Murder Sweetly Served

by Morgana Best

  Carl pouted. “I thought you said that, Narel. My memory hasn’t been working since I started the class.”

  “Minnie! If Mick was right, and Minnie is seeing Jake, and it’s the same Jake, then maybe the two of them were in it together.”

  I looked back up at Carl, but he had vanished. I struggled around to the other side of the table and saw him, fast asleep, on the floor.

  Chapter 15

  The following morning, I woke up on my sofa. There was no sign of Carl, so I figured he was still lying on the kitchen floor. I didn’t think I could walk that far to check on him. I had thrown blankets over him the previous night and propped up his head on a pillow, and then I had crawled back to the sofa.

  My abs hurt horribly, as did my arms and my legs. Even my ears hurt. In fact, there wasn’t one part of me that didn’t hurt—maybe my nose. I couldn’t straighten up, so I walked, hunched over, to the bathroom where I ran a hot bath.

  I poured a whole packet of Epsom Salts in the bath, as well as a little bubble bath, and then tentatively lowered myself in. It brought immediate relief, the hot water soothing away some of the aches in my screaming muscles.

  I didn’t know how I was going to get to the shop that day, but maybe there was no point. My time might be better served by trying to track down the murderer. Yes, that would be far more productive.

  I had no idea of the time because my phone was in the other room, but I wasn’t going to be any good to anyone unless I could walk upright. I lay in the bath until my fingers wrinkled, letting the water out at intervals and replacing it with hot water.

  When I climbed out of the bath, I realised I had a little more movement in my muscles. That was when I remembered the liniment in my bathroom drawer. I reached for it and took off the lid, and made the mistake of smelling it.

  “Whoa!” I exclaimed, as the smell of oil of wintergreen nearly knocked me on my back. Still, I slathered it all over me. It brought instant relief, so much so, that I was able to put on my bathrobe without too much trouble, and that was just as well, because as soon as I did, there was an insistent knocking on my front door.

  I staggered to the front door, pleased that I was on the road to recovery. I opened the door to see Carl standing there, two polystyrene cups of coffee in his hands and a green shopping bag over his arm.

  “Don’t just stand there, let me in,” he said. I stood aside, and he walked into the room.

  “You’re walking better than I am,” I said with surprise. “I was just coming out to see if you were still on the kitchen floor.”

  “I left earlier this morning,” Carl said. “I went home and then out to get supplies. Oh, you smell like I do. Did you cover yourself in liniment, too?”

  I tried to nod, but it hurt too much, so I said, “Yes.” I gingerly lowered myself to the sofa. Sitting didn’t really help, and I winced when a sharp pain went through my right shoulder.

  Carl handed me a cup of coffee, and then sat opposite me. “I have heat packs and cold packs in here. I don’t know if we can use both at the same time. And I have these really cool Chinese herbal patches. They’re adhesive, so we can just peel them off and stick them on ourselves. It’s really helping me, that’s why I’m walking better. I have some on my back.” He stood up, turned around, and pulled up his shirt.

  I gasped. Carl’s back was entirely covered with adhesive patches. “It really works,” he said. “I went to the Chinese herbalist and bought every one he had in stock.” He threw a large packet to me. “Here, stick some on. You’ll get instant relief, and if that doesn’t work, we can try the cold and hot packs, but they’re not self-adhesive.”

  My hand muscles were too sore for me to open the packet, so I grabbed a pen from the side table and stabbed it into the packet. That made a hole, and then I was easily able to undo it. I stuck one patch on the side of my neck. It smelt of oil of wintergreen too, or maybe I was just so covered in the stuff that I couldn’t smell anything else. “Well, Carl, you were right! It’s helping already.” I took a few sips of coffee, and then stuck some herbal patches on my calves. I could feel them working.

  “I ran into the mail lady when I was leaving the Chinese herbalist, and she told me that Stan Wellings’ funeral is on today.”

  “I wonder how she found out? No one told us.”

  “That woman knows everything that happens in town,” Carl said. “Anyway, we have to go.”

  “I know we have to go,” I said slowly, “but do you think we will be well enough by then?”

  Carl held up his box of Chinese herbal patches. “That’s why I have these. Now go and get ready, Narel. It’s already late.”

  I looked at my phone. “Crikey, is that the time? I haven’t put a Closed notice on my shop door yet.”

  “We can do that on the way to the funeral,” Carl said. “Just write, ‘Closed, at a funeral,’ and no one will be angry with you.”

  “I don’t think anyone will turn up in the first place,” I said. “I had pretty much decided not to open the shop today. I think my time would be more productively spent by finding out who killed Stan.” Carl was acting a little funny, shifting in his chair, and I didn’t think it was just from the pain of his muscles. “What is it, Carl?”

  Carl pulled a face. “You won’t like it, Narel.”

  “What is it?”

  “That awful Graham Gibson put another article about you in the newspaper today.”

  “Show it to me. I know you have it.”

  Carl pulled a newspaper from his bag and threw it across the room to me. I caught it with two hands and looked at it. There I was, my photo taking up a sizeable portion of the front page. I was wearing a shocked expression in the photo. It was the photo taken at the rugby game, and the headline read, Police Close in on Murder Suspect Narel Myers.

  “This upsets me, Carl,” I said.

  “I know, Narel,” he said sadly. “I know.”

  I waved one finger at him slowly, because it hurt less than shaking my head. “No, Carl. Don’t you see what this means? It means that the police don’t have a suspect.”

  “I see. You’re thinking that if Graham Gibson knew the police had a suspect, then he would have done an article about the suspect rather than you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe the police are keeping that from him.”

  “And maybe the police don’t have a clue, just as we don’t have a clue, either,” I said to Carl.

  “We’ve pretty much excluded The Purr-suader, and we’ve also put Craig Cooper and Peaches on the bottom of our list. We’re not doing too badly, and the funeral will probably turn up more information. Hurry up and get changed, and then we’ll have breakfast and go.”

  I picked up the bag of Chinese herbal patches and walked gingerly to my bedroom. I took off my bathrobe and put every available patch on me. I slapped them all over my back, and over my abs, on the side of my neck, on my triceps, my biceps, my deltoids, and on parts of which I didn’t even know the names. I then slathered copious amounts of liniment on any skin that wasn’t covered with a patch. I knew the patches on my neck were visible, but I really didn’t care.

  It hurt to put on my clothes. I had to sit on my bed and very carefully pull on my jeans. It seemed to take an age to get dressed. My knees had now kind of locked in position, and I felt like I was walking like a zombie or a robot.

  Carl was in the kitchen making more coffee, and Mongrel was happily eating his breakfast. “You’re such a good friend, Carl. I’d give you a hug, only it would hurt too much.”

  “You and me both,” Carl said. “Why are you walking like that?”

  “Perhaps I applied too many patches and too much liniment,” I said. “I’m starting to get quite strange cold feelings in my legs.”

  “You’ll walk it off,” Carl said with confidence. “Let’s have breakfast and then we’ll head off to the funeral.”

  “What do we hope to find out at the funeral?” I asked him.

  Carl held up his hands. “W
ho knows? But the police always go to the funeral of a murder victim on TV, so they must do that for a reason. They’re busy people—they don’t have time to go to funerals just to amuse themselves.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I ate a banana.

  “I’m impressed. You’ve eaten a banana before any chocolate.”

  “The banana is in front of me and the chocolates aren’t, and everything hurts,” I explained simply.

  By the time we reached the funeral, I was walking a little better, but I was still in considerable pain. I was now quite used to the oil of wintergreen smell, so I was a little concerned when people sniffed the air and made comments in low tones about strange smells to each other.

  I clutched Carl’s arm. “Ouch!” He said, followed by, “What’s wrong?”

  “People are looking at me funny and whispering. They must recognise me from those terrible newspaper articles.”

  “Maybe it’s just because you have all those herbal patches stuck over your neck,” Carl said. “Perhaps they think you’re trying to give up smoking. They do look a bit like nicotine patches, after all.”

  “Is this your way of trying to make me feel better, Carl?”

  He looked confused. We filed into the church, but to my dismay, Detective Clyde was standing right in front of us.

  “Miss Myers, Mr Camden, fancy seeing you two here.”

  “Stan Wellings was eating my chocolates when he died, if you remember,” I said, and then thought that was an incredibly silly thing to say.

  “I like your new aftershave, Carl,” Rieker said. I didn’t know whether or not Rieker was being sarcastic, but Carl seemed to take it as a compliment.

  He flashed Rieker a dazzling smile. “Thanks. It’s Oil of Wintergreen.”

  “And you seem to be wearing the same aftershave, Miss Myers,” Detective Clyde said snarkily.

  “Carl and I had a difficult session at the gym last night,” I said.

  “Oh by the way, Detective Rieker,” Carl said in a flirty tone, “I was at Peaches, the beauty therapist’s, yesterday, and she told me that Daphne Delamare was blackmailing Stan Wellings. She said Stan and Daphne weren’t really having an affair—but I think they probably were, who knows?—and she said that Daphne had uncovered evidence of Stan’s unsavoury business dealings and was blackmailing him over it. Peaches seem to think Daphne didn’t want money, but just wanted to stay on as his housekeeper, given that she had a crush on him.”

  “Thanks, Carl,” Rieker said, and would have said more, only Clyde cleared his throat loudly and glared at Rieker.

  I took Carl’s arm. “Come on, let’s sit in the back row so we can see everything.” After we had taken our seats, I turned to Carl. “Maybe we should have brought cushions. These hard wooden seats are really hurting my butt.”

  “Me too,” Carl said, “and that’s the only place I haven’t put some of those herbal patches.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be able to sit here for too long,” I said, “and people are looking at me.”

  “Oh, it’s just your imagination, Narel.”

  I wasn’t so sure. “I feel really silly for telling Clyde that we went to the gym. He probably knows we went there to get information about Jake.”

  Carl shook his head ever so slightly. “No, he would have warned you to stay away if that had been the case. I don’t think he’s made the connection.”

  “Hence my problem,” I said. “If only he would make the connection, and arrest somebody, and then my life could get back to normal. Oh gosh, Carl, it’s that horrible reporter, Graham Gibson.” I tried to slide down in my seat.

  “He’s gone to the front of the room,” Carl said. “Maybe he won’t see you.”

  “I can’t take the risk,” I said. “I’ve gotta go.”

  Carl clutched my arm. “You can’t go, Narel.”

  “I’ll just go to the bathroom and you can text me when he goes.”

  “But he’ll stay for the whole service,” Carl protested. “And we can’t speak to anyone until after the service.”

  “Do you really think he’ll stay after the service and chat to people?”

  Carl shook his head. “No, he probably won’t stay for the whole service. That would be too boring. You know, I bet he’s just going to take some photos of whoever gives the eulogy, anything sensationalist he can find. Whatever you do, Narel, don’t go near the coffin, because he’d like to take a photo of you there.”

  “You’re pretty sure he won’t stick around afterwards?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Carl, I’m going to the bathroom,” I said again, more firmly this time. “Text me as soon as he goes, and I’ll come back.”

  Carl pouted by way of response. The service was about to start, so I slid along to the end of the hard wooden pew and followed the signs to the bathroom. It was the only place where I would be safe from the reporter. He could hardly follow me in there. The bathroom was quite small and did not have anywhere to sit, so I didn’t quite know what to do. I could hardly stand against the wall, looking aimlessly around, or pretend to apply make up for too long. People would wonder what I was doing in there.

  I made up my mind. I would go into one of the toilet cubicles and read a book on my iPhone. At least that way, I wouldn’t get bored.

  It only took me a few minutes to get comfortable. It hurt my back to sit down, so I put one foot on the toilet seat and the other foot against the wall and leant back into a corner. It would have looked strange, had anyone happened to see me, but it felt quite good. I opened my phone app and selected a book I had only just started but was enjoying so far.

  I shifted position after I read a few chapters. I wondered why Carl hadn’t texted me. I got out of the phone app and checked my messages, but there was nothing from Carl. I texted him to ask if the reporter was still there, and he at once texted back that he was.

  “That pesky reporter,” I said aloud, and then caught my breath. No matter, I was alone—I hadn’t heard anyone else come in.

  I read five more chapters before Carl finally texted me back. Come back out here fast, the text read. Graham Gibson just left, and you’ll never guess who’s here!

  Chapter 16

  “Who?” I asked Carl as soon as I slid along the hard wooden pew next to him.

  He cast a surreptitious glance at the detectives, and then nodded to the front of the church. “Your worst nightmare.”

  I craned my neck, but all I could see was the back of people’s heads. “Who?” I repeated.

  “I couldn’t see him because that pesky reporter was sitting directly behind him, but when he left, I saw who it was.”

  “Who?” I said again, this time through clenched teeth.

  “Jake!”

  I shuddered at the thought of his name, causing hot fire to stab at my abs, rendering me speechless.

  “So he is connected with Stan in some way,” Carl continued triumphantly. “I knew he was the murderer!”

  I tapped Carl’s arm, but he winced and rubbed the spot. “Ouch,” he said plaintively.

  “Just because we don’t like the man, it doesn’t mean he’s the murderer,” I pointed out. “Who’s he sitting with?”

  “Not Minnie, that’s for sure.”

  I followed Carl’s gaze, and Minnie was sitting on the other side of the room. “It’s an older woman,” I said.

  Carl nodded. “Well, you’ve come at the very best part of this funeral.” I raised my eyebrows, and he continued, “The end.” His expression was heartfelt.

  The minister was making an announcement, but I only heard the words, cakes, and, coffee. Carl leant across to me. “Don’t get too excited—it’ll be instant coffee.”

  Undaunted, I slid from the seat and followed the others out of the church, and down a small pathway into a community hall. I gave the detectives a wide berth. “I wonder who’s paying for this funeral?” I asked Carl.

  “I don’t know, and that bothers me. There’s a l
ot we don’t know about Stan Wellings.”

  I had to agree. “What’s our plan of action?”

  “We need to find out who that woman with Jake is. Hang on a moment, do you think she’s Daphne, the housekeeper?”

  “I’ve only seen her from behind so far,” I pointed out. “The only previous time I saw her, she was dressed in an apron, and she was screaming. This woman looks quite elegant and well-dressed from the back. I won’t know until she turns around. She seems to be the right height, not that I was taking much notice of what Daphne looked like at the party, given that I didn’t know a murder was about to take place.”

  “True, true. Let’s skirt around here and get a look at her face.”

  Carl and I made our way to a long white trestle table covered with what looked like white sheets in lieu of tablecloths. I eyed the cakes suspiciously. “I’m starving, but I don’t think there’s anything here that I can eat.”

  “Or drink, for that matter,” Carl added. “Narel, quick, there’s the woman.”

  I took a good look at the woman’s face. “Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s Daphne. What do you think?”

  “I think so, too. Is she Jake’s mother?”

  I frowned. “Possibly. Or aunt? He’s sticking close to her.”

  Just then, Peaches approached a young couple, skirting dangerously close to Daphne as she did so. Jake took Daphne’s arm and moved her to one side. Daphne appeared to be resisting, so Jake escorted her out of the room.

  “You stay here and watch what’s going on,” I whispered to Carl. “I’m going to follow them.”

  Jack and Daphne didn’t go far—they both stopped just outside the community hall, right next to the wilted roses. “Mum, I’m here to support you, you know that,” Jake said.

  I smiled. So he was Daphne’s son, after all. I wondered if the two of them were in it together. Perhaps Daphne did manage to poison the chocolates, although I didn’t see how that was possible. And Jake had an alibi.

  Jake was still talking. “I don’t know why you’re crying over that two-timing fool. I told you he was no good for you.” Jake’s remarks were punctuated by muffled cries from Daphne. “You should be glad he’s dead!” Jake said in a raised voice. “You should save your sympathy for whoever killed him!”