by Mona Marple
“Dorie, let’s leave it until we know for sure what’s happening.” Sandy urged. While Books and Bakes had been very busy for a while, she had had her fair share of quiet days and cash flow problems. She didn’t want to gossip about another business.
“We know what’s happening!” Dorie exclaimed. “Dick Jacobs is back and he’s starting a war against Waterfell Tweed!”
“A war? Come on, Dorie, we don’t need to be so dramatic.” Sandy said.
“You’ll be dramatic when it happens to you,” Cass said. She had taken a seat next to Olivia, her teenage sister, who looked bored by the whole conversation.
“Olivia, Derrick’s upstairs,” Sandy said. “If you were wanting to see him.”
Olivia broke into a smile and stood up from the table, revealing her bare legs below a denim skirt. She raced up the stairs at the back of the cafe to see her boyfriend.
“Someone’s in their hot blood,” Dorie said with a disapproving last glance as Olivia disappeared to the upper floor.
“I wore worse at her age and I bet you did too,” Cass said with a laugh.
“Anyway, back to the real news,” Dorie said. “Dick Jacobs won’t stop at the chip shop. Sandy, you need to pay attention to me for once.”
Sandy let out a small laugh. “Dorie, I always pay attention to you.”
“Did you finish checking the files?” Bernice asked, appearing at the counter to make herself a cup of coffee.
“All done.” Sandy confirmed. “And all in order, as I said they would be.”
“Good.” Bernice said, picking up the fine china cup that she always drank out of and taking a sip. “We need to be on alert.”
Sandy shook her head and retreated upstairs to the books. She coughed to announce her arrival, remembering that Olivia was up there to see Derrick. To her surprise, Derrick was at the upstairs counter and Olivia had curled up in a cosy armchair to read a book.
“Are you guys okay?” Sandy asked, looking from one to the other.
“Fine.” Olivia said, in that tone of voice reserved for when things are definitely not fine.
Sandy glanced at Derrick, who rolled her eyes. “I told her she shouldn’t be out in a skirt like that today.”
“Oh… a domestic. I’ll leave you to it.” Sandy said.
“I don’t want a controlling man,” Olivia said, and the ridiculousness of those words being spoken by a 15-year-old made Sandy stifle a laugh.
“I’m not controlling you,” Derrick said. “It’s too cold, that’s all I meant and you know it.”
“Why don’t you take your break now?” Sandy offered. “I’ll take over here.”
“Yeah, go on then. Thanks, lady.” Derrick said, using the palm of his hand on the counter top to help him get to a standing position. “Come on, Livvy, let’s get some lunch.”
Olivia stood and came to his aid as soon as she saw him struggling. He would make a full recovery from the hit and run, but time was proving to be a slow healer.
“See you later, lovebirds!” Sandy called after them as they made slow progress across to the lift.
Finally, she was alone to enjoy the peace. She busied herself by choosing one of the boxes from the storage room behind the counter and giving all of the stock it contained a wipe with a dry cloth. She had bought the box of second-hand books from a house clearance the weekend before and had been itching to inspect the books within.
Since expanding to take over the first floor as well as the ground floor, she had extended her range of books, meaning that word spread locally and afar, attracting new customers. While the cafe remained a favourite choice with the locals, the bookshop was often full of faces that Sandy didn’t recognise.
“Excuse me, dear?” An unsteady voice called from the counter. Sandy emerged from the storage room and placed the book she had been wiping on the counter. An elderly man, his slight weight supported by a walking stick, stood before her, three books in his arms. “Do you buy?”
These requests were increasing. At least three times a day, someone would come into the shop and ask her to buy books they were getting rid of. Most of them came with dog-eared copies of popular fiction, the kind of things that every charity shop had ten copies of, and Sandy would refuse the offer. Occasionally, a person would bring in a collection of more rare and valuable items, and Sandy would be open to discussing a price, although people often imagined everything to be worth a lot more than it actually was.
“No, not usually.” She said, but felt a pang of sympathy for the man who had struggled out with his walking stick to offer her his minimal collection. “What are they?”
“Watercolour books.” The man said, holding them out for her to see. Sandy gave each title a cursory glance; they all looked in perfect condition. “I meant to start doing it, you know, after Elsie… after… when I was widowed. Never even opened them. I don’t want any money, lass, just want them to find a good home.”
Sandy took the books from him. “Well, that’s a very kind offer. I think I know someone who’d enjoy them, actually. I’ll take them, if you’ll stay and have lunch on the house.”
The man flashed her a smile that reached his watery blue eyes, and nodded his head.
“Come on, I’ll help you find a table.” Sandy said, leading the man towards the lift at his own pace.
When they reached the metal doors and Sandy pressed the button to call the lift back up, the man let out a small noise. “You’ve got a lift. I’ll be blown.”
Sandy turned to him in surprise. “Did you walk up the stairs before?”
“Look at the state I’m in. If I never walked, I’d never be able to walk.” He said with a smile.
She stood with the man in the lift and when the doors opened, gestured for him to walk out first. He hobbled across to the seating area.
“Ah, Dorie, just the woman,” Sandy called, not surprised to see that Dorie was still in the same seat, drinking a fresh mug of tea. “Can this gentleman take a seat with you?”
Dorie looked up at the man and, to her credit, was out of her seat in a flash to pull one of the other chairs away from the table so he could sit down. “Of course you can, come and have a seat. Dorie Slaughter, pleased to meet you. You’ve no doubt heard about Jim Slaughter, head of the local constabulary, and yes I am his mum but I really can’t talk about his work. Very important, hush-hush, you know.”
Sandy made eye contact with Coral, who was standing at the counter serving. The two grinned at each other and rolled their eyes.
“You’re about as a subtle as a bull in a china shop.” Cherry Gentry muttered. She had almost finished the paperback on her table and, unlike Dorie, hadn’t ordered a fresh drink.
The elderly man allowed himself a smile at the commotion as he lowered his frame into the seat. He held out his hand towards Dorie, who offered her own hand in return. Instead of a handshake, he bent his head forward and planted a kiss on her hand, causing Dorie to flush a crimson shade.
“What a pleasure.” He said. “Felix Bartholomew, at your service.”
“Oh a true gentleman, you can’t be from around these parts!” Dorie exclaimed, fanning herself with her hand.
“I’ll leave you in Dorie’s fine company,” Sandy said, placing a hand on Felix’s shoulder. “I’ll send Coral over in a few minutes to take your order.”
Sandy walked away from the table, weaving in between rows of other tables, all bustling with the lunch-time rush. Coral was busy attempting to work the coffee machine, something she tried and failed at most days.
As much as Sandy dreamed of filling her days in the bookshop upstairs, she was still very much needed in the cafe.
**
Sandy was the last to leave Books and Bakes that night.
The busy day created a mound of dirty dishes that Derrick would have got through in no time, but only being able to scrub a few at a time in between customers made for a long and dirty job at the end of the day.
She had sent Bernice and Coral home when there
was nothing but the dishes left to do - with only one sink, it was a job for one person and there was no point having everyone hang around later than needed. But when she finished the dishes, she saw the red and white bunting still waiting to be hung and decided to get that done too.
It was a few days before Valentine’s Day, and Sandy had bought the bunting to hang in the window. She stood on one of the chairs to secure the pretty decoration so it hung in a low arc across the window.
As she did a last inspection of the tables and grabbed her coat and scarf, she could hear the strong winds outside. A storm was predicted that evening; a real storm with a name - Storm Selina. It was expected to batter its way across the country and Waterfell Tweed, in its elevated position, would no doubt feel the force of the winds.
Sandy took a deep breath and opened the door. The winds hit her as soon as she was outside, making her scarf slap her across the face as she attempted to lock up. She let out a cry, more surprise than pain, and checked the door handle, then turned to walk across the street where she had left her car.
The village square was deserted, everyone else wise enough to be indoors and warm.
As she walked, she noticed a dark shape on the pavement ahead, and pulled her phone from her handbag, using the torch feature to throw more light on the shape. At first, she thought it was a pile of black bin liners discarded by someone, but as she approached, she realised it was nothing so trivial and she stiffened.
She switched the light off her phone and dialled 999.
“Hello? I need to report a crime - a man has been killed.” She said, her voice almost drowned out by the howling winds. As she spoke, she turned her back on the shape on the pavement. The dark pool spooling out from his head told her that Dick Jacobs had shut down his last business.
3
“Can you manage without me tomorrow?” Sandy asked as soon as Coral opened her front door.
Her sister looked at her and stifled a yawn. “Nice to see you too. Are you coming in?”
She propped the door open, and Sandy dove inside out of the wind. Coral gazed at her more closely then and must have noticed how her whole body was shivering with more than just cold.
“What is it? What’s happened?” She asked.
“Dick Jacobs has been killed.” Sandy said, collapsing onto one of the high stools in Coral’s kitchen.
“No way? Wow… I didn’t see that coming.” Coral said as she filled the kettle with fresh water. “How do you know?”
Sandy felt a lump catch in her throat and cried as she admitted, “I found him.”
The big mug reserved for Sandy’s visits fell straight out of Coral’s hand and hit the floor, smashing into pieces across the tiles.
“Damn.” Coral cursed under her breath, then grabbed a small dustpan and brush and swept the pieces into the metal bin, where they clattered as she dropped them in. “Let me try that again.”
She fetched another, smaller, cup out of the cupboard and poured Sandy a hot, frothy mocha. She always had a few sachets in for her sister’s visits. Coral placed the steaming hot drink in front of Sandy, who smiled her thanks.
“So why do you need us to manage without you tomorrow?” Coral asked, setting a black coffee in front of her own stool and sitting down beside Sandy.
“I want to speak to Isabelle.” Sandy said, with a shrug. “See what she knows.”
“You mean you want to investigate?” Coral asked with a groan. “Can’t you just leave it to the police, Sand? I don’t want you getting involved in this.”
“I’m already involved,” Sandy said, wiping her eyes. “As awful as everyone says Dick Jacobs was, I’m sure he didn’t deserve to be killed. And I think I’m good at this stuff, I think I can work it out.”
“That man must have more enemies than I’ve had hot dinners!” Coral said.
“That’s why I need to speak to people, and I need you to keep your ear out in the cafe tomorrow. See what people are saying.”
Coral sighed. “Okay.”
“Thanks, sis.”
“Want to sleep here tonight?” Coral offered.
Sandy nodded. “Yes, please.”
“I’ll go and make up the spare bed.” She said, and gave Sandy’s shoulder a squeeze. Then she stood up and padded through the kitchen and into the hallway before Sandy heard her soft footsteps climb the stairs.
Sandy sat for a while, nursing the hot cup in her hands, aware of every noise that Coral’s house made. Her water pipes gurgled and her heating system hummed as if the house was determined to remind them that it was old despite Coral’s modern transformation of its interior.
After a while she pulled out a notebook and pen from her handbag and wrote in the middle of a page: 'Dick Jacobs’.
Next to his name she scrawled ‘Isabelle Irons’ and then, out of ideas and feeling nervous of being alone, left her drink and joined her sister upstairs.
**
When Sandy awoke the next morning, she had a brief few moments of forgetting what had happened the day before, and then she felt the heaviness in her stomach - dread - and remembered what she had seen.
She glanced across at the small clock that sat on the bedside table and groaned. It was after 10am.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept so late and yet she still felt tired right through to her bones.
After a quick shower, Sandy searched Coral’s kitchen cupboards for something easy for breakfast. She checked behind packets of spelt and barley, squeezed an avocado harder than she should have when picking it up, and turned her nose up at the almond milk in the door of the fridge. Coral’s kitchen was a blend of every nutritional fad to hit the headlines in the last 12 months, which was ironic given how much she lived on black coffee and bacon at the cafe. Finally, Sandy grabbed an individual carton of orange juice and an apple, and left the cottage, locking the door behind her.
It was a bright day, the sun sitting high in the cloudless sky, and Sandy put on her sunglasses before starting the car.
Her first mission was to find Isabelle Irons - before the police did.
**
While Isabelle Irons drove a nice car and owned several businesses, she was strapped for cash. She’d lived in the same terraced house for as long as Sandy had known her. Every man-friend she had had in that time moved in with her, and then left quietly at some point later, their name never to be mentioned again. There had been an Arthur, a Cedric, an awkward spell of three Angus’ in a row (how was it even possible to find three Angus’ in a row?!), a Patrick and a Malcolm. It was as if Isabelle’s only criteria for picking a temporary mate was that their name absolutely must be old-fashioned.
As Sandy approached on foot after parking her car out of sight, she could see Isabelle’s pink Porsche. The private plate hid the age of the vehicle and as Sandy walked along the pavement she could see that the inside of the car was not as plush as she may have expected. The leather seats were worn, splitting in some places and sagging in others (thanks to the second Angus, no doubt, who was a rather portly passenger), and the passenger footwell was overflowing with a mound of paperwork, empty water bottles and cuddly toys.
Forcing her eyes away from the chaos of Isabelle’s car, Sandy walked up the small path and knocked on the front door. She had been inside Isabelle’s home once, for a reason she could no longer remember, and found it to be as well-presented and ageless as its owner. Her style for interior design was either on the cutting edge of the highest fashions or so old-fashioned that it had become in vogue for the second time around.
Quiet footsteps inside were audible straight away, and Sandy braced herself. She had become involved in murder cases before, but this would be her first time actively attempting to solve the case right away.
Isabelle opened the door wide in a leopard-print silk gown that hung open, revealing a matching camisole. Her feet were bare, her long toenails painted in the same electric pink shade as her car. She had a full face of make-up on and her hair sat on top of her
head in that effortless style that was almost impossible for Sandy to perfect.
“Sandy, what a delight,” Isabelle said, making no move to allow her to enter.
“Isabelle, I need to talk to you. Can I come in?” Sandy asked.
Isabelle shrugged and stood to one side. Sandy entered and felt her senses reach overwhelm from all of the different patterns, colours and textures on display.
“Let’s sit in the front.” Isabelle said, gesturing to the first door off the corridor. The terraced houses had all originally had a front room and a back room downstairs. Lots of the new owners had either knocked the wall through to make one large living area, or joined the back room with the original tiny galley kitchen to make a bigger space. Isabelle’s home was one of the few still with the original layout, and Sandy found it comforting. She remembered playing with friends from school who lived in houses like Isabelle’s, and how the parents would sit in whichever room was left for best, while the kids took over the other.
Isabelle’s front room had a feature wall of pink flamingos, flanked on all sides by walls of silver glitter paper. It most certainly wasn’t that way the last time Sandy had visited.
“What an amazing space!” Sandy gushed because one could hardly walk in to flamingos and glitter without complimenting it.
“I suppose you’re not here to talk about Malcolm’s decorating skills.” Isabelle said, and Sandy realised. Every man must have changed the house when they arrived. Maybe she got rid of the man when she tired of the decorating, Sandy mused. “I’m guessing you’re here to talk about Dick Jacobs being killed. Not tell me about it, hopefully, because I already know.”
“I don’t know if you know,” Sandy began. She fidgeted as she spoke. Being so open about her credentials wasn’t Sandy’s style. “But I’ve solved the murders we’ve had in the village, and I’ve seen the city police turn up and make a mess of things. I don’t want that to happen again.”
