Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery) (11 page)

This feels wrong on so many levels. OK, I wasn’t Armand’s number one fan, but the Veggies was his dream and to not only be stabbed in his kitchen but then have his arch rival take over as head chef…

“When does this Carl guy arrive?” Jack is back to writing in his notebook again.

“Tomorrow.”

He stands up and tucks the book away. “Well, thank you for letting us take up your time, Mrs Seville. We’ll be on our way now and let you get some rest.”

We will? But Jack hasn’t asked about the divorce or life insurance policies or…

Bryony gives the slightest of nods in acknowledgement of Jack’s words and leads us to the door.

“I thought you knew all about celebrities,” I say as we make our way back towards the hotel foyer. “How come you didn’t know who Carl is and about this rivalry between him and Armand? I thought you said the other day you were going to look into any enemies Armand might have made on the Culinary Cook Off show.”

Jack flashes me a grin. “I did know. I just wanted Bryony to tell me about it in her own words so I could see if there were any clues tucked into those words.”

“And were there?”

“I think so,” he says as we reach the bottom step and head across the hotel’s lobby.

“Such as?”

Outside, it’s now pouring with rain. I tug up the hood of my coat and dash after Jack through the now cold and miserable weather towards the Land Rover. Once we’re inside he turns to me. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Carl is doing Bryony a favour for more reason than being a culinary contact.”

Clipping my seatbelt into its slot, I stare at him. “You think they’re having a fling?”

“Certainly do,” he replies as he starts the vehicle up. “They’ll have covered their tracks well, especially with her being in the middle of a divorce, but I’d lay bets there’s something going on between them. I don’t suppose we’ve got a decent Wi-Fi signal in this car park, have we?”

I check my phone. “I might just have sufficient signal, why? Do you need me to check something?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll sort it when we get back to your place.” He guides the noisy, rattling Land Rover out onto the road. “It is all right if I come back to Eskdale, isn’t it? We can do some case research together.”

“You know this PR agency that Bryony mentioned? The one who got Carl Silvers all the work?” I venture as Jack turns the windscreen wipers on full tilt.

“You mean the same agency you used to work for, yeah…”

He knows! Of course he does. “You’ve been doing your homework then.”

“In the special agent business we prefer to call it background research, but yeah, I know all about you,” he grins mischievously.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if
all
really does mean
all,
but I decide to just keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to open a whole different can of worms just now. There’s enough going on as it is.

Back at Eskdale I’m making us both a hot drink to stave off the dreary weather when a knock on the door makes me jump. Yanking open the wooden door, I come face to face with two policemen in uniform. My stomach goes into freefall but I force a smile, trying not to show my fear. Shoving my clammy hands deep into my pockets, I chew nervously on my bottom lip.

“Yes, officers, can I help you with something?”

The older one, a gruff-looking man with a grey moustache, asks, “Lizzie Carter?”

I nod and gulp, forgetting to breathe now, my heart racing. This is it. They’re going to arrest me. My new life is over before it even really got going.

“We’d like you to accompany us to the police station for further questioning.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As the police car bumps its way along the track between Eskdale and the lane, I stare out of the window from my backseat prison. They haven’t arrested me - just asked me to ‘assist in their enquiries.’ I’d flashed a panic-stricken look at Jack, and he’d quietly suggested I should do as they requested. He’d even asked if I had a lawyer I wanted to accompany me. I wanted to scream,
“I don’t have a lawyer and I’m not a murderer,’
but instead I’d shaken my head, grabbed a coat and followed the policemen to their vehicle. Jack had promised he’d follow behind in the Land Rover and that he’d contact a local guy who was a friend of a friend to see if he could come to the station in his ‘legal capacity’ to sit with me during questioning.

At the station I’m ushered into ‘Interview Room D’ and take a seat at the rickety Formica table. The room is windowless and stifling. I think I’m about to have a major panic attack. My heart is thudding so loudly everyone must be able to hear it. My back is prickly with sweat and my nails, such as they are, are biting into the palms of my clenched hands. I can’t believe this is happening to me. It feels as though I’ve been here for hours but in reality, thanks to the clock ticking away on the wall, I can see it’s only been about twenty minutes. What are we waiting for? The door opens and a man walks in looking all official. This must the person who’s going to interview me. He holds the door open and I realise there’s somebody else a few steps behind him. A commotion in the corridor makes me wonder what on earth is going on out there. Then the second man walks in and offers a hand to shake. “Mike Gilliver, your legal representation.”

Wow. This guy must be a really good friend of Jack’s to have raced over here so quickly. How am I going to pay for his legal services though? Knowing I’m not in a position to quibble about money or attempting to negotiate fees, I just nod and shake his hand. “Lizzie Carter.”

He takes a seat and the policeman begins firing questions at me.

“So, Miss Carter, you’ve worked at the
Viande Et Deaux
Legumes for how long?”

“Three months,” I reply, fidgeting nervously.

“And you liked working there?”

Past tense.
Liked.
Does that mean I’m fired? Focus on the question, I tell myself. Like is probably stretching the truth. It was a means to an end but if I say that then will it put me in an even worse light than I’m in already?

“Take your time answering the questions,” Mike says, shooting me a reassuring smile. He looks about the same age as Jack. I wonder if they were at school together.

Cautiously I say, “Everyone was very friendly.”

“A little too friendly perhaps?” the policeman asks, with his steely gaze.

Ah. So it sounds as if the girls have told the police about Armand making passes at some of his female employees. Including me. The others must have been dragged down here for questioning too then. But they aren’t the one who stayed late with him that night. They aren’t the one who was the last employee to see him alive, the last to leave the Veggies, only moments before he was murdered.

Just over an hour later I make my way out of the interrogation room, my head pounding. I’m relieved to be walking away. They made it sound as though I was going to be arrested. Going on about how I had motive and opportunity and means and all sorts of other things. Mike was great, he told me when to answer questions and when not to. I honestly felt like a criminal in there. It was beyond horrible.

“You did a good job,” Mike says as we walk through to the police station waiting area. Several people are hanging around, presumably waiting to report crimes or maybe even to be interviewed themselves. A part of me had hoped Jack would be here, but I can’t see him anywhere. Not to mention I need to somehow get home, and I’d hoped he’d be the one to take me.

Mike must be a mind reader because he says, “I’ll run you home. I’ve got enough time.”

Outside I follow Mike across the car park towards a flash BMW, but then I see the muddy Land Rover parked off to one side. A toot on its horn ensures I’ve spotted Jack sitting in the front seat. He beckons me over. I shoot a questioning look at Mike.

“Go ahead,” he replies. “We’re done for now. Let me know if you need me for anything else.”

“I need to pay you for your time,” I protest as he starts to walk away. “Thanks for rushing over here. I really do appreciate it.”

“No worries,” he says with a wave at Jack. “There’s no charge. Jack’s a good friend. He’s got me out of a few scrapes over the years.”

“But I have to pay you,” I protest.

My legal advisor shakes his head. “I’d say see you around but, in the circumstances, I’m thinking you’d rather not see me again!”

I nod, thank him effusively again and walk towards a waiting Jack. I’m still a little annoyed he didn’t come inside. I shouldn’t be though. He’s doing so much for me already – and he arranged for Mike to dash over here to be with me during the interview to ensure I didn’t say something incriminating by mistake.

Jack leans across to open the passenger door for me and I climb inside. Before I can open my mouth he says, “Sorry, I couldn’t go into the police station to wait. Somebody might be around who would recognise me from that incident when I gave false identification to those guys in Armand’s flat.”

Of course.
I’d forgotten about that.

He starts up the rickety Land Rover and we head out of the car park. “So, how did it go?”

I wriggle into my seat as I click my seatbelt into its slot. “It was dreadful. Honestly, Jack, I felt like a criminal in there. I was sure they were going to charge me with his murder.”

“Mike helped you out though, yeah?” he checks.

“Yes, he was great.” I pause, fiddling with my hands nervously. “Thanks for arranging that so quickly. I owe you.”

“Maybe you can take me out for a drink sometime, when all of this is over.”

I nod, not really listening, my mind still going over and over what happened in that interview room. Are the police still thinking I did it or have I managed to convince them I’m innocent?

“Look, if they had enough to charge you with Armand’s death, then they would have done so. I think they’re still fishing around, trying to find some decent leads on the case.” He reaches across and, in a surprisingly intimate gesture, squeezes my knee.

I like it.

“We’re going to solve this case and then you can stop looking over your shoulder all the time.”

I like the sound of that too. Jack seems to be doing and saying the right things again. He drives me back to Eskdale and together we walk across the yard. Spotting the abandoned makeshift paste table he asks, “Want to crack on with the decorating? My offer to lend you a hand still stands.”

Well, it would be something to keep me busy for an hour, and it will keep Jack around for a little while too. Right now, I don’t want to be alone. I stop walking and turn to face him. “You’re sure? My friend Stella is coming to stay and I suppose I wanted the place to look half decent for her. She hasn’t visited before.”

“Would this Stella be a friend from London?”

I nod. “I told her about Armand. I thought she should know her host could be arrested at any moment,” I say, attempting to make a joke of things, even though I feel far from jovial.

He smiles, and it’s a mix of endearing and cheeky. “Let’s get cracking with this wall papering then, shall we? Oh, and I have some news about the poster we found in the kitchen with Armand’s photo on it. I spoke to the designers who are sorting the new menus and marketing bits for the Veggies and they definitely didn’t put the flyer together. They said they were really sorry to hear about his death. I could tell they wanted to ask what happens regarding payment for the work they’ve done so far but thought it inappropriate, so I took pity and told them to put their invoice in as usual but addressed to the assistant manager Pete. That would be right, wouldn’t it?”

I nod. “So who did make that flyer then? Armand’s pretty much useless on a computer. He wouldn’t know how to do something like that. Maybe it was from his manager. What did you say his name was? Billy something?”

“Brunsworth. Billy Brunsworth. Yeah, it could have come from him. I still need to look into this Billy guy.”

Soon we’ve got everything set up for our spot of DIY and the kitchen revamp is underway

“I’ll just unroll this paper and then you grab hold of the bottom bit and mark on it where we need to cut it off.” Clambering onto a kitchen chair, Jack holds the paper, lining it up with the top of the wall. He takes the pencil from behind his ear and tosses it in my direction. I spring forward to catch it but, in my haste, collide with the dining chair that Jack is standing on. Frantically grabbing the back of the chair for support I quickly realise that the cheeks of my now rather-flushed face are a matter of inches away from Jack’s own denim-clad ones. He wobbles on the chair above me and reaches out to steady himself against a kitchen cupboard. “You OK down there?”

I straighten up, not daring to look at him, my cheeks bright red. “Yes, yes, I’m fine, thanks. I’ll just measure the paper.”

Over an hour later we’re almost finished. Jack’s pretty good at this sort of stuff.

“Lizzie, I just wanted to measure up that other roll for the corner… oh sorry, watch out!”

Determined to finish off at least one wall of the papering myself, I’d climbed onto another dining chair to hang some of the already-measured lining paper above the doorway. Now, leaning across to the wall I lose my balance, the chair slips away from beneath me and I fall sideways, straight into Jack’s arms. To give him credit, he easily catches me and then sets me back on my feet.

“No need to throw yourself at me,” he quips, then asks, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Thanks,” I reply, straightening and feeling embarrassed thanks to my stupid pride and my determination to prove I’m a competent DIYer. I notice he’s trying, unsuccessfully, to hide a smirk. “Why are you laughing?” I demand, standing before him, ripped lining paper in one hand, paste brush in the other.

He tugs playfully at my ponytail. “You’ve got paste in your hair.”

“What? Oh, brilliant, that’ll never come out!”

He gently takes the remnants of the lining paper from my hand. “Calm down. I’ll get a flannel and some water - that might do it,” he says, openly laughing now.

“Stop laughing at me!” I protest, though I’m fighting back a fit of the giggles myself now too. I swipe the paste brush at him.

Instead of darting out of range as expected, he moves closer, defying me to splosh paste on him, a challenging look in his eyes. He reaches to take the brush, getting paste splodges all over himself in the process. His strong hands grasp my own and then slowly and gently pull the brush away. “You’re a liability with a paste brush!”

He walks outside, taking the brush to dump it into the paste bucket. I follow him, and as we both dissolve into a fit of giggles, I feel some of the tension ebb out of me, just a little bit. After a moment I look over to see him watching me, his smile and laughter now gone.

The next moment he’s dumped the brush on the floor and closed the distance between us. And then he’s kissing me like there’s no tomorrow. The kiss is deep and delicious and feels… right. So right. Without even thinking, I melt further into our embrace, reaching up to slide my arms around his neck. A million voices in my head are telling me this is probably a huge mistake. But I choose to ignore each and every one of them as Jack wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me even closer. Drops of rain start to fall and still we stay where we are, locked into a kiss which is making my lips tingle and my toes curl. When the rain changes from a few light drops to a downpour we reluctantly break apart and make a dash back inside the farmhouse.