted. “Ridiculous nonsense. But Eve Mosby spent her life trying to improve on what nature gave her.”

  “Yes, she did,” said Liz. “And I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Don’t forget what a deprived background she came from. She had a terrible start in life. She made the most of her attributes, and Robert Mosby was more than happy to marry her. She did look very like Marilyn Monroe in those days.”

  Liz and Marge were eating without obvious interest, consuming the occasional mouthful as though they were simply re-fuelling. Alfie was torn. He wanted to savour Rakesh’s cooking, but his attention was on the conversation.

  “I hear she was called The Merry Widow,” he commented.

  Marge jabbed her fork into some curry. “She was merry long before she was a widow.”

  “Maybe so,” said Liz. “But she was always very discreet. Robert never suspected.”

  Alfie spotted a flaw in this. “If she was very discreet, and her husband never suspected, how do you know?”

  Marge looked at him pityingly. “She might have moved to a posh mansion in Cheltenham, but she was born and brought up in Bunburry. We keep tabs on our own – you can’t keep secrets round here.”

  That was true, Alfie thought. The Bunburry Triangle – he wasn’t really calling them the Bunburry Triangle, was he? – had uncovered quite a few secrets during their previous investigations.

  “She stopped being discreet the second Robert dropped dead,” said Marge. “Carrying on with that boy all over Cheltenham. Apparently, you can’t go anywhere without falling over them.”

  “Couldn’t go anywhere,” Liz corrected.

  “Edward is the boyfriend?” asked Alfie.

  “Yes, and I don’t know why Marge is being so judgemental,” said Liz. “He’s in his thirties, she was in her fifties. If the age gap was the other way around, nobody would bat an eye. As far as I can see, Eve was very much in love with him.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Marge. “He’s a very dishy young man. But Eve Mosby, I bet she was nothing but monkey glands and silicone, and I can’t believe he had a Coco Chanel fetish.”

  Suddenly, her fork clattered on to the plate. “I’ve just remembered something I heard from Dot! Once Eve and Edward were officially an item, Eve kept telling people about all the expensive presents she bought him. And she hinted that she’d done something really special. Dot got the distinct impression that she’d changed her will in Edward’s favour.”

  “I think,” said Liz, “that we should call the police.”

  8. The Suspect List

  “A locked-room mystery,” said Liz slowly. “It’s a theme in detective fiction where there’s some clever outcome, but there have been a number of real-life cases that have never been solved.”

  They sat in silence, pondering this.

  “So how is it a locked-room mystery?” asked Marge.

  “The front door was locked, Debbie told me there was no other door, and nobody else was there,” said Alfie.

  Marge peered at him through her spectacles. “Debbie told you? You didn’t check?”

  Did Marge seriously suspect Debbie? “I didn’t check it out myself, but Emma did,” Alfie said. “I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have overlooked a concealed exit or a hiding murderer.”

  “Of course she wouldn’t,” said Liz. “My great-niece is thorough. Unlike that dreadful sergeant she has to work with.”

  Alfie had gathered long ago that Sergeant Harold Wilson was one of the laziest officers in the country and that the policing in Bunburry and its surrounding area was almost entirely down to Constable Hollis. But Liz was much more indignant about the unequal division of labour than Emma was.

  “Oh, and I meant to ask,” Liz continued with studied casualness. “Betty Thorndike. Is she your girlfriend or not?”

  “What? Betty?” Alfie felt his colour rise. He was certain that Liz and Marge had hopes of him pairing up with Emma. And he was equally certain that Emma would be utterly appalled by the thought. When Edith started joking that Betty was his girlfriend, he had initially capitalised on it in the hope that Liz and Marge would back off. But he thought he had subsequently come clean and told them the truth.

  “Yes, Betty,” said Marge in quite a firm tone.

  “No,” said Alfie, flustered. “No, she’s not.”

  “It’s just,” said Liz, “that when I spoke to Emma this morning, she said she had spotted you and Betty going to Betty’s cottage late last night. And you seemed quite friendly.”

  Had Emma seen the kiss? Was there no privacy in this
wretched village? He found himself yearning for the anonymity of London where he could kiss the entire chorus line of the latest West End musical and nobody would know or care.

  “No, I was just – we’d had a goodbye meal at Rakesh’s and I walked her home – I didn’t go in or anything.”

  Why had he said that? He sounded like a guilty teenager. He was a grown man, entitled to do anything if he wanted.

  “So, where’s she off to this time?” said Marge. “She doesn’t seem to have told anyone.”

  “No,” agreed Alfie, grateful that this gave him the opportunity to prove there was no special relationship between the Englishman and the American. “No, she didn’t tell me either. I’ve no idea where she’s gone or even how long she’ll be away.”

  “Probably visiting her family in the States,” said Liz.

  Alfie shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think she gets on very well with her mother. You know, Elisabeth Thorndike.”

  Liz and Marge stared at him open-mouthed. Alfie felt like punching the air in triumph. For once, he knew something about someone in Bunburry that they didn’t.

  “The supermodel?” asked Marge.

  “Yes,” said Alfie. “She walked the runway for Yves Saint Laurent and Ralph Lauren.” He was simply parroting what Betty had told him – she had mentioned some other designer as well, but the name had meant nothing to him.

  “Elisabeth Thorndike, I can see that now,” said Liz slowly. “Yes, Betty’s got her mother’s looks all right.”

  “Difficult to tell.” Marge was defensive. “She’s always in those baggy clothes and big boots, with her hair plastered all over her face. Nobody could ever call her glamorous. Elisabeth Thorndike was the epitome of glamour. Remember that picture of her in the ballgown, Liz?”

  “Oh yes, the one of her in profile. Iconic. She had real class. You never heard about her staggering drunk out of nightclubs.”

  “That doesn’t mean she didn’t, it just means she had good publicity people,” said Marge. “So, what’s the problem with her and Betty, Alfie?”

  “I couldn’t say – Betty hasn’t really spoken about it. I may have got the wrong impression.” Alfie hoped he sounded convincing. Betty might not have gone into detail, but he had gathered that her mother was now a much-married socialite, although Betty’s father hadn’t actually been one of her husbands. She had taken minimal interest in Betty’s upbringing, and neither parent was interested in seeing their daughter. But that was nobody else’s business. He really shouldn’t have opened his mouth at all.

  The doorbell rang for the third time that evening, and Emma joined them at the kitchen table.

  “There’s still loads left,” said Alfie, fetching her a plate, and she fell ravenously on the containers.

  “Haven’t you had supper?” Liz asked.

  Emma shrugged. “Couldn’t find anything in my cupboards. I was just about to run out to the supermarket when you rang.”

  “For a bag of crisps, I suppose,” said Marge.

  “And a bar of chocolate,” said Emma.

  “Alfie’s a very good cook, almost as good as Rakesh. You should get him to teach you,” said Liz.

  Emma spooned out some more rice. “I’m sure there’s lots I could learn from Alfie.”

  There was no doubting the derision. Alfie flinched. Had Emma misconstrued the kiss as Philip had initially done, and assumed that Betty was an unwilling participant?

  “There’s lots you can learn from all of us,” said Marge smugly. “We’ve solved your murder mystery. It’s Eve’s so-called personal assistant, Edward. Dot thinks Eve rewrote her will in his favour.”

  “Well, that’s certainly conclusive,” said Emma through a mouthful of naan. “If only there were more cases where we knew what Dot thought.”

  “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” snapped Marge.

  “Sorry, Aunt Marge. But we don’t even know the cause of death yet. It may take a few days. There may be more suspects to come.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Marge sighed. “Eve Mosby was the landlady from hell, raising rents, evicting people. If we factor disgruntled tenants into the equation, it’ll be quite a list.”

  “The murderer has to be someone strong enough to overpower her,” said Alfie. “There was a terrible fight. I saw it.”

  “You saw it? You didn’t mention that when you made your statement.” Emma turned her gaze on him. It wasn’t friendly.

  I didn’t kiss Betty Thorndike, she kissed me, he wanted to say. Aloud, he said: “I didn’t see the fight as such, but I saw the aftermath. The place was completely trashed. She had really struggled.”

  “So, she’d been stabbed? Strangled? Smothered?”

  “I don’t know,” Alfie mumbled. Had there been any blood? He didn’t remember seeing any, but the room had been in such turmoil that he could easily not have noticed. He had no sooner looked at the scene than he had tried to stop looking at it. All he could remember clearly was the hideous green of Eve Mosby’s face. Had it been a face mask, or was it the result of asphyxiation?

  With a look of triumph, Emma turned back to Liz and Marge. “Of course I’ll check out the boyfriend,” she said. “And thank you – that’s very useful information.”

  “What still baffles me,” said Alfie, “is how someone got in and got out while the door was locked.”

  “You may have made a statement to the police, but you still haven’t told us what happened,” said Liz.

  “I met Debbie in the street,” said Alfie. “She invited me back to the salon because –” He hesitated, reluctant to mention pedicures. “- there was something I wanted to discuss with her. She unlocked the door.” He hesitated again.

  “Go on,” said Emma sharply. “Is this something you didn’t mention in your statement?”

  “I don’t know if she did unlock the door,” said Alfie slowly. “She said Mrs Mosby wasn’t to be disturbed. I saw her turn the key, but – I don’t remember hearing the sound of a lock. Maybe I did. I just don’t know.”

  “So, the door could have been unlocked the whole time?” said Emma.

  “I don’t know,” Alfie repeated helplessly. “I can’t be sure. And I thought that afterwards Debbie was a bit … odd.”

  “Odd?” Emma was like a cat pouncing on a mouse.

  “It’s just a feeling I had.”

  “I’m sure your feelings are just as valid as Dot’s thoughts.” Her smile was too tight-lipped to be encouraging.

  Alfie decided to rise above it. “Once you’d taken our statements, I went home with her, and –”

  “Gosh,” said Emma. “Going home with Betty one day, and then home with Debbie the next. Anyone would think you didn’t have a home of your own.” She had clearly decided that even if sarcasm was the lowest form of wit, that was no reason not to use it.

  “Alfie didn’t go home with Betty,” said Liz, a little breathlessly. “And he’s as much in the dark as the rest of us about where she’s off to.”

  “But you went home with Debbie.”

  “Yes, she was upset. She invited me in for a drink – no, not for a drink.”

  “So, what did she invite you in for?”

  He was sitting at his own kitchen table, and he was being subjected to a police interrogation. He looked to Liz and Marge for support, but they were listening to the interchange as though it was a rather baffling avant-garde play.

  “What I mean,” said Alfie with dignity, “is that it wasn’t alcohol. She invited me in for a glass of water and a remedy of some sort. I can’t remember the name, something to do with the Nativity.”

  “Star of Bethlehem,” said Liz. “Just the thing for sudden shock. The Bach flower remedies are very good. I always take Olive if I haven’t slept well.”

  “How was Debbie odd?” Emma persisted.

  “She was
obviously in shock when she found the body, and then she was terrified when she thought the murderer might still be there, so she ran across the road to Rakesh. But once we got to her place, she seemed quite … well, cheerful.” He turned to Liz. “Even before she’d had the Star of Bethlehem.”

  He hesitated. “And Rakesh was a bit odd as well.”

  Emma sucked in some air and blew it out noisily. “That statement you gave me, is it worth anything at all?”

  “We seem to have finished all the food,” said Liz brightly. “Why don’t we go into the parlour and continue chatting there? I’ll put the kettle on for coffee.”

  “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” said Marge. “Don’t worry, Alfie, I’ll get it myself.”

  “Make that two, dear,” said Liz.

  Emma looked as though she was squaring up to him in a boxing match and then, very slowly, the tension seemed to leave her. “I’ll help you clear up.”

  With four of them at work, it was no time before they relocated to Windermere Cottage’s parlour, whose psychedelic wallpaper still threatened to induce a migraine in Alfie. He really must renovate.

  Emma, seated in one of the vast black leather armchairs, took a sip of coffee. “Tell me about the oddness of Rakesh.”

  “He didn’t seem upset either. More overexcited than anything. And I thought it was a bit odd that when Debbie ran over to him, convinced there was still a murderer in the salon, he didn’t come to see if I was okay.”

  “Maybe he thought you were big enough and ugly enough to take care of yourself,” Emma muttered, but with a half-smile.

  “If Debbie was in a state, he wouldn’t have been able to leave her,” said Marge.

  “Or,” said Liz thoughtfully, “he might not have bothered to come over if he knew the murderer wasn’t there.”

  They all looked at her, and she waved a self-deprecating hand. “Just thinking aloud.”

  “Keep going,” said Emma.

  “What if Alfie was the, what do you call it, the fall guy?”