The Dough Must Go On (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 9)

by H. Y. Hanna

  “Thank you, Monty, that’s great,” said Stuart through gritted teeth. “And now, we’ll bid you all goodnight and see you in the next episode.”

  He looked relieved as the FPTC theme music blared from the speakers, and the curtains dropped, signalling the end of the show.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  As the audience filed out of the auditorium, there was a noisy confusion backstage as members of the crew rushed around, dismantling equipment and moving props, and the roving camera team prepared to follow the contestants to the party.

  I’d planned to get a lift with my mother, but somehow I found myself being herded with the rest of the contestants onto a hired coach bound for Gibbs’s estate. Deciding it was easier to go with the flow, I settled into a seat at the back of the coach and wished that Devlin could have been there. For one thing, I’d have loved him to see me in the burgundy gown, and for another, it would have been less lonely. But he’d had a development on another case and would be busy following up a lead this evening.

  In the interests of security, though, Devlin had sent one of his detective constables to provide a police presence backstage during the show and I assumed that the young officer would be coming along to the party too. I craned my neck, scanning the seats in front of me. I couldn’t see him, but I did see Trish in a seat by a window, with a black-and-white plumed tail peeking out from the side of the seat next to her. I was surprised. After her fit of temper on stage, I didn’t think she’d want to come to the party.

  Then a lanky young man, who was obviously a police officer despite being in plainclothes, climbed aboard the coach and walked down the aisle, looking for an empty seat. He stopped next to me and asked:

  “D’you mind if I join you?”

  “No, of course not,” I said, giving him a friendly smile as I recognised him: he was the constable who had hovered anxiously around me the night I’d found Lara’s body. He looked very young—probably a new recruit to the CID—and he had an eager, almost puppy-like interest in everything, which was rather sweet.

  “My name’s Darren,” he said shyly. He cleared his throat. “Uh… I mean, DC Lester. Detective Constable Lester.”

  “It’s okay—I know you’re officially on duty, but I think we can be on first-name terms,” I told him with a grin.

  He relaxed slightly and returned my grin. “Thanks. I’m still finding my feet a bit.”

  “Well, you’ve been thrown in the deep end, haven’t you, with this case?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, just a bit. But I’m learning heaps. The guv’nor is brilliant—he’s so patient and takes time out to explain things to me—and he’s been a real sport when I make mistakes.”

  “I’m sure Devlin remembers what it was like when he was new,” I said.

  He looked surprised to hear me refer to his superior so casually. “Oh… er… do you know the inspector then?”

  I laughed. “Yes, you could say that. I’m his girlfriend.”

  “Oh!” He blushed. “Sorry—I probably should have known that.”

  “No, why should you? Anyway, it shouldn’t make a difference.”

  “But the guv’nor discusses his cases with you, doesn’t he?”

  I glanced at the other seats around me to make sure that no one was eavesdropping. “Er… well, not always, but yes, sometimes. Especially if I’m directly involved, like this one. Why do you ask?”

  “It just means that I can relax with you a bit. It’s nice not to have to worry about what I’m saying all the time. With the rest of the people here, I have to be so careful when I’m speaking, to make sure that I’m not giving away some confidential information… and some of them can be real nosy. Like those grannies there…” He nodded to the Old Biddies, who were sitting with June Driscoll at the front of the bus. “Bloody hell, they never stop asking me questions about the case!”

  I chuckled. “Actually, you can probably relax a bit with them too. Devlin knows them quite well. They’re… er… well, let’s just say they’ve got some experience with murder investigations and they’ve helped the police in the past. So they’re not ‘normal’ members of the public.”

  The young constable looked bewildered. “They’ve got experience with murder investigations? How?”

  I laughed again. “It’s a long story. I’m sure Devlin will tell you about it some time. So…” I glanced around again. We were sitting at the back of the coach, with no one in the last row behind us. Across the aisle, Tim the hip hop dancer and one of the roving camera crew were deep in a discussion about various hip hop bands, whilst in front of them, Albert sat with another crew member, who was busy showing him something on his phone. In the seats directly in front of us, Sharon and one of the show producers were poring over call sheets and production notes, and in front of them, Gaz was doing a hilarious impression of Mr Ziegler, the Yodelling Plumber. The comedian had obviously recovered his cheerful demeanour and was yodelling (badly) at the top of his voice, whilst Mr Ziegler grinned good-naturedly in the seat next to him. The rest of the contestants were all sitting farther in front.

  Everybody seemed engrossed in their own business, not to mention that Gaz was singing so loudly that I didn’t think anyone could overhear us. Still, just to be safe, I lowered my voice as I asked: “Have there been any recent developments on the case? I talked to Devlin yesterday, but I wondered if anything new has come up since then?”

  Darren followed my example, answering in an undertone: “Not really. Forensics delivered a couple of extra reports this morning: the full analysis on the ingredients in the tampered powder, some further analysis of the area around the crime scene, and the results of a tox screen done on the victim.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You tested Lara’s blood for poison?”

  “And stomach contents and urine—it’s standard autopsy procedure. The guv’nor wanted to double-check that someone hadn’t used the liquid nitrogen to hide the real cause of death.”

  “I hadn’t even considered that,” I said, thinking of Devlin with admiration.

  “Yeah, he’s brilliant, the guv’nor. So sharp.”

  “And was it clear?”

  “Yeah, no toxins. In fact, all the results for all the tests were pretty standard.”

  “What about those crumbs that you found?”

  “Crumbs?” He looked puzzled for a moment, then understanding dawned. “Oh, yeah… they were just flour, butter and sugar, egg, milk, vanilla extract, baking powder, and salt. The guv’nor thinks they’re crumbs from scones that you served that day, which probably fell off your clothes when you found Lara.”

  I frowned. “I don’t think they’re my scones—I’m pretty sure we don’t use vanilla extract in our recipe. Of course, Dora could have changed the recipe recently…” I brightened. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll give Devlin a sample of my scones for Forensics to compare.”

  Darren nodded, then he glanced around again, checking the seats around us. Gaz had stopped singing so the coach was quieter now and it was easier for others to hear us. He lowered his voice even more and added, “The other thing was: they found a rhinestone.”

  I stared at him, my pulse quickening. “A rhinestone?”

  “Yeah, it was mixed in with some of the smashed bits of… er… her face and so they missed it initially. But it doesn’t necessarily mean much on its own. Several of the costumes had rhinestones, including the cowboy outfit worn by Trish and the evening gown worn by Nicole…”

  And the Elvis outfits worn by the Old Biddies and June Driscoll on the night of the murder, I thought. Again, the uneasy thought tugged at my mind but I couldn’t bring myself to take it seriously. It just seemed too ridiculous.

  “…besides which, there were rhinestones found on the floor all over the Waiting Area and the dressing rooms. They snag on things and drop off so easily,” Darren continued. “So it doesn’t really help to narrow the pool of suspects at all. The guv’nor says that’s been the problem with this whole case, really: too many suspects,
too many people with reasons to murder the victim and with opportunities to do it, and too many without alibis. When you’ve got one or two, it’s easier to narrow it down, but when they all look equally guilty, you don’t know who to focus on.”

  I smiled at his earnest, serious tone. “Sounds like a tough case to be starting your CID career on. You must find it very frustrating.”

  “Well, actually…” He gave me that shy smile again. “I was delighted to get assigned to this case… I mean, I’d never have had the chance to see backstage and all the stuff that goes on behind these TV contests. I used to love watching these shows on telly—you know, like Britain’s Got Talent and The X Factor—and it’s so cool to see behind-the-scenes, and get to know the performers a bit.”

  I laughed. “Who’s your favourite contestant then?”

  He furrowed his brow. “It’s hard to pick a favourite. I really like that Yodelling Plumber chap. He’s different, know what I mean? And Lara was great, of course. She really knew how to sing. The hip hop kid is pretty cool. And that boy who does the magician act—I’d love to know how he does some of his tricks.” He glanced across the aisle at Albert, in the row in front of us. “Hey—he’s over there. I’m going to ask him!”

  “I doubt he’ll tell you,” I said, laughing. “Magicians never reveal their secrets.”

  Darren leaned forwards and tapped Albert on the shoulder. When the student turned around, he gave him a friendly smile and said: “Hey mate… I loved some of the tricks that you do, like that levitation one and the one where you disappeared from the chair. Any chance you could tell us how they’re done?”

  Albert didn’t return his smile. “A magician never reveals the techniques behind their tricks.”

  “Aww, come on… I won’t tell,” Darren cajoled. “Just give us a hint.”

  “I would be breaking the Magician’s Code,” Albert said pompously, then he turned to face the front again.

  I grinned as Darren sat back, looking crestfallen.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve got a friend who’s interested in magic—I mean, like a real boffin—and he’s studied all the tricks in detail. He was telling me the other day about the chair trick and I’m sure he’d know about the levitation one too. I can ask him, if you like.”

  “Oh, cheers!” said Darren. “That would be wicked!”

  I looked at him quizzically. “Doesn’t it spoil things if you find out how everything is done though? I mean, it takes away the mystique. Sort of like finding out Santa isn’t real… Christmas is never as exciting after that.”

  “I suppose so,” he said. “But I just love finding out how things work, you know? When I was a little boy, I was always taking clocks and remote controls and other things apart to see how they worked inside. It used to drive my mother mad.” He chuckled. “I guess it’s why I joined the CID—to find out how murders are committed.”

  “I always think the ‘why’ is more interesting than the ‘how’,” I said. “I mean, isn’t that the key to solving the murder?”

  “Not always—sometimes if you find out the ‘how’, you can then figure out who could have done it. But yeah, the ‘why’ is more interesting, I suppose, but it’s so confusing sometimes. Like in this case… there are so many possible reasons!” He shook his head. “How would you even know where to start?”

  “Actually, there’s usually the same shortlist of motives for murder,” I said. “Most people kill for gain, like money or power, or because they’re scared of something or want to hide something, or in a passion—either jealousy or hate—or to protect someone they love, or even to get revenge.”

  “Wow.” Darren looked at me admiringly. “You sound like one of our teachers at the police training centre.”

  I gave an embarrassed laugh. “Well, you learn a lot when your boyfriend is a detective—although it’s all common sense, if you think about it.”

  “Which one do you think is the motive in this case?”

  I shrugged. “If I knew the answer to that, I think I would know who the killer is!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The journey from Oxford to Gibbs’s estate probably took no more than forty minutes, although it felt like forever. There wasn’t much of a view, either, since darkness had fallen, and the country lanes were poorly lit. By the time we arrived, my stomach was growling, and I was more than ready for the Michelin-starred meal that had been promised. Besides, it was nice to go to an event where someone else was catering for once.

  Before we could eat, though, Monty Gibbs insisted on taking us on a tour of his estate. What had once been a large country manor had been completely renovated and modernised, with a swanky triple garage added to one side and a large glass-and-chrome extension on the other. The sprawling property also housed a private gym, sauna and heated indoor pool, a home theatre and music room, a den designed to look like a cross between an English gentlemen’s club and a casino straight out of James Bond (complete with circular poker table and a roulette wheel), an underground wine cellar, and a private art gallery—all spread out in two opposite wings which overlooked a huge central courtyard that seemed to be brimming with replica Italian marble fountains and enormous potted plants. Beyond the courtyard, the manicured lawns swept away from the house into open landscaped gardens, with a winding path that meandered down to a man-made lake and private boathouse.

  “Built o’ modern block and steel frame but completely faced in original Cotswolds stone,” said Monty Gibbs proudly when he mentioned his boathouse. “Two indoor slips in the wet dock and access ter the lake through big double doors on a cable-track system. All automated, right? And there’s a dayroom up the stairs above the dockin’ area. Not some mingin’ little rat hole, know what I mean? It’s all finished ter the top standards: underfloor ’eatin’, Lutron lightin’, built-in speakers, remote skylights, and slate tile floorin’. There’s even a kitchenette and boozer, and a walk-in rain shower.”

  Thankfully, Monty Gibbs didn’t insist on us trudging through the dark down to the lake to view all this splendour in person. Instead, we followed him gratefully back into the house. The interior of the manor was filled with expensive furnishings and a mix of antique and Scandinavian designer furniture. It was obvious that Gibbs had always insisted on the best that money could buy. It was also obvious that he had often just chosen the most expensive item, without any regard for taste or harmony, and the result was a hotchpotch that resembled a garage sale more than a billionaire’s pad!

  There were a lot of people in the house—it seemed like the party was already in full swing—and the foyer, hallway, and vast open-plan living room were filled with boisterous crowds of people talking, laughing, and air-kissing one another. I had no idea who the other guests were—I supposed that they were mostly business associates, although I did recognise some local politicians and minor celebrities in the crowd. Waiters in gloves and white jackets walked around holding silver trays and serving champagne and canapés, and a live jazz band provided mellow background music from one corner.

  We left our coats with the attendant in the ante-hall, then wandered through to the dining room. As I followed the Old Biddies to the long central table laid out with a lavish buffet, I had to admit that Monty Gibbs had been as good as his word: there were platters filled with gourmet dishes of every description, from fresh oysters with lime to beluga caviar blinis, from black truffles and goats’ cheese ravioli to baked lobster with garlic aioli…

  “Oh my… everything looks so delicious!” said Glenda as she eyed the buffet. She tried to pick up a plate and also help herself to some napkins and cutlery, all while juggling her handbag awkwardly.

  I watched Mabel, Ethel, Florence, and June all struggle in a similar fashion and felt like rolling my eyes. They would have had an easier time if they hadn’t insisted on carrying those ridiculously old-fashioned handbags as favoured by the Queen, the boxy type that could only be held in the hands or dangled stiffly from the forearm.

  A la
dy standing at the buffet next to us was obviously watching too, because she leaned over and said: “Why didn’t you leave your bags with the attendant in the ante-hall? That’s what I’ve done. They’ll be perfectly safe there. That’s why Monty hired a cloakroom attendant—so that people could offload their things and enjoy the party.”

  “That sounds like a good idea. Here, I’ll take them for you,” I offered, holding out my hand to June and the Old Biddies.

  A few minutes later, weighed down by five leather bags in various shades of beige, mauve, and lavender, I made my way back to the foyer. It seemed like several people had had the same idea and I groaned inwardly as I saw the queue of women outside the ante-hall, all brandishing their bags to be deposited. Still, it was moving quickly and I was just stepping up behind the next person at the counter, getting ready for my turn, when a woman jostled me, trying to push in front of me.

  I turned to her in annoyance. “Excuse me! I think I was here first—”

  She ignored me, giving me another shove and elbowing me out of the way. I stumbled backwards and dropped the bags.

  “Hey!”

  The woman didn’t even glance at me. Shoving her bag at the attendant, she grabbed the numbered ticket and disappeared back into the crowd. The attendant leaned over her counter and looked at me sympathetically.

  “That was well out of order,” she said. “She should’ve at least apologised or offered to help you pick ’em up. D’you want a hand?”

  “No, it’s all right—I can manage,” I said with a sigh as I bent down to retrieve the handbags. Luckily, most of them were securely zipped or clamped shut, but one must have had a loose clasp because it had opened as it turned upside down, spilling the bag’s contents everywhere.

  Cursing, I knelt down to gather the items, scooping them up and dumping them unceremoniously back into the bag. Honestly, it’s ridiculous how much rubbish old ladies keep in their bags! I thought irritably as I gathered packets of tissue, lipsticks, loose change, safety pins, dental floss, faded receipts neatly tied with a rubber band, an old-fashioned chequebook… Then my hand froze as it hovered over a tube of hand cream. Lying next to it was a small tin. At first, I thought it was the kind used to hold breath mints, but then my eye caught sight of the words on the tin cover: