Murder in the Aisle Read online

  “Or we could… ” she said, hands busy. The color scheme changed and different items were brought to the foreground of the display.

  “You’re good at this,” I said, taking several more photos.

  She smiled. “An equestrian lifestyle farmer who likes to make things look pretty,” she agreed.

  “Bye Mum,” Alex suddenly yelled from the far side of the barn. His mother glared at him.

  “Your son?” I asked, pretending to be surprised. “He does look rather like you.”

  She nodded, watching goth-girl who was staring after Alex with hungry, black-rimmed eyes. “Too young for you, Miss Peg-people Weirdo,” she snapped. “Don’t even think about it.”

  That wasn’t very nice! Everyone ignored the comment. Even kind-seeming Betty. Strange forces were suddenly at play in the previously cheerful barn.

  Twenty seconds later Alex hurtled by on a small Vespa-type motor scooter, scattering stones in all directions and assaulting the peaceful country air with the screaming whine of its underpowered engine. It looked like his big black motor cycle boots were only wishful thinking.

  “Well,” I said, deciding it was best to ignore the atmosphere and adding a bit more tea to my cup, “I’ll see what I can do for you all. The pre-Christmas bash sounds like the one to go for. We’ve got a few weeks to think about that. I’ll pop by and see if I can get some decent shots of the Saturday stall and maybe try for an item in the Coastal Courier.” (Our unremarkable but popular local rag.)

  “Can’t tempt you to my button art class?” big Jessie asked hopefully. “It’s up next.”

  I shook my head. “You’ve all been a nice diversion from what I really should be doing – editing a weepy novel set near Chernobyl.”

  That drew murmurs of doubt, distress and disbelief.

  “Hard going?” Nic asked.

  “Sucking the life out of me,” I admitted. “And then I have the treat of tidying up a lighting catalogue that’s been roughly translated from the Chinese original. You can see why I was keen to grab a bit of country air and some intelligent female company.”

  I took my last sip of tea as they preened at my praise.

  *

  And so I retraced my route back over the one-way bridge, up and down the hills, and into the village center again. I wouldn’t need lunch after my generous portion of Harold, but I stopped at The Café and bought a carrot muffin with cream cheese icing, intending to drop it off to old Rona Jarvis in Beach Street as a treat. My plans were thwarted when I found Paul there, in shorts and T-shirt, hacking away at the very overgrown grass on her small front lawn with a genuine old-fashioned scythe. Goodness, the man had some energy! And some muscles.

  I stepped out of the car and sauntered to the open gate. Unfortunately he caught sight of me before I could do much admiring. “Is she in?” I asked, holding up the muffin.

  “We tracked down a sister. She’s gone to spend a few days there while we tidy up.”

  I watched his chest rising and falling after the exertion, and then ripped my gaze back up to his face. “Looks like you deserve this, then. I handed the bag across to him. That’s very medieval,” I added, nodding toward the scythe.

  He leaned on the long handle. “I found it in her garden shed. Never used one before. There’s a definite knack to it.”

  “Just as well it’s only a small patch.”

  He nodded, and opened the bag. “A lawn mower certainly wouldn’t cope yet. Jasper Hornbeam’s around the back, fixing some rotting steps.”

  “I only bought one muffin,” I said, watching as he bit into it. “I’d better go and get another one for him.”

  Paul shook his head, and swallowed. “He brought lunch from home. He’s been threatening me with a slice of cold steak and kidney pie.”

  I pulled the corners of my mouth down. “Might be delicious, but it’s not immediately grabbing me.”

  “Or me. I’ll go home for something in a while.” He crumpled the paper bag and threw it into the old wheelbarrow where he’d been piling the stalks of grass.

  “See you later, then.” We’d already arranged that he’d collect me from the family home in the village for the drive to the Burkeville Bar and Grill. All my femme fatale clothes were there because I’d taken nothing the least bit glam to the cottage yet.

  “Ten to seven.” He inserted the last of the muffin and wolfed it down. “Have a good afternoon.”

  *

  I had spying in mind next. First up was a search through the old cottage for any signs that Isobel had been a fan of Elsa’s botanical soaps. I found nothing but Palmolive in the bathroom, or stacked in the vanity cupboard, or in her bedroom chests of drawers. I even checked the linen cupboard again in case she’d been using it to scent the sheets.

  “So why was she interested?” I asked Itsy. She was sticking close, maybe hoping for more food now I was home. She put her head on one side and looked very cute but offered no help.

  “Was it Tom who was spying on Elsa? Do you think he knew she’d had his son?” Itsy yawned so widely I could see all her sharp white teeth.

  Although the two little dogs had been running free, I decided we all needed a walk on the beach before I began ploughing through the remainder of the Chernobyl dirge on this lovely day. I changed into shorts and flip-flops and locked the cottage. We scrambled down the incline at the end of the garden and were soon enjoying the hard-packed sand while tiny waves slid up and were sucked away again and noisy seagulls wheeled and dipped in the spring sunshine. Fluffy attempted to chase some as they waddled ahead of us but they flew up with shrieks of derision every time he got close. Halfway to the horizon the whale watch boat chugged back toward the jetty at the end of another excursion. I couldn’t help wondering what sort of living Brett made from his tours, and hoped he didn’t need to supplement it with midnight people smuggling or drug runs. That’s the trouble with small places; gossip runs wild. I thought about that some more as I turned us around and headed home again to do some work.

  Another hour in Chernobyl was quite enough. Not enough to finish the editing job but plenty to flatten my spirits. I decided on one more look through the files on the iMac before letting Bruce Carver know about them. And might there be more emails? It was easy to imagine Tom and Margaret Alsop living it up large in a Florida retirement community. Much easier than picturing Isobel. They could take their cruising clothes! The original messages had been addressed to Isobel, but this whole setup was so wacky it was anyone’s guess who was impersonating who.

  Once again I unlocked and re-locked the old garage, swiveled and re-swiveled the shelf, and settled into the office chair. And once again nothing really made sense. Having now met Elsa Hudson at Betty’s place, the Elsa-Alex-Tom trio was far more interesting to me than anything else on offer, so I dug around in files and notebooks that might tie them together but came up empty-handed. Or maybe I mean empty-brained.

  There was one enigmatic new email from Nam Cheng. It simply said ‘Tomorrow.’ With Isobel dead and Tom off cruising I doubted that would be happening. I was tempted to hit Reply and say ‘Not tomorrow’, but it wasn’t my business to make a car thief’s life easier. If he really was a car thief, of course.

  That reminded me I’d been going to transfer the most interesting-looking files to Dropbox, so I spent some time doing that and then tilted my head back and gazed up through the big window in the ceiling. I didn’t like the feeling of being enclosed with no view except sky and occasional clouds. You’d need to really want your privacy to feel comfortable here.

  I glanced at my watch and got a fright when I saw how much time had slid by while I’d been nosily sleuthing. I’d vowed to give Isobel’s fruit and vegies a good watering because it had been an unrelentingly sunny day, but it was either that or feed the dogs because I needed to dash home and make myself look gorgeous for Paul. The dogs won, of course. I closed up the office, closed up the garage, and went to open the dog food. And that’s when I found the next courier envelope.r />
  Chapter 12 –Dinner to deceive

  It was leaning against the back door of the cottage this time. Why not in the mail box?

  Once again it was addressed to Tom Alsop. And once again I couldn’t get it open without wrecking it. I expelled an annoyed breath and threw it on the kitchen table before feeding the dogs. Turkey and Giblet Feast. Ooops – there was a cat’s face on that pack so I must have shopped in too much of a hurry. Itsy and Fluffy didn’t mind at all though. Every morsel and smear disappeared from their bowls.

  Then I shot off to the bedroom to collect the make-up I’d brought with me and anything else I wanted to take home. I was halfway to the village before I remembered I hadn’t yet called Bruce Carver about the secret office and all the files. Oh well, later would do. He couldn’t get into the garage before tomorrow morning anyway.

  *

  Paul arrived right on time, looking like a younger Hugh Grant in good navy jeans and a pale blue shirt with the top button undone. The blue was very flattering against his sun-kissed skin and dark hair. The jeans threw me, though. On any other man, absolutely right for a casual meal. On the man I was used to seeing in a dog-collar? Not at all. Except… that was the whole point, wasn’t it; to present him as a normal desirable male dating a woman?

  The woman in question had gone to town with the make-up. Plenty of moisturizer to make up for the beach walks, rather more care than usual getting the tinted foundation even, lots of eye shadow and mascara, and my French Cherry lipstick. I’d chosen strappy pale pink sandals that were difficult to walk in, a cerise dress with a very low scoop to the neckline, and the occasional flash of black lace bra edging which contrasted beautifully with the deep pink fabric of the dress. And indeed, the pale creamy skin of my most valuable assets.

  “Fffwhoaaarrrr!” Paul exclaimed in his best English accent, eyes rather wide and surprised.

  I blinked. “Am I all right? Have I overdone it?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Like your hair.”

  Not what I was expecting! I’d brushed it out so it tumbled down over my shoulders. I have so much of it that close friends sometimes ask if I have hair extensions.

  No, darlings, I grew it all myself, and it’s a jolly nuisance trying to get it all dry after I’ve washed it.

  Maybe Paul had always seen it in a bun, or tied back in a pony-tail?

  Or was ‘like your hair’ intended to convey more? He was still staring at me as though I’d leaped out of a lingerie catalogue.

  Okay, this was good, but only up to a point. Yes, I looked very female. If he kept on staring at me with such appreciation no-one seeing us together would think he was anything but a red blooded on-the-rut ram. But… perhaps not too great an image for a vicar?

  I dug him in the ribs. “Dial it back a bit from that?” I suggested. “Your tongue’s hanging out.”

  He gave a rueful grin. “You’ve really gone for broke. I’ll be fighting men off.”

  “Men?” I asked, with a suggestive lift of one eyebrow.

  He mock-cuffed me on the chin. “Off you.”

  “More or less the aim, wasn’t it? To make it look as though you had an eye for the ladies?”

  Paul drew a sharp breath and closed his eyes for a few seconds. “I do have an eye for the ladies, Merry, and you’re certainly going to reinforce that to anyone who sees us. Thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Making such a sterling effort. I’ll try not to ogle you quite so obviously, but let’s just say it’ll be no hardship sitting opposite you.”

  What a lovely man. And then it struck me how much fun it would be if John was working and saw us together, me all boobalicious and Paul all eyes on the prize.

  Merry, you evil girl. You’re enjoying this far too much.

  Paul glanced at his watch. “Are we off?”

  I suppressed my naughty thoughts, locked the house door, and minced out to the car with him. I’d bought the pale pink sandals to wear to a friend’s wedding, and now I thought about it they’d been kicked off under the table the instant my painful hour of standing to chat and drink was over. I’d never been so pleased to sit down for a wedding breakfast. But they looked the part for sure, and hopefully there’d be no hour of standing tonight. I planned to have my feet under the table pretty soon after we arrived at The Burkeville.

  As it turned out, my feet started well off the floor because Paul guided me across to a couple of empty bar stools, offered me his hand so I could hop up onto one without falling off, and then he slid onto the other.

  The same pretty waitress I’d seen when I came to use the Wi-Fi greeted us.

  “Something to drink?” she asked, possibly sending a surprised glance at my cleavage, and certainly lingering on the Hugh Grant version of Paul.

  “Cranberry and lemonade, thanks.”

  May as well match my dress.

  “A light beer for me.”

  Looked like we both planned to use our alcohol allowance to accompany the meal.

  Imagine my glee when our drinks were carried over to us by assassin John.

  “Merry,” he greeted me, setting down my pink drink. “Vicar,” he said with a lift of eyebrows and a flash of irritation from his unnerving blue eyes as he handed my friend his beer. What had Paul done to deserve that? Transformed into a handsome man escorting a young(ish) glamor-puss out to drinks and dinner, I supposed. People don’t like being surprised. For all I knew John had him neatly filed away as taking groups of conservatively garbed old ladies with walking sticks to admire the stained glass windows in his church.

  Not tonight, Bon Jovi!

  I glanced around. No-one was too close, so I leaned forward at a far from wise angle. “While you’re here, John,” I said quietly, “I found out from my brother who Isobel’s house will go to. It’s Margaret, as you suspected.”

  Paul shot a surprised look at me. John grimaced.

  “And it’ll be a number of weeks before probate’s settled and anything further can happen. Sorry.”

  John wiped some non-existent drips off the bar in front of us. “Thanks anyway.”

  “What business is it of his?” Paul demanded the moment John moved away.

  “He surfs along that beach. He was interested in buying the cottage off Isobel.”

  “Bet she didn’t want to sell!”

  “No, she didn’t. And it wasn’t hers to sell, anyway. It was left to both sisters jointly.” I was still talking very quietly. “I dug that out of Graham, but it’s not common knowledge.”

  Paul started turning one of his shirt-cuffs back. “Lips are sealed.”

  I nodded, watching his long fingers turn the crisp blue fabric over and over, and his forearm with its fascinating tendons and dusting of dark hair come into view fold by fold.

  “Evening Vicar,” a cheerful voice boomed. We turned in unison to find Brett Royal from the whale watch boat.

  “Evening Brett,” Paul said, sending me the slightest of smirks.

  Yes, all right, it’s working. Clever me.

  “Nice night for it,” Brett said. “Whatever ‘it’ is.”

  “Been a good day, too,” I said, ignoring his innuendo. “I saw your boat leaving this morning when I was heading to Old Bay Road. And again this afternoon from the beach.”

  “Need to make hay while the sun shines,” Brett said. “Mostly orca out there at this time of year. The big whales migrate in the winter months, so I’ve created some escorted fishing trips to the good spots in case we don’t see what we’re after.”

  “Where are the good spots?” Paul asked.

  Brett tapped the side of his nose. “Anywhere the fish are biting.” He added his broad trademark grin and asked me, “Where was I headed?”

  I lifted my glass for a sip and then stopped. “I think you were coming back the second time. I was walking some dogs at the Point.”

  “Old Isobel’s place? Shocker.” He diverted his attention momentarily as the waitress came to take his order. “G and T for Miri, t
hanks, Lauren. Steinie for me.” He turned back to us. “Who’d kill a poor old girl like her?”

  “We’d all like to know that,” I said. “Including the cops. Last time I spoke to Bruce Carver he said they hadn’t made an arrest yet.”

  We all nodded somberly.

  To my immense delight it was John who brought the drinks across again. He was cordial to Brett but definitely looked daggers at Paul. And he’d been eavesdropping. “Isobel Crombie?” he drawled. “The killer’s either a certifiably crazy dude or knew something no-one else did.”

  “Or thought they knew,” I said. “I’ve heard some ridiculous theories.”

  “Such as?” Brett asked, stroking the beautiful Maori bone carving that always hangs around his sturdy neck.

  I took a sip of my drink. “Such as she did your tax return, decided you were people smuggling or drug smuggling on the whale boat after midnight, and she was blackmailing you for some of your spare millions.”

  Brett opened his eyes wider. “Good one. Wish I was really making enough for that.” He seemed unfazed by the theory. “Don’t forget she had a garden full of Mary-Jane,” he added with a wink. “Not unheard of around here.”

  “No, she didn’t,” I said. “I checked.”

  “What?” Paul asked. “Why?”

  “Because Brett’s not the first person to mention that, and I wanted to be sure no-one was likely to turn up wanting any.”

  “Merry,” he said, shaking his head in mock despair. Or maybe not entirely mock.

  Brett gave Paul a manly slap on the shoulder. “Definitely not me. When did I last darken your doors, Vicar?”

  “I doubt you could even find my church,” he agreed.

  “I rest my case,” Brett said, reaching out for his beer and his wife’s gin and tonic and ambling off with them.

  Paul slid his hand halfway over mine. John’s unnerving blue gaze followed.

  “Does Marion Wick have any theories,” I asked him.

  John’s eyes flashed back to mine. “Why ask me?”