Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  “Your house?” I could barely breathe.

  “No, only the mudroom, where the electrics are—and then, a bit of the kitchen.”

  The word electrics rang a bell—a deep and foreboding clanging.

  “What’s happened, sweetie?”

  “It was an accident.” Her voice trembled and my heart ached. “We told the fire brigade that. They didn’t mean to, it was only that—”

  “They? Who are they?” An arsonist? An old boyfriend with a grudge? A gang of looters targeting aging Victorian semidetacheds?

  “Dad and his mate, Crowdey. Remember Dad said he could upgrade the electrics and you said we’d need a certified electrician. But Dad said Crowdey has done loads of electrics for other people, and so they just sort of showed up today and got to work.”

  She had me at “Dad.” I laid my phone down on the kitchen table and with a shaky finger pushed a button.

  “Sweetie, I’m at Gran’s and I’ve put you on speaker, because she wants to hear, too. You go on.”

  “Hi, Gran,” she said, her voice quavering. “Well, I’m not sure what happened, because Ginny and I were upstairs, but we heard a loud pop, and after a few minutes, I smelled smoke . . .”

  I listened, and while Mum kept up our side of the conversation and Dinah told her story, I dashed back into the spare room to shove my belongings into my overnight case and grab my toothbrush from the bathroom. I was back out in the kitchen as Dinah wrapped up the tale of woe.

  “. . . and the fire brigade was here and they said it was mostly smoke. It was a lot of smoke. And the power was cut to four houses on our side of the road.”

  “You and Ginny are all right?”

  “Yeah, we’re okay,” she said in weak voice.

  “Dinah, sweetie, I’m on my way. It’s only an hour to Sheffield on the train and we’ll have the rest of the day to sort this out. Wait until I arrive and we’ll ring your landlord together. And listen”— I stopped and took a breath—“is your dad still there?”

  “Yes, they’re downstairs packing up their gear, but I came back up to my bedroom to ring you. Dad said I didn’t need to tell you and that he would take care of everything. It’s only I thought—”

  “Never mind, sweetie,” I said in a soothing voice. “Of course you did the right thing phoning. I’m going to give your dad a ring right this minute. Just to have a chat. Now, look, have the fire brigade left yet?”

  “Not quite. Downstairs is a disaster, Mum—there’s water and foam everywhere.”

  “We’ll soon put that to right,” I said. “I’ll text you to say which train I’m on, and I’ll get a taxi to your house. See you soon, sweetie.”

  Mum came to the door with me. “You tell Dinah she could come and stay with me for a few days—her winter half-term is coming up.”

  I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Mum. I’ll phone you later.”

  As soon as her door closed, I took off like a shot for the rail station, at the same time phoning my ex. It rang long enough to go to his voice mail. I hung up and tried again—same result. The third time, he must’ve realized I wouldn’t give up, and answered.

  “Look, Hay”—he knew I hated that nickname—“did Dinah ring you? Because I want you to know Crowdey and I are going to put this to rights and—”

  “Get out of that house,” I demanded, my voice thick. “Do you hear me? Now! Haven’t you done enough to your daughter for one day? Get out and take your cowboy electrician friend with you. What in God’s name got into you? Electrics? Will you not rest until you’ve had your daughter turfed out of her house because of the damage you’ve caused?”

  I strode into the station as Roger offered a feeble protest. “Shut it!” I told him. “Who knows how much this will cost to repair and how much of it the landlord will require them to pay. But know this—you are the responsible party, and you will come up with the money. I’ll see to it. I will get every penny you’ve got even if I have to wring it out of your—”

  I hadn’t realized I’d been shouting until a security guard approached me with his hands loose at his side, as if he might need to use his truncheon on a violent commuter. The crowd near the platform barrier stared at me.

  “I’ll let you know about the cost,” I muttered, and rang off. I smiled at the guard and walked meekly to the nearest ticket machine.

  * * *

  * * *

  I stewed about Roger all the way to Sheffield, and continued in the taxi from the station. Every time he did something like this—it wasn’t always setting fire to a kitchen—I threatened and shouted, but he always seemed to be able to work his way round any responsibility. He would come up with lame excuses and poorly thought-out solutions, wearing me down until I would give up the fight. Not the best pattern, but one that I hadn’t yet had the energy to break.

  Like a slap in the face, it hit me—my relationship with Zeno mirrored the one with my ex. He created chaos, I exploded, he groveled, and we started again. How could I not have seen it?

  The taxi pulled to a stop, and I pushed aside those thoughts to concentrate on my daughter. The old brick Victorian where Dinah and her housemate, Ginny, lived had seen better days, but it was ideal for two uni students, and after all, you can put up with almost anything when you’re twenty-two. They’d briefly had a third housemate, but she had moved on to London, and now Dinah and Ginny soldiered on together, each with spotty jobs that earned them barely enough to live on most weeks. I helped Dinah out, of course, and Ginny’s parents, who lived in New Zealand, did what they could, too.

  When I got out of the taxi, I thought the house looked worse than usual, but it was my imagination, because the damage from the fire was at the back. Dinah met me at the front door, hollow eyes, disheveled hair, and wearing only shorty pajamas and a shapeless cardigan even on this frigid day.

  “Dinah, sweetie.” I put my arms round her and felt her body relax against mine. Even at the door, I could smell the smoke. It had drifted out into the front hall and still hung heavy in the air.

  “It’s a bit of a mess,” she said, and took me straight back to the scene. The mudroom and half the kitchen looked as if they had been hit by that marshmallow man in Ghostbusters, and puddles of water dotted the floor like a miniature fen. The firefighters, now departed, had added to the mix by tracking in mud, and now dirty, foamy boot prints could be seen going in and out. If it had been a crime scene, there would’ve been plenty of forensic evidence.

  A man stood in front of the fuse box in the mudroom humming to himself, an open toolbox on the counter at his side. For a moment, I thought this might be Crowdey, and I was poised to attack, but Dinah grabbed my arm and said, “He’s an electrician, Mum—the real kind. Next door rang our landlord, and he got this fellow out straightaway. Said we’d sort out the cost later, not to worry.”

  Not to worry about an electrician called out on a Sunday afternoon? I shuddered to imagine the bill. Because, although I did my best to threaten Roger, I knew we’d see little if any compensation from him.

  The fellow slammed the metal door shut. “There you go,” he said cheerfully. “Power restored.”

  “That’s grand,” Dinah said. “I’ll run up and tell Ginny.”

  “So,” I said, “not too much of a job? I mean, considering the damage.”

  “The problem was,” the man said, straightening up the contents of his toolbox, “they got their wiring colors switched round and the cabling—”

  And therein began a detailed description of basic electricity that I’m sure I should’ve understood, but didn’t. I smiled and nodded as he nattered on about voltage and breakers and residual current and earthing.

  “. . . and after that,” he concluded, “well, Bob’s your uncle.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for coming out on a Sunday afternoon to help the girls,” I said. Not that he wouldn’t be well compe
nsated, I was sure.

  I led him to the front door and bade him good-bye and then rested my forehead against the doorpost for a moment, gathering my strength. I heard a rustle behind me. The girls had come out of hiding and stood at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Hello, Ms. Burke,” Ginny said, pulling down the sleeve of an enormous woolly jumper that looked as if it were held together by a wish and a prayer. “It’s awfully good of you to come and help. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I would indeed,” I said. “I’m gasping.”

  “Right,” Dinah said. “I’ll just go down to the corner shop for milk.”

  “Lovely, but, sweetie—put some clothes on first.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Scrub, mop, dry, polish, repeat. Once we’d got the kitchen and mudroom back in order, I moved on to the front room and then up the stairs to the bathroom, because why not? Dinah and Ginny disappeared not long after we’d finished the ground floor, but I kept it up, and at the end of five hours, I felt as if we’d got the old girl—the house—in better shape than she had been in before the fire. The only reminders of the disaster were the blackened wall around the fuse box and the plug sockets in the kitchen. I was admiring my work when the landlord stopped in.

  “Not too bad, is it?” he asked. “But the smell of smoke really hangs in there, doesn’t it? On the walls and such.”

  “A fresh coat of paint would go a long way to getting rid of that,” I said, and then suggested that Dinah and Ginny repaint for him to help offset the cost of the electrician.

  The landlord confessed that the electrician was his brother-in-law, who would give him a deep discount. “And these two”—he nodded to the girls, who had crept out of hiding—“are the best tenants I’ve had in years. I wouldn’t want to lose them over someone else’s mistake. So, yeah, I’m sure we can work something out.”

  That called for a bit of a celebration. When he’d gone, I said, “Right, you girls, shall I cook us a meal?”

  “Mum,” Dinah chastised.

  “You young women,” I corrected.

  Whatever they were, they had nothing in their fridge but that one small jug of milk, and so I walked down to the shop, came back, and made a quick pot of chili with frozen preformed beef burgers, a tin of tomatoes, an onion, and a bottle of some sort of hot sauce—its label was in a foreign language. That and the box of Magnum Double Caramel ice cream bars for afters did the trick—their spirits bounced back, and we soon landed in a discussion about what color the kitchen should be. Ginny leaned toward orange and Dinah campaigned for dark blue. My suggestion for white went unheard.

  We were clearing the table when I looked at the time.

  “You could stay the night, Mum,” Dinah said.

  “Sweetie, I’d love to, but I need to be at work first thing in the morning.”

  When my taxi arrived, Dinah and Ginny followed me out the door with many thanks. I got to the station in time to sprint for a train, which pulled out just before eight o’clock. Finally, I relaxed— I wouldn’t have to change trains until Bristol Temple Meads. I pulled out my phone to text Val and could hardly read the screen, I was that tired.

  I had sent a message on my way to the fire with the barest of details and he had responded, happy that Dinah and Ginny were safe. Now all I could manage was:

  Leaving Sheffield. Late home. See you tomorrow.

  Just after I sent it, I realized my error—tomorrow, Monday, Val taught all day and into the evening. But I had no energy to correct myself, and so put my phone away, set my bag on the table in front of me, and rested my head on it. A lumpy pillow, but all I had.

  * * *

  * * *

  The train came to an abrupt halt, jolting me awake. I peeled my cheek off my bag, rubbed the indentation it left behind, and blinked the sleep out of my eyes. Where was I? The handful of people remaining on the train stood, retrieved bags from overhead, and made for the exit, leaving behind empty teacups and sandwich wrappers.

  A voice announced: “This is Bristol Temple Meads. This train terminates here. Please remove all your belongings and make your way to . . .”

  Right, time to find my next train. I scooted out of the seat, heaved my case onto my shoulder, and caught sight of myself in the carriage window—the band on my ponytail had pulled half out, and I’d buttoned my coat wrong, so one side of the collar stuck up under my chin. How had I managed that? I dragged myself off the carriage and stood squinting at a departure board, unable to focus well enough to see from which platform I would catch the next train to Bath.

  “There she is!”

  I whirled round at the sound of his voice, threw myself off balance, and stumbled. Had I imagined it?

  “Hayley!”

  Val stood at the ticket barrier, talking to a guard and pointing my way. The guard nodded, allowed him to pass, and he ran toward me. Fear froze me to the spot.

  “What’s wrong?” I said, a sob in my throat. “What’s happened?”

  The smile on his face vanished. “Nothing’s happened,” he said. “I drove over to save you the last leg of your journey. I sent you a text.”

  My brain was still in a fog. “Oh, I fell asleep on the train.” I pulled my phone out and saw his message.

  Look for me at BTM

  “I thought you needed a break, after the day you’ve had.”

  For a moment, I could only stare at him. A worry furrowed his brow, and he looked as if he might speak, but before he could, I dropped my bag on the platform and threw myself into his arms, almost knocking him over. As he held me tightly, I nestled my head against his neck. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” I said, my voice muffled by his coat. “Ever.”

  “Ever?” he asked.

  I looked up at him. “I love you.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “If only I’d known it took a thirty-minute drive to get you to say that.” He brushed the hair out of my face. “I love you back, you know.”

  “I do know.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Nothing like a three-hour train nap to revive a person. On the drive to Bath, I filled Val in on the Sheffield excitement, the aftermath, and how I would hold Roger’s feet to the fire until he paid up. At one point, I sniffed the air.

  “Do you smell smoke?” I asked.

  “Yeah, love, I do,” Val said. “I’m afraid it’s you.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. But at least I left Dinah and Ginny with a clean house. And speaking of daughters—how is Bess?”

  Val negotiated the curve on the Weston Road and sighed. “I don’t want you to think this is about you,” he started.

  “Oh, I know it isn’t,” I replied. “I talked to my mum about it—that was all right, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course. I like your mum.”

  Which is funny, really, as they’d had only two brief phone conversations when I’d been indisposed and asked Val to answer my mobile for me. But Mum said the same thing about him.

  “I don’t want you to think you have to . . .” Val said, and started again. “I should be able to find out . . . it’s just that she’s got something she won’t . . .” He grabbed my hand for a moment.

  “Would it be all right if I talked with Bess?” I asked, a touch apprehensive. I didn’t want to annoy her or step on any parental toes. “What do you think?”

  “Would you?”

  He pulled to the curb a few doors down from Middlebank and switched off the engine.

  “If you stay, I promise I’ll get you out the door in time for your first class.”

  He leaned over and kissed me. “It’s a deal. Here now, give me your bag.”

  I handed it over, but as soon as I’d opened the front door, I had to take it back again. Bunter sat on the glove drawer of the mahogany hallstand with a pained expres
sion on his face that I’m sure was meant to make me feel as if he’d been waiting there for hours and hours.

  “Yes, cat, never fear, I didn’t forget.” I rummaged in my bag until I located his peace offering—a fresh catnip mouse. He jumped to the floor and began his circle eights round both my legs and Val’s. I dangled the newest offering, he batted at it a few times, and our ritual complete, I tossed it across the front entry. It landed just inside my office door, out of sight. Bunter began the hunt.

  In my flat, I had a shower, and while my hair dried, Val and I drank mugs of hot cocoa, played with each other’s fingers, and smiled. But my burst of energy had not lasted long—it was, after all, close on two in the morning—and before our mugs were empty, we went to bed.

  * * *

  * * *

  The next morning, I was true to my word, sending Val on his way after tea and toast and a kiss in plenty of time for his nine o’clock class. Ten minutes after he’d left, I remembered what the fire at Dinah’s house had managed to push out of my mind, and I sat over a second cup of tea as I thought through the matter and decided on my course of action.

  One page of transciption from Lady Fowling’s notebooks had as good as vanished. The police had taken all the scattered papers from the crime scene and put them in the three fat binders—evidence masquerading as ephemera in a scrapbook. But they didn’t have that one sheet, which held the key to the location of the signed first edition of Murder Must Advertise. Oona had spotted Lady Fowling’s clues and had broken the code and crowed about it in the text she sent me—she mentioned “Death,” which must’ve referred to Death Bredon, Lord Peter’s undercover identity.

  Someone else knew the worth of the book—a one-of-a-kind—and had killed Oona for the clue to its location. That made sense. She had the paper in her hand, and once it was dispatched, the murderer had taken it. But if the murderer had the key and he knew the location of the book, had he found it and taken it away? Impossible—wherever the book was, it had to be under the control of Middlebank and the Society.