Trick or Murder?: A Sophie Sayers Village Mystery (Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries Book 2)

by Debbie Young

  Hector shot me a worried look. “I think you’ll find the technical term for that is arsonist.”

  Tommy looked impressed. “Wow. I’ll be one of them, then. My mum says I can get a Saturday job next year when I turn fourteen. Maybe I could work here?” He gazed around the shop as if taking it in for the first time. “It seems nice enough.”

  I brought two cups of tea to the table and sat down to join them, watching for Hector’s reaction. I could imagine Tommy quickly making himself at home here, camping out in a sleeping bag under the display tables because he liked it so much.

  Hector’s face was serious. “Not as an aspiring arsonist, you won’t. Besides, the sort of person to whom all books look the same is probably not the best candidate for bookshop assistant.”

  “Fair enough.” Tommy seemed undaunted. “Mum thought I might get a job mowing lawns. I always do ours at home. I’ve been thinking of setting up in lawnmowing. Running my own business, like you do, Hector.” He tilted the glass to slurp up the rest of his drink.

  “So have you got your own lawnmower, Tommy?” asked Hector. I was glad he was trying to point Tommy in the right direction, teaching him the basics of entrepreneurship.

  Tommy set down his glass. “Well, my mum says I can’t use ours as I’d wear it out and she couldn’t afford to replace it. She says I should just use whatever the person’s got whose lawn I’m mowing.” He ran his finger around the inside of the glass again and licked it slowly. Although glad to see him enjoy his shake so much, I hoped he’d washed his hands after building the bonfire.

  “Although I’m thinking of building a lawnmower myself. I mean, it can’t be that hard, can it? All it has to do is cut grass. I could probably get hold of some old ones and make a whole new one out of them. That would be even better. I could be like James Dyson only with lawnmowers. Easy.”

  As Hector and I sipped our tea, I tried to picture the possible fruits of Tommy’s engineering genius.

  “Anyway, I can’t stay here all afternoon chatting with you two.” He lifted the lid of the sugar bowl to follow his milkshake with a sugar lump chaser. “I’ve got to finish the vicar’s errand.” He delved into his left parka pocket and extracted a thick stack of handwritten index cards. Pulling off the top one, he set it on the table between Hector and me. “There you go. Your official invitation for Saturday. The vicar was worried that not enough people have told him that they’re coming to his party, so he’s given me these to deliver.” He pointed to the ‘+1’ at the bottom left corner. “I’m not sure whether that means you have to bring one guy per person, or just another person. Do you want an invitation each or can you share?”

  I let Hector respond. “One will do, thanks, Tommy. Sophie can be my plus one. But don’t go getting mixed up and putting her on the bonfire.”

  Tommy didn’t laugh, transfixed by the pile of cards in his hand. There must have been close to a hundred.

  “I tell you what, I’ll give you one each anyway. I’ve got to give them all out tonight, and it’s going to take me ages.”

  He passed one across the table to me. The sight of the disjointed, childlike lettering, all in upper case, brought out the teacher in me. “He didn’t get you to write all these as well, did he?” I wondered whether I ought to be offering Tommy some coaching to help him improve his handwriting.

  “God, no. The vicar did them. It would have taken me months to do this much writing. I told him he ought to have done it on his computer and then just print out loads to save all that writing, but he doesn’t have one.”

  Hector looked surprised. “Really? I would have expected Mr Neep to have brought at least a laptop and printer with him. It must be a real chore to write all his sermons and correspondence by hand.”

  “My mum says that’s how the rich stay rich. They’re mean on the small things so they can save their money for the big things like Rolls Royces and swimming pools.”

  I found myself coming to Mr Neep’s defence. “To be fair, Tommy, vicars don’t earn much. He won’t exactly have a champagne lifestyle.” Joshua’s getting through to me, I thought, with his call for charity.

  “Which would be lost on a teetotaller anyway,” said Hector.

  “What’s that mean – all he drinks is tea? Like you two?” Tommy nodded at our teacups.

  “Not a bad guess, Tommy,” said Hector. “It just means he doesn’t drink alcohol.”

  Tommy scooped up the rest of the invitations and pushed back his chair. “Well, thanks for the milkshake.” He felt optimistically in his coat pocket. “Sorry, miss, I didn’t think to keep back any money to leave you a tip.”

  I suppressed a smile. “Thanks, Tommy, but don’t worry. I’ll count the invitation card as a very acceptable tip.”

  He brightened and headed for the door without looking back, intent upon his mission of delivering the rest of the vicar’s invitations around the village.

  Hector and I sat in companionable silence for a moment. The shop seemed to have grown bigger since Tommy left.

  “He’s a bit of a force of nature, isn’t he?” I said eventually.

  Hector gave a rueful smile. “Yes, but you need to keep an eye on him or he quickly gets out of hand. It takes the equivalent of sandbags in a flood to hold young Tommy back once he gets an idea into his head.”

  I read the card again. “Surely the vicar doesn’t really mean everyone should bring a guy? The bonfire will look like an act of genocide.”

  “No, I think Tommy’s got that wrong. I hope so, anyway.” Hector sighed. “Poor old Tommy. I remember his dad vaguely. When I was a student, coming back to visit my parents here, he used to be in The Bluebird most nights. Seemed like a selfish git to me, though not without a certain charm. No-one was surprised when he walked out on Tommy’s mum one day. Except Tommy’s mum.”

  “Was there someone else involved?”

  “No, he was just fed up with the responsibility of marriage and parenthood.”

  I looked closely at Hector to check for any signs of fellow feeling with Tommy’s dad, and I was relieved to find there were none.

  He drained his cup. “Better cash up now.” He headed back to the bookshop till, while I checked the tearoom’s cash drawer.

  “So are you now thinking you might go to the vicar’s party after all? Or were you just accepting Tommy’s invitation to avoid hurting his feelings?”

  Hector counted twenty pound coins into a plastic banking bag.

  “I admit I’m tempted, if only to find out what books he’s planning to burn.” He opened the till with a ping and lifted out the cash drawer. “You’re not trying to wriggle out of our meal on Saturday, are you, Sophie? I’m hoping the night will have a less traumatic ending than the PTA Halloween Disco.”

  I tried to sound playful and carefree so as not to reveal my nervousness about our impending night out. “Our third date. Third time lucky!” Only after I’d said it did I realise the implications.

  Hector winked at me. “Sophie Sayers! Is that a proposition? Whatever would your old auntie say?” I knew he was only teasing me, but I couldn’t help blushing. Hector chuckled as he counted up the rest of the day’s takings.

  31 Fun Guys

  In the bookshop on the morning of Guy Fawkes’ Night, Hector was busy laying out the last of the Guy Fawkes stock on the display table. After I’d sold a local map to a pair of American tourists who seemed keen to get out of the village as soon as possible, I remembered I’d never got round to looking up the book that the sales rep had been asking about earlier in the week.

  “Hector, how do you spell Octavius, please?”

  “In general, I don’t. It’s not a name I ever use.” But he spelled it out anyway and I typed it in.

  “France, I can handle,” I said.

  “What, all of it? Are you the new Joan of Arc? If so, you’d better leave the village before nightfall. She and bonfires did not get on.”

  Hector and I were both in something of a holiday mood, and I hoped his cheerful demean
our was for the same reason as mine: excitement about our imminent date.

  “No, it’s the surname of an author. Octavius France. There was a publisher’s rep in here the other day asking whether we stocked his author’s book, Sentenced to Life.”

  “That seems an odd question for a sales rep to ask a bookshop. His publisher’s records would tell him whether we stocked it. He can’t be much good as a rep.”

  “He did seem a bit clueless. He was wearing a very shiny suit. And lime green socks.”

  “Enough said.”

  I had to abandon my task as three families arrived at once, their children intent on spending birthday book tokens. I wondered what happened in the village each year to precipitate this cluster of autumn birthdays, and I had to bite back a smile when I heard one of the mums call her daughter Valentina.

  After they’d gone, all tokens spent, the shop fell quiet for a bit. I allowed myself to fall into a little reverie as to what Hector and I might be doing next Valentine’s Day, until he shouted across for my attention.

  “Earth to Sophie. Tearoom, please!” It was a gentle reminder that he was still more boss than boyfriend, though I hoped our romantic meal that evening might ignite enough sparks to tip the balance the other way.

  Hector had said we should go to the Chinese earlier rather than later, so we’d have time to go on to the Slate Green fireworks display after we’d eaten. He let me leave the shop a bit early to dash home to change into something other than the jeans and jumper that I’d worn for work. Fortunately, the rain had held off all day, and the first dry night in a week was forecast. I was glad not to have to worry that wet weather might put a damper on our date.

  As I strode briskly home down the High Street, I was passed by a tandem heading the other way. I thought it odd that the second cyclist wasn’t peddling at all until I realised it was a guy with a broomstick up its back to hold it erect. Then a young man passed by with a large guy over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. I regretted I wouldn’t be seeing the full array of guys at the vicar’s party later, but of course I wouldn’t have swapped the lot of them for a night out with Hector.

  Before I changed into a carefully chosen slinky Chinese silk dress of May’s, insulated with thermal underwear (well, it was November), there was something important I had to do. I knocked on Joshua’s front door to let him know why I wouldn’t be going to the vicar’s party. I didn’t want him to think I was being rude or intolerant of the vicar.

  I listened for his slow footsteps as he came to open his front door. In his front room behind him a log fire was already blazing in the grate.

  “Ah, good evening, young Sophie. Looking forward to the fireworks tonight? Your eyes are alight already, I see.”

  I lowered my head, suddenly feeling shy, and looked up at him from under my eyelashes. “Actually, it’s not the fireworks I’m looking forward to, but a meal out with Hector. We’re going on a date.”

  Joshua gave me a knowing smile. “That comes as no surprise. I’m very happy for you both, my dear.” Not much got past old Joshua. I asked him whether he would be going himself to witness the burning of the guy that he and Tommy had made together.

  “I’m afraid I shall be spending the evening at home. Standing outdoors after dark in a crowd near a fire would be somewhat hazardous at my age. My eyesight is not what it was, and it would be all too easy for me to be the subject of an accident. I should hate to inconvenience the vicar by causing trouble.”

  I was touched by his thoughtfulness, yet saddened by the evidence of his ageing. “That’s a shame. By the way, thank you so much for taking Tommy Crowe under your wing the other day. The guy you made was really effective.”

  “My pleasure, my dear, even if I did have to do nearly all the work myself. I confess I took a constitutional past the vicarage this morning to admire the sight of our guy atop the bonfire. It’s in pride of place, you know, with others seated beneath it. It looks as though I am telling them all a story.”

  I smiled. “That sounds about right. I think quite a few more guys will have joined them since this morning, judging from the number being transported past Hector’s House this afternoon. It was starting to look like a latter-day Black Death, with everyone bringing out their dead.”

  I decided not to tell him about the case of mistaken identity over his guy earlier in the week, and hoped no one else would either. Although he might have been flattered to know half the village had rushed to his aid before we realised our mistake, I didn’t want to confront him with an image foreshadowing his own death, even if, as the oldest inhabitant of the village, he was likely to be the next to leave us.

  I headed for the front door. He stood on the threshold of his cottage as I stepped carefully over the lavender hedge. Chivalrously, Joshua held his front door wide open to light my way and wished me a wonderful evening with Hector.

  I paused with my key in my front door lock. “I’ll be sure to tell you all about it tomorrow, over a nice cup of coffee.” I looked forward to enjoying the evening all over again as I told him whatever proved fit for his old ears.

  “I am sorry to have to stay at home, my dear, but I will at least be at the vicar’s party in effigy, if not in spirit.” He laughed gamely and I smiled. I had to admire his optimism. He gave me a final wave and called after me, “The vicar will have to wait a little longer to dispatch my spirit.”

  I fervently hoped that he was right.

  32 Alone at Last

  Five minutes after I’d changed, Hector pulled up outside my front door in his Land Rover. I pretended not to see Joshua watching us from his front room as I climbed up into the passenger seat. He had a fond but wistful look on his face. I supposed it was unlikely that he’d ever go out for another romantic dinner himself.

  Hector suggested that rather than pore over the huge and complicated menu, we go for the set menu, which resulted in a constant trickle of sample size portions. I was glad the portions were small. My stomach was so tight with nerves that it felt like I’d just been fitted with a gastric band.

  If we’d been stuck for something to say, guessing the ingredients and admiring the workmanship that had gone into the food would have fuelled our conversation. Even the garnish consisted of tiny works of art: roses chiselled out of radishes; chrysanthemums sculpted from carrots.

  I picked up an exquisite rose and examined it. “If ever you want to bring me flowers, Hector, you could do worse than pick these.”

  He responded with a nervous smile.

  Considering we spent all day, every day together in the shop without a moment’s self-consciousness – well, not many moments, anyway – it was odd how transplanting ourselves away from home territory put us both on our guard. The restaurant’s soft lights and gentle music were meant to put diners at their ease, but for us such an overtly romantic setting piled on pressure. Sharing dishes implied a certain intimacy between us that I wasn’t sure Hector was ready for.

  “OK, cards on the table time,” said Hector abruptly, as the waiter took away the empty prawn cracker basket. “We might as well be honest with each other so we know what we’re up against.”

  He made it sound like a battle. Seeing the disappointed look on my face, he immediately retracted.

  “Well, not up against, but it would be helpful to know where we’re each coming from with our previous relationships. I certainly owe you an explanation as to why I’ve been so backward in coming forward.” He paused, unsheathing his chopsticks from their paper wrapper and snapping them apart ready for action.

  The waiter set a dish of miniature starters between us. In silence, I waited for Hector to continue speaking. He said nothing, instead picking up a tiny pancake roll with his chopsticks and offering it up to me. As I took the whole thing in my mouth, I admired his superior dexterity with his chopsticks. I hoped I wouldn’t have to resort to a knife and fork during the evening.

  “Will it help if I go first?” I offered, once I’d finished chewing and swallowing. If he had a st
artling confession to make, he wasn’t the only one of us who wanted to defer the moment.

  He put his empty chopsticks to his mouth for a moment. “Yes, I think it would. Although of course you’ve told me quite a bit about your history with Damian already. Only tell me what you want to tell me. I’m still your boss, remember. If there are places you don’t want to go, just say.”

  I brightened. “You know what that reminds me of? A Dr Seuss book that I was reading with Jemima this afternoon. ‘Oh, the places you’ll go—’”

  I was pleased to be recommending a book to him for once.

  “Does it have a happy ending?”

  I nodded. “Yes, you should read it some time.”

  He picked up a little triangle of sesame prawn toast with his chopsticks and eyed it thoughtfully, as if trying to calculate the square on the hypotenuse.

  “OK, then, I’ll tell you about Damian and me. Just promise not to laugh. And in return I’ll promise not to cry.” He looked alarmed. “Joke,” I said.

  As we worked our way through a little basket of vegetables in tempura batter, I took him through my chequered history.

  “OK, long story short. When I met him in Freshers’ Week at uni, I was bowled over by his Viking good looks.” Hector put his hand to his own dark curls, as if comparing himself with Damian.

  “He had the confidence of a natural actor, but I was less than sure of myself. It was the easy option to stick with him all the way through to graduation, then to follow him out to Europe when he set up his touring drama company, Damian Drammaticas. It was his idea that I took a crash course in teaching English as a foreign language, so that I could earn money wherever we went.”

  Hector dipped a battered mushroom into a delicate pale bowl of dark spicy sauce. “It should have rung warning bells that he named his theatre group after an inflated version of himself.”

  I nodded, wondering why I’d never thought of that before.