Cooking With The Dead (A Millerfield Village Cozy Murder Mysteries Series 2)

by Carrie Marsh

  “Fine,” the man agreed amiably. “Come in, then. I'll come through when I'm finished here.”

  He waved her through beyond the desk to a small room in the back, clearly a staff room. The kitchen was noisy behind her and Laura breathed out hard, gathering her thoughts.

  “Be brave, Ms. Howcroft,” she told herself sternly. “Be brave.”

  She felt silly about it, but she could not help the fact that she was scared. She sat for five frightening minutes, waiting and wanting to leap up and run away. She did not trust this man. She was still fairly sure he was the culprit. Why else would he have lied about being out of town?

  Just as she was about to stand and leave, she heard a voice in the doorway.

  “Mith?”

  Laura jumped as Mr. Priestly appeared behind her. “Yes?”

  “I have thome time to talk now. If you're ready?”

  “Mm,” Laura said nervously, and reached for clipboard and pen.

  “Leth get going, then,” he said easily, and lowered himself into the chair. “Unleth you'd like a pastry firth? Ath a thample?”

  “N...no,” Laura said nervously. “Thanks,” she added belatedly. Don't be silly, Laura, she told herself crossly. He wouldn't poison you! She wasn't sure. She didn't want to take risks. Somehow she didn't want to eat anything in his bakery.

  “Should we begin?”

  Laura suddenly realized that Mr. Priestly was looking at her expectantly and she boldly cleared her throat.

  “You own the only bakery in the district, correct?” she started.

  “It wath only like that thince a week,” the man confided. “There wath one in Millerfield, if you know the area?”

  “I do, a little.” Laura said mildly. “I'll be going there next.” There was one, indeed! Laura thought angrily. Until you killed the baker, there was...

  She composed herself, trying to keep her face neutral.

  “Well,” he said, “As I said, there wath one there in Millerfield. But now there ithn't. Ith juth me.”

  “Yes...” Laura said, writing in her book. Is he pleased about that? The thought made her skin crawl. She scrutinized his face for some emotion. He looked back morosely, and she felt uncertain. He didn't seem happy, or nervous, or anything, really.

  “You knew Mr. Duvall, the baker of Millerfield?” she asked.

  “I did,” the man replied guardedly. He looked at the door and at his watch, as if seeking escape.

  “You must have heard the news, then?” Laura persisted.

  “Yeth. I couldn't help but hear of it. The thirens in the night...all the thirens...”

  Laura nearly felt her heart stop. She drew in a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “The sirens?” she asked, hearing her voice waver and fighting to be unafraid. “I am surprised you heard them. Weren't you in Canterbury at the time?”

  The man stared at her. “Canterbury? Yeth, I wash in Canterbury...Muth have thomething elthe I heard.” He wiped his forehead, and tried to stand up. “I should go. Cuthomerth to attend to, thingth to cook...”

  “Mr. Priestly.” Laura said, and stood opposite him. “You were in Drayton at the time of the murder, weren't you? Not in Canterbury at all.” She snapped out the words, feeling her cheeks hot with anger.

  The man went red, and Laura saw his fist clench. She backed away, feeling suddenly small and very threatened.

  “Yeth,” he sighed. “I wath in Drayton.”

  Laura swallowed, feeling like she was about to be sick. If he was around at the time of the murder, then it could have been him. And why had he lied about his whereabouts, telling his whole staff he was away?”

  “I need to leave, too,” Laura said hesitantly. “I am not sure what to do with this information, seeing you told your entire staff you were elsewhere.” She reached for the chair, hoping not to fall. “Thank you for the interview,” she added, suddenly recalling her pretense. “It was a pleasure.”

  He stared at her, hard. “Not sure I can agree with you,” he said coolly. “Good afternoon.”

  He turned in the door and walked away, leaving Laura, holding the chair, to find her way out.

  She collected her notebook and pen, trying to stop shaking, and fled.

  She drove back to the hotel as fast as she could.

  “This is too big for me to handle alone,” she said under her breath. “It's time I went to the police.”

  She still had a day at work to complete, but the next day she would have a talk with Captain Browne. It was time, she decided, that he took her seriously.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  OFFICER OF THE LAW

  Laura drove to the hotel in time for dinner service, and, as soon as it ended, she walked stiffly to her car. She pulled out her phone and dialed the police department in Broadstairs, the closest larger town. That was where Captain Browne worked, who was handling the investigation of the case.

  “Could I please speak to Captain Browne? It's in connection with the murder of Mr. Duvall.”

  “Captain Browne has gone home. If you'd care to leave a message?”

  “Gone home?” Laura exploded, and then looked at her watch. It was nine-thirty, and pitch dark already. “Okay,” she said tightly. “I would like to leave a message. Tell him Miss Laura Howcroft called, and would like to speak with him urgently tomorrow morning in connection with the Duvall murder in Millerfield. Thank you.”

  “Duvall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, thanks love. Have a good evening.”

  “Thank you,” Laura said, feeling shaken, and hung up.

  She breathed out slowly.

  It was quite possible she had uncovered a murderer. That murderer now knew that she had seen through his excuse. That didn't feel safe.

  “I'll just have to live with it,” Laura sighed. “And lock my door. He doesn't know where I live, after all.”

  It was a shadowy comfort. Millerfield village was tiny – if it had three hundred inhabitants, Laura would be amazed. It would take him all of five minutes to find her cottage, should he wish to find her.

  “I'll speak to the police in the morning,” Laura assured herself, and walked bravely through her front door.

  Monty greeted her, full of tales of his adventures. Laura fed him and took out vegetarian lasagna for herself, recalling she had meant to visit a cottage Monty had discussed with her.

  Laura slept restlessly that evening, and the next morning woke to a chilly breeze buffeting the curtains in her study. It was cloudy outside, a light drizzle tapping on the thatch.

  “Not a good day for work,” Laura sighed, choosing a warm navy sweater. “A great day for curling up with a book or two...”

  As she was finishing her tea, the phone rang.

  “Miss Howcroft?” The authoritarian voice made Laura feel instantly off balance.

  “Yes?”

  “Captain Browne. Broadstairs central police department. You called yesterday? In connection with the Duvall case?”

  “Yes,” Laura said nervously. “I did. I have some useful information regarding the whereabouts of a suspect.”

  “Suspect?” He snorted.

  “Yes...” Laura bridled. Why was he being so dismissive?

  “And,” he asked, with the tone of one being indulgent, “what is this information?”

  “It's...” Laura swallowed. “Albion Priestly. The owner of Beaverton's bakery. He was here at the time of the murder. Not in Canterbury like he said.”

  “Albion Priestly?” The man asked, sounding interested. “Why do you suspect him?”

  “Well,” Laura began, “he's a baker.”

  “What?” The man laughed. “You suspect him because he's a baker? I'm sorry, but there are at least fifty bakers in the Broadstairs area – probably more like a hundred. You seriously suspect all of them?”

  “Well...” Laura felt suddenly uncertain. “It was a pastry cloth,” she said defensively. “The murder weapon, I mean. Who else would know what that was?
”

  “I seem to remember we addressed this before. Whoever the murderer was probably grabbed the first piece of cloth they saw,” the man said idly. “Why would they have chosen it on purpose?”

  “I don't know,” Laura admitted. “It just seemed too much of a coincidence. I mean, a pastry chef, and a pastry cloth? It connected it with his profession. Like you said,” she added defensively.

  “I did?” He sounded surprised. “Well, I should have reserved my judgment. As should you,” he added, coolly.

  “Why shouldn't it be him?” Laura asked angrily.

  “Why should it?” the man countered. “Do we have a motive? Do we have opportunity? Do we, for that matter, even know they knew each other?”

  “No...” Laura said in a small voice.

  “Fine. Well then, I suggest you return to whatever is your day job and leave the police to do theirs. Thank you for the information,” he added gruffly. “If we have need of it, we will contact you.”

  Laura felt stunned. He couldn't have been ruder if he had actually slapped her.

  “Good day, Miss Howcroft.”

  “Good day,” Laura replied.

  It was only after she had hung up that she remembered that Mr. Priestly had actually been seen at Mr. Duvall’s house, shortly before the murder.

  “They do know each other,” she exclaimed, angrily. “How could I let that man scare me so much that I forgot such a basic fact?”

  She felt like crying for a moment, and then she felt an icy resolve fill her.

  He didn't believe her, scorned her findings? Fine. She would not bother to inform them of her investigations in future.

  She was going independent.

  She would do it herself.

  Monty came in to find her, sitting at her feet and asking to be picked up.

  “Oh, Monty,” Laura sighed, lifting him onto her knee. “I can't sit here all day. I'll be late for work.”

  You can sit here for five minutes, Monty said quietly. I don't like seeing you unhappy. And snuggling makes you feel better too. He purred.

  Laura felt a tear run down her cheek. “Oh, Monty,” she sighed. “What would I do without you?”

  I don't know, he said, and she could hear his teasing grin. But it wouldn't be as much fun. For either of us.

  Laura sat with him and then washed her face, putting on her makeup. She was Laura Howcroft. Rouge investigator. She would solve this case.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  FRIGHTENING DISCOVERIES

  Work went past quickly the next day, with no new clues emerging. Laura returned home exhausted and went straight to bed.

  At midnight, Laura sat straight up in bed. She had been having a terrible nightmare. She was being pursued by Albion Priestly, and she couldn't hide herself anywhere. His face from the previous day would not leave her thoughts – scowling and threatening. It wove into the rest of her dreams, frightening her.

  Now, she ran a hand down her face, noticing she was soaking wet with perspiration. Her head hurt and she felt achy all over.

  “Monty...” she said faintly.

  Yes? Monty said. He walked up the bed and sat beside her, peering anxiously into her face.

  “I don't think I can face work today.”

  You don't have to, Monty said carefully. It's Tuesday. Your half day. Remember? At least you can come back early.

  “Thank you, Monty,” Laura sighed, and reached out to stroke the silky head. He bumped his head up against her hand lovingly, and purred. Laura thought her heart might melt.

  “Breakfast?” she suggested. Monty kneaded her shoulder as she lifted him up in her arms.

  Laura slid out of bed and wrapped herself in her nightgown, feeling braver. With Monty by her side, and Howard – who had been unusually busy lately – she could overcome anything.

  She slid her feet into her house shoes and padded through to the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove. The birds were singing cheerfully outside the window, and she felt the nightmares recede.

  As she ladled food into Monty's bowl – leftover casserole – she remembered something.

  “Monty?”

  Yes? Monty was sitting at her feet expectantly, looking at her hands as he waited for breakfast.

  “I forgot about that house I was supposed to visit. Where was it again?”

  On the way to Noelle's house, Monty explained. He wrapped himself around her calves and she put the bowl down in front of him.

  Laura put eggs on the stove to fry, and watched Monty. He crunched noisily on the gristle, making Laura smile as she sat back and drank her morning tea. The scent of frying eggs wove through the kitchen and she breathed in the steam and oil, the cat, dust, and flowers – the scents of home.

  “I will definitely get myself down there this afternoon.”

  Work was over quickly, and Laura drove herself to the end of the village, feeling shaken, but resolved. At least this exploration would serve to calm her nerves.

  She reached the houses later than she had planned, with the sun just starting to set. The roofs were outlined against the sunset, and the place was cool and peaceful. Laura breathed in the scents of dew, feeling restored for the first time in over a week.

  She climbed out of the car and walked over, narrowing her eyes in the blue shadowed street. The first three cottages in the row were tidy and organized. The abandoned one must be the last one, which leaned out somewhat from the rest, turned to face the setting sun.

  Laura walked closer, feeling a shiver creep up her spine.

  “Stop it, Laura,” she said under her breath. “You're being silly.”

  The cottage was tall, the shutters hanging drunkenly over the front windows. The garden was rank, the lawn grown long. The gate hung at an angle, the paint peeling.

  Laura rested her hands on it, feeling the uneven grain and the sharp dig of the peeling paintwork against her hand.

  “Here goes,” she said quietly, and leaned on the gate. It swung in, creaking, and she held her breath, waiting for something – she was not sure what – to happen.

  She let her breath out. She stepped over the threshold into the garden.

  The lawn was dyed orange by the last rays of sunshine and there was a path leading round the back of the building. Laura decided impulsively to go round the back to check, curiosity overreaching her caution.

  “Not much to see here,” she said to herself, hearing her own voice waver in the gloom around the back of the cottage. She walked forward to the back windows, one of which was barred. She stepped across the neglected garden under the window, hearing something rustling in the roof and surmising it was Monty's vaunted rats.

  Laura leaned forward, some strange curiosity compelling her to look in through the window.

  She did so, wiping her hand across the pane of glass. As she did, she heard a sound.

  A light came on in the cottage.

  A face looked out at her.

  Laura drew breath to scream, but she found she was silent. She was beyond shock, beyond running away, escaping this neglected place.

  She looked into the face.

  The face looked back at her.

  It was an old lady's face, fine-boned and strangely elegant, wrinkled but still beautiful in the half-light falling on it.

  “Hello,” the face said.

  Laura opened her mouth to scream again, and then her mind caught up with what she had heard. She shut her mouth.

  “Hello,” she said, as politely as she could. “I am so sorry...” Laura whispered. “I didn't know anyone lived here anymore. I didn't mean to invade this garden...”

  The old woman smiled, and reached a hand through the window. When Laura looked closely, she thought she recognised her. Was it the old woman with the letter?

  “Not at all,” she said in a fragile but gentle voice. “I'm afraid my house isn't fit for visiting...”

  Laura almost nodded, but remembered her manners. “I...it is a little neglected,” she said, and, seeing the older fa
ce fall sadly, she added, “but not too bad for visitors, I'd say.”

  The face brightened somewhat. “You'll have to come inside to see that,” the woman observed carefully. It was a subtle invitation, given so that Laura could easily refuse, and Laura was touched. She breathed in sharply.

  “I'd like to.” She said carefully. She breathed in hard.

  “Come round to the front door,” the old woman cautioned. “This one hasn't worked for years.”

  Laura nodded, and crossed back to the front garden, where she heard a stiff creak. The front door was open, and orange-gold light flooded out onto the now-darkened garden.

  “I should say welcome,” the woman smiled. This close, and in the light, Laura noticed that she was not as old as her white hair had first suggested. She was not so wrinkled, and might be no more than sixty years of age.

  “Thank you,” Laura said carefully. “I am pleased to be welcomed.”

  The woman chuckled. “Come inside, then,” she stood aside and waved Laura through the door with a welcoming gesture.

  Laura stepped in, worried. She looked around her, becoming more worried each minute by the state of neglect. The upper rooms were clearly uninhabited and probably uninhabitable – the scurrying suggested the rats had taken residence there. The stairwell hung drunkenly, the top stairs almost completely worn through. The house was dusty, the curtains caked with it. One light bulb did duty for the whole room's lighting.

  With the benefit of the lighting, noting the woman's clothing of a pleated skirt and a short knitted cardigan, Laura knew she recognized her. It was the old lady who had delivered the envelope to the hotel. The envelope for one of their guests. She immediately resolved to look for it when she was back at work. She looked around the room, following the old lady further into the house.

  “How could anyone leave someone like this?” Laura murmured as she followed the lady to the kitchen. The kitchen was a mess – tiles missing, the sink dripping and the stove plates, all but one, burned out.

  “I would offer you tea, but the kettle has a hole in it,” the old woman said apologetically.