Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery) (12 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I check my watch again. The campaign meeting in the village hall is due to start in ten minutes. There’s barely a handful of people in here, sitting and chatting on the uncomfortable orange plastic seats. We thought we had loads of support for our fight to save the village store but tonight’s attendance suggests otherwise. Where is everyone?

“I thought they’d be more people, dear, didn’t you?” Brenda says, echoing my own thoughts, her face etched with disappointment.

“Me too. Maybe they’ll all arrive right at the last minute,” I say, putting on a false cheery voice. Right now I feel anything but cheerful. The store campaign appears to be going pear-shaped, and Jack and I are desperately trying to uncover who killed Armand before I get arrested and charged with being a murderer. Come to think of it, maybe the two things are related. Are people staying away from tonight’s meeting because the rumour mill has me pegged as the kind of woman who attacks her boss with a knife?

The door opens and a young couple I don’t know walk in, glancing around. They spot me and look even more nervous. Before they can change their minds and bolt, Brenda wisely rushes over and welcomes them, showing them to some seats on the front row. Well, it’s a few extra, but the turnout is still abysmal.

“Oh,” Brenda says, as though she’s suddenly remembered something. “I forget to tell you that I heard back from the local council about my planning application query. They told me the plans have not been approved for the change of use yet. All that stuff on the letter we received from the property management company was nonsense. They’re obviously just trying to scare us even more than they are doing already.”

“I hate the way they’re behaving about all of this. It isn’t very professional, is it? But at least the planning hasn’t been approved yet. That’s a bit of a reprieve, for now.” I hear voices in the car park and duck towards the hall’s double wooden doors to see if it’s more people and whether I can encourage them inside. Peering around one of the doors, I spot Brenda’s husband George, and Jack. Jack’s here? My stomach does a few flip flops and my mind starts replaying the kiss we’d shared earlier on a tiny cinema-type screen inside my head. I think it’s the best kiss I have ever experienced. It felt like one of those moments in movies when the music swells and the lead actor and actress finally realise their true feelings for each other and all is well in their world.

Except all is not well in my world. Far from it. Maybe that’s why the kiss seemed so special. Something, perhaps, to do with the last kiss for a condemned woman?

Jack turns and spots me. His handsome face breaks into a smile as he continues his conversation with George, throwing me a little wave and a wink as he does so.

Once we’d ended the kiss and sought shelter from the rain, I thought things would suddenly be different and awkward, but they hadn’t been. I’d made coffees and we’d sat at the kitchen table and chatted about the investigation and what our next plan of action should be.

“Hey, Lizzie.” Jack strolls over and stands close to me. So close in fact that I start feeling a bit hot and bothered. “How’s it going? Loads of people ready to pull together and save the store?”

“Hardly.” I step back to put some space between us and also to let him
see past me into the hall and the paltry turnout.

Frowning, he says, “I thought everyone wanted to save the store.”

“I think having a murderer on the campaign team is putting people off.”

He spins round to look at me. “You’re kidding! People don’t think you’re a murderer.”

Another couple start to make their way inside, see me, stop and hastily turn around. Jack grabs the guy’s arm and almost pushes both of them inside, making it pretty much impossible for them to go through with the escape they were clearly contemplating.

“See!” I whisper hiss at him. “They saw me and were going to leg it out of here!”

Shaking his head he takes in the room. “This is crazy. I’m going to go to the local pubs and drag everyone out and up here to the village hall.”

“You can’t do that!” I say, appalled.

“I can and I will. People need to stop listening to stupid gossip and get their priorities straight,” he fumes.

George wanders in to stand between us. “Well, it’s seven o’clock. We should start the meeting.”

“No.” Jack waves a hand as he darts past us and out into the chilly September evening. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes to do what?” George asks me, a surprised expression on his face. “Where’s he going?”

“To the pub down the road to part everyone from their pints and haul them up here to the meeting.”

George nods his approval of Jack’s hare-brained scheme. “Right. We’ll give him ten minutes then.”

I lean against the doorway and watch Jack sprint down the street, soon disappearing inside the Ring O’Bells public house. Amazingly, within a matter of minutes, he’s leading some thirty or so people back towards the village hall. My stomach tightens with nerves. Now we just have to convince these people to support the campaign, and with Jack having dragged them away from their pints they probably won’t be in the best of moods. Standing to one side to let people through the doorway, I cross my fingers the meeting will all go off OK. It could all just descend into a heated debate about me and how likely it is that I stabbed Armand.

“I’ll go and check the other pub up the road, see if I can get any other interest. You make a start if you like.” Jack ushers the last of the batch of people into the hall and then sprints off once more along the road in search of any other people he can twist their arms to attend.

Following Brenda and George up the wooden steps at the side of the tiny stage to the top table, I feel sick with nerves. The sound of the squeaky floorboards echo around the village hall now that everyone is seated and waiting expectantly. When I’d got dressed for tonight I’d briefly contemplated putting on one of my black business suits which are still lurking in my wardrobe, stark reminders of my corporate past. Wearing a suit might have bolstered my confidence but it would also probably have alienated me even further from the locals. The jeans and sweater I’m wearing are, I’m sure, a much safer choice.

“Thank you for coming to this meeting to try to save the village store,” I say, knowing from the burning sensation that my cheeks are blushed bright red. “We hope that you’ll join us in trying to do everything we can possibly think of to try to keep the store open. Firstly, please all ensure that you sign the petition you’ll find in the store itself and in the local pubs.”

“The pub we were just dragged out of you mean!” heckles a man I don’t recognise, and I cringe at his words.

“There are also some letters printed off on the table here which are all written and ready to go,” I force myself to continue. “You just need to sign them and send them off to the local council to protest against the idea that we could lose the only store for miles around. We cannot allow Brenda and George’s wonderful shop to be converted into yet more holiday accommodation, something that we certainly don’t need. The store, I’m sure you’ll all agree, is a lifeline for the community in this village and the ones which surround it.”

“Hear! Hear!” Brenda claps enthusiastically at this remark and there’s a ripple of applause around the room. Encouraged, I continue to explain about the campaign and how local people can get involved to help in the battle to keep the store open. As I speak another dozen or so people filter into the hall and sit down towards the back, closely followed by Jack who grins at me, gives me a thumbs-up gesture and takes a seat himself.

One hour later the campaign has been discussed in great detail, several good ideas have come to the fore, and people are heading back to the pub to finish off the evening – and probably their earlier pints too.

“Joining us for a stronger drink, Lizzie?” George stops stacking chairs back into the alcove and wanders over to where I’m chatting with Brenda over a cup of tea.

“Oh, not for me, thanks. I don’t want to ruin people’s evening even more,” I say, attempting a lame joke.

Brenda flaps a hand at me. “Nonsense! You ignore the silly gossip and rumours, dear. You’re coming to the pub with us to celebrate a successful evening. People have taken letters to sign and post and offered help in distributing flyers and getting signatures on petitions. Now, I’d call that a success, wouldn’t you?”

I nod and smile weakly. “I think that’s more down to Jack’s efforts than mine though. He was the one who dragged everyone up here to the meeting.”

“Where is Jack? I must thank him,” Brenda says, looking around.

“If he’s any sense, he’s probably in the pub himself,” George says with a chuckle. “Come on, let’s go and join him.”

“I think I’ll head home. It’s been a long day.”

Brenda quirks a questioning brow at me. “You’re sure? You’re not just saying that to let those pesky gossipmongers win?”

I rest a hand on her arm. “I’m really tired. I just need an early night. Honestly.”

“Thanks for helping to organise all this, Lizzie. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.” Brenda places her cup on the table and envelops me a warm hug which goes a long way towards lifting my spirits.

“You’re welcome. I just hope that it does the trick and you manage to keep the store.” I watch the two of them leave and then shut and lock the doors behind them. I need to return the keys to the village hall to the caretaker, who is probably in the pub with all of the others. I can just pop it through the letterbox of his cottage on my way home though rather than face tracking him down in the local hostelry.

“Not going to the pub?”

I jump and clasp a hand to my chest. “Jack! You scared me! I thought everybody had left. I’d just locked up.”

“Nope, I’m still here. Just taking a phone call in the corridor out the back.”

I wonder who the call was from. Could it have been something to do with the investigation? It could also have been a woman he was chatting to - an ex-girlfriend, a future girlfriend.  Brenda had said the other day that Jack was single so I presume there isn’t a current girlfriend. Especially after the way he’d kissed me earlier today. A flicker of jealousy bubbles inside of me. This is crazy. Jack Mathis is trouble. The last thing I need right now is more trouble, and yet…

Perched on the edge of the table for support, the pressures of the investigation, the campaign and running the farm all crash together, and a wave of tiredness washes over me.

Jack peers at me, concern in his eyes. “You all right?”

“I’m fi-”

“Fine,” he finishes the sentence for me. “You were about to say, once again, that you’re fine. Well, you’re obviously not fine. Why do you keep pushing people away when they’re worried about you or trying to help you?”

The kiss we shared is running again on the mini cinema screen in my head. “I didn’t push you away earlier.”

He stops frowning and his features break into a cheeky grin. “No,” he says, nodding. “You definitely didn’t push me away when we were sharing that amazing kiss.”

I blink and look across at him. Did he really just describe our kiss as amazing? I mean, I’d rank it in the amazing category myself, but men aren’t usually very effusive about things like that. Adam certainly wasn’t one for romantic gestures or whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Could this crime-busting special agent, all six foot plus of muscle and heart-stopping smile, be one of those rare creatures? A romantic guy? Surely not…

Anyway, I can’t risk getting involved with him. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation. I should never have let that kiss happen.

Silence hangs between us, and as I shuffle my backside across the table a little more in an effort to get comfortable, Jack rubs a hand at the back of his neck and looks plain old uncomfortable. I rack my brains for something to say, needing a change of topic.

“How did you know that everyone would be in the pub before the meeting?” is the best I can come up with.

“That’s just where people congregate, more comfortable there than in this draughty old place with the most uncomfortable chairs on the planet. Come on, let’s lock up and take the keys to the caretaker, he’ll be in the pub as well no doubt.”

“No. I’ll just drop them through his letterbox on my way home.”

He meets my gaze and then nods. I’m guessing he knows I’m not going to be persuaded to walk into a crowded Ring O’Bells public house and have everyone staring at me. “Oh, I almost forgot. That call I just took. It was from a contact of mine with the feedback about Armand’s mobile phone records.”

Instantly I perk up, eager to hear his news. “And?”

“At the time you mentioned hearing Armand yelling and ranting on his phone, the call appears to have been to his manager, Billy Brunsworth.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling unaccountably disappointed. “I thought it would turn out to be his wife. So, there was something he wasn’t happy about with his manager too then.”

“Looks that way. I’m already looking into the background of this Billy guy. Hopefully we’ll find something useful there soon.”

“Yes. Preferably before I get arrested.”

He walks over and takes my hand. “You won’t get arrested. I’m on the case. The local constabulary might not have much experience with solving murders, especially ones involving celebrities, but I have. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”