by Mona Marple
Her parents had been hippies at heart, in love with the idea of an alternative, bohemian lifestyle, but forced to live a more mundane life by the two daughters they had to feed and clothe. The wild spirit her parents had was slowly replaced with a conservative attitude towards spending money, saving money, putting money away for rainy days. The answer to ‘can we play’ was always ‘yes’ but the answer to ‘can we have’ was usually ‘no’. Money was tight, so they made their fun at home, and great fun it was.
“Why would we want to leave our lovely home, anyway?” Her mum would say, and it was a good question. Their home was snug, filled with cushions and incense and friends who came and went and were always ready for a tickle match with Sandy and Coral.
The dream of travel never left Sandy’s parents, but they began to accept it as being only a dream. Sandy’s mum somehow reined in her spirit, and Sandy returned from school one heartbreaking day to see that her mum’s long, tousled, sun-kissed hair had been cut to her shoulders and tied into a limp plait.
But there had been one summer, a summer when cousins in the Deep South of the United States of America had issued an invitation, a summer when the car hadn’t broken down and the boiler hadn’t needed replacing and her father had had a slight promotion. A summer when her mother, who answered every question with a resounding ‘yes’ or ‘why the heck not’, received an Air Mail letter asking, ‘why don’t y’all come?’
And so they did.
Sandy remembered the excitement that had filled the house for weeks beforehand. She had been on two day trips to the seaside before then, and the thought of travelling on an airplane to a brand new country had been unbelievable.
She had little memory of the holiday itself, but she remembered one relative, a cousin or a second cousin, called Connie. She had been as wide as she was tall and Sandy had been certain her clothes had been curtains. She had the prettiest smile Sandy had ever seen on anyone, still.
One day she had whisked Sandy away into her kitchen, bigger than Sandy’s whole house, and said, “So I hear y’all like to bake?”
And she had taught Sandy her special recipe.
Banana Cream Pie To Die For.
She’d let Sandy find all of the ingredients in her cavernous fridge and walk-in pantry, presented her with a gift of a wooden spoon with her name etched into it, and stood back to allow her to do all of the mixing, only stepping in when heat was involved. “Your mamma would never forgive me now if we burnt y’all to a crisp, would she, doll?”
Sandy’s mother had spent the holiday quiet and they had never returned to see those relatives again, but Sandy had never forgotten baking with Connie.
She smiled at the memory as the timer rang that the thirty minutes was up.
She hadn’t remembered that holiday for years. It had never been spoken of after they returned home, and no photographs from the trip were ever displayed or shown to anyone. It suddenly struck Sandy how curious it was that one of the biggest adventures of her childhood had disappeared as if it had been a secret.
She’d have to remember to speak to Coral about it.
But now, her cake needed her.
She returned to the kitchen and took the custard from the fridge, peeling away the clingfilm and taking the ready-prepared pastry case from the oven. It was well done, just how she liked it. She often used the ready-prepared pastry cases instead of baking from scratch but always felt naughty when she did.
She spread half of the custard into the pastry case and then sliced her bananas and arranged them over the filling, then spread the rest of the custard over them. She then measured out a cup of whipped cream and spread it across the top of the pie, then dusted a sprinkling of cinnamon on top of the cream.
The cake smelt glorious and she couldn’t resist trailing her finger along the inside of the bowl and tasting the custard mix. She was instantly transported in her mind to Connie’s kitchen, to the pride with which she had carried a slice of that cake out onto the porch for her mother, to the way her appearance had snapped her mother out of her thoughts and made her scoop Sandy into a tight embrace. It had been a good, good day.
The pie would need 6 hours in the fridge before it was ready to eat, so it wasn’t the best thing to bake in a morning, but she had needed to smell the mix of vanilla, banana, and cinnamon. She had needed to remember that feeling of being so trusted, as she had been in Connie’s kitchen.
She wondered where Connie was and if she was still alive. Her childhood mind could not put an age on her, but there was every chance she would still be alive.
Just because Sandy’s parents had died too young, didn’t mean that everyone had, a thought that could still make Sandy tense with bitterness on her lowest days.
She jumped at the sound of a key in the front door, and peeped through the curtain. Coral.
“What time is it?” Sandy asked. Her words made Coral jump.
“Nearly 8. What are you doing here, Bernice said there’s plenty of cakes left from yesterday?”
“Banana Cream Pie to Die For,” Sandy said, with a smile.
Coral gave a nonchalant nod. “Sounds nice.”
“Don’t you remember it?”
“Should I?”
“I made it in America, with Connie. Do you remember her?”
Coral burst into a laugh. “I remember her dresses! Mum really got the fashion sense out of the two of them, hey?”
“The two of them? What do you mean?”
Coral narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you remember who she was?”
“Yeah… A cousin or something?”
“No, you dork. She was mum’s sister.” Coral said as she hung her coat up on the stand.
Sandy shook her head in disbelief. “Mum had a sister?”
“You really didn’t remember that? That’s weird.”
Sandy shrugged. “I don’t remember much about the holiday, apart from baking this pie with Connie. What do you remember?”
“Well, I remember all of it I guess,” Coral said with a shrug. “I remember how hot it got, how sticky my legs felt whenever I went outside. I remember mum painting pictures of trees and wearing flowers in her hair. And I remember you in that kitchen, couldn’t get you out of the pantry. It was amazing, though.”
“Was mum happy there?”
The question stopped Coral in her tracks. “You know mum, it was always hard to say if she was happy or not. I think she’d wanted to see the world for so long and there she was, seeing it, and it was overwhelming for her.”
Sandy nodded. “My memories of her there are her being sad, but I can’t say why. I didn’t see her crying or anything. I just have this feeling, when I picture her there, that she was sad.”
“She was never a crier, she’d just sit quietly, but she’d do the same when she was happy. And then she’d see us and grab us for a dance party or chase us around the house and we’d shriek with laughter. She was fine, Sand, she had a good life.”
“Not the life she wanted, though.”
“Do any of us?” Coral asked. The conversation was moving towards dangerous territory. “I thought I’d be in London, chasing all the top stories for the national press, and here I am ready to persuade as many people as I can to buy a cake as well as a coffee.”
Sandy looked up at her sister. “You could still go to London.”
“Oh, stop. I’m fine here, we’re fine, mum was fine. Life isn’t a fairy tale, that’s all. What’s got into you, anyway?”
Sandy sighed.
“I was up all night, sis. And I know why I can’t handle the thought that Tom might have anything to do with the murder.”
“Ok… what is it?” Coral asked, taking a seat next to her sister.
“I love him. I love him, Coral. I’m in love with him!” Sandy said as the tears found her.
13
“It’s all gone!” Coral exclaimed as she appeared at the top of the stairs.
Sandy looked at her from the bookshop counter, where she had just finished
gift wrapping a book of poetry for Felix, the elderly man who had been in a few days before with his watercolour books.
“What is?” She asked as she mouthed an apology to Felix, who stood waiting for her to wrap the item, his weight supported by his walking stick.
“The banana cream pie! People loved it. You’ll have to make it more often.” Coral said, then dashed back downstairs.
“Banana cream pie, eh? Sounds unusual.” Felix said.
“I was taught to make it in America,” Sandy said. She realised the sentence sounded grander than the experience had been. “By an aunt. My aunt.”
Felix smiled at her from beneath his moustache. “The best way to learn.”
“Is it someone’s birthday?” Sandy asked as she handed over the wrapped book to him.
“Oh no, nothing like that. I plan on visiting a lady friend and I was taught not to visit anyone empty-handed.”
“Oh, what a lovely thing to be taught,” Sandy said. “Well, I hope she likes it.”
“Me too,” Felix said, with a wink. He turned away and began the slow walk across the bookshop towards the staircase, which he descended with some trepidation.
Sandy returned her attention to the stock report she had been in the middle of doing. The sales figures were the highest they had ever been. Seeing the steady line on the graph that the report created made her beam with pride. Her little bookshop was gaining word of mouth. People were travelling from far and wide to browse her collection, buy new books and then treat themselves to a coffee and cake.
Her happiness quickly turned into panic as she remembered that she had to find new stock if she wanted people to continue visiting and spreading the word. She had haphazardly sourced new stock, and that had worked fine when the shop was less popular, but now she would have to make a committed effort to find new stock more regularly.
She opened her email programme and sent a message to an old friend who had owned a bookshop for decades and who had sold his stock to her when he retired. She asked him to keep his ears open for any news of other stock clearances and gave him a brief update on how business was going.
She was just about to hit send when a voice disturbed her.
“Closed. Closed! Always closed!” The voice came, but Sandy couldn’t see anyone.
She stood up from the counter and walked the length of the shop, glancing down each aisle. None of the several customers appeared to be needing any help, so she returned to the counter, where Cherry Gentry was waiting for her.
“Hello, Cherry,” Sandy said, with some surprise. Cherry was a dedicated reader, but she had never bought a book from the shop before.
“Library’s always closed.” Cherry moaned. She held out a single mystery novel for Sandy to scan. “Your mystery section is appalling.”
“We don’t really do much fiction, Cherry, it’s more of the specialist titles. I don’t know how this one ended up here, to be honest.” Sandy said as she glanced at the book’s cover. “Do you only read mysteries?”
“Of course I do,” Cherry said as if Sandy was stupid for asking the question.
“That’s £3.99.”
"£3.99? It’s second hand!” Cherry protested. The book was old, with yellowed pages and an inscription written on the inside title page.
“It’s why we don’t sell fiction, we can’t compete with the supermarket prices,” Sandy said with an apologetic shrug. She wasn’t going to lower the price for a woman who bought a whole salmon every day for her cats.
“Damn the library, what good is it if it’s never open?” Cherry muttered.
“I think they’re open tomorrow,” Sandy said.
“And what good is that? What do I do until then?” Cherry asked. She was becoming increasingly exasperated and the more frustrated she grew, the wider her eyes glared in Sandy’s vague direction.
Sandy took a deep breath. “It’s up to you, Cherry.”
“If I was a God-fearing woman, I’d have a word with Him upstairs about the state of this village,” Cherry said. She unzipped her handbag and pulled out a fabric purse covered in cat hairs.
“You’re not a God-fearing woman?” Sandy asked in surprise.
“What’s she asking us that for?” Cherry muttered. Sandy had long ago learned that half of the things Cherry said were meant for her own ears only but she was beginning to suspect that Cherry herself wasn’t aware that she was saying them out loud. “You’re nosey, Sandy Shaw, that’s your problem. But since you asked, no, I’m not. Don’t believe in any of it. Leave me with my babies and my books and we’re fine, need nothing else.”
“Isn’t it strange working in a church if you don’t believe in God?” Sandy asked, unable to resist her curiosity. She had always assumed that Cherry must be religious, to work on what she imagined couldn’t be a generous wage in a cold church building.
Cherry shrugged. “I’m not exactly leading Sunday School, am I?”
Sandy smiled to herself and accepted the exact change from Cherry, who immediately turned and stormed towards the lift, carrying her prize in her hand.
As soon as the lift doors opened and she walked in, Sandy’s phone rang.
It was her old friend, the retired bookseller.
“Sandy?” He asked. He was out of breath and she could only just hear him over what sounded like wind in the background. After a career of sitting inside, he had devoted his retirement to fell walking and she suspected that’s what he was doing. “Perfect timing on the eMail! I got talking to a chap over a Ploughman’s the other day and he recognised me from the good old days, told me about a friend of his, closed his shop he has, put it all in storage, can’t afford the storage so needs to get rid. Last he said, this friend was getting ready to tip the lot of it, just to get rid. We had a fair chat about the state of bookselling over a pint, I tell ya. Tipping books! Would ya believe?! I can’t vouch for the quality or anything, and it’s a fair trek for you, but worth a look if ya can get up there quick.”
“Wow, thanks, Adrian,” Sandy said. “Where is it?”
“Isle of Mull!”
“Isle of Mull? Where’s that?” Sandy asked. She’d never heard of the place.
“Scotland! Supposed to be a beautiful little place. I’ll send ya this guy’s number, ya can sort it with him.”
Sandy thanked Adrian and ended the call.
There was no way she could fit in a trip to Scotland. And there was no way she couldn’t view a whole shop’s stock of books when the seller seemed desperate to get rid.
She took a deep breath and smiled to herself. Some of the shelves were only half-full, so much stock had been sold in the last couple of weeks.
This was the life she had wanted, the life she had dreamed of for so long.
It felt like she was so close to the dream.
The happiness turned her thoughts back to Tom.
How had she allowed herself to fall in love with a man so quickly? So easily? And without realising it was happening?
She picked up her phone and clicked on the text message screen, scrolling down until she found her conversation with Tom. She stood and reread the messages, feeling her stomach flip with the same nervous happiness she had felt as she had received each message.
There were no declarations of love or grand gestures in the messages, but there was an understated back and forth, a gentle intimacy that seemed to be felt by both of them.
Tom was a man of few words, in message as in face-to-face conversations, but he had begun the habit of sending her a text each morning. ‘Morning x’ it said on most days. Her text messages from Coral and Cass were more emotive and expressive, but based on friendship, not romance. Tom’s morning messages, as short as they were, told her that he was thinking of her. That she may have been the first thing he thought of when he woke.
They had stopped without warning, those morning messages. And, too nervous, she hadn’t asked why. She hadn’t taken the lead and sent one for a change. She had sat back and waited for Tom’s next contact.
And she continued to wait.
The next contact had never arrived.
The intimacy felt in those messages, a little secret between them, those morning messages, had been lost.
Could it really be possible that Tom had changed because he had killed a man?
Was Sandy in love with a killer?
14
Sandy had been gazing at the text message with the bookseller’s phone number on for twenty minutes or more, wondering whether to call him or be realistic and accept that there was no space in her schedule for a trip to Scotland. The numbers had begun to blur into each other when she became aware of a man standing at the counter in front of her.
“I’m so sorry!” she blurted out before she realised who it was.
“Hey.” Tom Nelson said, moving his gaze from her phone to her face. He looked so handsome that it was painful to look at him and think about what she had lost. He wore a salmon pink polo shirt and faded blue jeans. There was a shaving cut along his jawline.
“Tom.” She said. “How can I help?”
Her question made him laugh. “I deserve that. Can we talk somewhere a bit quieter?”
Sandy froze. She didn’t want to believe that he was the murderer, but she knew that he had as much motive as Isabelle Irons and that he was in the right place at the right time. That would make him the prime suspect in her case if she could be unbiased. And she had to be unbiased.
“I can’t leave here, sorry.” She said.
Tom nodded. “Ok. I get it. I’ll find you later.”
The words sounded ominous and Sandy suddenly didn’t want him to find her later. “Talk to me here, it’s quiet? I mean, people are browsing, they don’t really hang around the till unless they’re buying.”
Tom shrugged. “I’d rather not speak here, but if you really can’t slip out for a few minutes… Ok, I wanted to ask if you’d like to be my date on Valentine’s Day.”
