A Novel Murder

by K. C. Wells

  “What if she wrote a book loosely based on something that really happened in the village?” Jonathon’s voice cracked with excitement. “Obviously not a real murder, because we’d all know about it. But a death that could have been murder.”

  Mike nodded eagerly. “And maybe someone in the village got nervous. All this attention on her Summersfield books….”

  Professor Harcourt arched his bushy eyebrows. “You think one of your neighbors might be a murderer?”

  Jonathon met Mike’s gaze. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “But there are twenty books in the series,” the professor exclaimed. “I can’t remember the plots of all of them.” He regarded Mike closely. “Do you have her books here?”

  Mike nodded. “They’re in a bookcase on the landing.”

  Jonathon blinked. “I never noticed them.”

  Mike grinned. “Some detective you are.”

  “Then here is what I propose we do,” Professor Harcourt continued. “We divide up the books between us, and we read them.”

  “Now?” Mike inquired.

  “As soon as possible. And I also suggest that we note the bare bones of each plot. Then we get together in a day or two and compare notes.”

  “Then what?” Mike didn’t see where this would take them. Having lived slightly less than two years in Merrychurch, his knowledge of the village wasn’t sufficient for him to know which plots to investigate.

  “Then we take our notes to someone who will be able to point us in the right direction,” Jonathon announced triumphantly.

  The light dawned. “Melinda Talbot.” Mike smiled. If anyone would know which books were thinly disguised portrayals of real-life events, it would be Melinda.

  Professor Harcourt cleared his throat, and Mike realized he’d zoned out. The professor gave him a patient smile. “You’d better go get those books, Mike. We have a lot of reading to do.”

  He had a point.

  As Mike headed for the door that led to the staircase, he caught Jonathon’s chuckle. “I wonder if Abi would like a few more shifts this week.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  HIS SKIN still beaded with water, Mike pushed open the door to Jonathon’s bedroom and entered. To his amusement, Jonathon was sitting in exactly the same position as he had been before Mike’s shower: on the bed, pillows stuffed behind him, legs bent, and peering at a book.

  “Do you know whodunit yet?”

  Jonathon did a good impression of leaping out of his skin. “I had no clue you’d come into the room.” He picked up a bookmark and placed it between the pages.

  “Must be an engrossing read.” Mike sat on the edge of the bed and bent over to remove the silicone prosthesis from what remained of his foot. A thought occurred to him. “This has never bothered you, has it?”

  Jonathon shifted across the bed until he was kneeling up behind Mike. He put his arms around Mike’s shoulders and kissed the top of his head. “Not once.”

  Maybe that was part and parcel of why Jonathon had been unlike any man Mike had met since he’d left the police force. The few guys Mike had hooked up with had clearly found his disfigurement unpleasant. Jonathon hadn’t batted an eyelid. He hadn’t ignored it either. The first time during lovemaking when he’d gently raised Mike’s leg to tenderly kiss him there, Mike had teared up.

  “Love you,” he said quietly.

  Jonathon’s warm breath tickled his ear. “That’s why you’re marrying me, silly.” Then he shifted once more, and Mike found himself on his back, Jonathon astride him, leaning over to kiss him again and again.

  Jonathon chuckled. “Your beard is tickling me.”

  “I’ll shave it off,” Mike said emphatically. “Tomorrow.”

  Jonathon reared upright, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare. That would be cause for divorce before we’re even married.” He stroked Mike’s beard. “I like it. Especially when you rub it over my—”

  Mike covered Jonathon’s mouth with his hand. “Before you get carried away, how about you share whatever it is you wanted to run by me?” He removed his hand.

  Jonathon climbed off and lay down on the bed beside him, his hand making slow circles on Mike’s belly, not venturing down as far as the towel that still covered him. “You remember we talked about having children?”

  “Sure.” Then he put two and two together. “Does this have anything to do with inviting Ruth and Clare to stay?”

  Jonathon beamed. “I hope our kids inherit your brains. Yes, sweetheart.” He paused, his gaze locked on Mike’s. “How would you feel if we asked Ruth to be our surrogate?”

  It took a moment for the implications to fully sink in. “Your father suggests you marry Ruth, because she’s of good breeding stock, to put it plainly. So how could he complain if she’s our surrogate? Jonathon, you are a genius.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Jonathon said, laughing. “She hasn’t agreed yet.”

  “Do you think she will?” Mike didn’t want to consider rejection.

  “She might—if we return the favor.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Jonathon smiled. “She and Clare want children too. So here’s my plan. I donate sperm so she can carry our baby—then at a later date, you donate sperm so Clare can have their baby.” His eyes shone. “That way, everyone is happy. Including my father.”

  Excitement bubbled up from deep inside him. “Call them. Now. Ask them to come here for the weekend.”

  Jonathon laughed, a joyous sound that filled the room. “You really like this idea, don’t you?”

  “Like it? I love it. I only hope they do too.”

  “I’ll call them in the morning. I don’t think they’ll mind a visit. They love coming here. But we won’t mention the reason for the invitation until they get here. Besides….” Jonathon grinned. “I have more pressing things on my mind right now.”

  “Such as?”

  Jonathon slid his hand down Mike’s belly. “Discovering what you’re hiding under this towel.”

  “Then maybe you should take a look.” Mike caught his breath as Jonathon slowly unfastened the towel.

  “Aw, for me? You shouldn’t have.”

  JONATHON YAWNED, his hand covering his mouth. After two days of skimming through seven murder mysteries, he’d reached breakpoint. “I don’t care if I never read another one of these as long as I live.” He rubbed his eyes. “Who knew reading could make you so tired?”

  “Have you noted the plot?” Mike asked from the other end of the couch. Jonathon had insisted on putting some space between them, especially after the first morning’s reading, when Mike had gotten ideas about what comprised a break—and what activities could occupy said break.

  Two hours later….

  JONATHON NODDED, stifling another yawn. “I hope some of these strike a chord with Melinda. I’d hate to think we’d spent all this time reading these books without anything to show for it.” He glanced across at Mike. “It was probably easier for you. After all, you’ve already read them at least once.” He grinned and pointed to the heap of novels on the coffee table. “How many times have you read these?”

  “I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I might incriminate myself.” Mike put down the book he’d been reading. “Okay. That was my last one.”

  “Mine too.” Jonathon looked at the clock over the fireplace. “It’s not that late. I’ll call Professor Harcourt and see how he’s doing.” They’d heard nothing from him for the last couple of days, so Jonathon assumed he was as engrossed in his task as they had been.

  He picked up his phone and found the professor’s contact details. Professor Harcourt answered on the third ring. “Good evening. Your timing is uncanny. I was about to call you. I’ve just finished the last book.”

  “Excellent. Then I’ll call Melinda to organize a meeting.” He smiled to himself. “When was the last time you had an old-fashioned afternoon tea?”

  “Tea and talk? How delightful. Yes, that sounds sple
ndid. Let me know the time.” Jonathon caught the professor’s yawn. “Oh dear. I think I might have an early night. All this reading has worn me out.” He bade Jonathon good night and they finished the call.

  Jonathon put aside his phone. “This was a really good idea of Professor Harcourt’s. I only hope it pays off.”

  “Well, if it does, it will mean one of our neighbors got away with murder. That’s a not-so-pleasant thought.”

  Jonathon stared at him. “And here’s another for you. We assumed all the villagers kept their distance in the pub that night because they remembered what Teresa was like. What if some of them stayed as far away as possible because they didn’t want Teresa to say something that might incriminate them?”

  Mike became very still. “That’s a good point.”

  “And here’s another. What if someone in the village did get away with murder but had no idea that Teresa had put it in a book? Maybe they’re not a big reader. Now, all of a sudden, there’s all this attention being paid to her series. Remember the leaflets Heather had made? The ones she put through everyone’s door? She had all the Summersfield covers, plus a précis of each book.”

  Mike widened his eyes. “And someone takes one look at a particular book and thinks, ‘Wait a minute. That’s talking about me.’”

  “Exactly,” Jonathon said triumphantly. “And then they realize that for two whole days, Teresa is going to be talking about those books. That book. Which is the last thing they want. Because if they’ve noticed similarities, so might other people in the village. So what are the options?”

  “Shut her up—for good.” Mike frowned. “But how would they know about the allergy?”

  “The same way Fiona knew—she read it somewhere online. Let’s face it, if you’re going to kill someone, you do your research, especially if you want to do it in such a way so you don’t get caught.”

  Mike’s expression grew even more troubled. “It’s not a nice thought, though. One of our neighbors could be a murderer. Maybe even one of our friends.”

  Jonathon waved dismissively. “I’m thinking it’s someone we don’t know very well. Because can you see Rachel, or Paul, or Seth, or Doris, committing murder?”

  Mike arched his eyebrows. “I think we’ve been down this route before. With the last two murders, to be precise.”

  Jonathon stilled. “Okay, another good point.” He yawned. “Sorry. I think Professor Harcourt has the right idea about an early night.”

  Mike said nothing but popped open the top button on his shirt. Then the next. And the next. All the while, his gaze was focused on Jonathon, his eyes gleaming.

  Jonathon held up one finger. “Hold that thought.” He got up and extended a hand to Mike. “Let’s take this to the bedroom. Janet hasn’t gone to bed yet.”

  Mike grabbed his hand, and Jonathon hoisted him to his feet. “I thought you wanted an early night?”

  Jonathon snorted. “Well, what do you expect when you start revealing that chest?” He led Mike to the door, pausing to switch off the lights.

  It was still going to be an early night, except they might not get to sleep for a while.

  “WHERE’S LLOYD?” Mike asked as they took their seats in Melinda’s cozy sitting room.

  “Working on Sunday’s sermon.” Melinda gave him a wry smile. “And seeing as today is Thursday, and he only started work on it this morning, he has a lot to do.” She smiled warmly at Professor Harcourt. “It’s lovely to see you again after all these years.”

  “You too. I remember your arrival in the village, when Lloyd was first moved to the parish.” The professor’s smile seemed tinged with sadness to Mike’s mind.

  Melinda chuckled. “Funny to think that was over thirty years ago.” She gestured to the table, which was as full as ever. “Help yourself to cake or scones. There’s plenty.”

  “There always is,” Jonathon commented. “I think Melinda’s afternoon teas are the reason I’ve put on weight since I came to this village.”

  “Then you obviously need to do more exercise.” Melinda’s eyes sparkled.

  Mike was glad he wasn’t drinking at that moment. “You know, it’s so wrong that a vicar’s wife can say those words, and I immediately think there’s a hidden meaning.”

  Melinda snickered. “Hidden? You mean dirty. That’s because you have a dirty mind.” She poured tea into the cups. “Now, who’s going to start?”

  It took them almost an hour to run through all the plots. Thankfully, Melinda would stop them after a minute if nothing seemed familiar. Now and again, she jotted down a few notes on a slip of paper, but most of the time she was able to multitask, refilling tea cups and plates as she listened.

  When they were done, the three of them sagged into their chairs and Melinda went to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea. When she returned, she joined Mike on the couch, her paper in her hand and a cup of tea on the small table beside her.

  “My, my. Teresa was certainly prolific. When did the first of these books appear?”

  “2012,” Mike announced, after consulting his notes.

  “Twenty books in six years.” Melinda arched her eyebrows. “One would hope such proliferation didn’t lead to a lack of quality.”

  Mike had the distinct impression Melinda was stalling. Then it hit him why that might be. “You recognized something, didn’t you?” Something she was clearly unhappy to share.

  Melinda said nothing but picked up her cup and drank. After a moment, she sighed. “Two of those books could very well refer to incidents that took place in Merrychurch.”

  “Two?” Jonathon stared at her. “Well, that’s something. What can you tell us?”

  Melinda put down her cup, then took her handkerchief from the pocket of her tweed skirt. She held it in her lap, twisting it in a nervous manner.

  “Melinda?” Mike said softly. “What is it you don’t want to tell us?”

  She blinked, as though startled, then bit her lip. “The case of the old lady who died in suspicious circumstances? Where an unexpected relative inherited everything? That sounds remarkably like what happened with Meredith Roberts.”

  Jonathon frowned. “Does she live in the village? I’ve never met her.” When Professor Harcourt appeared surprised by this, Jonathon explained that he hadn’t been long in the village himself and didn’t know everyone. “Although I should get to know more people, in all honesty.”

  “Yes, she still lives here. And it was her aunt who died suddenly.”

  “Okay. Then we can look into that. And the other case?” Mike pushed.

  Melinda sighed again. “The young farmer who thought his mother had run off and left him and his father years previously. Rumors had abounded that she’d gone off with another man. But when the sleuth looks into the case, she discovers there’s a field his father won’t cultivate, even though they badly need the extra crops. It turns out that the older farmer had killed his wife and buried her there.”

  “And that sounded familiar?” Jonathon asked.

  Melinda nodded slowly. “It bears a remarkable similarity to actual events. A farmer’s wife did indeed leave the village without a word, and yes, there were rumors circulating for a while that the husband had murdered her. There was no son, however. That’s where the story differs from reality. But then the rumors died down and were dismissed as mere fancy.”

  Mike regarded her closely. “Who was the farmer?” Although the thought was slowly forming in his head that he might already know the answer to that, given Melinda’s reluctance.

  Her troubled gaze met his. “Paul Drake.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  JONATHON STARED in astonishment. “No. There’s no way Paul could be a murderer.”

  “But you cannot know that with any degree of certainty,” Professor Harcourt admonished gently. “One never knows how anyone will react when pushed to their limits. What if she had confronted him and there had been a dreadful argument? What if she had provoked him?” He gazed intently at Jonathon. “You can
not let your personal feelings cloud your judgment. Let me ask you this: knowing Paul as you do, would you therefore dismiss this idea and not investigate further?”

  “We can’t ignore it,” Mike told him solemnly. “After all, we know from our own experience that people will constantly surprise you. Don’t we?”

  Jonathon said nothing, although he knew they were both right.

  “I don’t like the idea of Paul being involved in this any more than you do,” Melinda admitted. “But Mike is correct. You can’t ignore it.”

  “Maybe not,” Jonathon said slowly. “But we can choose which of the two cases we investigate first. And I vote for looking at Meredith Roberts.”

  “If it helps, I don’t think it’s Paul either,” Mike said in a low voice.

  Professor Harcourt’s lips twitched. “Do I take it that the local constable doesn’t mind you two investigating, as you put it?”

  Jonathon chuckled. “Seeing as we helped him solve two murders, he’s inclined to turn a blind eye. Gorland is more of a problem, however.”

  “We have to work hard to stay under his radar,” Mike added.

  “So how will you go about this? You can’t simply turn up on her doorstep and say you’re investigating Teresa’s murder and she might possibly have a motive.” Professor Harcourt took a bite of madeira cake. “This is delicious.”

  “How long has Meredith lived in the village?” Jonathon asked. “Or maybe I should ask, did her aunt die, and was Teresa living in the village at the time?”

  Melinda frowned. “Let me think. Old Miss Tremont died in 2001, so yes, Teresa was here.”