by K. C. Wells
“Seriously?” Abi’s jaw dropped, but then she rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Aren’t you two usually up before this? Running late, are we?” Her lips twitched. “And no, I don’t want to hear why. I can probably guess. I’ll be back in a bit.” She left the kitchen.
“Why does everyone around here seem to think we spend all our time having sex?” Jonathon demanded.
Mike snorted. “Er… because we do?” He pointed to Jonathon’s notepad. “I see you’ve progressed from using Post-its. Who’s on the list so far?”
“Phil McCallister, for one. I think he has to be on it. Then I’ve added Melody Richards.” Jonathon leaned back in his chair. “Do you recall what Fiona said, the night Teresa died? Something about her not gaining a lot of friends when she lived here and how things didn’t improve once she’d left. I wonder what Fiona meant.”
“Then we either need to talk to Fiona or else find someone who knew Teresa when she lived here. The prof’s out. Teresa came here after he’d left.” Mike rubbed his beard before breaking into a smile. “Melinda.”
Jonathon nodded eagerly. “I’ll call her and ask if we can come to tea this afternoon.” He’d been meaning to contact her anyway, once he realized he hadn’t spotted her once at the festival. Some friend I am. I didn’t even notice. Then he sighed. He had been rather occupied.
“It’s Sunday,” Mike reminded him. “Won’t she be rather busy?”
“Not in the afternoon. But it does mean we’ll miss the closing of the festival. The last panel ends at five o’clock.”
“Then we’ll have a cup of tea with Melinda and Lloyd at four before nipping up to the hall to see the end of the festival.”
Jonathon liked that idea. Then another thought occurred to him. “We mustn’t forget that book package. We need to trace it. Because either the killer sent it to put Teresa on her guard, or it was sent by someone else wanting to deliver a message.”
“Good thinking. I’ll go to the post office tomorrow morning and see what I can find out. I did take a look at the postmark, though. It was mailed from Winchester.”
Jonathon sighed. “I was hoping it had been posted locally.”
Mike gave him a stern glance. “And if it was from a local, surely they’d want to cover their tracks. They’d hardly be likely to walk into the village post office, would they?” He gestured to Jonathon’s phone, sitting next to his notepad. “Now give Melinda a call.”
Jonathon folded his arms. “I may not have been born here, but I know enough to realize that the vicar’s wife is not going to answer calls at this hour on a Sunday morning. Not when there’s this little thing called Sunday morning service.” He smirked. “I’ll text her. She can read that whenever she gets a moment. Although I suspect reading texts when your husband is in the middle of delivering a sermon might be frowned upon by the congregation.”
Then he reasoned that Melinda wouldn’t care about the frowns of her fellow worshippers. She was a formidable woman.
He glanced at the time. “We’d better get up to the hall. Professor Harcourt’s session starts at eleven, and I don’t want to miss it.” He genuinely liked the elderly gentleman and was looking forward to hearing his tales.
“As long as Fiona hasn’t come prepared to give him a grilling as well.” Mike finished his coffee. “I must admit, she really is the fount of all knowledge when it comes to Teresa.”
Jonathon chuckled. “Be careful. So was Kathy Bates’s character in Misery. And look how that ended up.”
“I think, given the situation, we’re quite safe. It’s not as if she can hobble Teresa, right?”
No, Jonathon thought forlornly. Someone else has already beaten her to it.
“THANK YOU for agreeing to this,” Mike said as he poured the tea. “We didn’t give you a lot of warning.”
Melinda waved dismissively. “If I hadn’t been baking yesterday, I would have told you to come some other time. But as you can see,” she said, gesturing to the table heavily laden with cake and scones, “I was rather busy in the kitchen.” She picked up a knife and sliced into the carrot cake. “And I know exactly what to give Jonathon.”
Mike laughed. “She knows you too well.”
Jonathon took the proffered plate with a smile. “I’m just sorry we can’t stay long.” Seconds later, Jinx the cat was winding in and out of his ankles, purring loudly.
Mike grinned. “Someone is after your cake.”
“And he’s not going to get any,” Melinda declared. “That cat is already too fat for my liking. No wonder he hasn’t caught a mouse in years.” She gave Jonathon a wistful glance. “Was the festival wonderful? I’m sorry to have missed it, but I’d double-booked myself. When I checked my diary, I had meetings all Saturday morning, and then I had the baking to do. I was still kicking myself for missing the dinner. That was down to a migraine, unfortunately.”
“I did wonder why I hadn’t seen you,” Jonathon said quietly.
“I thought the two of you might be here to ask for advice,” Lloyd said, after sipping his tea. “I am correct, aren’t I, in thinking that congratulations are in order?”
“Word gets around fast,” Mike commented. “Yes, we got engaged last night.”
“Wonderful news,” Melinda enthused. “So that’s why you’re here? To discuss the wedding?” Her eyes glittered. “Or is the purpose of this visit of a more morbid nature? A little sleuthing, perhaps?”
“You really do know us far too well,” Jonathon murmured. He removed his notepad from his pocket. “We wondered if you could give us any background information about Teresa Malvain, seeing as she used to live here.”
Melinda nodded eagerly. “She arrived in… 1992, I think it was. Of course, then she was Teresa Thompson. She and her husband lived in a cottage near the village hall.”
“What was she like? Did she get on with her neighbors?” Mike wanted to know.
Melinda gazed at him thoughtfully. “I suspect you already have some idea about that. Well, to be truthful, I—or should I say, we—felt sorry for her husband, Richard.”
“Poor man,” Lloyd muttered. When Mike stared at him in surprise, he sighed. “My sympathies will always be with a man who is continually on the receiving end of his wife’s sharp tongue. And poor Richard was frequently in that position. One wonders how he put up with it for so long.” He gazed adoringly across the table at Melinda. “Some of us were far luckier.”
Mike loved the fact that they’d been married for so many years and were still plainly in love.
“So what happened?” Jonathon asked.
“Richard lasted until 1998, and then he left her. I think it fair to say that most of the villagers were probably cheering him on in secret. Teresa decided to remain in Merrychurch, and she got a job as the doctor’s receptionist.”
“That’s what her sleuth does in her Summersfield books,” Mike exclaimed.
Melinda’s thoughtful gaze hadn’t altered. “Then maybe that’s not the only similarity. Maybe you need to take a closer look at her books.”
“Mike has all of them,” Jonathon announced with a grin.
Mike coughed. “Yes, but I don’t remember everything about them. I think the obvious person to ask is Fiona. She knows Teresa’s books inside and out.”
Melinda stilled. “Fiona McBride? She’s helping you? Hmm.”
Jonathon met Mike’s gaze before leaning forward. “Is there something we should know about her?”
“Well….” Melinda appeared reluctant to continue.
Lloyd gave a dry chuckle. “What my dear wife is trying so hard not to say is that Fiona helping you solve Teresa’s murder might be more like Dracula helping you work out who is leaving those little holes in people’s necks.”
Mike blinked. “You mean she should be a suspect? But why?”
Lloyd cleared his throat. “You need to look at what happened to her husband. That might be considered by some to be a motive. Not that I think for one minute t
hat Teresa had as much to do with his death as Fiona would like to believe, but—”
“But coming back to the purpose of your visit—Teresa….” Melinda took a drink of tea before continuing. “I’m going to be blunt.”
Jonathon bit his lip. “When are you ever anything but?”
That raised another wry chuckle from Lloyd.
Melinda sighed heavily. “I have no wish to speak ill of the dead, but… she was a gossip. I think you’ll find that if you interview the older members of Merrychurch, there will be quite a few who remember what Teresa was like. She may have left the village ten years ago, but some of us have long memories.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Now, if you’re going to make it to the closing of the festival, you need to drink your tea and eat your cake.” Melinda gestured to the plate of sultana scones. “Do try one.”
Mike figured that was all they were going to get out of Melinda on the subject. He helped himself to a scone with butter, strawberry jam, and a dollop of thick cream. Jonathon’s eyes gleamed, but he said nothing. Mentally, Mike made a note to write a list of Merrychurch’s oldest inhabitants. It was beginning to look like their inventory of suspects was about to grow.
“Although….” That twinkle was back in Melinda’s eyes. “Should either of you wish to discuss wedding plans, may I offer my services as wedding planner? I could advise you on the service, the reception….”
Lloyd erupted into a fit of coughing, and when Melinda gave him a sharp look, he said in a most apologetic tone, “Sorry. Crumb went down the wrong way.” Then he leaned closer to Jonathon and whispered, “Run, dear boy. Run away. Before she really gets started.”
It was all Mike could do not to choke on his mouthful of scone.
HEATHER WAS in the middle of her closing speech, in which she thanked Jonathon for opening up the hall for their use, when Mike noticed Graham toward the rear of the ballroom. He nudged Jonathon. “He’s looking very official.”
Jonathon glanced in Graham’s direction. “Hmm. I wonder why he’s here.”
No sooner had the final round of applause died down than Graham made his way purposefully through the crowd toward Phil McCallister and Melody Richards. Mike tried not to stare as Graham addressed them, his notepad in his hand. From their expressions, it was obvious that the two authors were not happy. Graham made notes, then gave a quick nod before walking in Mike’s direction.
“Well, my first literary festival is at an end.” Professor Harcourt joined them, his bag over one shoulder. “I must say I enjoyed it immensely—with one exception, of course.” He gazed anxiously at Jonathon. “Was my session all right?”
Jonathon smiled widely. “It was more than all right. It was fascinating. I’m sure everyone liked it.”
“Ah, Professor Harcourt. Just the man.” Graham reached them, notepad still in hand. “I need to ask what your immediate plans are, sir. I’ve been asked to speak to a couple of the witnesses, to ask if they could stick around a few days. I realize this may be inconvenient, but—”
“Nonsense, Constable,” Professor Harcourt replied affably. “I understand completely. You have a case of murder to investigate. And to be honest, I have no qualms about delaying my departure.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling. “I may have difficulty making my wife see it that way, but I’m sure she’ll understand too.” He lowered his voice. “Although I suspect she’ll be happy to have me out from under her feet for a while longer.”
Mike inclined his head in Phil and Melody’s direction. “I take it they’re not so happy to be staying.”
Graham snorted. “What gave it away?” Phil’s expression was sullen as he stared at them. “The DI called me at home this morning to tell me to make sure any witnesses didn’t leave before he had a chance to interview them.”
Mike huffed. “As if he’s going to learn something that you haven’t already.”
“Or maybe he thinks the murderer will fall on his or her sword and confess as soon as Gorland so much as looks at them.” Jonathon scowled. “Pompous little—” Graham coughed violently, and Jonathon clammed up.
Mike snickered, then gave Professor Harcourt an apologetic glance. “Sorry. There’s no love lost between us and DI Gorland.”
“I’d surmised that much,” the professor said dryly. “It sounds as though things will become more interesting once he’s in charge.”
“And in the meantime, Jonathon and I have a task to complete.” Mike gave a quick glance around before leaning forward and speaking in a low voice. “We’re building up a picture of Teresa when she lived here.”
Professor Harcourt’s gaze narrowed. “I see. You think there might be one or more persons in the village with a motive for murder.”
“Right now it’s only a hunch,” Mike admitted.
Graham snickered. “Except your hunches have a habit of paying off. I’m not gonna tell you not to continue, but I will suggest that you get your task done before the DI gets here. Because you know what’s gonna happen as soon as he finds out you’re up to your usual tricks.” He fixed Mike with an intense gaze. “And I don’t have to remind you to share whatever information you manage to glean, do I?”
Jonathon grinned. “We said we’d be good, didn’t we?”
Graham raised his eyes heavenward. “I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?”
Mike barely registered Graham’s rhetorical question. He was already devising his list of people to approach. And he had a good idea where to start.
“Fancy a visit to Rachel’s for a cup of coffee tomorrow morning?” he asked Jonathon in as nonchalant a manner as he could muster.
Jonathon’s eyes glittered. “I think that sounds like a great idea.”
Coffee, cake—and questions.
Chapter Eleven
RACHEL MEADOW stared at them as they entered her tea shop. “I’m not sure I want to talk to you two,” she declared with obvious mock indignation. She cleared the table that some customers had vacated, placing the teapot, cups, saucers, milk jug, and cake plates onto her tray.
“What have we done now?” Jonathon demanded.
Rachel straightened. “Excuse me? You got engaged on Saturday night. How come I had to find out about it from a customer? I’d have hoped to have gotten it from the horse’s mouth at least.”
“That’s fine. We’ll just take our gossip elsewhere,” Mike announced with an evil glint in his eyes.
She stilled. “Gossip? Are we talking Teresa Malvain–type gossip?”
Jonathon tried hard to keep a straight face. Mike knew how to push Rachel’s buttons. “Possibly,” Jonathon said, drawing out the syllables.
Rachel glanced around the tea shop, then pointed to a table in the window. “Sit there. I’ll bring out your usual. Coffee, two slices of cake?” And before they could say a word, she’d disappeared through the door that led to the kitchen.
Jonathon sat at the round table. “This is where we were sitting the first time you brought me here.” He loved the brasses on their high shelf, the pretty watercolor paintings of local scenes, and the frothy lace curtain that covered the top half of the bow windows.
But the best part was sitting on a tray Rachel carried through the door. A tall, elegant coffeepot, accompanied by two china cups, a white milk jug, and two plates, each barely visible beneath the slab of delicious-looking cake that covered it.
“I swear, you always manage to come in the day I bring in a freshly made walnut cake. How do you do that?” Rachel set the tray down on the white tablecloth.
“What can I say? It’s a gift.” Mike picked up the plate and sniffed.
Jonathon had to laugh. “I’ve never seen someone inhale a cake before.”
Rachel chuckled. “You leave him alone. It’s his favorite.” She placed her hands on their shoulders. “This is on the house. Call it my way of saying congratulations. And when I get a moment to breathe, I’ll see if Doris has any decent engagement cards in her shop.”
“I had no idea he was going to propose,” M
ike explained. Then he added with a smile, “Although to be fair, Jonathon had no idea he was going to propose that night either.”
There was no way Jonathon could argue with that.
She bent down, her head between theirs. “Now, about this gossip…,” she said conspiratorially.
Jonathon burst into laughter. “Grab a chair and join us. It’s not as if we didn’t come here with the express purpose of picking your brains anyway.”
“Oh, goodie.” Rachel pulled up another chair and sat facing them. “Okay. The word on the grapevine is, it’s murder. Someone induced anaphylactic shock.”
Jonathon was seriously impressed. “Wow. Your grapevine is amazing.”
She preened. “Only the best gossip reaches these ears. So is that right?”
“Only if this goes no further,” Mike advised. Then he rolled his eyes. “Who am I kidding? You probably get to hear more than we ever do.”
Rachel’s expression grew more somber. “I don’t share what you tell me. You know that.”
Jonathon reached over and squeezed her hand. “We do. So… yes. Someone made sure she ingested peanut oil.”
“To which she was highly allergic, according to the internet.” She frowned. “Does that mean you’re looking for suspects in the village?”
Jonathon had been giving the matter some careful thought. “We want to know if there’s anyone in particular from her past in Merrychurch who might have reason to want her dead. Because the word reaching our ears is that Teresa—”
“Pissed off a lot of people,” Mike said, finishing his sentence. He aimed a grin in Jonathon’s direction. “You’re too much of a gentleman to say ‘pissed off.’ I, however, am not.”
Rachel’s frown deepened. “Well, a few things come to mind. She was certainly adept at putting people’s backs up. But whether what she did was sufficient reason for them killing her, that’s another matter.”
“Tell us and let us decide.” Jonathon got out his pen and flipped open the notepad.
