Once Upon a Crime

by Mona Marple

  Sandy raised an eyebrow and moved on.

  Penelope and Charlotte Harlow were deep in conversation when she reached their table. Benedict was at the bar, always one of the men when he had the chance.

  “Ladies, help me out and have another sandwich?”

  “Not for me, dear, but thank you ever so much.” Penelope said, smiling.

  “Charlotte?” Sandy said.

  “No.” Charlotte replied. The bluntness of her refusal made Sandy jump, but she said nothing and left them to it.

  Finally she reached the table where Coral and Cass were sitting, and took a seat with them.

  “Bit strange, isn’t it?” Cass asked, her big eyes wide and searching.

  “Wakes always are.” Sandy said with a shrug.

  “It’s more than that, sis. It’s like everyone in here is celebrating not mourning. Reginald Halfman upset a lot of people.” Coral said, nursing a glass of red wine in her hand.

  “I need to tell you something.” Sandy said. They both moved in closer to her. “I don’t think anyone meant to hurt you, Cass.”

  “Well, they did a good job!” Cass said, reaching to the spot on her head where she had been hit. The area protruded like an egg growing out of the side of her head.

  “No, they got the wrong person.”

  “But who did they think I was?” Cass asked, while Coral’s hand shot to cover her mouth.

  “They thought it was you.” Coral said, her whole face and neck growing red with fury. “We need to tell the police.”

  “There’s no point.” Sandy said. “The city police just want to find the easy target and close the case. They’re going to charge me unless I can find out who the real killer is and prove it.”

  “But who would want to hurt you Sandy? Reginald upset a lot of people, but you haven’t got enemies like he had.”

  “Well, I’ve got at least one enemy. The key is working out who it is.”

  “There must be something linking you and Reginald.” Coral said, her investigative mind clicking into gear. “Something that would make a person want you both out of the way.”

  “What on earth could link me and him? I know! I think I’ve got it!” Sandy called, causing other people to look around. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ll go to my place, it’s more private.”

  The three of them stood and climbed into Sandy’s car, driving the short distance to her house, where she made them each a big mug of steaming hot coffee before they settled down on her two plush leather settees.

  “So, you think you’ve got an idea?” Coral asked, a doubting eyebrow raised.

  “Yes, I think so. It’s books.”

  “Books?” Cass asked.

  “I have the bookshop, Reginald announced opening a bookshop. It has to be the link.”

  “Nobody would kill people because they like books, Sandy. He was hardly suggesting he was planning on opening, ooh, a strip club!” Coral said with a laugh.

  “It has to be the link. It has to be.” Sandy said, although her belief was dimmed by the response of the two people closest to her. Coral and Cass began to chat about other subjects, and Sandy wondered if she was out of her depth attempting to solve the case.

  9

  Sandy woke early and went straight to the shop.

  It was another cold day, and the drizzle had fallen nonstop since the evening before when she had said goodbye to Coral and Cass after a disappointing evening of discussing everything apart from the case.

  After her suggestion that herself and Reginald were connected by a common interest in books, Sandy had felt foolish and offered little more to the conversation. After an hour or gossiping about common friends and enemies, her best friend and sister seemed to realise that Sandy was even quieter than normal and suggested they leave. Sandy hadn’t argued. She’d shown them out into the drizzle, giving a half-hearted offer to drive them both home, and had felt relief when they’d refused.

  After she’d bolted the door behind them, she had slumped down to the ground and cried. There were few things Sandy hated more than feeling she had embarrassed herself; it was why she kept a low profile in most conversations. Plenty of people opened their mouths too often and proved themselves to be fools; at least silence could give the pretence of wisdom.

  After another fitful night’s sleep, Sandy had seen the alarm clock flick from an hour that began with a four, to one beginning with a five, and had given up the attempt for further rest. She’d had a long, scalding hot bath and allowed her skin to dry as she lay on her bed wrapped in a towel. Then she dressed in her most comfortable pair of jeans and a thick jumper and drove to the shop.

  When she opened the shop, the cafe was an afterthought. Her dream had been the bookstore, a treasure trove crammed to the rafters with new and second-hand books, a sanctuary where everyone would find something they liked. She had spent years finding and stashing away book collections, waiting for the right time to move ahead with her dream. When the property came on the rental market, she had had a look around, ignoring the obvious space for some kind of food outlet and picturing instead bookcase after bookcase.

  But then she considered her own book-buying habits; the way she gravitated towards the smell of a coffee as much as the range of books on offer, how she returned to one sweet little bookshop not only because of its books but because of the lemon cake for sale in its cafe.

  Coffee, and books.

  Cakes, and reading.

  The two seemed to go hand in hand.

  Books and Bakes had been born.

  And it turned out that the people of Waterfell Tweed enjoyed the bakes so much, the cafe grew and grew, forcing Sandy’s beloved books to take over just under a third of the ground floor space.

  Convinced that her investigative skills weren’t what they needed to be, Sandy had thrown her heart back where it belonged: her beloved shop.

  She unlocked the door and flicked on the lights, appreciating the clean and tidy way it looked in a morning. Cleaning up at the end of a long day was everyone’s least favourite job, but she was always so pleased it had been done when she arrived again to open the shop. She locked the door behind her and hung up her yellow mac, placing her handbag behind the cafe counter and turning on the radio.

  Then, she turned around to face her bookshop in all its glory.

  A dream she never really believed could come true, right in front of her. She allowed herself a smile.

  “Good morning, books.” Sandy whispered, then laughed at her own silliness. While she knew a book wouldn’t answer her, at times, books had been her closest friends and greatest teachers.

  Next, she inspected every single book, pulling each one off the shelf and giving it a wipe with a dry cloth if needed. She checked the sticker price on every book, and the few she found without stickers she wrote a price out there and then. These were the jobs she imagined would fill her days before she opened, instead of making drinks and washing pots. She pulled out books about trains from the travel section and books about animals from the trains section.

  As she made progress through the bookshelves, the tightness in her shoulders eased and the swirling feeling in her stomach disappeared.

  The books were her sanctuary. Just as they’d always been.

  A loud rapping at the door startled her, causing her to drop the book she was just filing back into place onto her foot. She stood up, realising that she needed to push up with a hand to get her frame from the floor and wondering when that change had occurred. She was too young to notice her body changing in these ways, she felt sure. Only in her early 30s and yet already her body had sagged in places and she was finding grey hairs whenever she looked in the mirror.

  The tapping on the door continued, despite the early hour. The lights being on must have alerted someone to her presence, but could anyone’s need for cappuccino or cake really be that desperate?

  Sandy was relieved to see a familiar figure and unlocked the door.

  “I’m so sorry to trouble
you.” Penelope Harlow said, stepping inside. She was bundled into an expensive looking raincoat and her familiar designer wellies dripped mud on the floor. “I saw the light, hope you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. Is everything OK?” Sandy asked.

  “Yes, yes… I need to let you down, I’m afraid. I won’t be able to do the story group this morning.”

  “Oh.” Sandy said. Every Sunday morning, Penelope hosted a free children’s story group in the shop. It was popular with locals and holidaymakers alike, and while the children enjoyed the group while sitting in a circle, their parents bought cake and books. It made Sundays one of the most profitable days of the week for Sandy, while many other local businesses didn’t even open.

  “I do hate letting you down, dear.”

  “It’s ok, don’t worry, Penelope. Is everything OK?” Sandy asked. Penelope had never let her down in the two years they had been running the story time, and come to think of it Sandy didn’t think she had ever broken any other commitments she had. She was a woman who lived for community life.

  Penelope let out a small sigh. “Yes. I really am sorry, though. And I will be back next week, I can assure you.”

  Sandy smiled. “Well, there’s just one question remaining.”

  “What is it?”

  “Any tips for a novice storytime presenter?”

  The flippant remark made Penelope smile, caused her to relax as the books had made Sandy relax a while earlier. “Just throw yourself into it dear, the more silly you can be the better. You’ll be fabulous!”

  Sandy laughed.

  “I’ll see you soon, good luck!” Penelope called, and with that, she gave Sandy an awkward cross between a hug and a peck on the cheek and left the shop.

  Sandy waved goodbye to her as Penelope returned to her 4x4 and drove away, then went back to her bookshelves. The sight of them in order made Sandy’s heart glad, but she had run out of time for books.

  There was baking to do.

  First, she checked the leftovers. There were half a cappuccino cake and most of a vanilla sponge, a few chocolate chip cookies, and one lonely coconut tart. Sandy believed it was bad luck to leave any cakes lonely and devoured the small cake standing over the counter in the kitchen. The naughtiness of a cake before 8am made her smile to herself.

  She checked the ingredients and made lemon curd tarts, sifting flour into a bowl then rubbing in the chilled margarine and lard until the mixture became breadcrumb-like. She added 1 1/2 tablespoons of water to bind the mixture, then rolled it in the bowl into a stiff pastry. There was something therapeutic about making pastry. No matter how tasty the ready-made options were, Sandy would always opt to make her own. There were corners she would cut - she was a particular fan of anything that came ready-grated, even if it was more expensive. But pastry had to be done by her hands in her kitchen.

  She floured the surface and rolled out the dough, cutting out 12 circles with a biscuit cutter and placing each one into a hole on her tart tin.

  In a small bowl, she mixed lemon curd, margarine, sugar and an egg and beat the mixture together, then stirred in 2oz flour, 1/2 teaspoon of baking powder and a generous serving of grated lemon rind (grated by hand, even!). And then, her mystery ingredient. She ripped up a single mint leaf until it was in tiny pieces and her fingers smelt of the fresh herb, and added the pieces to the mix, giving it a good stir before adding some to each pastry case.

  The tarts went in the oven for 20 minutes and Sandy tried to ignore how much her mouth was watering. Lemon curd tarts were one of her favourite treats. So much so, she had to limit how often she allowed herself to bake them and how often she allowed herself to sample the batch.

  The front door opened, the bell jingling to announce someone’s arrival.

  Sandy walked out front just as Coral took a seat.

  “Morning,” Sandy said, wiping her hands with a tea towel.

  “Y’alright sis? What’s up?” Coral asked, not meeting her sister’s gaze.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” Sandy said. “I had a real headache, an early night was just what I needed.”

  “Better now?” Coral asked, her brow furrowed in concern.

  Sandy smiled. “Much better. What can I get you?”

  “Are you open yet?”

  Sandy stole a glance at her watch. “Not for another ten minutes, but since it’s you.”

  “I’ll have a black coffee, please.”

  Sandy made the drink and decided she would make herself one and join her sister. It wasn’t often they had time alone together.

  “You know, there was something I wanted to tell you.”

  “Ok,” Sandy said, the nervous feeling in her stomach reappearing.

  “I don’t know if I told you, but I had CCTV fitted to the house a while ago.”

  “You mentioned it, wasn’t it when there was that car broken in to?”

  “Yeah, that was it. I’d forgotten it’s there, to be honest, but I realised last night and I thought I’d have a look at it. It keeps the recordings for a month, it’s a proper professional bit of kit, and it looks out over the side of my cottage because that way it catches the path.”

  Sandy waited. Her sister’s stories always took a while to find their point; as if being paid per word had affected her speech.

  “I never realised, Sand, but my camera covers Reginald’s cottage.”

  “Have you checked it?”

  “Stayed up most of the night watching it all. And, there’s something on there, on the night he was killed.”

  “You’re kidding? Have you told the police?”

  “No, I wanted to tell you first.”

  “We have to tell the police, Coral. What does it show?”

  “Well… it shows you.”

  “Me?”

  Coral nodded. “It shows you going in his cottage, and about twenty minutes later coming back out.”

  “That’s crazy, I didn’t go to his cottage. I’ve never been in his cottage in my life!”

  “I know that.” Coral said, grabbing Sandy’s hand.

  “So, what…”

  “I think you’re being framed, Sandy. Whoever killed him, dressed like you to do it.”

  10

  Bernice was happy to cover the morning shift on short notice but reluctant to present the story time. Thankfully, she was owed a favour by Poppy Sanders, who agreed to handle that part of the Sunday morning routine.

  Sandy sprinted out of the door as soon as Bernice arrived, offering some feeble explanation of a family emergency. She ran across the green and hammered on the door of Coral’s cottage.

  “It was open,” Coral said, appearing in the doorway. Sandy followed her into the cottage, which despite its traditional exterior was modern and high-spec inside. Coral led Sandy into the small kitchen, where a tiny breakfast bar with two stools was squeezed into the space. On the breakfast bar was Coral’s laptop, open with a blank screen.

  “Are you sure you want to see it?” Coral asked, gesturing to Sandy’s shaking hands.

  “I need to. I don’t want to.” Sandy clarified, taking a seat on one stool.

  “Ok. Here goes.” Coral said.

  She fired up the laptop and it sprang into life, showing the screen Coral had left it on, a paused and grainy CCTV footage.

  “Ok, let me just rewind this,” Coral said, hitting keys. Sandy looked on, watching the screen jump and start.

  “It’s grainy.” She said.

  Coral stiffened next to her. “It’s top of the range, this is practically police-level surveillance footage.”

  “Excellent,” Sandy said as Coral stopped the footage. “I’m so pleased we have police-level surveillance footage showing me going into and out of Reginald’s house.”

  “We’re not showing this to anyone, Sand,” Coral exclaimed. “I’m showing you and then this gets deleted.”

  “You can’t delete it, it’s evidence.”

  Coral pressed play, and Sandy watched the footage. It showe
d Coral’s garden path, and the cottage opposite her path, where Reginald Halfman had lived until his untimely demise. There was no movement at all for a few minutes, and if it hadn’t been for the time stamp in the top corner racing through the seconds and minutes, Sandy would have thought it was still paused.

  Then, to her horror, she appeared on the screen. Her long dark hair and distinctive yellow mac were visible, and she was wearing dark trousers and stiletto shoes. Stiletto shoes! She glanced around before opening the gate and walking down Reginald’s path, where she knocked on the front door. Reginald appeared at the door, smiled at her, and ushered her inside.

  “Oh my God, the poor man had no idea,” Sandy said, covering her mouth.

  “Awful, isn’t it.”

  “Whoever it is, he knew her.”

  “Well enough to let her in.”

  They continued to watch. After a few minutes, a cat ran down Coral’s path, but other than that nothing else happened until Reginald’s front door opened again. Slower this time, more cautiously.

  The woman who appeared to be Sandy peered out and checked both directions, then slipped out of the house, pulling the door closed behind her. With her head bent low, she crept down the path, checked the street both ways, and then opened the gate and walked off camera.

  Coral reached forward and paused the footage again.

  “And there’s nothing else?” Sandy asked.

  “I’ve watched as much as I could, but I told you there’s a month’s footage. I watched the hours before and after this happened; nothing else happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. Knock yourself out if you want to watch some.”

  “Can we watch that bit again?” Sandy asked.

  “Sure,” Coral said, rewinding the footage. She hit play again.

  Despite herself, Sandy gasped when the woman appeared on screen again. “I know for sure it isn’t me, and it still makes me think it’s me.”