Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery) (10 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A decent night’s sleep is difficult to get when the weather continues to bombard the old farmhouse for hours on end. As the wind swirls and batters Eskdale, pulling at the slate roof tiles and rustling through the barns, I try to forget every scary film I’ve ever seen and instead force my mind to think happy thoughts. Eventually I fall asleep downstairs on the sofa, a soft fleecy throw wrapped around me for warmth and comfort.

The stormy weather has moved on by morning and now bright sunshine is illuminating the beautiful landscape that surrounds the farm. This is more like it. With the sun shining things don’t seem quite so bad. I wonder if those guys who turned up at the Veggies last night have discovered Jack’s false ID yet. If so, they’re probably on the lookout for us. Great. Something else to worry about. Today is the day of the meeting at the village hall about the store campaign. Preparing for that should hopefully help distract me a little.

At breakfast I draw up a list of things I want to get done, inside and out, ready for Stella’s visit at the weekend. After washing up a plate (for the toast I’d nibbled at and then threw away) I set to on the cleaning. I know I have a heap of jobs to get done out on the farm but, despite the lovely weather, this morning I feel like some therapeutic cleaning.

The dirt and dust in the previously unused spare room is getting up my nose, making me sneeze and scratching at my throat, so for some relief I make myself a mug of coffee and head out into the garden to enjoy the sunshine – well, this is Cumbria after all, you have to make the most of it when the sun does put in an appearance. Pushing back some of the foliage, which is still steadily engulfing the garden seat, I sit down and sip my drink as I take in the view spread before me. There’s no escaping the fact that when the sun shines on this little corner of Cumbria it is truly stunning. In the field across the way, I spot a red quadbike zipping around. It must be Frazer or Jack. I squint in the bright sunlight. Yes, definitely Frazer, and now I can see Frazer’s dog Cinnamon sitting on the back of the bike, its ears flapping in the breeze. I wave, but he doesn’t see me and a feeling of loneliness engulfs me. Time to get busy and occupy my mind.

Today should have been my day off from the Veggies anyway so nobody has been in touch about whether the place is open for business again or not. I wonder if I should ring them, see if anyone answers, so I know whether or not to turn up for work tomorrow. In the meantime, there’s not much food in the house, so I finish my cleaning, grab the revamped campaign materials and take them, along with my hastily scribbled shopping list, down to the village store.

Amswick consists of one lane which is home to the store, two pubs, the village hall and clusters of houses of various descriptions, from stone terraces to whitewashed grander detached abodes, each one sporting a locally-quarried slate roof. There’s a scattering of hanging baskets on some of the lampposts, the current colour scheme reflecting the autumnal yellows and golds of the trees dotted about the village. The Cumbrian fells tower over the whole scene, there sheer sides more grey and rocky here than the ones back at Eskdale. The Veggies is on the other side of the village. Well, technically, it’s just outside the village boundary, but as there’s nothing else outside the village for a good way, everyone just says the restaurant is in Amswick. It’s easier. Usually there’s a distinct sense of rural idyll to the place but thanks to recent events that’s gone, replaced by a heavy air of apprehension.

I find a parking space right outside and climb out of Daisy, remembering at the last moment to grab my empty shopping bags. The store is set back slightly from the road, its black tarmac forecourt dark from a recent shower. Bags of logs and kindling are stacked off to one side, and tucked beneath the store’s green and white striped canopy are a row of boxes on a wooden table. Each one contains a collection of enticing fruit and vegetables.

When I step inside, Brenda’s busy serving a customer, so I pick up a basket and wander around the traditional metal shelving displays, enjoying the mouth-watering smells of cheese, breads and cakes and sorting out my groceries. Brenda has generously arranged some small squares of a new cake on a tray for customers to try and I gratefully slip a gooey chocolate piece into my mouth. My aunt used to bake cakes for Brenda and George to sell in the store. Nowadays most of the baked goods come from a woman over in Derwentbeck, a place nearby which is too big to be a village but too small to be called a town. As I snaffle another square of the yummy cake, I go about filling my basket and idly listen to the chatter of the other customers. Of course, the topic of conversation with everyone is Armand’s murder. I loiter near the shelves of freshly baked bread and listen as two women I don’t recognise chatter away.

“I’m not surprised somebody took a knife to him,” the older of the two says, clutching a packet of chocolate biscuits to her chest as though they’re protective armour. “Never could keep his hands to himself. My daughter had more than one run in with him, let me tell you.”

Her daughter? Who is this woman’s daughter? Is it one of the girls at the restaurant I confided in about Armand’s behaviour?

“Poor poppet,” the woman with a blond ponytail replies, her face full of concern. “He took advantage in more ways than one. He knew those girls were short on job opportunities around here so he must have thought there was a good chance they’d say nothing. He thought he was God’s gift, all because he’d been on the TV and won that reality show, what was it called again?”

“Culinary Cook Off,” Biscuit Woman replies.

“Yes, that’s the one. Just because he’s been on there, he thinks he’s some kind of celebrity and all the women want him.” Ponytail Woman lowers her voice and leans in close, meaning I have to stay stock still and hold my breath to be able to hear her next words. “Makes me wonder if he hadn’t pushed his luck too far and one of the girls decided she’d had enough and grabbed a knife and went for him.”

Biscuit Woman looks horrified. “I hope you’re not suggesting that my…”

“NO! Of course not. Your girl would never do anything like that,” the other woman gasps.

Why can’t one of them just mention the daughter’s name, for goodness sake? I’m desperate to know who Biscuit Woman is the mother of. Clearly offended, Biscuit Woman now stalks off and the two of them go about their food shopping in opposite directions. This place isn’t just the only decent shop for miles around, it’s also a place for people to meet, the focal point of several village communities that all nestle at the foot of the fells in this part of the county.

“Hello, my dear.” I turn to see Brenda standing next to me now that she’s finished serving at the counter. Her face is full of concern. “How are you feeling? I don’t know what I was thinking; you’ve all of this dreadful business with Armand going on, and I’m asking you to revamp flyers. So selfish of me, but, well, George and I, we’re terrified at the prospect of losing the store, and the campaign was doing so well with Armand’s celebrity support and now...”

I put a hand on her arm to stop her anxious rambling. “It’s fine, Brenda, really. I was glad of something to distract me. Honestly. I’ve brought the revamped campaign stuff with me.”

“Oh, bless you, love. We really appreciate it. George! Are you still out there sorting through that stock? Come and say hello to young Lizzie.”

George, a tall, grey-haired man with a friendly face, emerges through a doorway. “Hello, lass. We’ve been expecting you. Brenda said you were redoing all the posters and stuff. You’re a little star, especially with everything else you’ve got going on.”

The bell above the door to the shop jingles as another customer enters.

“Oh, look out, Berwick’s about,” George says to us in hushed tones.

I glance over my shoulder to see a portly man in a suit and hat making his way towards the wines and spirits section. Ah, right. Alun Berwick, the local councillor. Not Brenda’s favourite person. He refuses to lend his support to our campaign. Brenda’s convinced he’s involved in some dodgy planning deal.

Ignoring her latest customer Brenda turns to me. “So, have you seen much of young Jack lately?”

Wanting to steer Brenda away from more matchmaking attempts, I ask a question I’ve been curious to find an answer to since my conversation with Jack the other day. “What happened to Frazer and Jack’s father?”

“Ah. He was killed in service I’m afraid. Terrible business,” Brenda says, sadness glimmering in her eyes. “Patrick Mathis was a fine man. He was in the army, got posted overseas to one of those trouble spots and…” she leaves the sentence unfinished.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Poor Frazer and Jack. How long ago was this?”

“Twenty years, I think,” Brenda says. “Frazer was about thirteen and Jack must have been around eleven. Their mum remarried a decent chap called Douglas about ten years ago. Patrick was an only child so it fell to Frazer to inherit the farm from his grandfather Andrew.”

Digging around at the back of my mind, I think I can just about remember the man who used to run the farm next door to Eskdale. When I visited in the school holidays my aunt and uncle spoke fondly of their neighbour. The man who would have been Jack and Frazer’s grandfather. The man who, having lost his son Patrick, left the farm to Frazer.

I look over my shoulder to make sure Alun hasn’t materialised at the end of the aisle and is standing behind me, taking this all in. “Do you really think he takes bribes?”

“Don’t they all?” George says with a shake of his head and a deep sigh.

At that moment the man in question does appear at the end of the aisle, two bottles of whisky in his arms.

I take a step back. “Please, go ahead of me. I haven’t finished my shopping yet.” Too busy listening to gossip.

He places the bottles on the counter and lifts his hat at me in a polite gesture. “Thank you, young lady.”

Brenda rings up his purchases, pops them in a sturdy bag and takes his money. Within a minute he’s out of the door. No standing around talking. I’m half way home before I realise, with Berwick appearing in the shop, I forgot to ask Brenda who Biscuit Woman’s daughter is.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Back at Eskdale I get a phone call from Peter telling me that the Veggies won’t be open for business tomorrow and that he’ll let me know when to report for duty again.

So now, here I am, in search once again of something to do to distract my thoughts from scary territory. Everything is in place for tonight’s campaign meeting. I’ve cleaned the farmhouse and prepared the spare room for Stella and David’s arrival tomorrow and, for once, largely thanks to not working at the Veggies, am reasonably caught up with my chores outdoors.

I stare at the floral wallpaper which covers two of the walls in the kitchen. It badly needs replacing, or at the very least painting over. I vaguely recall seeing some rolls of plain wallpaper in the storeroom at the back of one of the barns in the yard, so I set off to investigate. Not only do I find the paper, but some wallpaper paste, a brush and bucket as well. There’s no pasting table, but I should be able to pull together a makeshift one of those with an old door balanced on some blocks or chairs easily enough. As I assemble all my tools, my thoughts wander once more to Jack and whether he’s found out anything else about the case. I’m itching to ring him but tell myself I’ll crack on with the wallpapering first and, if I haven’t heard from him by then, I will allow myself to call him later. Cobbling together my makeshift paste table, a noise makes me look up. Shielding my eyes against the sun, I spot a Land Rover making its way along the bumpy track to the farm. If I’m not mistaken it belongs to Frazer.

It isn’t Frazer driving it though.

It’s Jack. He swings open the door of the vehicle and leaps down onto the mud-covered yard in front of the outbuildings. ““Hi! Doing a spot of decorating?”

“Yeah, found the paper in the barn and I wanted to keep busy so…” I shrug in a here-I-am way.

“I heard the Veggies is closed for business.” He strolls across the yard towards me. “Not surprising really.”

“So, any news about the investigation?” I can’t resist asking a moment longer. I’ve already managed more seconds than I thought I would.

“Bits,” Jack replies noncommittally. “The assistant manager Peter is off the hook for now. He’s whiter than white, never even had a parking ticket. Anyway, I wondered if you’ve got five minutes to chat.”

Inside I make some coffees and we sit at the dining table. Jack gets a notepad and pen from his coat pocket. “Don’t suppose you’ve any idea why Armand and Bryony were getting divorced? Infidelity? Boredom? Just too much arguing?”

“No idea. If it was his wife on those ranting and raving phone calls I mentioned before, then arguing is definitely an option.”

“Right.” He scribbles down more notes. “I’ve already got somebody looking into the phone records stuff. I’ll check through some news archives for anything in the gossip rags which might hint at why they’re splitting up, but it does seem they’ve been managing to keep things on that front pretty quiet. So, who else do we have for the suspects? His manager might be another good one.”

I stop sipping my still-too-hot coffee and look at him questioningly. “Why his manager? He gets a percentage of everything his celebrity client Armand makes, so why would he want to do away with him?”

“Maybe because his manager has been up to no good,” Jack replies, settling back in his chair.

I lean forward, eager to hear more. “He has? You’ve found something?”

“No, not yet, but I’ve got my sources looking into the guy. His name is Billy Brunsworth. He’s based, unsurprisingly, in London. He used to be a singer and then got into the managerial side of things. The guy has got clients in the worlds of TV, music, general entertainment and even sport. Granted, none of them are really big names but they’re not exactly Z list celebs either.”

“So, what’s next?”

“I thought we’d take a little trip over to Derwentbeck, I’m told Armand’s wife Bryony has finally arrived in Cumbria. She’s been talking to the police and now she’s booked into a room at the Royal Oaks. I suggest we get over their pronto and have a chat with her. My sources tell me she claims to have been visiting with her parents on the night Armand was stabbed. They live in London and have vouched for her being with them. So, let’s go and talk to her.”

“We can’t just turn up at the hotel. She’ll never agree to talk to us. Plus, reception won’t tell us what room she’s in. They’ll be even hotter on ensuring guest privacy than usual, given the circumstances.”

Jack flashes me a know-it-all grin. “Room nine.”

“How on earth do you know what room she’s checked into?” I gasp.

He taps the side of his nose. “Contacts.”

“Contacts. Right. Whoever these contacts you keep mentioning are, I’m extremely grateful you’ve got them.”

“Get your coat then and let’s go and flash my fake ID for a chat with Bryony.”

The car park at the traditional-looking Royal Oak in Derwentbeck is surprisingly full. Jack finds a place to park the Land Rover and we walk into the hotel’s front entrance, me trying my best to look like just another customer. Jack doesn’t even bother going up to the reception desk, just heads straight for the stairs. On the first floor we locate Bryony’s room.

“Are you sure we should do this?” I hiss at him, losing my nerve. “She’s a grieving woman. The last thing she needs is more people questioning her about Armand’s demise.”

“And the last thing
you
need is to be charged with a murder you didn’t commit, right?”

Touché.

He knocks on the door and a wary female voice calls out, “Who is it?”

“Room service, Mrs Seville,” Jack lies.

“I didn’t order any room service.”

“I have a bottle of our best cognac for you, madam, courtesy of the hotel manager, Vincent Thornsmith, to offer you our sincere condolences on your dreadful loss.”

Bingo. I can hear the door being unlocked. A woman who would be stunningly beautiful if it wasn’t for the dark circles under her puffy eyes, peers out at us. Instantly I recognise her as the woman from the black and white photo I found in the drawer at Armand’s flat. She looks a little different, but the photo was probably taken a while back. Everyone changes. “Where’s the cognac? You don’t look like you’re from room service.”  She starts to shut the door in our faces but Jack’s too fast for her. He wedges his foot in the bottom of the door, effectively stopping her from closing it.

“Mrs Seville, we’re investigating your husband’s case and need your help to bring his killer to justice,” Jack says, reaching into his jacket pocket and flashing her his fake ID. “I’m sure you want us to catch who did this as quickly as possible.”

“I’ve already spoken to the police,” she mutters, still blocking us from getting into her room.

“That was just the guys from the local constabulary. Around these parts they’re not used to dealing with murder cases, especially not high profile ones like this. So, they’ve drafted in the experts, which is where Lizzie and I come in. We work for the Celebrity Crimes Investigation Agency and are specialists in solving cases like this one. Now, if you could please spare us ten minutes of your time we’d appreciate it and then we can be on our way.”

Mrs Seville frowns. “Why did you lie about being room service before?”

“I thought you probably wanted to be alone, you know, in the circumstances. Which we totally understand, of course we do. So, I figured you’d be unlikely to want to open the door to more questions and you’ll be avoiding the press too, naturally. Those media guys can be a devious bunch, making up excuses and lying to gain access to people and places, all in search of a story. That’s why I said I had a bottle of cognac for you from the manager and then actually named him. Increased my chances of you letting me in.”

“Even so…” Finally she steps back and beckons us into the room, hastily closing the door after a quick check up and down the corridor.

I glance around the room. This must be one of the hotel’s luxury suites. It’s all chic furniture, gold and purple throws and cushions, and expensive-looking artwork.

“What do you want to know?” Bryony asks. Her whole body has the air of a woman who has had enough of life’s curve balls being hurled at her.

“When was the last time you saw your husband?” Jack asks as he flips open a notebook produced from his jacket pocket.

“A few weeks ago,” she replies, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands as though she’s cold. “We had a business meeting. My husband was an amazing chef but sadly didn’t have much business acumen. I dealt with all that side of things, and we needed to decide what was going to happen to our joint projects during the divorce.” She glances up, first at Jack and then her deep brown eyes swivel towards me. “I’m assuming you know we’re separated?”

Jack nods. “Do you have a lot of joint projects?”

“Surprisingly, no. I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies but as far as joint investments go there’s only really the restaurant up here in Cumbria.”

“You co-own the Veggies?” I check from my chair in front of the dressing table.

She narrows her eyes at me. “Somebody else called it that earlier. Dreadful name. I always had my doubts as to whether opening a classy establishment in the back of beyond was a sound business idea. At the time I told Armand the kind of thing we wanted to create would be beyond the budget and the tastes of the locals in a place like this. He convinced me his reputation would be enough to bring in the tourists from the nearby holiday areas, while setting up in Amswick would mean we had considerably lower operating costs, and for once, he was right.”

So, Bryony Seville is a business and culinary snob then, is she? OK, some parts of Cumbria are mostly farming communities which are not exactly known as being high-end diners, but other parts of the county attract the tourists eager to sample such delights and happy to pay top dollar to do so.

I lean forward. “So why did you invest in the restaurant? You know, if you thought it didn’t make sound business sense.”

“Like I said, he convinced me. Plus, it was my husband’s dream to set up a place like this. He said London was saturated with celebrity chef establishments and he wanted to be a big fish in a small pond, not the other way around. He grew up in Cumbria, though he doesn’t have any family in the area these days, they all moved away to the bright lights of Manchester. He found the building for the restaurant and the figures added up, so I agreed to get the funding in place.”

“And what will happen to the restaurant now?” Jack asks, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Bryony tucks a stray strand of blonde hair into her up-do and shrugs delicately. “I don’t know yet. I’m too upset about Armand to have got my business brain around the future prospects for the place.” She pauses and sighs. “There is the unfortunate and terribly ghoulish obsession people have with visiting scenes of crimes. Peter, the assistant manager, tells me the answer machine is full to bursting with people wanting to book tables. It’s all in very bad taste but business is business…”

“Have you been given clearance to open the place up again?” I check, wondering if I’ll need to report to duty tomorrow. The thought sends shivers up my spine but I manage to stifle an obvious shudder. Just.

“Yes, it will be soon. There are still a few things which need sorting though. We’re now fully booked for the next three weeks, lunch and dinner. I have a lot of contacts in the culinary world, and a good friend of mine can spare me a few weeks to take over as head chef on a temporary basis until we decide if we’re staying open longer term or not. Carl might have a fierce reputation in the kitchen, but he’s a total sweetheart outside of it.”

I gulp. Carl? Does she mean who I think she means?

“Carl who?” Jack asks without preamble.

“Carl Silvers, of course,” Bryony replies, looking at Jack as though he must have been living on another planet if he doesn’t know who ‘Carl’ is.

Ah. Just as I’d feared. When I was employed in the world of publicity back in London, Carl was a client of the agency I worked for. He was temperamental and volatile, and Nicole, his account manager, had to treat him with kid gloves.

“Of course,” she continues. “There’s a certain irony in Carl taking over from Armand.”

Jack looks up from scribbling notes. “And why is that?”

Seriously? I thought Jack worked for the Celebrity Crimes Investigation Agency and he knew all about famous people and what goes on in their world. Before I can fill him in on the details, Bryony starts speaking again. “Carl and Armand were rivals on the reality TV show Culinary Cook Off. They both reached the final along with a woman called Francesca. They were, understandably, bitter rivals. Armand won the competition but Carl still got the fame and fortune because he got himself signed up with some brilliant PR agency.”

That would the PR agency I used to work for.

“Anton and Hartwell, I think they were called,” she continues. “They got him all kinds of jobs, including presenting a Saturday morning TV cookery show for a while. Carl doesn’t have his own place, but he travels all over the world, working on cruise ships and in fancy hotels as guest chef and teaching very expensive and exclusive cookery courses as well. He was taking a break before heading to America to film a new travel series with a focus on food, and kindly agreed to cut his vacation short to be the guest chef up here.”