Peridale Cafe Mystery 21 - Profiteroles and Poison Page 5

  “I-I’m really sorry for your loss,” Julia said quietly as she followed Mavis’s eyes to the door. “I didn’t know Lynn well, but I liked her. She was, for want of a better word, sweet. That’s why I came. I . . . I didn’t know an awful lot about her, and it’s playing on my mind.”

  “Oh, that was just Lynn’s way.” Mavis laughed before sipping her tea. “She was a good listener and would talk about everything and anything, but she never revealed much about herself. Had a tough upbringing. Mother left the poor lass at the train station when she was five years old, and she never saw her again.”

  Julia put a hand on her belly just in time to feel an answering kick. “That’s awful.”

  “Set her on a tricky path in life, but she never let it beat her down. Always cheery. Always Lynn. It was years before she opened up to me, so don’t feel bad. It’s how Lynn likes . . . liked it.”

  “And kids?” Julia asked. “A husband?”

  “Oh, no.” Mavis shook her head and laughed again. “Lynn was a proud spinster. Between you and me, I think she was scared she would end up not being able to cope like her mother.” Her smile soured. “No, Lynn was always a lone wolf. Hopped jobs as often as houses, never sticking in one place long enough to plant real roots. I never thought she’d stay here as long as she did, to be honest. I was sure I’d wake up one day to find her room empty without so much as a note, and instead, I got a knock at the door and a police officer with his hat tucked under his arm. From the moment I saw his face, I knew . . .”

  Mavis choked on her words and fell silent. Her finger rested under her nose, but the tears flowed regardless. After a moment, she excused herself to walk quickly across the flat and through a door.

  Julia sipped her peppermint tea as this information sank in. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find out, but she certainly hadn’t anticipated such sorrow in her past. Judging a book by its cover was far too easy when one never had the chance to read the contents.

  Her eyes snapped into focus on the door painted in thick white gloss that Mavis had looked at when talking about Lynn. From how it rested in the frame, she suspected the door wasn’t quite shut. Curiosity getting the better of her, Julia walked over and nudged it open.

  Given Lynn’s choice of career, Julia had assumed hers would have been the cleanest bedroom of all. Far from it. The curtains were drawn, and the bed unmade. Clothes lay everywhere, strewn over every available surface. Aside from the clothes, some of which she recognised from meetings, the bedroom didn’t contain a single personal touch. Even after eight years, no pictures hung on the walls, and the dressers sported no visible trinkets or ornaments. The only objects of any interest were a tower of DVDs stacked high next to a small, thick-rimmed flatscreen television.

  After crossing the room, Julia crouched beside the DVDs and tilted her head to read the titles: Goodfellas, Once Upon a Time in America, The Big Lebowski, The Godfather, The Godfather Part II, The Godfather Part III, Bugsy Malone, Scarface, and every season of The Sopranos.

  “Lynn loved her mobster films.”

  Julia straightened and spun around, even as her aching back protested with a pang. Leaning against the doorframe, Mavis dabbed at the corners of her eyes with an already damp tissue.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “It’s alright,” Mavis cut in. “Those were her favourite things. She’d fall asleep watching her films every night after work. I never understood how she could sleep through all the shouting and gunfire, but she managed. Just another of Lynn’s ways.”

  Julia left the room and returned to her tea, but when Mavis headed to the kitchen instead of the table, she feared she’d already outstayed her welcome.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about what happened to her?” Mavis asked as she picked up the mixing bowl again. “The police said something about choking, but since I’m not family, I don’t think they care about keeping me in the loop.”

  “It’s one theory,” Julia replied.

  “There are others?”

  “I was there. I’m no expert, but it didn’t look like choking to me. She just . . . died.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  Julia had already filled the little notepad in her bag with theories. Poisoning, suicide, a host of natural causes – but they were simply ideas.

  “I don’t know,” she said, not wanting to overstep or promise more than she could deliver. “But I think I can help figure out what happened if the police don’t get there first.”

  “You can?”

  “My husband,” she replied, looking out through the windows to the distant lights of the village on the horizon. “He’s a private investigator.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I can afford that.”

  “This isn’t a sales pitch.” Julia rested a hand on Mavis’s shoulder as she continued to roll out the crumbly sponge. “Lynn deserves the truth.” Glancing at a clock on the wall, Julia knew the time before Barker started worrying about her whereabouts was running out. “I’ll leave you to your jam roly-poly. And from one baker to another, a little extra butter will help stop it breaking apart so much.”

  “Thank you, Julia.” Mavis patted Julia’s hand. “Lynn’s lucky she’s still got people caring about her like this.”

  The taxi journey back to Peridale was quiet and quick. Once again, thoughts of Lynn consumed her thoughts, although Julia found she didn’t feel so useless. Knowing some of Lynn’s backstory was the match she’d needed to ignite a fire underneath her.

  “Barker?” Julia called as she kicked off her shoes. “You home?”

  The dining-room door creaked open, and their fluffy grey Maine Coon, Mowgli, sauntered straight over to his food bowl. After shaking out some cat biscuits and changing his water, Julia went to close the dining-room door, only to find Barker at the table, asleep with his laptop in front of him. She moved close enough to kiss him on the head, and he jerked up, reading glasses askew.

  “What time is it?” he grumbled.

  “Just after eight. Bad night’s sleep?”

  “Barely a wink.” He yawned. “I was up all night thinking.”

  “About Terry?”

  “For once, no.”

  “About Lynn?” Julia sat next to him, determined to seize the opportunity. “Because I’ve just been to see a woman called Mavis. Lynn boarded with her in Fern Moore.”

  “You went to—”

  “Yes, and I came back in one piece.” Julia smiled, resting her hand on his. “I told her we’d help. I know you’ve got your hands full with Terry, but—”

  “I’m already on the case,” he said, cutting her off. “I didn’t want to call and ruin your shopping trip, but John sent over the post-mortem report just before teatime.” The screen lit up with a tap of the spacebar. “You were right. She had profiteroles in her stomach, but they’d already started to digest. They found no evidence of anything lodged in her throat.”

  “I knew it.”

  “It’s not just that,” he said, scrolling down. “Her blood report was loaded with a cocktail of different drugs. I don’t know if it was one thing or them all, but something definitely killed her. You were right about another thing.”

  “The tea?”

  “Bingo.” He yawned again as he pulled off his reading glasses. “The cup held trace amounts of the drugs, but the leftover in the teapot was loaded.”

  Julia had only been in the kitchen to retrieve the croquembouche for a couple of minutes. Still, the pot had been left alone and the group had scattered, giving someone the perfect opportunity to spike it.

  “Then it must be one of them,” she said, gulping hard. “One of the book club members killed Lynn.”

  “And tomorrow, we’ll start interviewing them.”

  “We?”

  “Who’s Sherlock without Watson?” He offered a half-smile before suppressing yet another jaw-cracking yawn. “You know these people. I don’t think I can do this one without you.” He paused. “Listen, it wasn�
��t Lynn who stopped me sleeping last night. Not directly, at least.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Jessie.”

  Julia’s heart skipped a beat. In the chaos of the past day, her concerns about Jessie’s outburst at the café – not to mention her mood – had drifted to the back of her mind.

  “She’s talked to you?”

  “Not quite,” he replied, wrapping his hand around Julia’s. “But you were right; something is going on with her, and I’m scared.”

  “Scared about what?”

  “That it’s connected to Lynn’s death.”

  4

  BARKER

  T he next afternoon, as the noisy café bustled above, Barker pulled open the unsealed flap of a thick cream envelope. Like the three letters already under the paperweight on his desk, the delicate calligraphy was expertly done. The beauty of the script upon the paper, however, didn’t detract from its poisonous contents:

  Dear Barker Brown,

  Your inaction shows me you’re not taking my threats seriously. I am not joking, I assure you. The pressure I am putting on you to write another novel is for your own good. You are too talented a writer to leave it all behind. Your new career venture as a private investigator may be noble, but to leave your loyal fans hanging after a single story is preposterous. You should be ashamed of yourself.

  Announce your next novel before the end of the month, and these letters will end.

  Don’t test my patience much longer, Mr Brown, for it is wearing thin.

  He read the letter over twice, his stomach turning.

  The venomous letters had been appearing on his new doorstep for four weeks now, always on a different day or at a different time. He’d found the first slightly amusing, the contents not dissimilar from the weekly emails he received from readers all around the world. He usually replied to those people with polite explanations for why he’d left the literary world after one bestselling novel. Rather than delving into his frustrations with publishing politics, he stuck to ‘personal reasons’ and thanked them for their support.

  He’d have offered much the same reply to these letters if their author had included a return address. Cowardly not to – not that he expected he could reason with anyone so extreme. The envelope had neither stamp nor postmark, only his name.

  He’d only been settled into his role as a PI since spring, but he enjoyed being his own boss. He loved that he could still help people without the bureaucracy of official policing controlling his every movement; he didn’t miss the paperwork.

  The letter wouldn’t ruin his day.

  Things to do.

  After sliding the thick paper to join its siblings under the antique gold weight, he grabbed his coat from the hatstand and ascended the staircase.

  Julia answered the back door, knitted sleeves rolled to her elbows and hands covered in soap suds. Through the beads, the boisterous café was packed, no doubt the combination of their reopening coinciding with the arrival of the annual Christmas market on the village green.

  “Couldn’t leave Jessie to do all this on her own,” Julia said as she scrubbed at the plates in the sink. “Katie was supposed to be helping today, but she’s late.”

  “Isn’t she always?” Jessie rushed in with more loaded trays. “I’m getting my bottom kicked out there. I swear people are making their coffee orders more complicated to see if I’ll crack under the pressure. When did everyone stop wanting actual milk?”

  Julia and Barker exchanged identical glances of concern as Jessie rushed back to the front. They’d agreed they would wait until later that evening to talk to their daughter. Barker had wanted to push the answers out of her by hook or by crook that morning, but he’d relented after Julia reminded him confrontation would only push her further away.

  Despite that, he was desperate to know what was going on. He needed to understand how to protect her.

  “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” Katie cried, dragging her white-blonde curls into a ponytail as she rushed into the kitchen. “I had the client from hell! She kept insisting I redo her forefinger acrylics because she had wonky fingers. I totally lost track of time.”

  “It’s alright,” Julia said, already drying her hands on a white tea towel. “You’re doing me a favour, Katie, and I really appreciate it. And believe it or not, I actually missed washing up here.”

  To Barker’s relief, Julia didn’t insist on staying to help with the masses. After calling a quick goodbye to Jessie, which she barely acknowledged through the chaos, they left through the back door.

  The noise of the Christmas market grew with every step down the narrow alley. The village was never busier than when the seasonal market rolled into town. Yet, with so much going on, Barker had barely given the festive season a second thought.

  “So, I was thinking about who we should talk to first,” Julia said when they reached the edge of the lively market. “Kerry lives in her mansion all the way out in the countryside, and I don’t want to turn up there without reason. Jade works at the doctor’s surgery, though I’m sure she said she was only part time, so who knows if she’s even there right now. We can talk to Stacey tonight at the antenatal class, which only leaves her mother, Debra. I imagine she’ll be at the bookshop. You’re already connected through the Terry case, so she won’t be too confused about why we’re both there.”

  “Good idea,” he said as they headed towards Mulberry Lane. “That shop never seems to close. I had a quick late-night snoop around your dad’s antique shop last week. Must have been close to eleven at night but the bookshop was still open.” He paused. “Another letter turned up today.”

  Julia sighed. “How many is that now?”

  “Four.”

  “Are you taking this one seriously?”

  “It’s probably some crazy fan who can’t tell the difference between reality and fiction,” he said as dismissively as he could manage; he didn’t want to worry her, but he wanted to be honest. “Their threats are vague and most likely empty.”

  “I still think you should go to the police.”

  “And give them all a good laugh?” Barker shook his head. “They probably want me to go to the police. I’d bet my next quarterly royalty payment they’ll get bored and stop when they don’t get the reaction they want.”

  “I hope so.”

  They turned the corner onto Mulberry Lane, Peridale’s oldest shopping street. Having lived in a big city before moving to this small village, pre-industrial streets like Mulberry Lane still tickled Barker. According to locals, the winding road was centuries old, and Barker was inclined to believe it. It looked like it had been ripped directly from a history book. Though it seemed a light wind could crumble the sagging roofs and jaunty-angled golden Cotswold-stone walls to dust, the vibrant street was still very much alive and kicking. The lure of the Christmas market had people shopping up and down both sides, making the street even busier than usual.

  For Trotter’s Books, the day’s increased foot traffic didn’t appear to have made any difference. Barker glanced through the cluttered window display and into the dark shop, but he couldn’t see a single soul.

  “Plan of action, Watson?” Julia asked.

  “You’re Watson,” he said. “I’m Sherlock.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’ll take the lead,” he said, grasping the doorhandle. “She sees you as a friend but me as an inspector. If she has something to hide, I might make her nervous enough to catch her out.”

  As Barker opened the door, the woodsy scent of books was a transportive comfort. Unlike modern bookshops with good lighting, spacious aisles, and a coffee shop tucked in the corner, Trotter’s Books was dark and cramped. Though he feared the shop’s appearance was detrimental to its profits, Barker loved it. It reminded him of childhood Saturday afternoons spent perusing the latest mystery books with his late mother. They’d each leave with a book, which they’d always start reading at the bus stop while waiting to go home.

  “Let’s split
up and browse,” he said, eyes on the empty counter by the door where he’d expected to find Debra. “She’ll be around here somewhere.”

  Splitting up down the middle aisle, Barker ventured down the thrillers row, leaving Julia to amble towards the romances. He scanned the shelves, looking through the gaps in the books for any sign of movement, but none came. Finally, at the back of the shop, he found Debra atop a ladder, glasses perched on the end of her nose and a stack of books in her arms.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Debra let out a startled cry and threw the books upwards. Barker caught one, but another landed heavily on his shoe. Debra’s fingertips gripped the shelf’s edge, and the books there bounced forward. Barker dropped the book he’d caught and grabbed the ladder with both hands, steadying it as best he could.

  “Barker, I’m so sorry,” she said, catching her balance and breath. “I was in a world of my own and didn’t hear the door.”

  “Books make for good noise cancelling. I’m sorry for startling you.”

  Squatting, he quickly gathered the fallen volumes and passed them up to Debra. She accepted them with a shaky smile and checked each spine through the reading glasses on the end of her nose. Once each was returned to its correct place, she descended the ladder.

  “The new paperback editions of your novel came in yesterday,” she said as she collapsed the ladder. “Not too sure about the new cover.”

  Barker agreed. Despite being on uncertain ground with his publishing company, they’d sent him a small box of paperbacks with the new covers. Unlike the hardback edition’s unique dustcover, the new design was utterly forgettable; it made his book look like any of the many mysteries found on supermarket shelves. He supposed that was the point, but they’d kept him out of the loop this time around.

  “How’s it selling?” he asked.

  “Haven’t put them out yet, but I’m sure they’ll fly off the shelves,” she said. “Yours is one of the few books I can buy knowing I’ll sell the whole box. Most people buy their books online these days, but I think there’s some novelty in buying a local author’s book in the village it was written and set in.”