by Fiona Leitch
Murder on the Menu
A Nosey Parker Cozy Mystery
Fiona Leitch
One More Chapter
a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021
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Copyright © Fiona Leitch 2021
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Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
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Fiona Leitch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
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Source ISBN: 9780008436568
Ebook Edition © January 2021 ISBN: 9780008436551
Version: 2020-11-03
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Jodie’s tried and tested recipes #1
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
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About the Author
Also by Fiona Leitch
One More Chapter...
About the Publisher
This book is dedicated to my parents,
and to
Jacinda, Ashley, and the #TeamOf5Million
Prologue
I’m not superstitious. I never have been. I make a point of walking under ladders and I positively encourage black cats to cross my path. My old partner on the beat, Helen, used to laugh and tell me that I was tempting fate, like I was standing there glaring at it, fists raised, going, Come on then, is that all you’ve got? But I wasn’t, not really. I’ve never tempted fate; I just can’t help poking at it. If I see something wrong, I can’t resist getting involved.
I’m not superstitious, but I do have a few rituals, which is more to do with avoiding bad karma or Murphy’s Law. Lots of coppers do. Stuff like, when you go out to a café or restaurant, always sit facing the door, so you can see everyone who’s coming in and going out (which makes life difficult when you’re out for a meal with another police officer, because if you can’t get the right table and neither of you gives way, you end up sitting next to each other). Or not polishing your shoes before a Friday or Saturday night shift because if you do you’re bound to run into a drunken hen party trying to stab each other with their stilettos outside a nightclub at 3am, one of whom will definitely unload seven Bacardi Breezers and one doner kebab all over your shiny black footwear as you get her in the van. That kind of thing.
The other ritual I have is always leaving a good-luck card for the new occupants whenever I move house. I’ve moved house a lot. There was the skanky bedsit I lived in when I first relocated to London. I loved it because it was the first place which was mine (even though it was rented) and I had become a grown-up and my life was just getting started and it was all so exciting. I was away from my parents and following in my dad’s footsteps without being in his shadow for once. All this despite the bedsit having hot and cold running mould and a wicked draught from the one solitary window, and a landlord who refused to get anything repaired until I told him I was a copper. And then he still didn’t repair anything; he just put the rent up by another hundred quid a week until I moved out. There were the shared houses – often with other police officers from the same nick – which kind of made sense until we all ended up doing different shifts, so it didn’t matter what time of day it was, there was always someone trying to sleep and someone else waking them up as they came home and someone getting ready to go out. That had been particularly stressful. There was the nice flat I finally found myself in, just before I met Richard; it was small but perfectly formed, and quiet. I bought a cheap poster print of a famous painting of the coast near my home town in Cornwall and I would sit there, in the peace and quiet of my lovely flat, staring at the picture and thinking about the way the light reflected off the sea back home, and I would cry because I was so flipping lonely and homesick when I wasn’t actually at work, but I wasn’t about to give in and go back and admit I’d been wrong to leave.
And then there was this place. This was the first house I’d ever actually owned – we’d owned, me and Richard – and although it wasn’t perfect, it was full of memories. Memories of Richard carrying me over the threshold after we got married, banging my head on the door frame as he did so. That was bad karma and should have made me wary of what was to follow. Of bringing our daughter Daisy back from the hospital after a long-drawn-out labour that put me off having any more children, at least for a year or so, and by then Richard had gone off the idea anyway. It was a few more years before I found out why.
The good-luck card lay on the kitchen counter, which had been cluttered with cookbooks and gadgets the day before but was now empty. They were inside a box, inside the removal van, which had already left. The picture on the front was of a lovely country cottage made of stone with climbing roses around the door. It was ironic because it looked nothing like this house but wasn’t too dissimilar from where we were moving to. I picked up the pen and composed in my head what to write.
Good luck in your new home. I hope you are as happy here as I was.
…Or as happy as I was before I found out that my stupid useless can’t-keep-it-in-his-pants husband was cheating on me.
I hope you are as happy here as I was once I got him out of this house and our lives, before he moved in with his new girlfriend ten minutes away, but STILL constantly let his daughter down by turning up late when he’d promised to take her out (if he turned up at all). If we’re living miles away he can’t let her down anymore, as she won’t expect anything from him (she already knows better than to do that, but she’s only twelve so she can’t help hoping).
I hope you are as happy here as I was when I could still afford to pay the mortgage, before he started kicking up a fuss about paying child support and before I left the job that I absolutely loved but which (after a particularly nasty incident) my daughter didn’t. I could see
her point. If anything happened to me she’d have to go and live with her dad, who, as I think we’ve already established, is a total waste of space, oxygen, and the Earth’s natural resources. So I left and retrained and now we’re both ready to start again somewhere else.
I hope you are happy here spending an absolute fortune on this cramped house with its tiny garden, noisy neighbours, and busy road outside while I’ll be paying considerably less for somewhere bigger with a lovely view of the sea and neighbours who are more likely to wake me up at 6am with their loud baaing than at 3am with their drunken return from a club.
Hmm. Maybe I was overthinking it. I opened the card and wrote inside it.
Good luck.
It was definitely time to go home.
Chapter One
Funny how things turn out. I only went in to buy a sofa.
Penhaligon’s was one of those old-fashioned family-run department stores – the type that once upon a time every town had but which were now disappearing (and with good reason, to be honest; most of the stock looked like it had been procured in the 1950s and came at such an exorbitant price you were forced to step outside and double-check you hadn’t inadvertently wandered into Harrods by mistake). But Penhaligon’s had persisted, remaining open through world wars, recessions, and the rise of internet shopping. The zombie apocalypse could hit Cornwall (I know, I know, would anyone even notice?) and Penhaligon’s would still be there, clinging stubbornly to its prime spot on Fore Street, serving the needs of both locals and the undead brain-hungry horde (or ‘holidaymakers’, as they were otherwise known).
I wouldn’t normally have bothered with Penhaligon’s, but we’d been at our new house for four days now and Daisy and I were sick of sitting on my mum’s old garden chairs – they were literally a pain in the backside – so as I was passing I ventured inside.
It hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d been there. It had barely changed since the first time I’d been there forty years ago. But I was pleasantly surprised to see that someone had given the furniture department a bit of a makeover and there were a few lounge suites that looked like they’d actually been designed sometime after the fall of the Berlin Wall (as opposed to before the building of it).
I sank gratefully into a big, squashy sofa, stroking the fabric appreciatively and reaching for the price tag. The figures made me suck in my breath in mild horror (along with an unfortunate fly who was just passing), but the words ‘Next day delivery!’ had an immediate soothing effect.
I stood up to get a better look at it and jumped as a voice boomed across the shop floor at me.
‘Oh my God, Nosey Parker! Is that really you?’
I turned round, already knowing who it was. Tony Penhaligon, great-grandson of the original Mr Penhaligon, old classmate and sometime boyfriend (we went out for two weeks in 1994, held hands a bit, kissed but didn’t – ewww – use tongues), stood in front of me, a big smile on his face. Like his family’s shop, he also hadn’t changed all that much over the last forty years and every time I looked at him I could still see a hint of the annoying little boy with the runny nose who had sat next to me on my first day in Mrs Hobson’s primary class. But he had a good heart and it was nice to see a friendly face.
I did a double-take as I took him in properly. Hang on a minute; he actually had changed. The last time I’d seen him, on one of my trips back to see my mum, he’d been sporting a dad bod, a paunch brought on by too many pasties and pints. But that was gone and he was looking rather trim. Also gone was the unflattering store uniform of white polo shirt and black chinos, replaced by a sharp, well-tailored, and expensive-looking suit. A little voice in the back of my mind went, I’d blooming well let him use tongues now, before I shut it up with a contemptuous internal glare.
‘It’s been a while, Tone. I haven’t seen you since—’
‘New Year’s Eve, three years ago.’
I laughed. ‘You’ve got a good memory.’
‘Last time anything exciting happened here. Did you stick to your resolution?’
‘That was the first Christmas after I broke up with Richard,’ I said. ‘I think I probably made a lot of drunken resolutions that year.’
Tony grinned. ‘Yeah, there were one or two. Tell me you’ve stuck to the main one though? “Avoid idiot men”?’
‘Oh, that one I live my life by these days. What was yours?’
He shook his head. ‘I never announce my resolutions. That way nobody knows whether I followed it up or not.’
‘And did you?’
‘Nope. But it doesn’t matter now anyway. So what’re you doing here? Visiting your mum? I heard she’d been ill.’
‘Buying a sofa,’ I said.
‘You do know we don’t deliver to London,’ he said.
‘That’s just as well because I don’t live there anymore.’
He looked surprised. ‘Since when? Are you back, then?’
‘Yeah.’
I could see that he was dying to ask me more but the thought of pushing it too far and losing out on his commission was too much for him. Plus, he knew that if I was sticking around he’d get it out of me eventually.
‘So what do you think of the sofa?’
I sat back down. ‘Honestly? It feels like my backside has died and gone to heaven where it’s being caressed by the wings of an angel.’
He laughed loudly. ‘Do you want a job in our marketing department? I always said you should be a poet, not a copper.’
‘I’m not either anymore,’ I said, fishing in my bag and handing him one of my new business cards.
“‘Banquets and Bakes”,’ he read. ‘What’s this?’
‘My new business,’ I said. ‘I’ve just started up—’
‘Wait, are you a chef now? Do you do weddings?’ Tony looked at me hopefully.
‘Weddings, christenings, bar mitzvahs, you name it. If people want to eat there, I can cater for it.’ I hoped I could anyway; I hadn’t actually had any clients yet, but in theory…
‘This is brilliant!’ cried Tony. ‘It’s … what’s that word? Serentipidy?’ I thought about correcting his pronunciation but decided against it; it would only make both of us feel bad. And anyway, he was waving across the shop floor to a woman who was stalking proprietorially around a display of crystal glass vases. ‘Cheryl! Come over here! I’ve found a caterer!’
He held out my business card as Cheryl approached. She read it, then looked me up and down, clearly not overly impressed with what she saw. Which was fair enough as I had really only popped out to get some teabags in between coats of paint and was looking more like the Michelin Man than a Michelin chef.
‘We’re getting married,’ said Tony proudly, and I could understand why. Although the expression currently occupying Cheryl’s face was reminiscent of a bulldog sucking a lemon, she was (probably, in the right light) quite attractive, and she had to be ten years younger than him, even if she did dress a bit like Dynasty-era Joan Collins. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen shoulder pads that size outside of the Super Bowl. It also explained the dapper suit that Tony was currently sporting, as well as his newly svelte figure.
‘Congratulations,’ I said. He deserved happiness. Tony’s first wife had left him for her driving instructor, the betrayal made all the worse by the fact that Tony had paid for the lessons and she hadn’t had the decency to leave him until she’d passed her test (after three attempts), done a motorway safety course and a defensive driving course, and was halfway through getting her HGV licence. The driving instructor hadn’t lasted long and, according to my mum, who knew her mum, she now drove tankers up and down the country with just her dog – a Pomeranian called Germaine – for company.
I hoped he was going to ask me to do their catering – I needed the money – but at the same time I wasn’t sure I wanted to risk cocking up his nuptials. Oh, well, I would just plan everything really, really carefully.
‘Our caterer let us down and the wedding’s next weekend,�
�� he said.
Next weekend? Holy—
‘I was just saying to Jodie’ – he turned to his fiancée, indicating me with a wave of his hand –‘I was just saying, it’s serentipidy—’
‘Serendipity,’ she corrected, smiling at him condescendingly. Hmm. ‘So – Jodie, was it? – what are your credentials? How many weddings have you done? We’ve got a very upmarket venue – Parkview Manor Hotel, do you know it? – and lots of guests coming from all over the country.’
I opened my mouth to confess that I hadn’t actually done any weddings but if they were this close to their wedding day, good luck finding someone else as willing (or as desperate for the money) as me. But Tony beat me to it.
‘Her credentials are, she’s an old friend and ex-copper, and you don’t get better references than that,’ he said. Cheryl pursed her lips but didn’t argue, aware that if she didn’t want to end up feeding her upmarket guests pasty and chips in the very downmarket Kings Arms in Market Square, she didn’t have much choice. I smiled.
