Murder In The Aisle (Merry Summerfield Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Kris Pearson

  I shrugged. “Sorry – they were fascinating. I wanted another look.”

  “Tampering with Police evidence,” he muttered.

  Beside me, Paul shook with barely suppressed laughter.

  I glared around the circle of men. “I didn’t tamper with it in the least. And it wasn’t Police evidence until I told you about it.” I blew out a long regretful breath. “Shame the emails are gone,” I added. “There was one from someone called Hannah Hertzog about retirement facilities in Florida. Sounded like Isobel was planning to move there, but the more I think about the situation the more likely it seems it was Tom Alsop planning to do a runner and using Isobel’s name.”

  “THANK you, Ms Summerfield,” DS Carver said with barely restrained fury.

  But I was being helpful!

  “Would you please get my laptop from the bedroom so he can see the files?” I asked Paul.

  When he returned I opened my Dropbox account and showed Bruce Carver the list of what I’d downloaded. “Do you want me to send them to you?” I offered. “Or maybe to Detective Wick?”

  He breathed out quite noisily. “Em dot Wick at police dot govt dot…” he began.

  “I’ll do it,” Alex said. “Say it again.”

  Bruce Carver produced a card. “Like mine, but with Em dot Wick on the front.”

  “Got it,” Alex said, moving into the shade, ignoring us all, and getting to work.

  “The world belongs to the young,” I said to Paul. I saw one corner of Alex’s mouth kick up but otherwise he ignored us.

  “That’s probably enough for you now, Ms Summerfield,” Bruce Carver said. His face was rather pink and he was gnawing at one of his nasty fingernails. He looked as though he was bursting with regret that he couldn’t grill me further. Also that he wanted to get back to his headquarters and check out the files. “I’d like to keep Miss Crombie’s garage key for a day or two. I’ll definitely have more questions once you’ve been seen by the doctor and are feeling more lucid.”

  I was feeling perfectly lucid! I inclined my head in agreement. The sooner they left, the sooner I could make us all some toast.

  Paul rose and removed the garage key from my collection. He handed it over. “I’ll get Merry to the doctor pronto.”

  *

  “Have you two had breakfast yet?” I asked once the deputation had departed.

  Heads were shaken.

  “Early start,” Paul said.

  Alex closed the computer. “I was aiming to get the lawns mowed first, but then I heard you banging about.”

  “And thank heavens for that,” I said, sending him a heartfelt smile. “When the mower engine coughed, my pulse rate probably doubled. That was such a good moment. Why did you think it was worth trying the ladder?”

  Alex shrugged. “Oskar told me the last time he mowed the lawns he heard a radio going in the garage. He looked through the window in case she’d left the car running, but there was no-one there. Nosy guy. He could see the garage was longer outside than inside so he had a quiet look up top. Just as well, eh?”

  I closed my eyes for a second or two. “I’m grateful beyond belief. Okay, breakfast; if neither of you has eaten I can manage toast to keep us all going for a while.”

  “I’ll make it,” Paul said.

  Alex handed me my laptop. “I’ll take the chairs in.”

  A teenage boy can eat a lot of toast. And marmalade. And peanut butter. And honey. His slice-count probably equaled Paul’s and mine combined, and once he was refueled he leaned his elbows on the table, breathed in, breathed out, fiddled with his earring, and finally opened up to us. “Can I tell you something?”

  He waited until he was sure he had our attention. “I’m worried about Mum. She’s getting awful headaches. She’s really rude to people sometimes because of them.” His big eyebrows almost met in the middle as he frowned.

  Rude to people, huh? The strange scenes at the Horse Heaven barn swam back into my overtaxed brain. Elsa had snapped something at the goth-girl about Alex being too young for her and called her a ‘Peg-people Weirdo’ or something else offensive. And she’d turned her back on me pretty swiftly at the table after saying she made soap. I’d offered to buy some and she’d still ignored me. Definitely rude.

  “Is she stressed about anything?” Paul asked. “Do you have a dad you can talk to? Any uncles or aunts?”

  Alex shook his head. “Just me and her.”

  I thought of his blurted comment during the phone call asking about mowing the lawns. “You said you were Tom Alsop’s son. That you wanted some justice for your mother.”

  Paul stayed very quiet, giving Alex the chance to answer.

  “Yeah… well… he’s got a huge house and all those cars, and we live in a crappy old bus. Is that fair? He could make her life a lot better.”

  The olive green bus with the curtains I’d seen at Horse Heaven… not a great place to grow up. It was a wonder Alex had turned out as well as he had – surprisingly polite and helpful, not covered in obvious tattoos and piercings apart from the black disc in one ear. At home on my laptop, willing to make tea for policemen, and to barbecue bacon and buns for a group of crafters. Jim Drizzle had taken him on for a few days of farm work without turning a hair, and Lord Jim’s no fool.

  I turned my cup around on the pretty saucer. “Has your mother always had the headaches, or are they new? I can ask Doc Hopkins’ advice while he checks out my scalp.”

  Alex thrust a hand back through his shaggy mane. “Pretty new. She goes mad with them sometimes. Crashes around and… hits things.”

  “Does she hit you?” Paul asked before I could.

  “I get out of the way.”

  Poor kid.

  Paul reached for my plate and stacked it on top of his. “Let’s get you to the doctor, Merry. Take care of that mess in your hair and see if you need any stitches.”

  “I don’t expect so,” I said, shuddering at the thought. “Aren’t head wounds supposed to bleed a lot? This seems to have dried off, so it can’t be much. You two go and investigate the mower,” I added, recalling the splutters of the unresponsive engine. “See if you can get it going. I need a bit of lipstick.”

  I pushed my chair back and bent down to Itsy and Fluffy. “Do you want a ride? In Paul’s car?” I swear they know the words ‘ride’ and ‘car’. They scrambled up, looking eager as always, as Paul and Alex headed out to the garden shed. Mindful I’d been asked to stop the dogs from disturbing any evidence, I put their leads on, looped the ends over the doorknob so they couldn’t roam, and went to check out how bad I looked.

  Then I remembered the two courier envelopes. How had I forgotten those? Something else for poor Bruce Carver to scowl about…

  *

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Paul asked once the mower was happy and we’d driven away from the Point.

  “About his mother? That she hits things?” Because of course I was thinking exactly that. I stretched my stiff fingers and then wove them together again in my lap. “Are you wondering if she hit Isobel?”

  He grimaced. “She’d have no reason to, but who knows?”

  I stayed silent for a while, remembering what had happened at Horse Heaven, and trying to tie it up with Alex’s remarks. “I met her at that crafting get-together in Old Bay Road. She’s a bit… odd. She looks unkempt compared to the photo on her soap making website. As though she’s gone downhill since that was taken.”

  Paul took his eyes off the road for a couple of seconds to look across at me. “She might be wacky enough to have invented the story about Tom being Alex’s father.”

  We drove on and I turned the situation around and around in my mind. “Alex is tall like Tom,” I said. “Dark-haired like Tom used to be. And he’s a clever kid. I don’t think he’d take Elsa’s claims at face value without finding out more. He knows she’s unstable. I expect he knows more than he’s told us.”

  Paul nodded slowly, looking grim. “He knew about the Alsops’ big
house. He’s got that scooter to buzz around on. I bet he’s been there and had a look. I bet he’s been to the car places, too. Probably also wanted a look at Tom.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you, if your mother suddenly announced who your father was? It’s just as well the Alsops are away on that cruise.”

  “It’s a shocking position to be put in at his age,” Paul said. “Do you think he was telling us she was dangerous and hoping we’d take the weight off his shoulders by passing our suspicions on?”

  I shrugged. “So he didn’t have to report his own mother? I wouldn’t be surprised.” I sighed and reached for my phone.

  Paul slowed as we reached the village. “They’ve got the vase. Tell Carver there might be other fingerprints of interest.”

  He answered straight away – in a tone that sounded like ‘not you again’ but was actually worded, “Ms Summerfield – how can I help this time?”

  I felt terrible doing it, but I explained what Alex had told us, and passed on Paul’s comment about other possible fingerprints. “She’ll be with a group of women at a craft stall outside The Café this morning. They should be setting up fairly soon.”

  “You’re determined to solve this for me, aren’t you, Ms Summerfield,” he said wearily.

  I looked down at the shiny plastic envelopes in the pocket of the car’s door. My fingertips were itching. “Just helping,” I said. “And I’ve got two courier deliveries addressed to Tom Alsop we can drop off after the doctor. Shall I open them up and tell you what’s in them?” I teased.

  I easily pictured his clenched teeth as he turned down my offer.

  Epilogue

  They sent an ambulance for Elsa Hudson even before her fingerprints were identified on the church vase. By then she was incandescent with rage – raving about how she’d got rid of Tom Alsop’s wife so he could now marry her and be a proper father to his son. I’m not sure if she ever realized her mistake: short, silver-haired, arranging flowers in the church – but the wrong sister. An aggressive, inoperable brain tumor makes it unlikely.

  When the Alsops arrived back from the tropics Tom was arrested for more kinds of car theft than I could even understand. He had fingers in many pies and is now detained in a concrete-floored cell instead of living the high life in the plush Florida retirement facility he no doubt aspired to. Margaret is making the best of things out at the Point after their wildly over-financed mansion in Sandalwood Grove was foreclosed on by the bank. She was out on her ear within hours. No doubt it’ll be sold in a mortgagee auction pretty soon. I imagine her jewelry’s gone, too. We did a rather uncomfortable swap-over – me moving out of the cottage as she moved in, each of us trying to keep out of the other’s way.

  Speculation at the Burkeville has been running at fever pitch ever since.

  “Isobel knew all about that secret office,” I told Lisa as we perched on our bar stools and waited for John to bring our drinks. “Tom had it built for himself for sure, but her household files were there too. He obviously wanted somewhere to keep info that wasn’t related to his legitimate car dealerships.”

  “If any of them were,” she huffed.

  “I guess the Police are going through everything they can find, legal or otherwise. Maybe Isobel got a thrill from letting Tom use her name to protect himself from discovery. Perhaps she felt she was getting one over on Margaret by doing that.”

  “Seems a bit odd,” Lisa muttered.

  I leaned closer so I could whisper. “But what if she was secretly in love with him? Maybe she had been for years?”

  Lisa blew a raspberry at that idea, then fell silent for a few seconds before looking at me with extreme doubt. “Really?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Not much stranger,” she said as John sauntered over with my wine and her vodka and tonic.

  “Not much stranger than what?” he asked, setting the glasses down.

  “This whole situation between Tom Alsop and the Crombie sisters,” I said. “He married Margaret, but he seemed to have some sort of hold over Isobel, too.”

  John grinned. “There were plenty of stories floating around here but I never saw any evidence.”

  “Stories? Were there?” I asked, possibly adding a slight eyelash flutter.

  “Bar talk. Gossip. All theory and no proof.”

  “About Tom and Isobel having an affair?” My eyes were probably bugging out.

  John’s grin faded and he shook his head. “Why is it always all or nothing with women? Not an affair. Business dealings.”

  “You think she was implicated in the car thefts, too?” Lisa asked.

  He reached out for my credit card. “Probably only by letting him use her name as an email contact.”

  “And her address for courier packages,” I inserted. “Two of those arrived while I was house-and-dog sitting out at the Point.”

  I turned to Lisa. “Speaking of dogs, Isobel’s will included a request for Lurline from the animal shelter to find a suitable home for the teddies if by any chance she passed on before they did. I told Lurline Bernie and Aroha Karaka were interested, so don’t be surprised if the Bichons turn up at the vet clinic renamed Ahu and Erana.”

  Lisa laughed. “No more Itsy and Fluffy? Thank heavens for that.”

  John shook his head as he turned away to serve two newly arrived customers. “Your usuals?” he asked DS Carver and Marion Wick.

  “’Fraid so,” she agreed, and he set two cups on the espresso machine drip tray.

  “Ah, Ms Summerfield,” the DS said, catching sight of me. “I have some news about your attacker, the foreign national who mugged you and left you to die.”

  “So offensive being mistaken for an old lady,” I snapped. “Honestly, couldn’t he tell the difference?”

  “He might not have known her age,” John said. “You were looking pretty hot that night, so he can’t have.”

  That gave me a small glow of satisfaction. So John had liked my long hair and low neckline? I sent him a smile and got a wink in return.

  “Yes, I think we go with that,” DS Carver agreed. “He knew we were close on his heels and he needed to make all those files disappear. He says he planned to break in to the garage quietly, thinking midnight would be a safe enough time. It was horribly bad luck you returned right when you did.”

  “Sounds like you put up quite a fight,” Marion Wick said.

  I wasn’t so sure about that. I can only remember blacking out on the concrete, but who knows what you do when you’re semi-conscious? I could have been yelling blue murder and thrashing around like rodeo horse. “You don’t think he meant to kill me?”

  DS Carver didn’t seem keen to answer that. “Obviously he needed you immobilized so he could ransack the office. I wouldn’t like to speculate on more.”

  “But because I’d uploaded those files to Dropbox you were able to arrest him?”

  A slow and rather grudging nod. “He had no idea we had access to them. Wasn’t expecting to be tracked down so easily.”

  “And he spilled the beans on Tom Alsop, hoping for leniency?” I suggested.

  “Yes, to a very satisfactory degree. He’s a nasty piece of work, and he’s being deported to his country of origin because they want him there much more than we want him here. I can’t disclose any further details because there’s the possibility of a prisoner swap.”

  “The jails are much nastier there,” Marion Wick added, fixing her big eyes on mine for a few seconds, and then letting her gaze wander over to John.

  “Poor old Nam Cheng,” I said. “I feel kind of bad about that, but only ‘kind of’. Who are you going to swap him for?”

  I saw John send the DS a look that would have frozen red-hot lava.

  “Ah – not at liberty to say, I’m sorry. Negotiations are at a delicate stage, and all that… But it was a disgusting thing to do, leaving you helpless after uplifting anything that might incriminate him.”

  When I think about that long frightening night, qu
ite a lot of me turns to weepy jelly, so I nodded and tried to switch off, not trusting myself to speak for the moment. I was grateful when a chorus of greetings at the door diverted everyone’s attention.

  “Just the chap I need,” Lord Jim Drizzle boomed as he entered the bar and made his way across to us. “Young Alex said to give you this.” He laid a small parcel in a plastic bag in front of Bruce Carver.

  “What is it?” the DS asked, giving it a tentative poke.

  “The hard drive from Isobel Crombie’s computer.”

  “Or Tom Alsop’s computer,” I suggested.

  “How on earth…?” Marion Wick asked, eyes bigger than ever.

  Jim Drizzle beamed. “He’s a clever kid, that one. He’ll be off to Uni soon, and plans to major in computer science.”

  “Yes, but how…?” she asked again.

  Jim parked his corduroy trousers on a bar stool. “He was riding a quad around the farm and spotted something pale down one of the inclines. Thrown from the road above, and intended for the river, by the looks of it. It was pretty smashed up but it got snagged behind a tree trunk, which stopped it going into the water.”

  “Her computer? And he took it to bits?” Bruce Carver asked, obviously dismayed.

  “Already in bits.” Jim’s big white eyebrows waggled. “We’ve got the rest at home, but he says this is all you’ll need.”

  “So that’ll have the emails, too?” I asked. “You’ll be able to tell if Isobel was ever blackmailing anyone?”

  “It’s very unlikely she was,” Marion Wick said. “I know there were rumors to that effect but her bank records show no deposits that can’t be accounted for.”

  Huh. So much for what everyone thought they knew!

  “Something to drink, Jim?” John asked.

  “You know my poison,” he said, looking up at the row of whisky bottles. “Just a single for the road.”

  While John scooped ice-cubes into a squat glass Jim cleared his throat and said, “I’ve offered Alex a base for as long as he wants. I brought that old green bus back to the farm for him. He was all for driving it himself, even though the boy has no Heavy Transport license. He claimed he’d been driving it all year and was a lot safer than his mother.”