Murder Bites

by Lyra Barnett

  Retirement? I couldn’t remember the last time my dad had worked! He had been a freelance accountant, but his last client had long since moved on.

  “We’ve decided to rent out some of the other rooms in the house. I’m sure you will like our new guests, they are all from delightfully good stock.”

  I had tried to explain to my father before that being from good ‘undead’ stock wasn’t exactly something to shout about.

  “I just… didn’t realise it would happen so quickly.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t exactly protest, I knew they were doing this for me as much as themselves. None of us wanted to lose the house

  “So are they all vampires?”

  “Not all vampires, but they’re all part of the gang as it were. Mrs Bard is a banshee, but her voice has almost gone bless her. Mr Shaw is a zombie and Mr Pound is a vampire like us. He leaned and whispered conspiratorially, “From the Lancashire Pounds you know, very old family. Good stock.”

  I thought of the man inside with the mop of hair and when I’d seen him this morning at the café.

  “Right, well I guess I better go and meet them then.”

  He ushered me back in to the room and introduced me officially to the small group. I was introduced to Mrs Bard first. She greeted me with a hoarse but shrill voice and a handshake which felt like I was holding a porcelain stick. Mr Shaw was next. He gave a short bow as he introduced himself in a long, slow drawn out voice that made me feel tired just waiting for him to get to the end of the sentence.

  Finally, I was introduced to Mr Pound. He looked at me with a slight frown as his mouth turned up at one side.

  “Have we met before Miss Twyst?”

  Glad of the opening, and a distraction from his intense eyes, I seized my chance.

  “Yes, well, sort of. You were at the Whole Latte Love this morning.”

  “Ah yes, so I was. And of course, you were there too.” He smiled at me, and for some reason I suddenly felt nervous. My stomach fluttered like a startled bird.

  “Did you know Mrs Tranter who was in there?”

  Nice Felicity. Subtle. Like using a sledgehammer to open a ketchup bottle, and yet… there was a flicker there before the smooth reply.

  “I don’t think I remember the name, no.”

  “She was murdered right around the time you were at the café.”

  My dad spluttered on his cognac.

  “Murdered?!” I suddenly realised that with not getting out much and not being fans of TV, they probably hadn’t seen it on the news yet.

  “Yes dad, murdered.”

  I didn’t take my eyes from Pound. His eyes had widened in what looked a lot like fear. My dad cleared his throat as he regained composure and took another large gulp of brandy.

  “Well that is terrible news,” Pound said in a quiet voice. “I am sorry for her family.”

  “You were at the counter when her coffee was being prepared. Betty usually puts the tray there before heading to the end so she can lift the hatch to come through to the customer’s side, before she picks the tray up again. Plenty of time for someone who was stood at the counter to drop something in her coffee.”

  “Felicity!” My dad spluttered. “I’m sorry Mr Pound, I don’t know what’s come over her!”

  Mr Pound had reacted this time not with fear, but with confusion. His brow knotted as he looked at me.

  “I had nothing to do with it. You were there too,” he said, and I suddenly realised what I was saying. I was accusing this guy of murder for pretty much no reason other than he was there.

  I felt a slight blush on my cheeks, which bearing in mind how pale I was now, was probably pretty obvious.

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  “Yes, well that’s quite enough of all this,” my father interjected. “Felicity, I think you should maybe go and have a drink dear, you looking rather pale.” He gave me a stern look and began to lead Mr Pound away towards the others.

  “I’m sorry Mr Pound, but you know how we all get when we haven’t had our correct refreshments.”

  I turned and left without protesting. If Mr Pound had put anything into Mrs Tranter’s coffee, he was hardly going to tell me, and anyway, I don’t know of a single reason why he would. In any case, dad was right, I wasn’t thinking straight.

  I headed for the kitchen and moved past the fridge where we kept normal things like butter and milk, and grabbed the edge of the shelves which ran along the wall next to it. They swung open to reveal a large metal door. I pulled the lever down and stepped into the cool air. Plastic bags full of calf brains sat on the shelves to the right, my mum’s dietary requirements. On the left, bottles of dark red blood stood in rows. As soon as I saw them, I felt my vampness rack up a notch. My incisors slid out from their recesses in my mouth and I felt a rush of adrenaline wash over me. I grabbed a bottle and started glugging without even taking it back to the kitchen to find a glass.

  THE NEXT MORNING I woke to find the house quiet. I guessed that with the excitement of having guests, my parents had over done it and were sleeping in, so I grabbed some toast while looking through the business directory in the phonebook. After finding what I was looking for, I walked into town.

  Although still warm, today was overcast which was a blessing for me after the sun of yesterday. Even so, I had still worn my huge sunglasses and a wide brimmed hat. Something that Betty couldn’t help but comment on as I entered the Whole Latte Love.

  “Are you in disguise or something? It wasn’t you being questioned for murder yesterday you know.”

  “Very funny, get me two coffees and two muffins to go, I’m going to have a little word with Joan Sithers.”

  “Why?” Betty said as she worked the coffee machine, shooting steam out onto her wrist making her squeal in pain. After checking she was ok and making her running her hand under the cold tap, I carried on.

  “Well, I think there were only three people who could have put something into Mrs Tranter’s coffee. You,” Betty looked at me in shock, “don’t worry I’ve ruled you out on the basis that you would have missed the cup,” I said smiling at her. She laughed and went back to making my coffee.

  “Ok, and so Joan Sither’s is one of the others because she was sat with Tranter. But who’s the third?”

  I explained about my future housemate, and that he was the man who had been in the café yesterday.

  “Wait!” Her hands rose to her mouth in shock. “You don’t mean that tall dark and handsome guy who was in here when… Oh my god! I can’t believe you’re going to be living with him!”

  “Oh god, don’t even think about trying to set me up again like you did with DCI Marsh.”

  Betty grinned at me.

  “You know, your skin actually looks like a normal person’s right now. You know that’s just because you thought of James right?”

  “Betty, can you stop calling him James? He almost arrested you for murder yesterday!”

  “Flick! You have to invite me round for dinner!”

  “I’ll see you later,” I said, shaking my head at her ability to bounce around in a conversation, and taking my coffee and blueberry muffin as she offered it.

  “Oh, come on Flick!”

  I turned to leave, when I heard her voice change from a mocking tone to a more serious one.

  “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” I turned back to her. “Do you think there’s a spare room going at the house that I could have?”

  It hadn’t occurred to me that Betty would be looking for a place, but she still lived in the flat where she’d watched her mum slowly fall victim to the cancer that had killed her and had understandably been an emotional wreck since. It made sense that she’d want to get out.

  “Well, we’ve got the room, but Betty,” I looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, “the other people are like me.”

  “Oh! That’s great! Then I’m in! It’ll be great fun! Us two living together!”

  “I’l
l talk to my mum and dad, see you later.”

  I smiled and left unsure of how I felt about it all. It would be great living with Betty, but her enthusiasm for the un-dead was worrying…

  7

  PILES OF PAPERWORK

  The offices sat in a tiny cul-de-sac of small businesses just a few streets away from the twin highstreets and the Whole Latte Love. I pressed the button against the handwritten card which read ‘Tranter’s Accounting’ and waited until I heard the voice of Joan Sithers through the intercom, she sounded out of breath.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, Joan? It’s Felicity from the café yesterday. I just thought I’d drop by and see if you’re ok and bring you some coffee.”

  “Oh, er. Thank you, but I’m really fine.”

  “Are you sure? I have one of the Whole Latte Love muffins…”

  The door buzzed open and I stepped through and made my way up the stairs, reading the small silver signs which sat by each door until I found the right one.

  “Hello Felicity, it’s very nice of you to come and see how I am,” Joan said as I came through the door, greedily eyeing the paper bag that I carried at my side.

  “Oh, no problem. It was a shock for us all.”

  “Come and sit down, let me just clear a space.”

  I watched her grab stacks of papers and folders, piling them on tall mounds of similar folders which were dotted around the office. The place was a mess. It looked as though every drawer of the many filing cabinets which ran along one wall had been emptied. I noticed that the large desk which sat at the far end of the long room facing inwards was neat and tidy, every bit of stationary in its rightful place. That was obviously Mrs Tranter’s desk, the other smaller desk which faced the door was clearly for Joan, and it was buried under the same paperwork as most of the floor was.

  “There we are,” Joan said, indicating two chairs which she had cleared of papers and a small section of desk which she gestured at me to put down the coffees and muffins. I did so and we both tucked in, slurping at our coffees to wash it down.

  “These really are excellent,” Joan said sighing with pleasure.

  “The best,” I said, and meant it. “So have the police questioned you again?”

  She looked up sharply at me.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “Oh, just a guess really. They’ve already talked to Betty and Sandra from the Latte, so I guessed they’d talk to you again too.”

  She seemed to relax a bit and took another bite of the muffin.

  “Yeah, hauled me in for over two hours they did. I don’t know what they expected me to say, there wasn’t much to it, she just died in front of me.”

  She certainly seemed less upset about Mrs Tranter’s death than she had yesterday.

  “Did they say how she had died?”

  “They said she was poisoned,” she said quietly.

  Her manner had changed somehow. She sat more upright as she finished her muffin and sipped gently at the coffee. She eyed me with as much suspicion as I was probably eying her.

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to do that?”

  “I don’t like to talk ill of the dead, but Mrs Tranter was a hard woman, she had a few enemies. Now if you don’t mind Miss Twyst…” Back to last name terms suddenly? “… I’d like to get on here, I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “What exactly are you doing?” I asked standing up and looking around at the mess.

  “I’m sorting out all of her files to pass on to another accountant now we’re closing shop.”

  “Oh, you didn’t fancy keeping it going on in some form yourself?”

  “I’m not an accountant, I’m a personal assistant. I wouldn’t have a clue about any of this.” She waved her arm over the piles. Something grabbed my attention at the top of the pile to my right. I needed a closer look.

  “Do you mind if I use your loo before I go?”

  “Down there on the right,” she said huffily, before turning back to a stack of papers on her desk. I whipped the folder I had spotted from the top of the pile and tucked it under my leather jacket as I made my way to the loo.

  The toilet was a small but neat room with a single bowl and basin. I sat on the closed lid and looked at the folder with the scent of lavender tickling my nose from the bowl of potpourri on the back of the cistern. The name on the top of the dull orange card read:

  MR POUND

  I opened it and quickly scanned through the pages. I had no idea what any of them meant in terms of finances, but it wasn’t hard to make sense of Mrs Tranter’s spiderlike handwritten notes in the margins.

  ‘Unacceptable’, ‘questionable’, ‘illegal!’, the latter being underlined three times. At the top of the page she had written in large emphatic words, ‘Report to Her Majesty’s Tax Office at once’.

  Something was clearly very fishy about Mr Pound’s accounts. I flipped back to the first page and read the company name at the top, ‘The Powton Shooting and Game Company’. Powton was a town a few miles from here, but I’d never heard of the company. Not surprising bearing in mind shooting things interested me as much as a sugar free diet.

  I stuffed the folder back into my leather jacket, flushed the toilet, and walked back into the office, hoping to replace the folder on top of the pile without Joan Sither’s seeing, but she snapped her head round to me the second I entered.

  “All ok, Miss Twyst? If you didn’t mind leaving me to get on with things?”

  “Oh of course, I… Oh sorry!” My hand had deliberately caught the pile that the folder had been sat on with my elbow, sending folders sprawling across the floor. I bent down quickly and whipped out the missing item from my jacket and merged with the others as I picked them up.

  “Oh leave them, I’ll have to go through and order them again anyway,” Joan said testily behind me.

  “Oh ok, sorry again, and glad you’re feeling better.”

  I stepped out of the doorway and made my way out onto the street in a thoughtful mood. If Mrs Tranter was going to report Mr Pound’s business to the tax man, that might be a good enough reason to bump her off. Money always seemed to be a pretty good motivator for murder on TV. Even if that wasn’t the case, he had lied about knowing her that was for sure… Very fishy.

  As for Joan Sithers, she had suddenly become very prickly at the mention of poison, was that because she had something to hide? Or because she didn’t like being accused of murder?

  I made my way back onto West Street and passed a selection of odd shops that I’d almost never had cause to use, but that seemed to survive despite a lack of customers. Odds and Sods whose grubby window was filled with all sorts of bric-a-brac, the delightfully named Knockers, Screws and Knobs, which I hoped sold ironmongery for doors and hinges, or it really wasn’t so delightfully named, and finally, the Stumpwell branch of the Cowton Bank and Building Society.

  I pushed through the front door, which was so stiff it felt like a test in itself, to be greeted by a young girl wearing too much makeup and a tight fitting nylon dress. I could practically hear the static electricity crackle as she walked across the carpet towards me.

  “Good morning madam, how can we help you today?”

  Her sing song voice grated like nails down a blackboard.

  “I want to speak to someone about a business loan.”

  “That would be Mr Barnes, do you have an appointment at all?”

  “No.”

  “Right, I’ll just go and see when he next has a free slot.”

  She toddled off as I looked around the completely deserted bank. I imagined Mr Barnes had a few free weeks let alone hours if this morning’s activities were anything to go by. I picked up a leaflet on retirement and thought of my parents. It was good they were going to get a fresh start, I just needed to make sure I made it into a fresh start for me too. I thought of the Reed’s sweet shop and wondered. The more I thought about it, the less I could identify anything I’d ever had that was truly mine. I’d lived in my pa
rent’s house all of my life, in the same town, going to the same café most mornings and hanging around with Betty. I’d been coasting, and it was time to get real.

  “He has a slot available at two thirty, can I take your name?”

  I looked around the still empty bank, sure that someone was playing a joke on me, but no one jumped out with a hidden camera.

  “It’s Felicity Twyst,” I sighed, I couldn’t muster up the energy to argue the point.

  “Great, well we’ll see you this afternoon Felicity!” she chirped in a way that for some reason, made me annoyed she had used my first name. I turned to leave and walked straight into the broad chest of Mr Pound.

  “Oh, I’m sorry I… Felicity?”

  “Hello Mr Pound.” I tried to keep the frustration of the bank visit out of my voice, but I didn’t pull it off.

  “Please, call me Damien. I’m glad I ran into you, I was wondering if you would join me for lunch today? I feel we got off on the wrong foot yesterday, and if we’re going to be living together…”

  I opened and shut my mouth a couple of times while I thought of a way to tell him to bugger off, before I realised he was either trying to be nice, or was worried about my line of questioning back at the house.

  “Ok.”

  “Great. I have a couple of errands to run, but can we meet at the Stump and Well, around one?” I nodded and he smiled and walked off towards the bank counter.

  8

  A HADDOCK IN HOT WATER

  A s I left the bank and wandered back out onto the street, I checked my watch and saw that it was still only half eleven, I decided to go and drop in at the café before my newly acquired lunch date and headed off towards it. It really was quiet this morning in town, maybe the overcast sky had put everyone off after the sunshine yesterday.

  The door to Odds and Sods opened as I passed and the builder who I had seen working on Mrs Tranter’s house stepped out, counting out a wad of money in an envelope.

  “Oh, morning Mr …?”

  He looked up and raised his head at me in acknowledgment before stuffing the envelope into his pocket.

  “Jones, and you are?”

  His tone was curt. I had been hoping that my womanly charms might be enough to get him to engage in conversation, but they were obviously not up to scratch. If only Betty had been with me. Story of my life.