Contents
Forest Chocolates
Eccles cake
Foxgloves
Cocoa beans
Pizza and salad
Breakfast
Mutton
Mushroom omelettes
Poached eggs
Pasta and spotted dick
Truffles
Scrambled eggs
Poisoned chocolates
Champagne
Thai curry
Coffee
Leeds
Tea
Tomato soup and Dundee cake
Angela, Steve and Geoff
Biscuits
Beer
In the rhyne
Chase
Orange drizzle cake
Back in business
Thanks for reading
Forest Chocolates
The warm tang of yeast percolated through Exham on Sea’s bakery. “This must be the quietest place on the planet.” Libby Forest didn’t mean to complain, but there hadn’t been much excitement here, lately.
Frank, the baker, dumped a pair of disposable gloves in the kitchen bin, hoisted a crate of fresh loaves, grunted and shuffled backwards through the door. “Time to revamp the bakery, then. Make some space for those hand-made Forest Chocolates.” Libby’s knife clattered to the table. Had she heard right?
Mandy, Exham on Sea’s resident teenage Goth, pumped a tattooed arm. “Our very first proper chocolate shop.”
A big fat grin forced its way across Libby’s face. It was weeks since she’d presented her business plan. Frank had sucked his teeth, scratched an ear and mumbled, “We’ll see.” She’d almost given up hope. Maybe it was the constant supply of free samples that wore him down.
His head bobbed back around the door. “Are you in a fit state to drive, Libby? The cycling club left their sandwiches in the van.” He thrust packages into Libby’s arms.
Mandy giggled. “Too busy stuffing themselves with free chocolates. Kevin Batty gobbled up at least three lemon meringue truffles.”
Still in a daze, Libby loaded the sandwiches into her ancient purple Citroen, crunched the gears and drove out onto the Somerset Levels, following the cyclists’ route through corkscrew lanes, beneath a broad blue spring sky. Her head whirled with plans for packaging, marketing, future outlets and exotic new chocolate flavours. She turned up the CD player and bellowed We Are The Champions at the top of her voice. Why not? No one could hear it, in this peaceful corner of the West Country.
The car squealed round a corner, narrowly avoiding a row of bicycles propped against a wooden fence. It lurched to a halt and Libby jumped out. Beyond an open gate, clumps of sedge and willow lined the placid waters of a stream. Moorhens ducked in and out of overhanging branches, and a pair of geese honked in the distance.
Libby slithered on the grass. Patches of mud, still damp from a brief overnight rainstorm, squelched under her feet. Not quite a country girl yet, then. She’d keep a pair of wellies in the car in future.
A hand grasped her elbow. “Careful.” A few years older than Libby, Simon Logan had pleasing pepper and salt hair and a warm smile, and almost managed to make Lycra look elegant. As Mandy, Libby’s lodger and self-appointed dating advisor, had pointed out, “He’s divorced, no children, retired university lecturer, conductor of the local orchestra and much richer than Max Ramshore. He’ll do for you, Mrs F.”
Enjoying a sudden, welcome independence, since her husband’s heart attack ended their unsatisfactory marriage, Libby had scoffed at the idea. Intent on building a business and a new life, she didn’t need male complications, thank you. Max Ramshore was hardly more than an acquaintance. She’d worked with the secretive ex-banker on Exham’s recent celebrity murder investigation, but he’d left town without so much as a word.
“Lovely morning.” Simon Logan’s deep brown voice resonated pleasantly in Libby’s ears, but she had no time to reply. Kevin Batty intervened, wiping streaks of sweat from sallow cheeks. His pointy-chinned, pink-eyed face lacked only a set of stiff whiskers, to complete the resemblance to an over-friendly rodent.
He stood so close, Libby could count the pores on his nose. “Mrs Forest. Why don’t you join us?” What’s more, he’d been eating garlic.
About to refuse, Libby changed her mind when Simon joined the appeal. “The least we can do is offer you some of our lunch.”
The heady smell of still-warm pastries made Libby’s stomach growl. “Just an Eccles cake, then.”
***
A smile still hovered over her face as she drove back to Exham. Mandy was taking the afternoon shift at the bakery, so Libby had the rest of the day free. She collected Shipley, a friendly, noisy springer spaniel, from her indolent friend Marina, and let him loose on the beach.
“Hi, Libby.” Her sunny mood evaporated in a flash.
“Max.”
“Still mad at me? How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? I had to leave town at short notice.” Max threw a stick for his dog, Bear, the owner of four vast paws and the shaggiest coat Libby had ever seen. Bear loped steadily along the sand to fetch it, while Shipley raced back and forth, barking, ineffective, and wild with excitement.
Max didn’t look sorry. In fact, he’d gained a light tan, that made his Scandinavian eyes gleam brighter and his thick silver hair shimmer. He was grinning, expecting to be forgiven. Libby exaggerated her shrug. “It’s quite all right. You don’t have to tell me when you go away. Anyway, it wasn’t you I missed. It was Bear.”
Max threw the stick again. “I couldn’t leave him with you. He’s too big for your cottage, so I sent him off to have a little holiday with a farmer friend of mine.”
“Well, I’m glad he’s back.” Of course, Max was right. Bear had stayed at her cottage before, and the carpets had never been the same, but Libby loved the giant animal more than home furnishings.
Max pulled a box from the pocket of his waxed jacket. “I brought you a present. A peace offering.”
Libby narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “What is it?”
“OK, if you don’t want it...”
“Of course, I want it. I never refuse presents.” Libby unfolded layers of tissue paper inside the little blue box. “A fridge magnet. How nice.”
“Look what it says. World’s Greatest Cook. That’s you.”
She tried not to laugh. “You think flattery will get you anywhere. My son gave me one just like it, years ago, when he was about twelve.”
“I may be childish, but am I forgiven?”
Why be grumpy while the sun’s shining? “Maybe. My book came out, by the way. Baking at the Beach is now available world-wide. I’m just waiting for my own copies to arrive.”
“No. Really? Why didn’t you tell me? Wait, because I wasn’t here. Now I really do feel bad.”
“Good. Then I forgive you.”
“To make up, I’ll buy your first hardback copy.”
Libby snorted. “Can’t imagine you baking cakes, somehow.” She found a length of driftwood and called to the spaniel. “Shipley, here’s a stick, just for you. Bear, leave it alone.” She held the sheepdog back, fondling the giant ears.
They’d already wandered past the nine-legged lighthouse, where Libby had discovered Susie Bennett’s body last year. Exham on Sea disappeared from view, hidden by sand dunes, as they rounded the bend. Max cleared his throat. “Libby, there’s something I need to...” He broke off and rolled his eyes, as his phone trilled. “Sorry.” He stiffened. “What? How many?” A shar
p intake of breath. “I’ll be there.”
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s been an accident. The cycling club, out on the Levels.”
That couldn’t be right. Everyone was fine when Libby left. “What sort of accident? A road crash?”
“Apparently not.”
“Then what? Wait!” Max was already pounding back along the beach, dogs galloping behind. Libby followed, scrambling awkwardly across the sand. Panting, she struggled up the steps from the beach to the road.
Max threw open the door of his Land Rover to let the dogs pile in. “That was Claire, Joe’s wife, on the phone. She’s meeting us at the scene.”
“Is it serious?”
“Claire doesn’t know. They’re out at the wildlife reserve.”
Earlier, Libby had exchanged a distant, formal nod with Joe, Max’s son, down on the Levels. Their relationship was tricky. A detective sergeant in the local police force, he had as little time for Libby as he had for his father.
***
An ambulance left as Max and Libby arrived at the river. “There he is.” Joe lay on the grass, face chalk-white, eyes closed. A paramedic nearby saw Max and came over, squatting beside Joe. “Looks like a touch of food poisoning, sir. Half the club have keeled over.”
“Food poisoning? Could it cause all this?” Max waved a hand at a scene of disaster. A few hardy cyclists hadn’t actually passed out, but lay with their backs propped against tree trunks, clutching silvery blankets and shivering. Over by the stream, Simon Logan bent double, wiping his mouth. Had everyone been poisoned? Libby’s own stomach lurched and she swallowed saliva. The sandwiches? No, surely not...
The young paramedic struggled to her feet. “Poison is poison. We’ll get people to hospital, then we’ll know more.”
The officer in charge, Chief Inspector Arnold, nodded to Max. “Sorry to see that lad of yours is involved, Max, but we need to treat this as a crime scene.” He peered at Libby. “Ah, Mrs Forest. I gather most of the cyclists bought their sandwiches at Frank’s bakery?”
The knot in Libby’s stomach tightened. “Well―yes, they did.” She licked dry lips. “I brought the food out here...”
Max broke in. “Don’t say any more.”
Libby gulped. “You mean...”
“Don’t say anything that might incriminate you. Or the bakery.”
Libby’s breath caught in her throat. “Do I need a lawyer?”
The Chief Inspector’s face was inscrutable. “We’ll talk to you properly, later. There’s no need to worry, Mrs Forest, until we find out exactly what happened here.”
Libby shivered. “The people in the first ambulance. Are they OK?”
“I’m afraid not. Kevin Batty and Vince Lane are dead.”
Eccles cake
A small Ford Fiesta screeched to a halt and a woman leapt out, brown hair flying wildly in the spring breeze. “Claire. Glad you’re here.” Max hugged his daughter-in-law, awkward, as though they rarely touched. He proffered a set of car keys to Libby. “Would you do me a favour and take the dogs back to Exham, in the Land Rover? Claire and I need to get to the hospital.”
Libby scrambled into the car, found reverse and set off with a succession of kangaroo hops. She wriggled, uncomfortable. Her trousers seemed to be too tight. She undid a button and laid one hand on her bloated stomach.
Her head was swimming, but she had to get back to the bakery, to warn Frank about the food poisoning. Or, maybe she should go to the police station? It was so hard to think. Her cheeks burned. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead and the stomach pain stabbed, knife-sharp. Libby slammed on the brakes, heaved open the door and fell out, just in time to throw up, with long, painful gasps, against the wheels of the car.
She groaned, leaned against the car to counteract rubber legs, fumbled for a handkerchief and scrubbed at streaming eyes. Another wave of nausea engulfed her body. Finally, exhausted, every scrap of her stomach contents now decorating Max’s previously shiny wheels, Libby sank down on the verge beside the road. She was only halfway home, but she couldn’t drive like this. Maybe someone would come along in a minute, offer her a lift?
The peace and quiet of rural Somerset had its disadvantages. No cars passed. Not even a bicycle appeared. Another wave of sickness came and went, leaving Libby even weaker. Too tired to sit, she lay on one side, tears of self-pity sliding down her face. Was she going to die, like the cyclists? This would be even worse, all on her own out here.
The dogs barked, furious at being left in the car, and Libby had an idea. If she let them out, maybe they’d run away and find help. She could get to the car, if she moved slowly enough. She ground her teeth and, shaky, staggered upright, trying to keep her head steady. The walk to the car might as well have been a mile, over grass that waved and rippled. She’d never make it. “Looks like you’re another victim.” Someone had an arm round her, and relief flooded Libby’s body. Maybe she wasn’t going to die, just yet.
She tried to focus through a yellow haze. “Max?” With Max supporting one side, Claire the other, Libby stumbled to the Land Rover. She collapsed back into the passenger seat, dimly aware Max was talking.
He didn’t sound sympathetic at all, just furious. “Why didn’t you tell me you were ill? You shouldn’t have been driving. What were you thinking?” Libby gulped air. Talking was too difficult.
“Here.” Max offered a bottle of water. “Just a sip.”
Libby scrubbed a hand across her face. “What about Joe?”
“He’s comfortable. Sick as a dog in hospital, but not in any danger. His heart rate’s up, but the doctors say it’s not serious. They just want to keep him in until it slows. We left him there, to get some sleep.”
Claire, apparently deciding Libby would survive, returned to her car, hooted, and drove off. Libby fought back another wave of nausea as Max studied her face, his eyes narrow. She could almost see him thinking. “Did you eat or drink anything with the cyclists?” Libby let her eyes close, and the sickness receded. Max shook her arm. “Come on, try to concentrate.”
“No.” A memory surfaced, and her eyes opened wide. “At least, just one bite from an Eccles cake. But, there was nothing wrong with it. I should know. I made it myself.” She shuddered. The very idea of pastry tightened the knot in her stomach. “I feel better now.” That was a lie. She longed, more than anything, to crawl quietly into her own bed.
“We need to get you to the hospital. I want you checked out.”
“You think I’ve been poisoned, too?”
He leaned over to fasten her seatbelt. “Pretty obvious, I’d say, but we’ll find out for sure.”
Libby lay back, the chaos in her stomach subsiding. “I only had one small bite.”
“Just as well. Luckily, Joe only ate half a sandwich.”
“Poor Joe.”
“I thought you didn’t care for him.”
Libby grunted. “Well, of course I care. He’s your son, after all, and...” Exhausted, still nauseous, she couldn’t think of the right words. She let the sentence tail off, too weak to follow through. “You know what I mean.”
“He’s prickly, that’s the trouble with Joe. And a policeman, which makes it worse.”
They drove in silence. Libby felt better, so long as she kept both eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I don’t want to go to hospital.”
“Too bad.”
She tried again. “I was on my way to the police station. I want to find out what happened.”
Max snorted. “Did you think the police would tell you anything?”
“Probably not. They think I’m a busybody.”
“I’d call you interested and inquisitive. Can’t blame them, really, after the Susie Bennett affair.”
“It wasn’t my fault the police didn’t take her death seriously. Come on, Max. You were in it with me. You found out all sorts of things from your strange foreign contacts.”
Several seconds ticked by before he answered. “Libby, you’re talki
ng about my other―er―responsibilities. You know I try to keep my distance from police work in Exham.”
“Yes, I know. You have very secret and important work for the government. I found out about it, remember?” It hadn’t been too difficult. All the signs had been there. Early retirement from high-level banking, regular sudden trips abroad, half-hidden links with the police, and easy access to foreign authorities. Everything pointed to a secret life. Max had to have been either a criminal or a government employee. Libby assumed she’d guessed right.
“Keep it to yourself, there’s a good girl.”
There it was again. Max’s unthinking arrogance. Was it just being a man that caused it? Whatever the cause, it never failed to rub Libby up the wrong way. “I’m not a child, Max. By the way, you never did say why you had to leave Exham in such a hurry.”
“I didn’t, because,” he drawled, “if I told you...”
“I know, you’d have to shoot me. Just tell me if your other responsibilities have anything to do with the dead cyclists, will you?”
He threw a lingering glance in her direction before he answered. “I hope not. I don’t think so, but I want you to be careful, Libby. Please don’t go poking your nose in where you shouldn’t.” He waited a beat. “I know you can’t resist a mystery, but at least, let me know what you’re up to.”
Max said no more, and Libby fell into a kind of hypnotic daze. Half-formed thoughts chased through her head. She’d love to unpack the mystery of Max. He was handsome, wealthy, and long divorced, but showed very little interest in local women. Or men, for that matter. Maybe there was a secret mistress somewhere else. Libby could imagine Max with someone exotic, all long legs and tanned skin, from South America.
Displeased with the idea, she turned her attention to their short relationship. For a while, she’d thought they were getting close, but long walks and longer evenings, with a meal and a bottle of wine or two, had ended in no more than a chaste peck on the cheek. Was that part of the reason Libby found Max so unsettling? Because he didn’t want to take things further? Although, of course, she didn’t either.
Maybe she should start something with Simon Logan. He seemed flatteringly keen. Would Max be jealous? Libby couldn’t decide. His eyes were fixed on the road, his jaw clenched. Libby’s eyelids grew heavy. She didn’t want any complications. She drifted into sleep.
Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) Page 1
