Birthdays Can Be Murder

by Joyce Cato

  ‘Yes,’ Margie Harding agreed, her voice so small it could barely be heard.

  Feeling rather annoyed at herself for letting her curiosity get the better of her, and having checked that there weren’t any skirts or blouses in her size, Jenny headed for the door. As she did so, two women made their way to a small table that was serving as a cash counter.

  As Margie Harding cradled the precious blouse to her, she looked out of the window in the direction of the big house. Her eyes glittered oddly in the sunlight dabbled with dust motes.

  ‘I hope your job interview goes well, Mrs Harding,’ the volunteer said quietly in farewell, as she offered the blonde mother a brown paper bag containing her purchase.

  Margie Harding started and then smiled.

  Too wide, Jenny thought instantly. That smile’s way too bright. And for some reason, she’s lying about why she needs that blouse. Then, before she could get herself in any deeper, she walked firmly to the door and opened it. Jenny had a nasty habit, through no fault of her own, of getting caught up in other people’s problems. This time, she vowed to steer well clear of trouble.

  She glanced once more at the telephone kiosk next door to the pub, her own mobile phone having been left carelessly behind at the big house. Devon still patiently waited for the rest of her seafood order. As she walked along the pavement towards the kiosk, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a squeal of brakes shrieked in the sleepy afternoon air.

  She and everyone else outside abruptly stopped and looked up the road. Two young mothers collecting their offspring from the village primary school instinctively grabbed their children’s hands as an extraordinary-looking car in bottle green shot around the bend and into sight. As it screamed past and, with another squeal of brakes, turned into a tiny, single-pump garage opposite the shop, Jenny felt the heat from the machine scorch briefly across her face.

  ‘That bloody Justin Greer is going to come to grief one of these days,’ one of the young mothers said venomously. ‘You see if I ain’t right. He drives that Aston Martin like he’s Lewis bloody Hamilton.’

  ‘I know. He’ll knock some poor sod over before long. He should realize there’s old folks in this village. They ain’t as quick on their feet as us. You should hear ’em go on about it at the pub.’

  ‘Men!’

  Jenny heartily agreed with the sentiments. Young men in sports car were a menace. Except, to be scrupulously and honestly fair, she couldn’t quite picture Justin crashing his car. Annoying though it undoubtedly was to admit it, he was one of those people who seemed able to do everything well. Which was a shame really. A good dose of humility would probably do him the power of good, Jenny mused sourly.

  ‘I wonder how Jean’s doing. Do you think we should go and see her?’ The first young mother abruptly changed the subject.

  ‘I heard the police were with her. Bernie too. They brought him home from work.’

  ‘It must be awful to lose a son like that. He was only seventeen, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I reckon he was last birthday. Mind you, they don’t know that that is his birthday. Not for sure, anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The second mother’s voice rose in surprise, causing her companion to put a warning hand on her arm.

  ‘He was adopted, wasn’t he? Bernie Speight ain’t, well, you know, quite up to it in that department.’

  ‘Never!’

  With this latest cringe-making revelation, Jenny very quickly left the two women to their gossip. She went to the telephone, punched in the Devon area code and a certain number, and then reeled off her order to the specialist fishmonger. With promises that she would receive nothing but the best produce ringing in her ears, she left the kiosk and made straight for the pub.

  After the day she was having, she needed a drink.

  At that time in the afternoon the pub was about to close, since the landlord was opting not to take advantage of all-day opening laws. But a customer was a customer. As she took a stool at the bar, Jenny looked around and took inventory. No noisy slot machines but a good dartboard. Slightly uneven tiled floor, with a solid wooden bar. And best of all – no horse brasses. Against all the odds, the village pub had managed to stay just that – the village pub. The landlord, a pleasant-faced man with a broad Birmingham accent, beamed at her.

  ‘Eh, you must be the fancy cook Alicia Greer hired for the birthday party?’

  Since she was the only other person in the place, Jenny resigned herself to learning yet more information about things she had no interest in. ‘Yes, that’s me,’ she admitted morosely.

  ‘So how’s things up at The Beeches then?’ the landlord asked avidly. ‘You know there’s been a tragedy up there?’

  Jenny sighed heavily. Was she being paranoid, or was Fate really determined to get her mixed up in a suspicious death?

  *

  She left the pub ten minutes and one double vodka later. Standing on the pavement, she began to picture her menu. Visions of scalloped lobster with curry vied for supremacy with fillets of sole à la Dieppe. Of course, she couldn’t decide on the complete menu until she’d finally nailed the flighty Alicia down to actually going through it with her. And that reminded her.

  The birthday cake.

  Looking across the road, Justin Greer’s fancy car seemed to glow like a giant emerald in the sunshine, and she nodded firmly. That, at least, was one problem she could solve right now. Forgetting to look left or right, and as a result nearly sending a lone cyclist careening into the gutter, she marched across the road. She stood there for a moment in the garage courtyard, her sensitive nose twitching like a rabbit at the sharp astringent scents of petrol and the pore-clogging stench of grease.

  It was unusual for a small garage to survive in these economic times, especially with the price of petrol at the level it was, and she wondered vaguely who was subsidizing the place. The pump was self-service, and a converted barn, that housed one or two cars in the process of being repaired, appeared to be deserted. But there had to be an office around the back somewhere.

  Since a good cake needed at least a day to settle, she really had to get on with it tonight. Unless, of course, Justin was a sponge fanatic, in which case, the more last-minute the better, but she somehow didn’t think so. For all his startlingly angelic good looks, he struck her as a solid-cake man.

  With a sigh, she set off across the cobbled yard, carefully avoiding spanners, hoses and the odd stack of tyres. As she’d thought, a tiny office, converted from an outhouse, was located behind the repair shop, the door of which now stood open. And coming from inside, she heard the unmistakable voice of Justin Greer. It would have been hard to miss, since he was shouting fit to bring down the rafters.

  ‘I’m warning you, Harding, stay away from her.’

  ‘Oh hell,’ Jenny muttered under her breath. ‘Here we go again.’

  ‘Or what?’ came back the equally belligerent reply.

  Why couldn’t men use the good sense that God gave them? Jenny wondered as she marched determinedly towards the open door.

  ‘Or you’ll regret it,’ Justin’s voice snapped out.

  ‘I doubt it. Alicia is everything a man could want, or hadn’t you noticed? She’s young, beautiful, and in love with me. I don’t see—’

  ‘And rich, Harding,’ Justin interrupted with a sneer. ‘Is that what you think? Yes, I suppose you would, that’s what most people think. But the family business comes to me, Harding, me, not Alicia. Since Dad retired, I’m the chairman, not my dear sister. In fact, apart from her allowance, which can be cut off at any time, she might as well be penniless.’

  ‘Good.’

  There was a brief silence, and Jenny found herself abruptly readjusting her opinion of Keith Harding. He had actually sounded as if he meant it. A fact that Justin seemed to have picked up on also, if the startled silence coming from the office was anything to go by.

  ‘Oh, I get it. You’re relying on the house, are you?’ Justin’s blond/silver head abruptly
came into view as he came level with a grimy window. His profile was taut with rage, and Jenny began to think that he’d have to make do with a sponge for a birthday cake after all. She was not interrupting an argument of this ferocity. She had far more sense.

  Reluctantly, she began to back away. She could always make one of those towering gateaux that weren’t much substance, but looked amazing. She was beginning to turn away from the office when Keith Harding said ominously, ‘What the hell are you talking about? What has The Beeches got to do with anything?’

  ‘Not the big house, you fool. I’m talking about the old mill that Alicia persuaded Dad to buy for you as a wedding present. Don’t tell me you didn’t know? That I can’t believe.’

  Suddenly, there was a dull ‘whack’ and Justin was launched through the doorway, where he landed on his backside amid a clatter of tyre irons and empty petrol cans. The sight of the elegant young man, hair flapping in the breeze as he sailed past her, transfixed Jenny to the spot.

  An avenging vision appeared in the doorway. The dark hair was a perfect match for the dark look on Keith Harding’s face, and as he advanced with both his fists and his jaw clenched, Justin scrambled hastily to his feet, an extremely ugly gleam in his eyes. He reached down and picked up a tyre iron.

  ‘Mr Greer!’ Jenny roared, and both men jerked, as if an irritated puppet master had just pulled their strings. Jenny smiled grimly as he looked at her blankly. ‘I noticed your car parked outside, and thought what a good idea it’d be to ask you about your birthday cake.’

  ‘Birthday cake?’ Justin echoed, for the first time in his life, Jenny suspected, actually looking stupid.

  ‘Yes. Birthday cake,’ she repeated firmly. ‘I need to know what your favourite is. Tradition has it that it must be a fruitcake with a hard white icing, of course, but a lot of people nowadays prefer something more adventurous. After all, it is your birthday, you should have what you like.’ She kept her voice even and firm, knowing that discussing something prosaic was often the best way to calm down men who were overdosing on testosterone.

  She glanced across at Keith Harding and nodded politely. The mechanic took a backward step and began, under her steady and reproving eye, to look distinctly shamefaced.

  ‘Well?’ Jenny looked archly back at Justin, and then glanced, very pointedly, at the tyre iron, now hanging loosely and forgotten in his hand.

  ‘Oh, bake what the hell you like,’ Justin snarled, and slung down the iron. A loud clang echoed across the concrete as it hit a wall and fell to the ground.

  ‘Lemon Madeira with kiwi fruit?’ she asked mischievously.

  ‘Good grief, no!’ Justin snapped, then glanced from her to his protagonist and then back to her again. Slowly, he began to smile. ‘Jenny Starling, I do believe I’m beginning to like you. And I don’t think I want to.’

  ‘I should hope not, too,’ Jenny said sharply. She wanted nothing to do with rich spoilt kids. ‘Now, if you would kindly tell me what kind of cake you do want, I can get on with it.’

  ‘Coffee and walnut,’ Justin said at last, his lips still twitching reluctantly.

  Jenny nodded, surprised by his choice, but not showing it. ‘Chunky walnut pieces, of course?’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Justin said with savage sarcasm, and very nearly gave a courtly bow. The look in her eye stopped him just in time, and Jenny felt her own lips twitch. Damn him, he was such a very attractive man. And didn’t he know it?

  ‘OK. Coffee and walnut it is,’ she said primly. As she turned to leave, she was relieved to hear footsteps following her, and a moment later the Aston Martin roared to life and shot past her.

  At the entrance to the garage yard she turned and found Keith Harding staring after her. His darkly handsome face was a mixture of anger, embarrassment and defiance. ‘What? No lecture for me?’ he asked, his uneven breathing spoiling his nonchalance just a little.

  Jenny saw, once again, Margie Harding being forced into being grateful for an old busybody’s knitted cardigan and turned abruptly away, her face absolutely expressionless. It was none of her business. She had to remember that. She kept getting into trouble when she made things her business.

  Behind her, unseen, Keith Harding flinched at her obvious disdain. His eyes, as he watched the strangely sexy and large woman go, were bleak and hopeless.

  When Jenny returned to The Beeches, she entered the cool hall through a side door, and was unceremoniously nabbed.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ a voice as deep as a tar pit boomed in her left ear. Had she not been so firmly anchored down by her own weight, she would have leapt about a foot into the air. As it was, she spun around, hackles bristling and prepared to repel all borders. The squat and solid policeman she had seen out of her bedroom window that morning met her glare with bland eyes.

  ‘Oh, hello, er, Sergeant, is it?’ she mumbled.

  ‘Mollern, miss, Sergeant Mollern. Could you spare us a moment?’ Although his voice put a question mark on the end, his eyes made it more of a statement.

  Jenny felt her spirits take a distinctly downward turn. First she had to deal with scrapping men in garages, and now the police. What had happened to her peaceful weekend in the country? ‘Yes, of course,’ she sighed. ‘But I don’t know that I can do anything to help.’

  ‘It’s just routine,’ the sergeant hastened to assure her. ‘You’re the only other person present in the house that we haven’t questioned yet.’

  ‘I wasn’t present when the incident occurred, Sergeant,’ Jenny corrected, quietly but firmly.

  Sergeant Mollern, had she but known it, very nearly smiled. However, since he so rarely smiled, and since he was so good at hiding any ability to do so, Jenny was forced to meet his bland stare with an equally bland stare of her own.

  ‘Quite so. This way, miss.’

  Jenny knew when to admit defeat, and followed him glumly to the Greers’ study, where a tall, silver-haired man rose from his chair without any fuss.

  ‘Miss Starling, sir,’ Mollern said, and walked behind her as his superior politely indicated a chair.

  Over the expanse of a wide, walnut desk, Inspector Mollineaux looked every inch what he was: a senior, experienced and implacable police officer, with a lean, rather pale face, and close-shaven, strong jaw. He looked, Jenny thought with a pang of compassion, as if he’d seen too much, and far too often.

  Right at that moment, however, the pale blue eyes were looking at her sharply. ‘We’ve met before, I think,’ he said, his voice both modulated and quiet.

  Jenny swallowed hard. ‘No. I don’t believe so.’ For a long moment she didn’t think he was going to let it go at that, but then he reached for some papers and glanced down.

  ‘Miss Alicia Greer tells me that you arrived about quarter past nine this morning. Is that correct?’

  ‘A little later, I think, but not much.’

  ‘And you came from…?’

  ‘Broadway.’ For the next few minutes Jenny obliged the police by writing down the name and address of her past employers. She fervently hoped they wouldn’t bother them too much – especially her last employer. She was apt to throw what Jenny’s granny would have called ‘a fit of the vapours’. But then, what could you expect from someone who didn’t know a good Dundee cake when she saw one?

  ‘And you were hired to cater her birthday party by Alicia Greer when exactly?’ Mollineaux went on, merely glancing impassively at the addresses she’d given him, though one of the residences belonged to a lord of the realm, and the other was the home address of a rather famous American film star. And it was precisely because she’d had four months of cooking for a Hollywood darling that Jenny had fled to the relative sanity of a British guesthouse!

  ‘Formally, today,’ Jenny confirmed. ‘However, she wrote to me about three weeks ago, asking if I could take the job on. She was most insistent that I try. I had originally planned to come up here, cater the party, and go straight back to Broadway.’

  ‘But now?’

&n
bsp; ‘I’ve left Broadway permanently,’ Jenny said firmly. Nobody criticized her Dundee cake and got her to stay on. No matter how piteously they begged, or how many vapours they had.

  ‘I see. Do you do a lot of parties, Miss Starling?’ Mollineaux asked, managing not to make it sound like a leading question.

  ‘Some.’

  Inspector Mollineaux glanced once again at the illustrious names on the piece of paper she’d given him and said, ‘Hmm.’ It could have meant anything or nothing, and was so neutral that Jenny fought the impulse to applaud.

  She wondered, idly, just how many suspects he’d prompted into incautious talk with that little prompt. She folded her hands in her lap and stubbornly said nothing. After a moment she saw, out of the corner of her eyes, Sergeant Mollern glance across at her with some surprise. Eventually, Inspector Mollineaux looked up at her and smiled. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before, Miss Starling. Any ideas where?’

  Jenny had. Plenty. She’d been in practically every county courthouse in the country for a start, as a character witness. Such was the life of someone with an eco-warrior for a mother. Not that that was what he had in mind, of course, as well she knew. But she merely smiled and said artfully, ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say.’

  ‘These are impressive references. I’m sure they’ll check out.’

  Jenny smiled, knowing he was barking up the wrong tree there. ‘I’m sure they will too,’ she said mildly but firmly.

  ‘Where exactly did you do your training, Miss Starling, if I might ask? France?’

  ‘Monsieur Gerard’s School of Cuisine,’ Jenny said sweetly. And didn’t add that Monsieur Gerard was also known as plain Gerry Starling, one-time junior chef at The Ritz, and that the School of Cuisine had been sited in the Starling household kitchen. She didn’t think to add, either, that she had been the only student, having been an only child.

  A few months after her sixteenth birthday however, her father had finally taken himself off to France, minus wife and daughter, and set up in business for himself. Books, a regular television show, and numerous extremely lucrative moneymaking ventures had quickly followed. And while she was now a better cook than her famous father, he was the one known far and wide as ‘Gerard, superchef’.