Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery) (8 page)

I’m not convinced, but I am grateful for his attempt to ease my troubled mind, if only a little.

“Now, I need you to tell me what the procedures are each night at the Veggies regarding locking up. At least we know he was definitely killed here, in the kitchen.”

I frown. “At least?”

“Yeah. Sometimes people are moved. You know by how much blood there is at the spot where the victim is discovered but here, well, there was loads of…”

I raise a hand to stop him. “Don’t say it, please!”

He, in turn, raises a questioning eyebrow. “Squeamish, huh? OK, I won’t go into the details.”

“How do you even
know
the details?” I ask, moving to rest my hands on the nearest bit of stainless steel work surface for support, feeling a touch light-headed. 

Jack immediately grabs my hands to prevent my planned supportive lean. “Fingerprints,” he says again.

Is it my imagination or does he hold on to my fingers for longer than strictly necessary? He slowly uncurls his fingers from mine and I push my thoughts away from his touch and back to our investigation.

“Haven’t they done all of that anyway? You know, dusted for fingerprints? I thought the crime scene had been checked over, cleaned and cleared.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “But in my experience, you can never be too careful.”

I don’t want to ask what his experience is. In these circumstances I’m thinking ignorance is probably best. “OK. You haven’t answered my question though, about how you know Armand was definitely…” I struggle to say the word.

“Killed here?” Jack helpfully supplies.

I nod.

He taps the side of his nose in the universal ‘that’s my business’ gesture. “Let’s just say I have my sources and leave it at that.”

“So, what do you want to know again? You were saying you need me to tell you about night time locking up procedures here?”

“Please.”

“Well, as soon as the last customers have left the premises, we lock and bolt the front door.”

“Lock with a key and then slide across a bolt as well?” Jack checks.

“Yes. Then we do any clearing up that needs sorting. Glasses back to the bar. Any coffee cups and plates to the kitchen. We don’t hoover up or anything like that. The cleaners do that the following morning.”

Jack nods thoughtfully. “And the toilets? I’m assuming they’re dealt with by the cleaners the next morning too?”

“That’s right.” I tilt my head to one side questioningly. “Why?”

“If you were the last person to leave here at around midnight and Armand was killed around that time, then somebody else got into the premises and was waiting for you to leave so that Armand was all alone. That person could have been a customer in the bar, and he could have gone off to the toilets and hidden in there until after closing time.”

My hands fly to my mouth as I realise a killer could have been lurking in the toilets when I was bustling about doing my usual closing-up duties that night. “I could have served the killer a meal in the restaurant!”

“It’s a possibility but I’d say there’s more chance of him being in the bar instead. If someone books a table they’d need to give what kind of details?”

“Just a name and a phone number,” I answer.

“So, the killer could have given false details but he would also have had to pay in cash because a card payment would have been traceable. The prices at the Veggies aren’t cheap, so most people probably pay by card these days, yes?”

“Yes.” I close my eyes and think back to that night. “I can’t recall taking any cash payments on the tables I served that night. You’re right, cash is pretty unusual these days in here. Most of our diners are visiting the area while they’re on holiday or have made a special trip to celebrate a birthday or anniversary. They’re attracted by Armand’s excellent reputation and celebrity status. Our prices aren’t sky high but they’re still pretty expensive. There are at least two wait staff working most nights though, more on the weekends…”

“So, somebody else could have taken a cash payment on a table,” he adds, reading my thoughts, “but I still think the killer would have headed for the bar instead; it makes life easier for them. Our other options are that the killer broke into the Veggies somehow, but there’s no sign of a break-in.”

I shoot him a questioning look which he correctly interprets. “Yes. Information from my contacts again. Plus, I had a bit of a scoot around outside before you turned up. No broken windows now boarded up or anything to suggest a break-in. They couldn’t have got in via the accommodation upstairs without a ladder which would have raised attention. There is the option somebody, as in a member of staff, let the killer in. To do that they must either have known the person they were giving access to or they were paid a hefty amount to just do it anyway and keep quiet. Though, with the news of the murder and the police asking all the staff questions, I’m thinking that somebody might well have panicked and talked by now.”

“Which they haven’t…” I half say and half question. Jack’s contact probably knows the answer to this query as well.

“Which they haven’t,” he confirms.

“So, the most likely option then is that the killer was lurking in the toilets until after closing.”

“Exactly. So, back to the locking up procedures. The door between the kitchen and the restaurant doesn’t have a lock on it. Meaning it would have been simple for the killer to come through here, to the kitchen, after you left, and then attack Armand.”

My mouth is dry at the very thought, so I just nod my agreement.

“Did Armand tidy his knives away while you were still here?”

Forcing my mind to remember, I mentally travel back to that fateful night. I was more focussed on providing my requested opinion on the new bits from the designers and ensuring I got out of here without Armand hitting on me than noticing things like whether or not Armand had tidied away his stuff. I conjure up an image of the kitchen. I think I remember seeing his knives lying on their leather pouch on the central workstation in the kitchen.

“I think his knives were cleaned and tidied onto the top of the leather pouch he keeps them in but not closed up inside. I can’t be one hundred percent sure, though. My mind and my eyes were on other things.”

“Like the design stuff he asked you to stay late to check out?” Jack clarifies.

“Yes… and other things too.”

He frowns. “Such as?”

“Armand had wandering hands,” I admit, my voice quiet, a shudder escaping as I utter the words.

Jack leans over the kitchen’s island work station, his gloved hands resting on the steel surface, his shoulders tense, expression angry. “You’re saying he hit on you?”

I nod slowly, avoiding his gaze.

“And, of course, you reported this as sexual harassment, didn’t you?” His voice has a hard edge to it now and, even though I’m still not meeting his gaze, I can feel he’s glaring at me.

“No.” I almost whisper the word.

“And why not?” he demands.

“There aren’t many employers around these parts, and I need the money to subsidise Eskdale,” I say solemnly, knowing what I did was wrong. I should have reported him, but I wasn’t the only who had that particular responsibility, was I? What about the other girls he hit on?

“You’re not the only female member of staff at the Veggies keeping quiet about Armand’s harassment, are you?” he correctly guesses.

I shake my head.

Jack turns away, curses loudly and slams a hand down hard on the door of the walk-in fridge.

“I know I should have said something,” I say, trying to make excuses. “But…”

Jack shakes his head and walks towards me. I back away and instantly his whole expression and demeanour changes. The scowl goes and his voice softens. “What did he do?”

“Nothing… nothing serious,” I stammer back. “I was taking the rubbish out one night and he came out and met me behind the dumpsters. He asked me out and tried to corner me and kiss me. I made a joke of it. Told him I had a fiancé with a black belt in karate and then ducked out of his reach.”

“If he’d already tried it on with you, then why the hell did you agree to stay late with him that night he was stabbed?” he asks, still keeping his voice soft and body in unthreatening mode.

“I couldn’t really refuse. Anyway, I didn’t think things would get out of hand…” My sentence drifts into the air, unfinished.

“What about the other women, members of staff, he’s hit on. Have you ever talked about it between you?”

“Yes, with some of the waitresses. We think there might be others too. The Veggies has a kitchen garden. It’s just on the edge of the village, not out the back of the premises here. It’s run by a woman called Katya. She always gives him a very wide berth when she brings fresh produce into the kitchen and she glowers at him a lot.”

Jack swears again. “So now we have several women, understandably fed up at being groped by their non-PC boss, any one of whom might have flipped and attacked him with a knife.”

“I’m sure they would never…” I begin.

“People can do all sorts of things they didn’t think themselves capable of when they’re backed into a corner.” He shoots me a questioning look. “You’re sure none of you have reported these incidents?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so, no. We all wanted to keep our jobs.”

“OK.” He sighs and rubs at his face, looking annoyed. “Well, it’s definitely something to factor into this investigation. What are their names?”

Should I tell him? We were keeping it quiet, not wanting to stir up any trouble but now, well, in the circumstances, I have to share their names so that Jack can try to clear mine. “Marla Heaton, Vanessa Pace and Katya Stevens. Marla and Katya share a flat in the village with another girl. Vanessa moved to Delamere a month or so ago. Her fiancé works in a hotel in the tourist area and they’d just started renting a place together. Vanessa got a job in a pub over there, a place called the Fellside, right in the middle of town.”

“And now I’m beginning to understand why they found this guy murdered. Right. Let’s get back to checking this place out, shall we? Are there any CCTV cameras on the premises? Inside, I mean. I already checked out the exterior of the property.”

“No. Not that I’m aware of anyway.”

Gesturing towards the door to the restaurant, he says, “Let’s have a look around in there.”

Nervously I nod, glancing around us. “And we’re definitely OK to be in here like this? I thought it would be a five minute check on the kitchen, not a lengthy grand tour.”

“There isn’t anybody else on the premises, so we’re fine. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure we’re safe. Promise.”

He seems to be making me a lot of promises lately. Can he live up to them though?

I stop in my tracks, a thought popping into my working-overtime head. “What if Armand’s wife turns up here? The news of his death has been released now, so the police would have told her first, right? She might have a key and could…”

“She’s too upset to travel up here at the moment apparently,” he replies.

How does he know these things?

“Look, forget about that for now,” he soothes. “Let’s just get on with our search.”

He leads me into the restaurant. The door swings shut behind me, making me almost jump out of my skin. My nerves are all over the place. I stay behind Jack and peer around the room via the light from his torch. It’s strange, seeing it like this. It’s so dark and eerily quiet. The empty solid oak chairs and tables seem foreboding, lurking in the shadows, as if they’re waiting for customers who will never again walk through the doors. Without their cream linen covers they look bare and jar with the smart and stylish décor of the Veggies. The old original wooden floor, completely re-varnished when the place was fitted out, squeaks ominously beneath my feet. Without the usual delicious food aromas wafting through it, the room around me doesn’t even feel like the restaurant of the Veggies. It seems redundant. Next, we check out the bar area and then I point towards the door into the corridor which the Ladies’ and Gents’ toilets are located off. Jack goes to look for anything suspicious in them while I hang around in the hallway, biting my fingernails again, my back pressed against the wall so nobody can creep up on me. I’ll soon have no fingernails left
to
bite.

Thankfully Jack reappears after just a few minutes and nods towards the door upstairs. “You want to check out Armand’s flat upstairs?”

I just want to get out of here. It feels as though we’ve been ages conducting our search. And the longer we’re here, the more chance there is of somebody – the police, Armand’s wife, the killer - walking through the door and stumbling across our little private investigation.

Jack doesn’t even reply, instead he heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time. I follow him. Not out of curiosity, more out of personal safety. At the top of the stairs there’s a small vestibule area and the door into the flat which is, surprisingly, wide open. I grab at Jack’s arm, my whole body jangling with nerves. “I don’t think we should go in.”

He gently lifts my hand from where my fingers are digging into his arm. Good job I have bitten all my nails down otherwise I’d probably be drawing blood by now. I expect him to drop my hand and stride off through the doorway. Instead he holds onto my hand as he edges into the flat, keeping me slightly behind him in a protective stance. For which I am extremely grateful. The flat is all open plan so we can instantly tell the space is empty. Phew. Thank goodness for small mercies.