Peridale Cafe Mystery 21 - Profiteroles and Poison Read online

  “Up and down.” He tilted his head from side to side. “Antiques is a funny old business. You don’t sell anything one week, and then you sell two high-ticket items the next. All evens out, I suppose, but you need to keep the interesting pieces coming in.” He leaned in and whispered, “Although, I just bought a nearly full house of fantastic pieces for dirt cheap. The woman was desperate to get rid of it, so I bargained the price right down. It’s tanked my profit margin for the month, but I’ll be able to make it back tenfold when I can start shifting some of it.”

  “I might come and have a look through,” Barker offered. “My office isn’t quite finished.”

  “I appreciate that.” Brian finished his whisky. “Let’s get back down. They’ll think we’ve done a runner.”

  Back in the sitting room, the balloons had gone. A blindfold hid Roxy’s eyes as she stumbled around the room, a glass of wine in one hand and what appeared to be a sizeable nose in the other. A large picture of a nose-less baby hung on the wall in the opposite direction.

  “Little to the left,” Leah called out. “Keep going. You’re close.”

  “I feel like you’re lying to me.”

  “No, she’s right,” Julia added, suppressing her laughter. “You’re really close.”

  Roxy waved her hands from side to side before planting the nose in the middle of Brian’s chest through the open shirt. She recoiled and ripped off the blindfold.

  “Sorry, Mr S.”

  Brian chuckled, pulling off the nose and sticking it in the middle of Roxy’s forehead. Alfie walked in from the kitchen, eyes red and swollen; he looked crushed.

  “Just remembered,” he said, heading straight to the door, “I have a thing . . . a job . . . building thing.” He picked up his helmet from next to the door before turning, eyes on the ground. He pulled something from his pocket and handed it to Barker. “This was on your doorstep. You didn’t say where the shower was happening, so I assumed it was at yours. Looks like it’s going to rain again. Didn’t want to leave it out.”

  As the door closed behind Alfie, Barker stared down at his name in the same artistic lettering upon the cream envelope in his hands.

  This time, however, the ink wasn’t black.

  It was red.

  “Barker . . .” Julia approached, licking chocolate cake crumbs from her lips. “Is that what I think it is?”

  He nodded as he ripped open the envelope.

  How dare they, so soon after the last one?

  How dare they?

  He unfolded the thick letter, revealing contents as red as his name on the envelope. It looked like blood, but smelled like ink. Inhaling deeply, he read:

  Dear Mr Brown,

  Do you take me for a fool? Another day, and no announcement. This is your final warning.

  You have twenty-four hours, or I show you and your pregnant wife how serious I am.

  Julia took the letter and read over it, her lips forming the words silently. Sue and Katie read over her shoulder, and both gasped when they reached the end.

  “Oh, my days!” Katie cried. “Brian, have you seen this? Someone is threatening to kill your daughter.”

  Julia passed the letter to Brian before retreating to the armchair again, clearly shaken.

  “Hang on,” Brian said, pulling the letter up to his face. “I think . . .”

  Brian retrieved his briefcase, resting it against the back of the chesterfield as he entered the numbered password that unlocked the top. He dug through the mess until finally pulling out a sheet of paper.

  “I’m pretty sure this is the same handwriting,” he said, handing both to Barker.

  The letter from Brian’s briefcase – a list of furniture items – was written in neat calligraphy. The paper was different, but there was no denying the eerie similarity of the lettering.

  “Who wrote this?” Barker asked.

  “That woman I was just telling you about,” he said, clicking his fingers to summon her name. “Posh lady. Lives out in a big old house not far from here.”

  Barker’s heart dropped.

  “It’s not a gothic Victorian mansion, by any chance?”

  Brian nodded and asked, “You know her?”

  “Kerry?” Julia heaved herself out of the chair, cheeks flushing.

  “That’s it!” Brian clapped. “Kerry Pickering.”

  11

  JULIA

  “Y ou were at her house!” Barker took a bend in the dark road so quickly Julia imagined the car tipping over. “She could have done anything to you. She could have killed you. Did you eat anything? Drink anything?”

  “I had some water after I . . .” In the madness, she hadn’t told Barker about her false labour pain, and now certainly wasn’t the time. “I’m fine, honestly. She didn’t do anything to me. She tried to suggest I was behind Lynn’s murder, but nobody took the bait. She only made herself sound guiltier.”

  “The cheek!” Barker glowered at the lit-up mansion behind its wall on the hill. “What could have possessed her? She has all this, but it’s never enough for these people, is it? She had to torture us, and for what?”

  “Hopefully, that’s what we’re about to find out.”

  In the years Julia had been with Barker, she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him so enraged. He hadn’t said a softly spoken word since storming out of her father and Katie’s cottage with his car keys. He’d tried to insist that Julia stay behind, but after Kerry’s performance at the book club, she needed to look the woman in the eyes when Barker confronted her with the letters.

  Barker turned through the gate. Two police cars flanked Kerry’s Rolls Royce, and the front door was wide open. A gang of uniformed police officers mingled outside, DI Christie amongst them. Julia peered under the windshield’s edge at whatever had their attention and immediately unclipped her seatbelt.

  “Bloody hell,” Barker muttered as he ground to a halt and dragged up the handbrake. “What’s she doing?”

  Julia jumped out of the car and left the door open, not wanting to startle Kerry with a loud slam. One of the small arched windows on the very top floor hung wide open. Kerry straddled the window in a black dressing gown with gold-trimmed sleeves. Her head and most of her body were outside, with only her right arm and leg still inside the house. Her eyes were clenched shut, and the bitter wind whipped at her unusually loose hair.

  “Dammit, Barker, what are you two doing here?” Christie demanded under his breath. “You’re going to inflame things!”

  “I could ask you the same,” Barker handed over the two letters. “Handwriting comparison courtesy of my father-in-law.”

  Christie scanned the letters before passing them to an officer with a waiting evidence bag.

  “That seals it,” Christie whispered, looking up at Kerry. “Those pictures you gave me earlier? Between everyone at the station, we IDed all three as Fern Moore residents who will apparently do anything for twenty quid. Got two of them to talk, and they both mentioned a posh bird in a black Rolls Royce rocking up to the estate with instructions to deliver these letters. According to them, she was rushing to the airport, and they were wedding invitations she didn’t have time to drive back to the village to deliver.”

  “How long has she been up there?” Julia asked, tugging her coat closed.

  “Ten minutes. She ran up there and threatened to jump if we didn’t get out of her house. We’re waiting for the specialists to get here to talk her down.” Christie turned and looked out into the darkness, where the lights of the village centre were just about visible in the distance. “If they don’t hurry, we’re going to be calling an ambulance to scoop her up off the ground.”

  Julia looked up at the top of the house, her stomach turning at the height. Kerry’s eyes opened, and she used her outside hand to tuck her wild hair behind her ears. She wobbled. From how tightly she hugged the frame, fingers clinging to the old stone, her fear of falling was apparent.

  “Well, if it isn’t Mr Brown and the pregnant sleuth he
rself,” Kerry called down. “Bet you weren’t expecting this, were you? Quite the twist.”

  “Go inside,” Julia shouted. “Please, Kerry.”

  “If you insist.”

  “What?” Christie hissed. “Just like that?”

  “I’ll come in,” she added, “but I want to talk to Mr Brown and Julia. No one else.”

  “No.” Barker put an arm in front of Julia. “No way. No way you’re going in. There’s no knowing what she’s got in there.”

  “I won’t hurt her, Barker,” Kerry called down. “I promise.”

  “She’s crazy,” Barker whispered, clutching Julia’s arm tight. “You’ve read her letters. She’s threatened you twice.”

  “I know,” she whispered back, eyes still on Kerry, whose eyes had screwed shut once again. “But look at her. Does that look like someone about to commit murder or someone at their breaking point?”

  “In my experience, those things usually go hand in hand.” Barker stared up at Kerry and shouted, “I need your word.”

  “You have it.”

  Kerry pulled herself back inside and shut the small window.

  “Keep your distance,” Christie ordered as he walked them to the front door. “My officers will be ready. They’ll storm the place on your signal.” He handed over a police radio. “You know what you’re doing.”

  Following Barker, Julia climbed the long staircase to the landing. Rather than one large landing like the manor, this snaked off in two directions, both lined with doors. A few were open, and the rooms, while decorated, were nearly bare. Across from a toilet room next to a separate bathroom, an open door revealed a narrow staircase to the top floor.

  These stairs were farther apart, and by the time Julia reached the top, her thighs burned like she’d just run the Peridale marathon all over again. The rooms up here were built into the roof. Though as beautifully decorated as the rest of the house, the unassuming staircase gave the impression this area would have once been a servant’s quarters.

  The first was the only door they needed to open. In the empty freezing room, knees tucked against her chest, Kerry leaned against a triangular wall of exposed stone where the high, pointed roof sloped down on both sides. Through the pair of small arched windows above her, Julia could see the glow of Peridale in the distance.

  “How did you figure out it was me?” she asked, directing the question at Barker.

  “You sold your furniture to Julia’s father.”

  Kerry gave a small laugh and shook her head.

  “It’s a small village, isn’t it?” Rising to her feet, she turned and stared out the window. “You’d think everyone would know everyone, but living up here, people slip through the cracks. The antiques dealer is the private investigator’s father-in-law. Gotcha.” Head low, she glanced over her shoulder. “A great detail for a book, don’t you think, Mr Brown?”

  “Is that what all of this has been about?” Julia asked, swallowing past the dry lump in her throat. “Giving Barker inspiration for a new novel?”

  “Did it work?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Barker snapped. “What made you think you could threaten me – threaten my wife – threaten my unborn child all to force me to write another book? That’s insane.”

  “They were empty threats, Mr Brown.” Kerry turned, her eyes trained on Barker. “Do you remember meeting me at your book signing?” She paused, waiting for Barker to shake his head. “No, I don’t suppose you will. I was one of the first in the line. You were nice. The fact I thoroughly enjoyed the book was a bonus. Perhaps the local touch helped, but you’re a good writer, Mr Brown. I’ve always loved books – mystery books, especially. Ever since I was a little girl. My mum used to read them to me. I remember you saying your mum did the same with you when you were on one of those chat shows.”

  She paused and smiled.

  “I wrote you a few emails,” she continued. “I didn’t tell you I was so local, but you always replied. It was crazy that I knew a mystery writer who lived in my village! I’d see you around, and I’d want to talk to you, but I never knew what to say. When I received that devastating newsletter announcing your abrupt retirement . . . I was so shocked. We all were.”

  “We?” Barker interjected.

  “Your fans.” Kerry stared at him as though he should know. “There are thousands of people online all hoping you’ll write again. People who enjoyed your work. You’re depriving them. I-I was acting on their behalf, being so much closer to you.”

  “Does what I want not matter?”

  “Do you really not want to write again?” Kerry pushed. “You talked about ‘creative differences’ with your publishing company, but you could have found another. Or published independently. But you just gave up. For what? To become a PI? What a waste of your talents.”

  “I’m not here to debate my career decisions,” Barker stated. “What you did was wrong.”

  “Oh, it was just a bit of fun.” She wafted her hand. “When Stacey brought Julia to the book club, I almost couldn’t believe it.” Her manic eyes diverted to Julia. “I’d come into the café a few times to see you. You’re just like you were in the book. When Debra brought up Barker’s book in that first meeting and asked if he planned on sequel . . . it was like you were pleased he wasn’t writing anymore, the way you talked.”

  “I remember that conversation a little differently,” Julia said. “Debra asked if Barker was writing another book, and I explained the difficulties he’d experienced. I certainly never said – or even indicated – that I was happy Barker wasn’t writing. I’m happy when Barker is happy, and he’s happy with his new career.”

  “Actually,” Kerry shouted, the volume of her voice causing them both to take a step back, “you said you were glad he wasn’t locked away writing anymore.”

  “As a joke!” Julia could hardly believe her ears. “God forbid I want to spend some time with my husband. You have no idea what life was like when the publishers repeatedly rejected his second novel. He worked day and night trying to get it right for them, and it was never good enough.”

  “And I decided to step away,” Barker insisted. “Julia never tried to sway me, so leave her out of this. Like I said, what I choose to do isn’t your concern. I’m sorry you’re disappointed, but . . . it’s not real. To go as far as you did makes no sense.”

  “I had nothing to lose.” Kerry looked around the empty room, hugging herself. “Ever since my husband moved out, I’ve been so bored up here. It gave me something to do. It made life exciting again, and I knew there was a chance it might work.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “You sound like my ex.”

  “We’re all missing the point here,” Julia said, gathering her thoughts. “What about Lynn? Did you really kill her to give Barker a plot, or was she blackmailing you too?”

  “Kill Lynn?” Kerry cackled. “Now that would make a good plot twist, but I’m afraid you’ve just fallen for the classic red herring. I only wrote the letters. I never killed anyone.” She narrowed her eyes on Julia with a sly smile. “You know, people online argue back and forth about who’s the real brain between you two. The way Barker wrote it, he’s definitely the hero of the story, but yours is the name I see in the paper every other month. People talk like you’re some super sleuth, but I don’t see it. Maybe pregnancy has numbed your senses.” Her eyes darted down to Julia’s midsection. “Still, I might as well confess. Who knows if these little details will make their way into a Barker Brown novel one day?”

  Barker sighed.

  “Debra was right that I once employed Lynn.” Kerry checked her nails. “She worked here for around a year before I started the book club. I didn’t ask her to join, obviously. I don’t mix with the staff. Still, she forced herself into one of the meetings, and my friends were amused by how common she was. I kept her around, and I confess I grew to like her. People with rough edges have their own kind of charm. Of all the people to underestimate, who can believe it wa
s Lynn Sweet? Little Lynn, always there, always listening,” she snarled. “I became far too loose-lipped with her. Crossed my own boundaries. She was a good listener, and she became something of a confidante. When my marriage broke down, I told her too much, and it came back to bite me in the backside. I told her I was having an affair behind my husband’s back, which she seemed to find humorous. She’d joke about it being fascinating seeing how the other half lived, and I admit, I found that intriguing about her too. It’s not every day you mingle with her sort. But Lynn . . . she wasn’t as simple as she came across.”

  “Don’t we know,” Julia said, almost under his breath. “Did she cause the divorce?”

  “Heavens, no!” Kerry laughed at the suggestion. “I had a prenuptial agreement with my husband. All I had to do was stay married to the old swine for five years, and I’d get monthly spousal support until I remarried. I lasted five years and three months. As promised, he didn’t fight the agreement, and I got to keep the house. I love this house.” She looked around the empty room and hugged herself again. “Like something out of a mystery book, don’t you think, Mr Brown? You can almost hear the history in the walls whispering their stories. The things this place must have seen. My life was almost made, but then Lynn stuck around after one of the book club meetings and delivered her ultimatum.”

  “Which was?”

  “I’d give her half of my spousal support or she’d tell my ex-husband about the affair.” Kerry turned back to the window. “The five-year clause wasn’t the only thing I’d agreed to. If he discovered any infidelity during the marriage, everything would stop. I made it to four years and eleven months. Thought I was home and dry. I was too confident I was covering my tracks. Didn’t even think about the cleaner. Why would I? She was staff. The devious little witch cleaned my ex-husband’s offices too. Turns out she’s everywhere. Like a stain you can’t get rid of. She overheard him talking to one of his employees about our agreement. She said they were laughing about it like I was a possession he’d owned and discarded. I divorced him.”