Once Upon a Crime

by Mona Marple

  Sandy took out her notebook and looked at the page she had written the day before. She must have been beyond exhausted when she attempted to get her thoughts out because she couldn’t read a single word of her notes. She looked at the indecipherable scribble and let out a small laugh.

  “Well, things happen for a reason.” She muttered under her breath and turned to a fresh page.

  She wrote in large letters REGINALD on one side of the paper, then CASS on the other side, and enclosed each name in a circle.

  Immediately, she realised that the only thing that connected them both was Cass’ business premises; the premises that Reginald said he would take over, and which Cass insisted she was remaining in. Surely that spurious link gave nobody motive to hurt them both unless it was a person who was also keen to have the premises for themselves. But that was hard to imagine. There weren’t that many people in the small village who wanted to begin a business; most were traditional folk employed in careers that they had had for decades.

  She wrote next to Cass’ name, ‘argument’ and ‘who is the mystery woman’, but had little to write next to Reginald’s name.

  All she could add was ‘poison’, but she had no idea who might have access to a poison. The village pharmacy had closed the year before, leaving the villagers having to trek into the next town for their medication needs.

  There had been, and still was, huge uproar about this. Soon, a new pharmacy would be built attached to the doctor's surgery, but the building hadn't even begun yet.

  She sighed and put the lid back on her pen. It appeared she was hardly cut out for detective work.

  Sandy remembered the look that DS Sullivan had given her, how certain he appeared that he had found the murderer, and a chill went up her spine. She needed more information, and she knew where to go.

  **

  Jim Slaughter was precisely where Sandy expected him to be, sitting in his car eating a hot dog from the mobile van that turned up every week and parked up in the field that hosted the car boot. He’d shared often how the sausage and fried onion lunch was his treat whenever he wasn’t on duty, and when Sandy had poked her head in the station and discovered that he was off, she knew where to find him.

  “Hello Jim, can I have a word?” She asked, letting herself into his passenger side. Her interruption made him jump and a splodge of mustard landed on his faded jeans.

  “Blimey, Sandy… what are you doing here?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “Oh…” Jim said, covering his hot dog with a napkin.

  “Keep eating, please. I don’t want to disturb you, I needed to speak to you - alone.”

  Jim gazed at her, a bead of sweat appearing on his lip.

  “You obviously know DC Sullivan arrested me yesterday.”

  Jim coughed. “Yes… yes. I’m glad you accepted the lawyer.”

  “I need your help, Jim, or that city cop will frame me for murder!”

  “How can I help you? I’m stuck on reviewing Freedom of Information requests, I probably know less about the case than you do.” He said, exasperated. Sandy felt sorry for him; imagine being cut out of your first murder case.

  “I don’t understand why DC Sullivan doesn’t recognise what you could offer to the case. With your local knowledge, you must have so many ideas he’s never thought of.”

  “Well, I have a few.”

  “I bet you do. I mean, I bet you have an idea why someone would want Reginald and Cass dead?” Sandy asked, hoping she had flattered Jim enough to drop his guard.

  “Well, that’s just it. That’s exactly what DC Sullivan’s missing.”

  “What is?” Sandy asked. Jim eyed her warily. “Please, Jim…”

  “They didn’t want Cass dead, Sandy. It was you they were after.”

  **

  After the shock of Jim’s words, the idea made perfect sense.

  Who would have expected Cass to be at Sandy's house early in the morning?

  The two of them looked similar, both had long brown hair and such a similar build that they shared clothes sometimes. From the front, they were different; Cass’ heavy make-up was visible from afar while Sandy preferred the more natural look. But from behind? Anyone would have thought it had been Sandy, perhaps locking her front door, and not Cass, perhaps just about to knock.

  The realisation sent a chill down Sandy’s spine.

  “Are you ok?” Jim asked. “I could be wrong, I mean I’m not smart enough to be giving my opinion at work, or being asked for it, so don’t let it worry you.”

  “No, no… it makes perfect sense. It’s so obvious now, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it. I can’t believe DC Sullivan hasn’t thought of it! The man’s a fool, Jim.”

  “He just thinks city knows best,” Jim said with a resigned shrug. The napkin coated hot dog sat in his lap.

  “Come on, I’m going to buy you the biggest hot dog they sell,” Sandy said, leading the way out of the car. Jim followed without a word of objection. “It’s the least I can do.”

  The car boot was finishing now, most of the sellers had packed up their remaining odds and ends and left. Only a few stragglers remained, trying to convince the hardy sellers to reduce prices further.

  “I never understand car boots myself.” Jim said, looking out at the scene while Sandy ordered his hot dog.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve got enough junk at home, I don’t need to buy other people’s.”

  “Ooh I don’t know, I quite like the adventure of it. You never know what you might find. Not everything is as it appears to be, PC Slaughter, you should know that better than most.”

  He gave a toothy grin and took a huge bite out of the sausage, dropping a dollop of ketchup on to his left trainer. He didn’t appear to notice.

  “Well, I’ll be off. Thanks for your help, Jim.” Sandy said.

  “Shall I give you a lift?”

  “No, you stay and enjoy your lunch.” She said, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in her stomach at the thought of walking back to the cafe alone. It was broad daylight, and only a five-minute walk, but she felt very aware that she was alone, and potentially unsafe. She quickened her pace and tried to listen out for noises over the sound of her drumming heartbeat.

  As soon as she saw the cafe come into view, she felt more relaxed but didn’t slow her pace. By the time she reached the front door, she burst in with more force than she planned, causing the few customers to all look at her. Meanwhile, Bernice pursed her lips with concern.

  “Are you ok?” Bernice asked.

  “I’m fine.” Sandy said. “More unfit than I realised!”

  “Sit down, let me get you a drink.”

  “I’m fine, honestly, I’d rather keep busy.” Sandy insisted, replacing her coat with the apron she always wore in the shop. She walked into the small kitchen and washed her hands even more thoroughly than normal, giving her time to control her breathing. “Right, that’s better.”

  As Sandy walked out from the kitchen into her familiar cafe, she couldn’t help looking at each face in turn and wondering whether that person had tried to hurt her. It was an unsettling feeling after years of feeling certain that she knew who her friends were.

  “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost, Sandy.” Dorie Slaughter called, sitting in her regular seat with a jacket potato and salad on a plate in front of her.

  “Oh you know, Dorie, just a long day.” Sandy said, deciding to sit down with the elderly customer for a few minutes. Bernice was more than capable of managing things. “How are you doing?”

  “Not well, I have to say,” Dorie admitted. “All this business, it’s playing heck with my irritable bowel. Look what I’m having to eat now, I’d much rather a slice of that fruit cake!”

  “It doesn’t look that appetising, does it?” Sandy admitted, looking at the plain jacket potato. It would be a lovely lunch with a dollop of butter and some grated cheese, but on its own it didn’t spark much excitement in her.

&nb
sp; “I don’t trust that DC Sullivan to solve these crimes.” Dorie said, her face genuine, as if her opinion was unbiased. “They’ve come in and pushed my Jim out, and he’s worth ten of them!”

  “I don’t disagree.” Sandy muttered.

  “Was it awful, love?” Dorie asked, leaning in close.

  Sandy nodded, feeling embarrassed as her eyes filled with tears. She took a deep breath and forced a smile on her face. “I’ll be fine, Dorie, don’t worry about me.”

  “The next victim could be any of us, Sandy, and DC Sullivan’s focusing on the wrong woman.”

  “The wrong woman?” Sandy asked.

  “Well, it must be a woman.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you this.” Dorie said, leaning in even further. Her breath smelt of the red onion from her salad. “But the footprints are from a female’s shoe.”

  “What footprints?”

  “Footprints at Reginald’s house. You won’t believe this, but his carpet was brand new that day. One of those really thick, heavy piled ones. You know that carpets need to breathe? Don’t walk on them for 12 hours or so, that’s what they say when you buy a really nice one. Well, the murderer wouldn’t have known it was new. And when the police got there, there were footprints on the carpet. Only a few, she obviously realised she was leaving a mark and whipped her shoes off.”

  “How do they know it’s a woman’s shoe, though?” Sandy asked.

  “Stilettos, Sandy. And I’ve never seen you wear stilettos in all the time I’ve known you.”

  Sandy took out her notebook and stood up, excusing herself from the table. She stood right at the back of the small kitchen and turned to the page she was writing on earlier, adding “KILLER IS A WOMAN - STILETTO SHOES” to Reginald’s page.

  “Are you sure you’re ok?” Bernice asked, entering the kitchen.

  Sandy stole a quick glance at her ballet pumps, then met her gaze.

  8

  Reginald’s funeral took place on a bitter cold day, that day that occurs each year where autumn feels much more like winter. Sandy sent a wreath but couldn’t join most of the villagers in attending the service, as she was preparing the food for the wake.

  While most other people walked to the church, she locked the shop, because she had an uneasy feeling about being alone in the kitchen where she couldn’t see who was coming in. Sandy hated feeling scared in her own beloved shop, and the feeling made her more determined to catch the real killer.T

  The radio was tuned to Classic FM while she busied herself preparing a sandwich platter, mini pork pies and quiches, a beautiful fresh salad, and a tray of sliced melon. Next she turned her attention to making a large Victoria sponge, the cake that would please the most people in any crowd. She filled it with extra jam and cream and topped it with fresh sliced strawberries, then stood back to look at the food.

  Sandy hoped it would be enough, as she always did when she made a buffet. It always looked as though the food couldn’t feed the number of people it was for, and then there were always leftovers. It was like magic.

  Satisfied with the food, she washed her hands and patted them dry on the tea towel, then unlocked the front door and opened the boot of her car. It took four separate runs to fill her car with the buffet food, the cold air hitting her each time she left the warmth of the shop.

  The drive to The Tweed public house was walkable, it was just a few doors away, but Sandy hadn’t fancied carrying the platters one at a time. As she opened her car door, the heavens opened and a heavy downfall started. Determined not to look like a drowned rat when the mourners arrived, she shut the door again and sat in the car, watching the droplets of water hammer down on her windscreen.

  After a few moments, a slight figure in a dark dress ran by the side of the car and into The Tweed, and then the rain stopped with as little warning as it had started.

  Sandy began the trips into the pub, balancing a platter in her arms.

  Tom Nelson, the landlord, rushed out from behind the bar when he saw her.

  “Come, Sandy, let me grab that.”

  “Thanks.” She said, accepting his offer. She returned to the car for another platter, and with Tom’s help, they made quick work of moving all of the platters and the cake box to the pub. The wake would take over the whole of the pub, as every one of the local funerals did. It was inconceivable that anyone local would go in the pub for anything but a wake, when one was happening, and any tourists or out-of-towners had to take second place to raising a glass for the departed.

  “Need a hand setting it up?” A woman asked, as Sandy arranged napkins and paper plates.

  She turned to see the woman who had ran into the pub a few minutes before. It was Elaine Peters, and she looked beautiful. Her face was transformed by subtle make-up and the plain black dress she was wearing hugged her body in all the right places. Elaine had a wobbly tummy, by her own confession, but somehow the lines of the dress she was in drew attention to her cleavage and her shapely legs.

  “You look gorgeous, Elaine!” Sandy said, then wondered if that was an inappropriate thing to say at a wake. Her eyes glanced down, and spotted the stiletto shoes that Elaine was wearing. The sight of them reminded Sandy of Elaine’s conversation with Dorie just days earlier, about the man who had had it coming to him. Could Elaine by the person who had tried to kill her?

  “Oh, stop.” Elaine said, blushing. “I thought I’d make a bit of effort.”

  “Are the others on their way?” Sandy asked, looking around the empty pub.

  “No, not yet.” Elaine said. “I couldn’t handle it, I had to get away. It… it brought back too many memories.”

  Sandy nodded. Elaine had appeared to have made such progress, getting out and enjoying life again after being widowed, and then the murder happened.

  “Everyone will understand,” Sandy said. “Was it a good turnout?”

  “Yes,” Elaine said, “Probably better than he deserved. Oh, I shouldn’t say that, but he was no friend of mine. After Martin died, he tried to push me into selling my cottage.”

  “Really? I never knew.”

  “I told no one, I was so ashamed. It was right after Martin died, and Reginald turned up at my front door pretending to be concerned about me, and whether I could afford my mortgage. Said he would offer me a good deal if I needed a quick sale so I could downsize. Downsize?! Ha!”

  The thought of Elaine being able to downsize from her small cottage was entertaining, but despite its size, it was easy to imagine why Reginald would have wanted to own it. It was a beautiful old building, and Elaine and her late husband had done plenty to keep the original features. The cottage still boasted a thatched roof, the original wooden beams inside, and sash windows.

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him I’d think about it. I was too stunned to say anything else and, to be honest, I was clueless about money back then. It turned out that the life insurance paid the mortgage off, but I didn’t even know it existed then. And, if that was as much as Reginald had done, maybe I’d think he was acting out of concern. But he wouldn’t let it drop, even after I told him I didn’t need his help. He kept turning up at the cottage, he’d stand across the road and watch me. It was very… unsettling.”

  “You should have told me, Elaine. I could have helped.”

  “I wasn’t really seeing or telling anyone anything then, Sandy, don’t take it personally. It was an awful, awful time, and that horrible man made it harder than it had to be.”

  Sandy reached over and gave Elaine’s hands a squeeze as the pub door burst open. In walked the Harlow family, Charlotte leading the way. She strode in, her high heels clicking across the tiles of the floor, followed by her parents. Penelope was also in heels, and Sandy realised that checking footwear today would be pointless. Everyone was dressed in their finest clothes and fanciest shoes.

  “What a waste of a morning.” Charlotte hissed, standing at the bar. She hadn’t noticed Sandy and El
aine who were off to the side, in the shadows as they arranged the food over a long decorating table that had been erected especially for the occasion.

  “Oh, Charlotte, enough.” Penelope chided.

  “I don’t know why you made me go.”

  “We have to be seen.” Benedict explained. “We play an important role in this village, our family name matters. You need to realise that if you’re going to move back.”

  The mention of Charlotte returning to Waterfell Tweed for good made Sandy pay attention, but the conversation went no further. Benedict ordered a shandy for himself and a glass of white wine each for his wife and daughter, and they sipped in silence at the bar until the door opened again and the mourners piled in. They must have walked back, the Harlows would have driven.

  Sandy stood back, slipping into catering mode. When she was working on a corporate gig, which she did rarely, she tried to become invisible.

  Reginald had no family attend the funeral apart from a tall uncle, who left the wake within half an hour. He seemed to have drawn the short straw and attended as the family representative out of duty rather than any genuine grief. The atmosphere was strange after that, with no official mourners to pass the obligatory “I’m sorry for your loss” wishes on to, it felt less like a wake and more like a village get together.

  The food went down well, and the drink did too. Gus Sanders seemed the most jovial, ordering shots at the bar for anyone who would join him, while his wife Poppy sat alone with a tonic water.

  “Are you ok?” Sandy asked her, offering her a sandwich from a platter.

  “Oh, I’m fine… it’s him who isn’t.” Poppy said. “Making a bloody fool of himself and he’ll be expecting me to carry him home later.”

  Sandy was about to reply when she realised that Poppy was smiling. Her comment was good-natured.

  “1-2-3 DOWN IN ONE!” Gus cried from the bar to a round of applause. Sandy smiled at Poppy and moved on, offering the remaining sandwiches around the group.

  “Come on Jim, help a girl out and have another sandwich.” She said, finding Jim Slaughter sitting at a table with Elaine Peters. He blushed at the sight of Sandy, but reached out to the platter and took another three sandwiches. To Sandy’s surprise, he put two on Elaine’s plate, and one on his own.