The Chocolate Egg Murders
A Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery (#7)
David W Robinson
Copyright © 2017 by David W Robinson
Cover Photography by Adobe Stock © DiViArts
Design by soqoqo
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United Kingdom
First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2017
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The Author
David Robinson is a Yorkshireman now living in Manchester. Driven by a huge, cynical sense of humour, he’s been a writer for over thirty years having begun with magazine articles before moving on to novels and TV scripts.
He has little to do with his life other than write, as a consequence of which his output is prodigious. Thankfully most of it is never seen by the great reading public of the world.
He has worked closely with Crooked Cat Books since 2012, when The Filey Connection, the very first Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, was published.
Describing himself as the Doyen of Domestic Disasters he can be found blogging at www.dwrob.com and he appears frequently on video (written, produced and starring himself) dispensing his mocking humour at www.youtube.com/user/Dwrob96/videos
By the same author
The STAC Mystery series:
1. The Filey Connection
2. The I-Spy Murders
3. A Halloween Homicide
4. A Murder for Christmas
5. Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend
6. My Deadly Valentine
7. The Chocolate Egg Murders
8. The Summer Wedding Murder
9. Costa del Murder
10. Christmas Crackers
11. Death in Distribution
12. A Killing in the Family
13. A Theatrical Murder
14. Trial by Fire
15. Peril in Palmanova
The SPOOKIES Mystery series
The Haunting of Melmerby Manor
The Man in Black
The Chocolate Egg Murders
A Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery (#7)
Chapter One
A gust of wind hit the bus broadside as it turned and crossed a bridge over the main railway line into Weston-super-Mare. From the jump seat, looking down on the railway station, Joe Murray could see a small army of people making their way out of the station, presumably having just arrived by train.
Another gust of wind hit the bus, lashing rain onto the windows, and Joe felt the vehicle shudder.
“Great weekend this is gonna turn out,” he grumbled.
Sat behind him, Brenda Jump cast a wistful glance through the windows. “Shame too. I thought it might have been sunny. I like sunshine at Easter.”
“When I was married, me and Alison used to go to Blackpool for the day every Easter,” Joe said. “Yes, and it never stopped raining there, either.”
Alongside Brenda, Sheila Riley leaned forward and gave him a friendly shove on the shoulder. “Don’t be so mean, Joe. I’m sure you and Alison had some wonderful moments.”
“We did,” he agreed. “Especially when she was at the bingo and I was in the pub.”
Turning his back on them and their disparaging responses, he, too, gazed at the rain blowing in sheets across the approaching seafront of Weston-super-Mare.
It had rained consistently throughout the two hundred-mile journey from Sanford, but not as heavily as it was coming down now. It seemed as if the weather gods had reserved their worst efforts for their arrival.
Joe glanced at the large dial of his Rotary watch and read just after 2.00pm. Six hours since they left Sanford, and they had stopped only once, on a service station outside Alvechurch when Keith, their long-suffering driver, needed to take a legal break from driving.
“Normally, I’d do it in four and a half hours,” he had told Joe while they crawled through a large jam east of Birmingham, “but it’s Good Friday tomorrow, so every dipstick and his wife is on the road today, and the weather just makes it worse.”
There were further delays due to an accident on the outskirts of Gloucester and again near Bristol, where the M5 met the M4, and the two Severn crossings added to the crowded roads.
“I’ll be glad when I’m like you lot; an old git,” Keith had grumbled. “Then I can sit back and let someone else do the driving.”
When he eventually accelerated away from the jam and across the Avonmouth Bridge, he asked, “What possessed you to come all this way? Normally you don’t go further than a hundred miles for your weekend jaunts.”
Joe had shrugged. “The members decide, not me. Personally, I’m with you. I’d rather go to Scarborough, or at a pinch, Cleethorpes. I don’t like spending most of the first day travelling, and at least you can get to the Yorkshire coast in an hour.”
As Keith came off the motorway and turned towards Weston, Joe had rolled a cigarette, ready for their arrival, and commented, “It could be worse. Sheila and Brenda keep going on about a week in Tenerife.”
“Well I’m not driving you there. Not a bad idea, though.”
“Crap idea for me. My ex-wife lives there.”
Joe sank into his thoughts until Keith had to brake sharply, bringing Joe back to reality.
A middle-aged woman, her hair a shock of red, had crossed in front of the bus. She carried a large handbag over one arm, and clutched a large, boxed Easter egg under the other. Judging from the direction in which she was walking, Joe assumed she had come from the railway station, but while most of the pedestrians had paused to look both ways, she had not.
Driving slowly on, Keith opened his window. “You wanna learn to look what’s coming before you cross the road, luv, or your grandkids won’t get to eat the chocolate egg.”
Joe did not hear her response, but when Keith said, ‘and the same to you’, he guessed it was not complimentary.
Muttering to himself, with occasional glances at his satnav display, Keith negotiated a large roundabout, and steered the bus towards the town centre. Passing familiar High Street names, most of them busy with people eager to be out of the rain, Joe had his first glimpse of the seafront half a mile ahead, and when Keith finally turned right along the promenade, in the direction of the Grand Pier, Joe sensed a wave of relief run through the seventy members on the bus. He reasoned that in common with Keith, if the members had realised what a toil the journey would be, they would probably have voted for Scarborough.
“Two minutes, Joe,” Keith warned him.
Joe reached up and behind to collect the PA microphone, switched it on and tapped the head to ensure it was working. Standing to face his members, he announced, “All right, folks, Keith tells me we’ll be at the Leeward Hotel in about two minutes.”
A weak cheer went up as he announced it. There was one comment of ‘about bloody time, too’ from George Robson, which Joe diplomatically ignored.
“You know the drill. Keith will help us unload the luggage then shift the bus while we check in. Today and tomorrow are yours to do as you like, but don’t forget, tomorrow night, we have the Neil Diamond tribute show at the Winter Gardens, Saturday we have a day out in Bath, and on Sunday, it’s one for the ladies with the Easter Bonnet Parade in the same
Winter Gardens. I’ll post notices in reception tomorrow morning, telling you where and what time we rendezvous.”
“Rendezvous?” asked Les Tanner. “What are we doing, Murray? Launching an assault on Weston-super-Mare?”
Joe nodded. “Yep, and you’re the spearhead, which means you get shot first.” Joe clipped the microphone back on its rest and sat down again.
“You were a bit mild with Les,” Brenda noted.
“I’m tired,” Joe replied. “George had it right. This is too much of a journey for a mob like ours.”
Sheila yawned. “Never mind the mob. It’s too much of a journey for me. And it was Les’s idea, if I recall. He and Sylvia spent a week in Burnham-on-Sea last summer, and they visited Weston for a day.”
The Grand Pier passed on the left and Brenda pointed to a large advertising hoarding. “Oh, look, they’re having an egg hunt here, too.”
Sheila and Joe followed her pointing finger to the electronic sign.
Charity Egg Hunt. Only 100 tickets available. £10 each. All proceeds to charity. Clifftop Park, Good Friday, 10.00am.
“They’re having a similar thing in Wakefield, aren’t they?” Joe asked.
“It’s nationwide, Joe,” Sheila told him. “There are about a hundred events going on all over the country. Each event hopes to raise one thousand pounds. It’s tomorrow, so I imagine this one will be sold out.”
“What a way to raise money,” Joe grumbled “I mean, why not just ask people to dip into their pockets?”
“Hark at him,” Brenda chuckled. “The last time you dipped into your wallet, you turned up two moths which had starved to death.”
“I do my bit,” Joe retorted. “I employ you, don’t I? Help keep you away from the men folk of Sanford.”
Brenda took the jibe in good part. “There is so much I could do for you, Joe Murray. One night with me and…”
She trailed off under the warning glance from Joe. Sheila smiled thinly at them and Joe turned to watch the refurbished Winter Gardens pass on the right. He had no more interest in the view than he had in the charity egg hunt, but it was preferable to facing awkward questions.
Beyond the imposing, white front of the Winter Gardens, and its neatly trimmed, adjacent lawns, the road narrowed, with a view across the Bristol Channel to the left, and rows of flat-fronted hotels on the right. A public car park interrupted the endless line of buildings. Once past it, Joe watched the white façade of the Leeward Hotel, its front patio devoid of life, streak by.
“Hey. You missed it.”
Keith shook his head. “Have to turn round. If I pulled in on the right there, you lot would be getting off in the middle of the road.” He laughed. “I think most of you need mowing down, but not while you’re getting off my bus. The paperwork would be a nightmare.”
Joe grunted. “Remind me again why you’re still on my Christmas card list.”
A hundred yards further on, Keith stopped on the left and cautiously reversed his vehicle into a side road. Pulling out again, he cruised down to the Leeward entrance, stopped and opened the door.
“There you go,” Keith said as Joe grabbed his cagoule from the overhead rack. “You can get off safely now, so don’t forget my Christmas card.”
As usual, he and Joe were first off the bus, Keith to begin unloading the luggage, Joe to hurry ahead into reception to announce their arrival.
Reception was a generous description. Dashing in out of the rain, Joe found himself in a small space, the bar entrance to the right, the dining room to the left and the counter dead ahead, behind which sat a forty-something blonde wearing a pale green shirt which bore the hotel name across the breast pocket. The whole ambience reminded Joe more of a theatre box office than a hotel reception.
The Leeward boasted three floors of en suite rooms, many of which had been booked by the Sanford 3rd Age Club for the Easter weekend, and the moment he announced himself, he reappraised the hotel. The receptionist (Hazel, according to her badge) was well prepared for them, a small stack of registration cards at the ready.
“If you bring your people in, Mr Murray, they can take their luggage into the bar, fill in their registration cards and I’ll give them their keys as they come back.” She checked her memo pad. “Some of your party were listed as elderly or disabled, so I’ve put them on the lower floors. Your bus driver is near you, up in the gods.”
“The amount of lip he gives me, he should be with God… permanently.” Joe turned to go out again. “I’ll wheel ’em in.”
In a matter of minutes, the bar was flooded with what, to Joe, was a familiar scene. Luggage stacked in the centre of the room, filling the small dance floor, people spread everywhere, completing their registration forms, while outside, Keith made a final tour of the bus to ensure no property had been left behind before moving it to the official coach park half a mile away.
The members began collecting their keys and slowly drifted from the bar, through a narrow door in the far left corner, which led, so Joe was assured, to the lifts. As usual, he was last to be attended, and it was fully half an hour before he collected the key to room 31, arranged to meet Sheila and Brenda in the bar, and then made his way to the lift, and up to the third floor.
Small, a little cramped, yet comfortable was Joe’s first impression. A three-quarter bed giving him room to spread out when he slept, a tiny bath/shower/toilet, a single wardrobe, and a small settee alongside which was an occasional table upon which he could set up his netbook computer. The latter furniture stood beneath the only window, which he discovered looked out over the rear of the hotel. Through it, he could see an extension to the building which, he assumed, housed more rooms in its two floors. Beyond that was a small yard in which was parked a silver-grey 4x4, its polished bodywork gleaming in the dull, afternoon light.
“It’ll do, Joe,” he told himself as he hung his clothing in the wardrobe.
Ten minutes later, in the bar, Sheila concurred with his opinion. “Not the standard we’re used to, Joe, but it’s cosy and comfortable.”
“Good value for Easter weekend,” Joe said. He checked his watch. “A bit early for booze. I’ll get a cup of coffee. You two want anything?”
“Just a cup of tea, Joe,” Sheila said.
Brenda smacked her lips. “Campari and soda, Joe.” She grinned. “It’s never too early for drinkies.”
Joe glanced across at the bar. There was no one waiting for service and no one serving. On this side of the bar sat a large, muscular man, his head buried in a magazine dedicated to off-roading. Joe crossed the room, leaned on the bar, looked around, and looked over the bar.
“Are they open, do you know?” he asked of the man on the bar stool. Without waiting for an answer, he leaned over the bar and looked around again, as if expecting to find someone underneath. “Shop,” he called.
The man on the stool stood, revealing himself to be a head taller than Joe. Huge arms, with bulging biceps, hung from strapping, square shoulders. Worn loose and outside his denims, his short-sleeved shirt hid his abdomen, but despite a small bulge, Joe guessed it would be solid and muscular.
He dropped his magazine on the bar, moved through the door to the lifts, and reappeared behind the bar a moment later.
Amusement twinkled in his dark brown eyes. “What can I do for you, squire?”
Slightly taken aback, Joe took a moment to recover. “I, er, oh, right. One tea, one coffee, and any danger of a Campari and soda?”
“Coming right up.” He turned away and placed a small metal jug under the catering-model coffee maker. While the machine bubbled and slurped away, he prepared cups on a tray, took down a small wine glass, and pressed it to the Campari optic.
“Sorry about that,” Joe said while he waited. “Wasn’t giving you any stick. I didn’t realise you worked here.”
“Just taking five minutes while I can, mate,” the man replied. The machine stopped gurgling, and he poured the frothy coffee into a cup, placed it on a saucer and put it on the tray. T
hen he took a metal teapot and filled it with boiling water. Snapping the cap from a small soda, he put that on the tray too and passed the whole lot onto the bar. “There you go, me old mate. You paying or do you want me to add it to your bill?”
“Stick it on the slate, will you? I’ll settle up Monday. Room thirty-one.” Joe put his wallet back in his pocket. “I should have guessed who you were.” He nodded at the man’s magazine. “Reading about off-roading, and I saw your 4x4 parked in the back yard.”
The barman pointed to a photograph pinned up behind the bar. It was the vehicle Joe had seen from his window. “My pride and joy. It’s what this—” he gestured upwards at the hotel, “is all about.” He offered his huge hand. “Freddie Delaney. Mein host, and that was my lady wife, Hazel, you met in reception.”
Joe shook it and found his gnarled fingers buried in the massive paw. “Joe Murray. Owner of the Lazy Luncheonette, Sanford, and chair of the Sanford 3rd Age Club.”
Freddie beamed. “So this mob are your responsibility are they, Joe?”
“They’re not a bad lot.” Joe grinned slyly. “They usually leave their flick knives and bike chains at home, and pack the condoms instead.”
“Bitta bed hopping, eh? That’s what I like to hear.”
This time Freddie laughed and Joe began to warm to the genial giant.
An irritated Brenda crossed the floor and took the tray from Joe. “We’re getting thirsty.”
“Freddie, meet one of my managerial assistants, Brenda Jump. Brenda, this is Freddie Delaney. He owns this place.”
“Pleased to meet you, Freddie. Don’t let Joe monopolise your attention. You’ll never get any work done otherwise.”
“Take no notice,” Joe advised as Brenda walked off with the tray. “So, Freddie, what do you recommend for a wet weekend in Weston-super-Mare?”
“Forecast says it’s gonna brighten up from tomorrow artnoon. So what can you do between now and then? Lemme see…” Freddie’s clear brow creased. “There’s a Neil Diamond lookalike at the Winter Gardens tomorrow night. He comes highly recommended.”
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