A Sprinkle of Sabotage

by Fiona Leitch

  ‘Who would want to murder Jeremy Mayhew?’ asked Mum. ‘He was a bit of a hellraiser, by all accounts, so he probably wouldn’t have lived to a ripe old age anyway. All they had to do was wait a few years.’

  ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘Faith admitted that they’d had an affair years back and that he wasn’t exactly her favourite person, but there was no reason for her to want him dead.’

  ‘It’s so sad,’ said Daisy. ‘I’d never heard of him before yesterday, but when we watched that scene they were filming he was sick.’

  ‘He was sick?’ Mum looked puzzled. ‘So maybe that’s why—’

  ‘That’s sick as in ‘really good’,’ I explained. ‘Zack uses that expression too…’ Daisy blushed but looked pleased.

  ‘So we need to find out who could have had a grudge against Jeremy,’ I said.

  ‘Or Zack,’ said Daisy. I looked at her sharply. ‘I mean, why else use pufferfish toxin? Can you just go and buy it in Tesco’s?’

  ‘No. No, you can’t…’ I said thoughtfully. Why hadn’t that occurred to me? My daughter was beautiful and clever. ‘So the murderer made a point of using it to implicate Zack… The poor bloke’s wracked with guilt. I don’t know, but it could even end his career…’ I looked at Daisy. ‘That’s very insightful, you know. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  She smiled. ‘So would now be a good time to admit that the maths test was actually really rubbish?’

  I laughed. ‘Who needs maths anyway? I want to phone Zack and tell him he’s off the hook, but this is all still speculation at this point. Until we get the lab results back on the fish guts, anyway. And I should probably talk to Nathan first…’

  Mum looked at me. ‘Is there a reason why you don’t want to?’ There was, bless her, but she was probably thinking it was to do with Tony, and I didn’t want to tell her the real reason in front of Daisy because she might be upset and I couldn’t handle that.

  I was saved from answering because my phone rang. I immediately thought, with a sick feeling in my tummy, That’ll be Nathan, but when I looked it was a number I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Jodie? What the crikey hell is going on? I leave my food truck for a few days and someone dies—’ The Italian was getting overexcited. Any minute now he’d cry mamma mia! and I would lose it.

  ‘Gino, Gino, calm down! The police—’

  ‘They contacted me, this DCI Winters—’

  ‘Withers. His name’s Withers.’ And it really is a TERRIBLE surname, I thought. Jodie Withers did not sound great. It didn’t have a nice ring to it. Honestly.

  ‘DCI Whatever, he told me that Zack had poisoned someone with his fugu sashimi and I told him, that’s impossible! But I don’t think he believed me.’

  ‘Why is it impossible? I think you’re right. I don’t think it was the fish, but—’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t the fish! You think I let him have poisonous fish?’ Gino sounded exasperated, and he was making me feel the same way.

  ‘Look, just calm down and tell me. Why couldn’t it have been the fish?’

  ‘Because it was Takifugu Oblongus – the North American pufferfish. I got it from a supplier up in Scotland, a fish farm. It’s the only type they sell to the general public.’

  ‘Let’s assume I don’t understand the significance of that, shall we?’ I said patiently. ‘Why couldn’t it have been this North American pufferfish?’

  Gino sighed, clearly disgusted at my lack of knowledge around the genus Tetraodontidae, because of course there was a lot of call for pufferfish in Cornwall, generally speaking… ‘Because it’s not toxic.’

  I recovered from my shock long enough to calm Gino down and get the name of the seafood supplier from him. I promised him that the food truck was still in safe hands, death by poisoning notwithstanding, and that I would keep him informed of further developments.

  Mum and Daisy were looking at me, having only heard my side of the conversation. Knowing that it was terribly unprofessional, but reminding myself that as I wasn’t a professional anymore I didn’t have to worry about stuff like that, I filled them in on Gino’s bombshell.

  ‘Wow!’ said Daisy.

  ‘Fudging heck!’ said Mum.

  ‘Innit?’ I said. ‘I didn’t even know there was such a thing as non-toxic pufferfish. And Zack obviously didn’t, either.’ I thought back to what Mike Mancuso had said earlier – that he’d allowed Zack to go ahead and serve the fugu because Gino had told him he would make sure it was safe. But he hadn’t told him how he’d do that.

  ‘I’d better tell Nathan,’ I said, frowning. I caught Mum looking at me curiously again, but there was no way I was going to tell her about him leaving when I didn’t want to even think about it, let alone discuss it with someone who wouldn’t let me pretend I didn’t have any feelings for him… I have tackled drunken hooligans waving broken bottles at me, and disarmed a knife-wielding maniac more than once, and yet at that moment I would rather have faced one of them than Nathan. Physical risks I’m okay with; emotional ones, not so much.

  ‘I need another cup of tea,’ I said, and wandered over to the kettle with my phone. While I waited for it to boil, I typed a text message to Nathan. Yes, I am a coward. I’ve never pretended I wasn’t.

  Just spoke to Gino and he says the fish was a NON-TOXIC variety. So was definitely NOT the fish!

  I hesitated for a moment, then put:

  J x

  Then hesitated again and added:

  xx

  And hit send before I wussed out and deleted them. And then of course I wished I hadn’t put three x’s at the end, because, you know, one could be a kiss from a friend, like the way you kiss someone hello on the cheek, two could possibly be construed as being European (one on each cheek), but three … three kisses was definite I’m-thinking-about-snogging-you territory.

  Maybe I was overthinking it…

  My phone pinged almost immediately with a reply. Nathan.

  So THAT’S what he was going on about lol. He was a bit overexcited when he rang me and he put the phone down on me before I could work out what he was saying. He’s like an Italian Gordon Ramsey lol.

  (I’d never seen so many ‘lol’s in one of his messages before, and I imagined him giving a nervous laugh as he typed each one in).

  Can you talk?

  Yes, and I rarely stop, I thought, but I didn’t type it. No, no, no, I also thought, but I didn’t type that either. You are SUCH a coward, Parker, I berated myself, but fair’s fair, it had been a very emotional day one way or another, and I needed to be in control of myself before I spoke to him again.

  Not really. Got a terrible headache and about to go to bed.

  I hit send and got a reply almost immediately.

  Sorry, I hope you feel better after a good sleep. Talk tomorrow? xxx

  I wanted to cry. But instead I just typed:

  Definitely xxx

  And made some more tea.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I spent the evening watching TV and playing Scrabble with Mum and Daisy, studiously avoiding any thoughts of Nathan, Tony, or the case. But mostly Nathan.

  It was almost impossible, though. After a very healthy dinner of salmon (brushed with sweet-chilli sauce and baked in the oven), served with brown rice and stir-fried veg, which I thought might almost get the Kimi seal of approval, I made mini microwave chocolate lava mug cakes, which definitely wouldn’t. Daisy had requested them specially, as she enjoyed making them with me almost as much as she enjoyed eating them.

  I watched as she measured the ingredients out into the mugs: a quarter of a cup of flour, a teaspoon of baking powder, two tablespoons each of sugar and cocoa powder, and a pinch of salt, mixed with two tablespoons each of vegetable oil and milk. She repeated the same amounts for each mug and then mixed everything to a paste, adding a touch more milk here and there to loosen the mixture.

  As she did that, I grated the zest of an orange and added that to each mug, along
with a squeeze of juice. Then the final ingredient: a big wedge of chocolate orange, tucked into the middle of each cake.

  ‘Oh my God, they smell amazing…’ Daisy inhaled deeply and I laughed.

  ‘Yeah, Nathan really liked it when I made him one the other night…’ I said, my laughter trailing off before I knew it was happening. Luckily Daisy was too intent on popping a mug into the microwave to notice my sudden downer. And fifty seconds later, I had a hot chocolate cake with an oozy, orangey, chocolatey centre to console myself with.

  It almost worked.

  I took Germaine for her nocturnal walk around the block, but Nathan had joined me on that walk several times, so it was difficult not to think of him. I remembered the night he’d come for dinner and then walked with me, when his phone had rung and he’d said to his mum, ‘Yeah, her.’ I’d read so much into those two words; they meant he’d told his mum about me, which surely he wouldn’t do if I was just a friend? But if I was more than a friend, then he wouldn’t still be debating whether or not to take this job offer, would he?

  I sighed, and at my feet Germaine cocked her leg and sighed too, before unleashing a torrent on a poor, unsuspecting weed.

  I went to bed early that night, not long after Daisy and Mum – not because I was tired, but because I was bored and restless. Nothing on TV interested me, and I couldn’t get into the book I was reading even though I’d been enjoying it the night before. I lay back on my pillow and stretched out across the bed, but instead of enjoying the freedom of having the whole thing to myself, I wished that there was a body next to me, someone to snuggle up to or warm my cold feet on.

  As if she’d read my mind, Germaine trotted in through the bedroom door. I always left it open slightly; it was a hangover from Daisy’s younger days, when she’d often wake in the night after a bad dream, but nowadays it was just as likely to be Mum I was listening out for. Germaine leapt up on the bed and made herself comfortable in the crook of my knees.

  ‘Aren’t you meant to be on Daisy’s bed?’ I whispered, stroking her snout, but she just snuffled my hand and settled down even more. If they ever made ‘getting comfy’ into a sporting event, that dog would win Olympic gold. I smiled and reached out my other hand to turn out the light.

  I woke the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. Surprising, as I’d tossed and turned all night and had the most ridiculous dream. I’d been back at Parkview Manor Hotel, which was decorated once more for Tony’s wedding. No, mine and Tony’s wedding. I was in my hotel room, getting into my wedding dress – an over-the-top, meringue-like confection of pure white silk and lace, the sort of dress I wouldn’t even wear to my funeral, let alone my wedding – and I was struggling to do the zip up on my own, and it was getting closer and closer to the ceremony, and I wasn’t ready, and every time I tried to ring someone for help my stupid fingers kept dialling the wrong number and not getting through. I gave up and found myself in my jeans, in the hotel kitchen, which for some reason was full of guests (none of whom I recognised). Sergeant Adams, the desk sergeant at Penstowan police station and one of my late father’s few remaining recruits, was officiating. At the altar (which looked somewhat out of place, being next to the big walk-in fridge) Tony turned and smiled at me, only now it wasn’t Tony, it was Jeremy Mayhew, and he was looking a bit peaky. Well, dead.

  I was relieved when I woke up. I had the horrible feeling that when Sergeant Adams got to the bit about anyone objecting, Nathan would pipe up from somewhere near the oven and say it should be him, and then he and Tony/Jeremy would ride off into the sunset together. It would have made about as much sense as the rest of the dream.

  The dog had deserted me in the night, and I heard Daisy talking to her in her bedroom. I looked at the clock, then relaxed as I remembered that it was Saturday: no school run, and with the shoot suspended, no work either. It was nice to have a lie-in, but not so nice when I thought about the money I was missing out on. I probably had enough now to buy Daisy’s birthday present, but I had to admit that the Gimpmobile, the elderly van I’d bought for Banquets and Bakes, was probably not going to get replaced. It would have to limp on for a while longer…

  I crept out of bed and made myself a cup of tea, not wanting the rest of the house to hear me and think it was time to get up, then took it back upstairs and sat in bed, drinking and trying hard not to think about anything in particular. I’d turned my phone off early the night before, not wanting to talk to anybody, but had felt absurdly guilty about it; what if someone needed to contact me? Who? I’d asked myself. Everyone you’re responsible for is right here, under this roof. I’m not a slave to my phone, but I did feel slightly uncomfortable with it sitting on my bedside table, dead, so I turned it on and immediately got a ton of text messages (well, four).

  The oldest one was from Debbie.

  Oh my God, Tony just told Callum and he told me! Hope you’re ok. Call me if you want to talk.

  I toyed with the idea of ignoring her, because I was okay and I didn’t want to talk, but I knew that she had a good heart and would be worried if she didn’t hear from me and, more to the point, she’d be on the phone demanding to know the details if I didn’t reply soon. I sent her a quick message telling her I was fine and I’d call her later. Much later…

  The next one was from Tony himself, sent just before bed, just two words:

  We good?

  My reply was almost as brief:

  Yep, we’re good.

  The third message had come in about an hour ago, and it took me by surprise: a group text to all background talent telling us the shoot was back on. So much for my day off, but at least it meant maybe my old van was getting replaced after all.

  And the last message had come in around the time I’d woken up, from Nathan.

  Morning, I hope you’re feeling better now x

  I sipped at my tea, trying to come up with a reply that would convey the rush of emotions that swept over me every time I saw him, that had swept over me now just at the sight of his name, for heaven’s sake, without scaring the bejesus out of him and making him run for the hills (or, more to the point, Liverpool), but had to settle for:

  Much better, thank you. Think I was just tired. You heard the shoot is back on? Will be at the food truck in an hour or so.

  Nathan couldn’t possibly have been waiting in anticipation for a reply, but he must have had the phone close by because within twenty seconds of me hitting send:

  Heard about the shoot. There are a few things I want to look at so see you there. Glad you’re better xxx

  The three kisses at the end made me feel better and worse all at the same time. I typed back:

  Later, alligator xxx

  Ping! That was quick.

  In a while, crocodile x

  I showered and dressed quickly but with care, which I can neither confirm nor deny had anything to do with wanting to look nice for Nathan later. Daisy gave a yelp of excitement from the bedroom as I was making toast downstairs, and flew into the kitchen waving her phone; she’d got a text message too, and today was the day she’d be making her big screen debut. I hoped for all our sakes she wasn’t going to be a peasant like me, especially as her bestie Jade was in it as well. Jade’s mum Nancy was Cornish, born and bred, but her dad was Spanish, and both Jade and her little brother had ended up with a beautiful combination of blonde hair and an all-year-round Mediterranean tan skin tone. I could just imagine her being cast as some kind of ethereal pixie, while my beautiful but very Anglo-Saxon-looking daughter would be reduced to wearing a smaller version of the flipping itchy potato sack I’d had to contend with during my very brief acting career.

  But for now, anything was possible, even being noticed by the director and given a few lines, and then being signed up on the spot by an agent, and then being cast in this generation’s version of Harry Potter or The Hunger Games or whatever. So Daisy fussed over her hair and put her favourite jeans on even though they were technically due for a wash (because of course they were the o
nly thing that would come close to bridging the gap between her and stardom, so she couldn’t possibly wear her other pair), forced herself to eat some breakfast, and then danced about on her toes waiting for me to get a move on.

  Would you believe it, Mum also had her big break today. I had to forcibly restrain her from getting a taxi back to her house to get her best outfit (the light-blue skirt suit she’d worn to my cousin Kevin’s wedding five years ago; it made her look like a cross between Mrs Doubtfire and the Queen Mum), and it was only when I told her about the chaotic communal dressing room where she’d have to leave her precious outfit during filming that she acquiesced and put her normal clothes on.

  That meant there was no one to dog-sit Germaine today, so the whole family piled into the car and headed off to Polvarrow House.

  The shoot was a hive of activity. The crew bustled around, hurriedly setting stuff up that had just as hurriedly been dismantled for safe storage the day before when it had looked like the shoot was over. If anyone was upset or even bothered about the death of Jeremy Mayhew, they were doing a bloody good job of hiding it. It felt a little bit tasteless to me, a little bit … unseemly, for want of a less Jane Austen-esque word. I knew the old saying that the show must go on, but really, must it? And so soon?

  I delivered Daisy and Mum to the Wardrobe trailer and headed to the food truck. When I saw Mike Mancuso and Sam Pritchard in heated debate nearby, I went the long way round in an attempt to hear what they were talking about, but by the time I got close enough Pritchard had already stalked away. Mancuso saw me, so I gave him a businesslike nod, which he completely ignored. Fair enough.