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

by Carrie Marsh

  “Yes!” Mr. Rawlinson agreed excitedly. “And the farmers – they don't want to sell it in bulk, not when they can sell fancy artisan cheese to the tourists, they don't!”

  Laura chuckled. “It can be exhausting,” she added. “I sometimes get such headaches...”

  “Me too!” Mr. Rawlinson said, amazed. “I get these terrible ones...migraines. I saw the doctor about them, years ago...”

  “Really?” Laura couldn't believe it. It is working!

  “Yes. He gave me these pills for it. Makes it go away, but then you have to be on the pills, see? I don't like it. Dependence is something I hate, even if it's just on pink pills!” He chuckled mirthlessly.

  “You still use them?” Laura asked, feeling her hands wet with perspiration. She couldn't believe how much information she was finding!

  “Sometimes,” he agreed, “though now the headaches are going off a bit. I actually shared the last box – don't tell the doctor!” he winked at her.

  “Mum's the word,” Laura agreed, feeling like she couldn't breathe. “Who did you share them with?”

  “Peter Duvall,” the chef replied. “Poor chap,” he added carefully, looking down at his hands.

  Laura stared. Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Her heart almost stopped.

  “You did?” Laura said, hearing how strained her voice was but not able to help it.

  “Yes,” Mr. Rawlinson said slowly. “Not that he had ever complained of headaches before, mind. Probably silly of me, to share them, but he was always so miserable, and the thought of him having headaches too was just too awful.” He chuckled, though it was not a happy sound.

  “Miserable?” Laura asked, strained.

  “Mm.” Mr. Rawlinson agreed. “You met him. He was always a miserable fellow.”

  Laura stared. “I suppose,” she said neutrally.

  “Yes,” he sighed, then looked at the clock on the wall. It said ten past one. “I suppose,” he said, standing, “that I should do some work. Nice talking to you,” he added pleasantly.

  “Thank you,” Laura said, unsteadily. “It was nice to talk to you.”

  He walked off to the kitchen slowly, and Laura leaned back in her chair, her whole body suddenly relaxed like limp spaghetti.

  She finished her soup and paid the bill and then walked shakily back to the car.

  “He gave the pills to Mr. Duvall? He gave them to him!”

  She chuckled, even though part of her felt like crying, she was so relieved.

  That part of the mystery seemed solved. She had almost crossed one suspect off the list.

  “I can't see him giving someone pills and then killing them the next day,” Laura said to herself. She drove back through the village, the afternoon sun pouring down on the cottages and the surrounding fields. She felt like crying, singing, laughing – all at once. All she had to do was find out if anyone had found the empty pill pack in Mr. Duvall’s house. Then she would know, undeniably, if Mr. Rawlinson was telling the truth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CONFRONTATION

  It was raining, the drops falling steadily on Laura's umbrella. She stood on the stairs of the police department at Broadstairs and gritted her teeth determinedly. She rang the bell again.

  “Yes?” A short officer with a pleasant face looked up at her expectantly.

  “I would like to make an appointment to speak with Captain Browne, please,” she said resolutely.

  “Of course, Miss..?”

  “Miss Howcroft.”

  Laura crossed the threshold into the entrance hall, her high heels clicking over the mosaic floor. The walls were gray and unpainted, and the roof was high and vaulted. The whole place was imposing, and Laura swallowed.

  Don't let this man make you back down, she told herself

  “If you'll wait here, please, Miss?” The friendly officer waved her to a row of seats outside a high door. “I'll check and see if the captain can see you. What is your visit in connection with?”

  “The Duvall murder case, Millerfield village,” Laura said strongly.

  “Right,” he said giving her a smile, and walked over to the tall wooden door.

  A minute or two later, he came back. He was no longer smiling.

  “He can see you now,” he said nervously. Laura swallowed. She stood and followed him inside.

  The office was painted yellow, the floor carpeted. It was tiny, barely allowing room for the wide desk and the single plastic chair in front of it. The ceiling soared above them, and the room was cold, the walls dirty with spots of missing paint.

  The solid, dark-haired man behind the desk did not look up, even when the door closed.

  Laura stood before the desk, feeling her fear and her affront warring deep inside. Affront won.

  “Ahem,” she said loudly, clearing her throat.

  The man finished whatever he was doing on the screen and then turned to her, slowly.

  “Sit,” he said, inclining his head at the orange plastic chair, “if you like,” he added as an afterthought.

  Laura remained standing.

  “I have a question regarding the investigations of the murder, and some information to share,” she said stiffly.

  “I told you not to meddle,” the man said, giving Laura a level glance. “You can't help, but you might hinder me.”

  Laura felt blood flare in her cheeks.

  “I don't appreciate your tone,” she said levelly. “I am no hindrance, and I could be a help, if you would listen!”

  He looked up at her, and his eyes flared open briefly, an expression that either demonstrated anger or admiration – Laura could not tell which.

  “Well, then,” he said softly. “I'm listening.”

  “It's...” Laura licked her lips, feeling her energy suddenly drained from her, “Mr. Duvall was taking barbiturates. Are you aware of that?”

  “We saw the blood results,” he said casually. “How do you know?” he added, grudgingly.

  “I heard from a friend,” Laura said evenly. “And I think it would be important for your men to search for the empty blister pack from the pills.”

  “You do,” he said, steepling his fingers. “And why is that, Ms. Howcroft?”

  He emphasized her title, making it a mockery, and Laura felt her blood boil.

  “Because, Captain Browne, the location of the empty pill pack on the property suggests that he was using them himself, not being fed them by someone trying to disable and disorientate him. Besides,” she added lightly, “if you find the pack, you can fingerprint it, confirming that Mr. Duvall alone had used it.”

  She glared at him.

  He blinked. “Thank you, Ms. Howcroft,” he said lightly, and this time there was no mockery in the tone. “Now, I am a busy man. If you would not mind leaving?”

  Laura swallowed her rage. “I'm on my way out,” she said harshly, and walked herself to the door, letting it shut hard as she walked through.

  Her high-heels clicked over the mosaic as she walked back to the front door.

  “Miss?”

  “I'm finished here,” Laura said tightly to the officer who had admitted her.

  “You have your umbrella? You can borrow mine,” he said, and smiled at her. “And Miss?”

  “Yes?”

  “If we find the pack, I'll tell you.”

  Laura felt touched, and smiled at the man gently. “Thank you, officer..?”

  “Officer Hagan,” he smiled. “At your service, Miss.”

  “Thank you, Officer Hagan,” Laura smiled.

  “Don't mention it, Miss.”

  Laura waved and walked lightly out into the rain.

  That, she decided, was a job well done.

  She drove back to the hotel, feeling relieved. She was making progress.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  A BIG HELP

  “How are things, really?”

  Howard asked it, leaning back on Laura's sofa and looking at the ceiling. He looked younger since his tri
p to Canterbury, Laura thought, more relaxed.

  “Oh, you know,” she sighed, taking a sip of her drink and relaxing a little further into the rocking chair in which she sat facing her guest, “stressful.”

  “Mm,” he nodded. “I can empathize. At least the sickness seems to have quieted down in the village. The 'flu season over for one year.”

  “Good.” Laura agreed.

  “You look worried,” Howard observed. He leaned across from her, his hand resting on hers. The contact thrilled through Laura, and she left her hand in his.

  “I am,” she sighed. She did not want to burden him with her worries, but she had to tell him. “I shouldn't be,” she admitted, wanting to share the good news with him at once. “They found the pills, you know,”

  “The barbiturates?” He sat up, leaning forward across the coffee table, suddenly awake.

  “Yes,” Laura smiled. “They were in the bin at Mr. Duvall’s house.”

  “Oh,” Howard was interested. “Fingerprinted and all?”

  “Mm,” Laura agreed, feeling a certain satisfaction that she had found all this out herself. “Two sets: Mr. Rawlinson and Mr. Duvall. Only Mr. Duvall himself had taken pills out of the pack, however.”

  “Oh,” Howard blinked, impressed. “That's brilliant work. Well done!”

  Laura blushed, feeling a warmth settle on her heart at his praise. It dispelled the current uneasiness that filled her.

  “You still look worried, though,” Howard said after a moment.

  “I am,” Laura admitted.

  “About what?”

  “There's...” she paused. “How well do you know the village?”

  “Oh,” Howard shrugged. “Been here five years. That means they finally trust me, a bit.”

  “I can imagine,” Laura rolled her eyes and they both laughed easily. The restrictive, suspicious nature of the villager mindset was something they both knew well and had endured in their own ways for the first few months following their respective arrivals.

  “I know it reasonably well, though,” Howard explained. “I know almost all the villagers – those who went to the old doctor who recommended me, that is, and a few more lately.”

  “You have made a house-call to the cottages near the North road? The one going up to the Hogarth farm?”

  “I think so,” Howard said, furrowing his brow as he thought back. “Reggie and Marge live there, and I was there when Reggie nearly cut his hand off in the garage...”

  Laura smiled, shaking her head. “...and I think that I have a stressful life!”

  Howard chuckled. “I must admit blood and gore all over the workplace is something – quite nerve-racking, I can say.”

  They laughed.

  “Besides that time, though, I can't say I've been past there much,” he said carefully. “Why?”

  “I was there this week,” Laura explained hesitantly. “And I saw an old lady. She lives in an abandoned cottage, Howard, in the most horrible circumstances. And she's ill. She is so badly neglected. We have to help her.”

  Howard sat forward in the chair, alert. “Where is this cottage?”

  “It's where Cherry Street joins North road. The last cottage in the area.”

  “Oh,” Howard said, steepling his fingers. “I think I can fit in a visit tomorrow. Or the day after. Would that be okay?”

  “Oh, Howard,” Laura sighed. She smiled at him, feeling relief flood through her. “You are such a kind person, you know that?”

  “No,” Howard said, reaching for her hand. “I'm not. You are. You saw her. You were concerned and asked me to help. Without your help, no one would have even known.”

  Laura swallowed. His eyes were really dark, and the way his mouth lifted at the corner when he smiled made her heart melt.

  His hand moved over hers, and she twisted hers around so that they held hands. They sat like that for a while, just looking at each other, her ankles wrapped around his and his hand in hers.

  “Laura...” Howard cleared his throat.

  “Yes?”

  Howard stood uneasily and walked across to her. He bent down before her chair and, very carefully, he kissed her.

  His mouth tasted like quiche and wine and some elusive taste that was all his own. Laura leaned against him, feeling his strong chest against hers, his arms around her. She sighed against his lips and wriggled closer, putting her arms around him.

  When they broke the kiss, both of them sighed.

  “I should go,” Howard said, looking sad.

  “It is late,” Laura agreed. It was one o' clock in the morning, and they both had early starts.

  Howard looked at her and did not move. Laura looked back.

  “I should go,” he said again, running a hand through his chestnut hair. “It's late.”

  “Mm,” Laura agreed.

  They both stood, and walked to the door together. He put on his coat and boots and Laura waited in the hall, watching him. She unlocked the door and let him out, and they kissed on the step again, under the velvet sky.

  “See you tomorrow?” Howard said gently. “It was a great supper. That meal is a winner.”

  Laura blushed redly. “Thanks, dear.”

  “No,” he said gently, “thank you.”

  He squeezed her hand and Laura squeezed back, and then he was walking down the path to the car. He waved from the gate and she waved back, and then she went inside and collapsed on the sofa, grinning at the ceiling.

  “I'm so happy,” she said to the room at large. “If I could solve this case, I would float away.”

  Her mind was made up. She would confront Mr. Priestly tomorrow. It was time to end this mystery.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  UNDER THREAT

  “Laura?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Poole?”

  Laura, summoned to the kitchen to address a minor crisis, found herself having to raise her voice to shout across the din. The kitchen was full – waitresses ran back and forth, Mrs. Poole and her assistants swarmed around the stove, and the air was thick with steam.

  “I'm having trouble here. It's my hands, lass. They're aching badly.” Mrs. Poole shouted back.

  “Your hands?” Laura shouted.

  “Yes!” Mrs. Poole shouted back. “Arthritis. I can't get all my work done in here.”

  Laura's face fell. Poor woman, she thought. She was plagued with arthritis, and sometimes it made her work all but impossible, particularly if something intricate was needed. They really needed Mrs. Poole right now, though, with all the extra customers! She'd have to think of something.

  “Okay,” Laura shouted back. “Can Becky take over for you?”

  “Yes!” Mrs. Poole called to Laura. “At least until I've been to the chemist to get my medicine.”

  “Can I go for you?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Can. I. Go. For. You?” Laura shouted back in staccato.

  Mrs. Poole beamed. “Thank you, lass! You're an angel.”

  Laura smiled and nodded, then raced back up the stairs. The hotel was full – people traveling in from the surrounding towns and villages for the baking contest. She only had five minutes before the lunch service started.

  “Why did Mr. Merrick decide to have the contest here?” Laura muttered to herself, as she ran to her car and turned the key in the ignition. “He could have done much better having all this in a bigger town.”

  She put the question out of her mind, drove to the pharmacy in town, and raced in. Fortunately, it was almost empty, and Laura had no trouble.

  As she leaped out of her car at the hotel and ran inside, on time, she was met by Janet.

  “Laura...”

  Laura frowned. “What's the matter?”

  “It's Mr. Halston...someone has blocked his truck in, and he's making a real stir about it...”

  “Oh,” Laura sighed. She had thought it was something worse. She put a hand on her heart, breathing out. As if the thought of confronting a man she was almost certain was a
murderer – the unpleasant Mr. Priestly – wasn't bad enough, her day was turning out to be demanding too.

  “I'll go and sort it out, Jan – if you'll go and check on lunch? And take Mrs. Poole her medicine,” she added, bravely passing the paper bag across.

  “Sure,” Janet affirmed, relieved. “Thanks, Laura. You're better with this sort of thing than I am.”

  I'm not sure about that, Laura thought to herself.

  “It's ridiculous!” a red-faced Mr. Halston was saying in the parking lot, standing behind a delivery van parked in by a rather stylish BMW.

  “We'll get it out in no time, Mr. Halston,” Laura soothed. “I'll just take down the number of the car and intercom the guests. Whoever it belongs to will come and move it.”

  “I need to get that van to Albert Rawlinson. He has to have a look at the produce, talk to the driver...”

  “Oh?” Laura said, eyebrows raised. “Mr. Rawlinson has bought a franchise?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Halston snapped. “How do you know about that?”

  “Nothing,” Laura blinked. “There's no need to be rude,” she added quietly.

  “Sorry,” the man said, and wiped his brow with a kerchief. “It's just the worry about missing the appointment.”

  “That's fine, Mr. Halston,” Laura said icily. “Now, let's get this announcement up.”

  Ten minutes later, the BMW moved and the van driven away, Laura collapsed behind her desk with a sigh.

  I have lunch to organize, and I need to get down to Mr. Priestly's. Now we have another clue, with this franchise business. She sighed. When am I supposed to meet Howard?

  “Good afternoon.”

  “Yes?” Laura asked, plastering a smile on her worried features.

  “My table? I reserved it yesterday. Mr. and Mrs. Patterson.”

  “Oh!” Laura stood. “Over here by the window, Mr. Patterson. Follow me.”

  Laura was run off her feet during lunch and, as she and Bethany cleared away the dishes, she was already plotting her course towards Drayton and her confrontation with the awful Mr. Priestly.

  She drove out to Drayton, hands shaking on the wheel. When she got there, she held onto the railing outside the bakery to steady herself and, taking a deep breath, she walked in.