Xmas Marks The Spot (Merry Summerfield Cozy Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  Must not sit for so long at a time. Need to do more exercise. Drink more water. Yeah - it’s you I’m talking to, Merry.

  If I was taking the spaniels for a walk I could get back to Lurline again and see if she had any dogs of moderate size to join us. This would take me conveniently close to Iona’s delicious date scones and peanut crunch bars, always supposing other people hadn’t already bought them all for lunch.

  “Drizzle Bay Animal Shelter,” she replied crisply.

  “It’s me again. Got any smaller dogs you want walked? I’m taking the spaniels out soon and can cope with one more.”

  “Just the person I need,” she said. “Yes. Very small. A cute little mini-dachshund called Theo, according to his tag. Found wandering, but was definitely someone’s pet.”

  “Not microchipped?”

  Lurline made a scoffing noise. “I can’t imagine why not. It’d cost the owner a lot less than the dog.”

  “Okay, and if I’m passing by Iona’s on my way, is there anything you’d like me to bring you? Date scone? Blueberry muffin?”

  “I’d kill for something chocolatey.”

  “Leave it to me,” I said. “Be there in thirty minutes.”

  And so the day whizzed by in a jumble of editing, dog-walking, a vegie stir-fry and some passionfruit ice-cream (not on the same plate) for dinner, and an episode of Married at First Sight – also something I don’t get a lot of if Graham is home. Well, to be honest I mostly watch it well away from his snorts and eye-rolling on the privacy of my laptop.

  It had been a nice day, and tomorrow was definitely going to be fine. Brunch at the Burkeville looked like a sure thing.

  *

  The spaniels didn’t see why they had to sit behind the back seat, but any ride is a treat as far as they’re concerned so they acted puzzled but pleased when I bundled them in on Wednesday and set off for the vicarage in my good jeans and a watermelon-pink blouse.

  Daniel the spaniel. And Manual the spaniel. Yes. Named by Kaydee-Jane, the little girl from the plum tree next door who wanted nothing to do with ‘Manuel’ as a possible name because ‘Man-well’ didn’t rhyme with spaniel.

  Paul had reverted to vicar mode and had his dog collar on today. Heather looked a lot fresher and less rumpled in a mint green and white T-shirt and white capris. The wet weather was nothing but a memory and today Drizzle Bay was at its sparkling summer best.

  “So did you tell her?” I asked Paul as soon as we were underway. I could see him trying to avoid the dogs’ attention from their den behind the back seat.

  Heather glanced across and I kept my eyes on the road. “Me?” she asked.

  “Yes, you. Did Paul tell you about the leg of beef?”

  She laid a hand on my arm. “You poor thing! That must have been disgusting to find.”

  “Which was why the car smelled rather rosy. You’ve arrived at an exciting time – right in the middle of a crime wave, it would seem.”

  Paul guffawed from the rear seat. “It’s not a wave until they find the other three quarters.”

  “Euw!” Heather and I exclaimed in unison.

  “Do you want me to tie those dogs to the side rails?” I asked. I could see they were giving him affectionate nudges and licks from over the back of the seat.

  Paul shook his head. “They’ll settle in a minute. Any more from the Police?”

  “No. And I can do without DS Carver’s disgusting cologne.” I looked across at Heather as we slowed for an intersection. “That man just reeks of it. He’s a lot worse than my brother’s car. Anyway, did you sleep well?”

  “Out like a light. And most of yesterday as well.”

  “I had to wake her up this morning or we’d never have been ready,” Paul said.

  “So you’ve no idea who did it?” Heather asked.

  I shrugged. “Or how. It was such a huge chunk of meat I can’t imagine one person carrying it.”

  “Well, this is exciting! I thought I was going to be mooching around, mostly on my own, doing the occasional good deed with ‘brother dear’, and trying not to get sunburned.” Heather rubbed her hands together and sent me a gleeful smile.

  “But,” said Paul from the back seat, “You have to remember this is serious, Heather. I’ve met the chap the message was aimed at, and he’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “Yes, darling.” She turned away and gave her attention to the view, which I must say is pretty spectacular on a fine day. The sun poured down over acres of blue sea, and there was enough breeze to whip spray off the tops of the waves. “So is that pampas grass?” she asked me as we drove past some big clumps with tall feathery tassels.

  “Toe toe, or toi toi. That’s the true Kiwi version because it’s flowering before Christmas. A bit smaller than pampas, which is pinker, bigger, later, and a real problem to get rid of sometimes. Those stems are fun for kids to run around with – until the seedy fluff all starts shedding.”

  Paul cleared his throat, apparently wanting to show he was right at home. “The trees with the red blooms are pohutukawa. There are some around the church, too. New Zealand Christmas trees.”

  Heather gave a big yawn and stretched both arms out toward the windscreen. “I really can’t believe Christmas is anywhere near. A picnic on the beach when I’m used to being bundled up in winter woollies and seeing snow falling outside? Doesn’t seem real.”

  I switched on the radio and ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ filled the car. “Real,” I said, turning it off again as the spaniels threw back their heads and joined in with joyful howls. “Someone should write some new Christmas songs.”

  “Nothing wrong with the old ones,” Paul said, surprising me by suddenly launching into ‘We Three Kings of Orient Are’. His voice rang deep and true, and within seconds Heather had joined in. Her sweet soprano dipped and soared, and Manual and Daniel took this as an invitation to howl along, too. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. Paul’s eyes were closed, and the spaniels’ heads were once again thrown back in bliss. I caught Heather’s eye, and grinned. “Musical family?” I mouthed.

  She nodded and kept singing. We arrived at the Burkeville Bar and Café a few minutes later. By then, even I was humming along – and beating time on the steering wheel with one hand.

  There were several other cars in evidence, so I slid the Focus into a vacant space and braked. “Paul – can you grab their leads, please?” I asked before we had any doors open. The last thing we needed was two spaniels dashing around the main highway unrestrained. Paul swiveled in his seat and groped about while Manny and Dan tried to lick him to death.

  “Yep – all safe,” he said after a bit more wrestling, so Heather and I got out and I went to the back hatch to take over. Spaniels can be stupid dogs. Lovely natures, but sometimes with no regard for their own safety. They were soon tied to the dog post just inside the café’s courtyard and they immediately fell to drinking from the water bowl there.

  We ambled in to inspect the blackboard menu to check out what was on offer.

  John Bonnington stood behind the counter, all muscles and man-bun. John is a surfer, and to see him slicing across the waves, bare-chested, long hair streaming behind him, is absolutely no hardship. He nodded to Paul, winked at me, and then fixed his total attention on Heather. As Paul was showing no signs of introducing her, I thought I’d better do the honors.

  “Heather, this is John, one of the owners. John, meet Paul’s sister, Heather. She’s flown in from the UK for Christmas.”

  “Long flight for you,” he said, reaching out a sinewy tanned arm and shaking her hand.

  “Endless,” she agreed. “But nice to arrive for summer.” She tilted her head to one side. “Doesn’t sound as though you’re from around here, either?”

  John’s accent is straight out of California. Even so, I was surprised she’d picked it from only four words.

  His startling blue eyes widened as his brows rose. “That was fast,” he drawled, and the way he said ‘fasst’ was absolutely different from my
Kiwi ‘farst’. “Monterey Bay,” he added.

  “Actress in a past life,” Heather said in explanation. “I picked up various accents for roles.”

  “Movies or stage?” I asked. Why hadn’t Paul dropped that interesting snippet instead of describing her as childless and widowed and in need of cheering up?

  “Stage and TV, but nothing too bigtime.” She lifted both hands in a self-deprecating gesture.

  Erik chose that moment to carry in a big flat basket of decadent looking muffins. He slid it under the glass-topped counter, and both Heather and I bent forward to peer at them.

  Erik is something of a mystery. He’s Erik Jacobsen, and he’s from the Midwest. He calls John ‘Jawn’. Everyone presumed the two Americans were father and son when they first arrived in the district, and then, as we got to know them better, maybe stepfather and son with their differing surnames. Or were they a gay couple? They made no effort to confirm or deny anything at all, and were very good at deflecting questions. Almost made a game of it.

  Erik has a shock of short, frosty white hair in contrast to John’s long streaky blond mane, but if you ignore the old-man hair, the face below it is virtually unlined. His eyes and brows are as black as his hair is white, and those eyes had fixed on Heather as though she was a tall drink of icy cold water in the burning hot desert. “Strawberry and white chocolate,” he said, with a brief nod at the muffins. His gaze returned immediately to Heather.

  I watched as she looked up at him. You could practically see the ‘zing’ of attraction sparking between them.

  He turned away after a couple of electric seconds and called over his shoulder, “Debs, can you keep half an eye on things out here?” and without waiting for an answer he rounded the end of the counter and led us to one of the tables. He pulled out a chair, nodding for Heather to sit.

  I glanced at Paul. He seemed oblivious to their attraction, but I caught the expression on John’s face, and it was a mixture of ‘you’re kidding me’ and ‘go for it’. John and Erik are definitely not gay, by the way. Nor are they stepfather and son.

  3 – Margaret’s Makeover

  We all sat – Erik next to Heather – and decided what we wanted to eat. Bacon and eggs for Paul, a ham and mushroom omelet for me, eggs Benedict for Heather.

  “Earl Grey?” she suggested when Erik asked her what she wanted to drink.

  I opted for coffee, and John shot away to pass the orders on.

  “How long are you here for?” Erik asked, turning in his chair so Heather became the sole focus of his attention.

  She blinked a couple of times. I won’t say she was making eyes at him exactly, but there were definitely fluttering eyelashes. Maybe it was the bright sun. “Initially, six weeks. I might extend that if Paul can put up with me for a while longer.” She tilted her head to the cloudless sky and closed her eyes like a basking cat. “I don’t much fancy going back to an English winter if this is what’s on offer.”

  Erik’s dark eyes roved over her pretty features while she couldn’t see him. It was almost as though he was memorizing her face. He didn’t look away until John returned with a cup and saucer, and a teapot balanced on five side-plates. Erik set the cup and saucer and teapot in front of her and dealt the plates around the table like playing cards. It seemed they were joining us. Then John dived back behind the counter and emerged with knives and forks for Heather and Paul and me, and five of the strawberry and white chocolate muffins on a small tray.

  “Oh, not muffins as well,” I said, reaching out for one anyway, and then dropping it on my plate when I found it was still pretty warm. I sucked my tingling fingers for a few seconds, casting around for something to distract the others from my greediness. “Do either of you know a man called Beefy Haldane?” I asked.

  Erik and John turned to me as though I was a puppet-master and had their heads on strings. Paul sucked air through his teeth, plainly not pleased I’d mentioned Beefy after he’d warned me off.

  “Maybe,” John said.

  “Not well,” Erik added.

  At that moment another customer walked into the sunny courtyard. Manny and Dan immediately started barking, and the woman clutched her small white poodle more tightly against her large white breasts. Her neckline was pretty daring for someone who looked well past sixty.

  John’s two German Shepherds joined in from behind the high fence, and a cacophony of growls and barks rent the air for a few moments.

  “QUIET, BOYS!” I yelled at the spaniels, which was totally ineffective.

  John gave a shrill whistle and the shepherds stopped dead. So did Manny and Dan. Only the poodle continued its high-pitched yapping.

  “Margaret!” Paul exclaimed, rising to his feet. And sure enough, behind the gaping neckline and below the far-from-natural blonde hair it was Margaret Alsop, wife of Tom Alsop of A-One Autos and sister of Isobel Crombie whom Paul and I had found dead in Saint Agatha’s church.

  On the occasion of her sister’s funeral Margaret had worn a very smart black suit, a small feathery hat perched on her silver curls, and a subdued but expensive selection of jewelry. This new version came as something of a shock.

  Paul reached out, perhaps to pat her arm, and found the poodle in the way. The little dog was obviously upset and lunged at him, growling and snapping with its sharp white teeth. “Are you keeping well?” he asked, withdrawing his hand to a safer distance. “May I call by and see if there’s any help the church can offer after all your work on the flower roster?”

  “Things are settling,” she said. “I had to sell the house, of course.”

  Understatement! Forced mortgagee sale by the bank or whoever Tom had borrowed all the money off for the overblown mansion in Sandalwood Grove. The Alsops had looked as though they were living the good life but suddenly he was in jail awaiting trial and inevitable conviction, given the evidence, and Margaret was out on her ear.

  Paul nodded in his best understanding vicarish way. I’d gone spying in Sandalwood Grove soon after Margaret’s unmarried sister had been murdered. They’d needed a dog-sitter for Isobel’s two little Bichons while they swanned off on a tropical cruise. Paul had suggested me because I happened to be pinning a message on the community notice board right at that instant, offering just such a service.

  “Where are you living now?” he asked.

  She cuddled the little dog more securely against her big bosom. “In the old beach cottage at The Point. Our parents left it to Isobel and me jointly, so until the legal niceties are sorted out I thought it best to move in and keep an eye on things.”

  “And when things are finalized?” John interrupted. “Will you sell it?”

  She looked surprised to be asked that by a virtual stranger. She blinked, and her mouth sagged open. “Ummm…?”

  “There’s a good surf break along that stretch of beach,” he continued. “I asked Isobel to give me first right of refusal if she ever considered leaving.”

  Margaret patted the little dog and sighed. “Too early to think about it yet. Lord Drizzle’s farm manager has been asking, too.”

  “Denny McKenzie?”

  I caught the flash of annoyance that crossed John’s face, but it was gone in a nanosecond. I’ll bet he’s a good poker player.

  “He has a daughter getting married soon and thought it would be ideal for the newlyweds,” Margaret said, dropping a kiss on the poodle’s questing nose.

  “When and if,” John drawled, standing. “Can I show you to a table?”

  She shook her head. “I just popped in to get something to eat while I’m out for a drive. Something savory I can share with Pierre,” she added, looking down at her fluffy friend again.

  Erik’s eyebrows jumped. “Cheese and bacon croissant? Too good for a dawg, though.”

  “I’ll get it,” John said. He returned a few seconds later, croissant in one of the Burkeville Bar and Café’s distinctive green-printed bags, and something else in another one. “Lamb-shank bone,” he said. “Much better for him. O
n the house,” he added, as Margaret tried to juggle both poodle and purse. “Remember I’m interested in the cottage if it goes up for sale.”

  She nodded her thanks and gave the spaniels a wide berth as she departed. I heard her shoes crunch over the gravel and then the car door being opened and slammed.

  Huh! No electronic beeping. She must be getting around in Isobel’s ancient Mini.

  Erik grinned at John. “Pretty slick. Are you serious about that place on The Point or just fishing for info?”

  “Serious for sure. Not in its current state though.”

  On the evening of Isobel’s death John had scared me witless, striding up from the beach in a pair of wet board-shorts, clutching his surfboard under one arm, and looking as though he owned the place. Once he saw the fingerprint powder all around the lock and handle of the door he’d been very kind to me though. Sat me down with a hot drink and kept me company for a while, and I can confirm it was plenty distracting sitting opposite a man in such fine shape. His shorts were hidden below the table. He could almost have been naked. My naughty mind decided he was and enjoyed him even more.

  “So,” Erik said, black eyes fixing on mine. “Back to Beefy Haldane. Yes, we know of him, but how the heck do you?”

  “I’ve never met him,” I said, adopting my most innocent expression. “But Paul has. He broke into the Totara Flat church and drank the communion wine.”

  Paul looked total daggers at me. “Leave it, Merry. I told you he was a nasty piece of work.”

  “Cork’s out of the bottle now,” John said. “What’s the rest of the story?”

  When Paul didn’t respond, I started to explain about going out to the garage to remove Graham’s bag of golf clubs from the Mercedes so we could fit Heather’s luggage in. And finding instead the huge chunk of beef with the notice on top aimed at Beefy Haldane. “DS Bruce Carver thought it probably happened in the parking lot behind Graham’s office because how could anyone get something like that past Manny and Dan at home?”

  “And how is the good DS these days,” John asked with an edge to his voice. “Still acting like he’s God’s gift to the district?”