by Mona Marple
“I think you bought it for me,” Sandy said, with a laugh. It was a 1940s style dress which ballooned out in the skirt. She’d had it for a few years but didn’t have much chance to wear it.
“Yes!” Cass exclaimed. “Didn’t I get a matching one? You should have said and we could have matched!”
“I’m so glad you didn’t,” Olivia mumbled and everyone laughed.
“Drinks?” Coral asked, already standing up. She was always the leader in a situation, even if all it came down to was organising a group of women to order their drinks.
“I’ll have a mocha, please. In a big mug, if Tom’s got one.” Sandy said, passing a few pound coins across the table to her sister.
Coral and Cass both ordered wine, and Olivia asked for a hot chocolate.
“How’s school been?” Sandy asked Olivia.
Olivia groaned.
“Don’t listen to her,” Cass said, her eyelids fluttering under heavy coats of mascara. “She came home on Monday buzzing about it. And she’s done her homework every night without being asked.”
“Yeah, it’s alright I suppose.” Olivia agreed. Maybe there was a part sullen teenager to her after all, Sandy thought to herself.
“What’s your favourite lesson?”
“English, but when I choose my college classes I want to do law,” Olivia said, her cheeks burning with a self-conscious heat.
“Law? Do you want to be a lawyer then?” Cass asked, the revelation coming as news to her too.
Olivia nodded.
“What kind of lawyer? You can do all sorts with law.”
“I’d like to do human rights,” Olivia said, her voice a whisper.
Sandy and Cass looked at each other and raised their eyebrows in surprise. Olivia had had a tough life, being removed from her mum when she was a young child and placed in care before running away to find the sister she had never met.
“That’s amazing,” Sandy said, reaching over and giving Olivia’s hand a squeeze. Olivia looked at her and smiled.
“Well, we’ll do everything we can to help you,” Cass said, although her expression gave away her concern.
“Help with what?” Coral asked, returning to the table with the glasses of wine. “He’s bringing the hot drinks over.”
“Nothing,” Olivia said, returning her gaze to the table. Sandy shrugged at Coral, who knew enough about teenage girls to let it go.
“Here we are ladies, a hot chocolate?” Tom Nelson asked, appearing at their table.
“Yes!” Olivia said, raising her hand as if she was in class.
“And the mocha must be yours, Sandy, nobody else drinks these.”
“Really?” Sandy asked in surprise. She loved nothing more than a mug of hot mocha.
“Nah, I only buy the sachets for you. And I used the biggest mug I could find.” Tom said. Sandy looked at him and felt herself blush. He was a fine looking man, tall and muscular. He returned her gaze and met her eyes for a moment longer than was comfortable.
“What was that about?” Cass asked as soon as he moved away from the table and returned to the bar.
“What?” Coral and Sandy asked in unison.
“You and The Hunk! Since when do you have chemistry with Tom Nelson?”
Sandy felt her cheeks burn. “Keep your voice down, Cass, I don’t need any rumours starting like that. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He is a hunk,” Coral said, taking a sip of her wine.
Olivia screwed her face up in disgust.
“I think he’d have asked you on a date if we hadn’t been here.” Cass said.
“Don’t be silly. I’ve known Tom for years.” Sandy said, although to her surprise, when she looked up at the bar, Tom was looking right at her. He grinned and then returned to his work. And Sandy’s stomach did a flip of excitement.
“We’ve all known Tom for years, but he’s on the market now.”
“Is he?” Sandy asked, trying to sound more nonchalant than needed which had the opposite effect. Although she had known Tom for years, she only knew him to exchange pleasantries with. He never visited the cafe and she rarely visited the pub, unless she was catering a wake, so she couldn’t call him a friend, let alone a close friend.
“Did he get rid of that awful woman?” Coral asked.
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Cass said. “And it seems he’s ready to move on. What a catch he would be.”
“The quiz will start in five minutes, please make sure your table has a Team Name!” Tom’s voice came booming out through a microphone.
“Oh no,” Cass said, looking past Sandy to the front door. “Don’t look now.”
Sandy did what anyone told not to look would, and turned around to look. To her surprise, the young man who had admired the poetry book in her shop had walked in the pub. He looked bedraggled, and his clothes were soaking wet. He spoke to each table for a moment, finally reaching their own.
“Can ya spare any change?” He asked, not making eye contact with them.
“No, you shouldn’t be in here begging,” Cass said, folding her arms.
“Hold on Cass. We can all fall on hard times.” Sandy said, reaching into her handbag. “What do you need money for, Anton?”
He looked up at the mention of his name. “You’re the book lady. I need money because nobody’ll gimme a job.”
Sandy’s cheeks flushed with guilt. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help with that. Here, take this.”
He held out his hand and she placed a £10 note in his palm. His mouth cracked into a smile. “Thanks, lady.”
He moved on to other tables.
“You know him?” Coral asked, her nose wrinkled with disapproval.
“He came in the shop yesterday asking for work,” Sandy said.
“I hope you said no,” Cass said.
“Yeah, I did,” Sandy said, although she wondered if she had made the right decision. Her shop was busier than ever and he needed a helping hand. Her £10 wouldn’t go far for a man who lacked even the basics.
“He’s staying at the Manor,” Olivia said, her contribution to the conversation surprising the others.
“How do you know?” Cass asked, and it surprised Sandy how she had developed a protective, maternal gene towards her younger sister.
Anton walked past their table again and left the pub, without acknowledging them.
“Question One!” Tom called into the microphone. He stood behind the bar, eyeing each participating table in turn. Sandy tried not to watch him too closely.
“It’ll probably be, what colour are Sandy’s eyes?” Cass said, descending into so much laughter they missed the real first question.
Just then there was a flurry of noise from outside.
A loud bang, a car accelerating, and then the bang of the front door being slammed open.
“Help me!” Came the distinctive voice of village eccentric and Sandy’s landlord, Ignatius Potter. “You must help me! Come quickly - there’s been a murder!”
3
Sandy wore her thickest black tights, a black dress and ballet pumps the next day. Her dark outfit was a subtle way of her marking respect for the man who had been murdered. She arrived early at the cafe and found Bernice already in the kitchen, the scent of lavender rich in the room.
“Oh, Sandy,” Bernice said, leaving the mixing bowl she had been working on and catching Sandy in a rare embrace. Bernice was a wonderful friend and employee, and a brilliant baker, but she was practical rather than affectionate.
“You’ve heard?” Sandy asked.
“I saw the news. I can’t believe it’s happened again.” Bernice said. The recent murder of Reginald Halfman had shocked the peaceful village to its core, but with Sandy solving that case, Waterfell Tweed had never expected another murder to occur.
“I was at the pub,” Sandy admitted as Bernice returned to the mixing bowl. Sprigs of lavender were visible in the cake mix, and Bernice grated lemon zest into the mixture. “Ignatius Potter calle
d out for help and everyone traipsed outside. It was awful.”
“Ignatius Potter?” Bernice asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“He found the poor victim, but it was too late,” Sandy said as she put her own apron on. It would be an especially busy day in the cafe, as locals would use the chance for a slice of cake as an excuse to gossip about the murder.
“Do you know who the victim was? The news just said it was a homeless man.”
Sandy’s face blanched. “His name was Anton Carmichael.”
“You knew him?” Bernice asked, her eyes appearing to water again.
“I met him once. He came in here asking for a job, and I said no.” Sandy said, her voice breaking.
“Oh Sandy, don’t feel bad,” Bernice said.
Sandy shook her head, taking a moment to prevent the tears. “He needed help and I turned him away. I’m not proud of myself.”
“But…”
“I’d rather not talk about it anymore, sorry Bernice,” Sandy said as she grabbed self-raising flour, clear honey, unsalted butter and dark muscovado sugar. She placed those on the counter across from Bernice and went to the fridge for some eggs.
She hadn’t ever made a honey cake for the cafe before, and didn’t know what had made her think of it then. It was the cake her mum always made when she and her sister Coral were young. ‘Honey for my honey’ she would say as she mixed the butter, honey, and sugar in a warm pan.
When the honey mixture had cooked she set it to one side to cool and turned to sifting her flour, then added the honey mixture, beating to create a smooth batter. She added the batter to the cake tin and placed the mixture in the oven.
The act of making the cake brought memories of her mum flooding back to her. The memories were surprising in their mundanity. One memory, in particular, seemed stuck on a loop for her; her returning home from school to find her mum in the kitchen, bent down and peering through the glass of the oven door. Her hair was still the nicest Sandy had ever seen on anyone; dark brown, belly button long and incredibly glossy. That day, her mum had heard Sandy walk in the front door and turned to her with the most natural, heartwarming smile.
Sandy would love to see someone that pleased to see her now.
She sighed, her thoughts heavy with loss and regret, and left Bernice alone in the kitchen while she flicked on all of the shop lights and checked that the books were in order. Crumbs on the carpet suggested that someone had taken one of yesterday’s scones upstairs, despite there being no seating up there. Sandy smiled to herself and did a full round with the old hoover, then returned downstairs and opened the door. It was early, not yet opening time, but it seemed silly to keep the door locked when she was in and ready for customers.
The door was pushed open almost immediately and Sandy felt a rush of cold air come inside, along with her neighbour Elaine Peters.
“Thank goodness you’re open,” Elaine said, as she pulled off her gloves and hat and took a seat by the window. “I couldn’t sleep last night, had to get out.”
“You could have come and knocked me up,” Sandy said, although she knew Elaine would never do such a thing. Elaine had made her way through being widowed without ever asking for help.
“That’s sweet, thanks, Sandy. I think I…” She began, then glanced around the room and lowered her voice. “I missed Jim, to be honest. I’d got so used to being on my own at night and now I don’t like it at all.”
“Well, it wasn’t a regular night, was it,” Sandy said, trying to hide her surprise and happiness at the mention of Elaine’s blossoming romance with Jim Slaughter, the local police constable.
“It wasn’t. Who do you think did it?” Elaine asked.
“It seems open and shut,” Sandy said. “Ignatius Potter was arrested.”
“But was it him, Sandy? If you’d just ran someone over, why would you then call for help?”
Sandy shrugged. She had solved one murder recently and didn’t plan on solving a second. She was quite happy to leave the police to do their job this time.
“And if it is him, what happens to your shop?” Elaine asked. Ignatius Potter was an eccentric man but he owned much of the village, including Sandy’s own cafe and bookshop building. Not that you’d guess his wealth by looking at him. He was a loner and usually dressed in tatty old clothes that most charity shops would refuse if offered.
“I don’t know.” Sandy admitted. She’d like to have said the thought hadn’t crossed her mind, but it had. Buildings didn’t come up for sale or rent often in Waterfell Tweed, and Sandy didn’t like the possibility of her business having to move out of the village.
“Well, we’ll find out more soon I guess. Who knows why a young man might be homeless, what kind of trouble or enemies he’s trying to get away from.”
Elaine was a kind person and her comment was not meant with malice, but it troubled Sandy.
“He could just have fallen on hard times,” Sandy said, defending the man who she had failed to help when he needed it. “He came in here once, he was looking at a beautiful poetry book.”
“Poor lad,” Elaine said as she picked up the menu from the table. “Can I get a vegetarian breakfast, please, and a mug of coffee?”
“Of course,” Sandy said, pleased to get away from the conversation and busy herself with work. Elaine was the only vegetarian in the village to Sandy’s knowledge, and she made sure she always had frozen vegetarian sausages in the freezer for her.
“Something smells lovely, by the way.” Elaine called.
“Honey for my honey.” Sandy said with a smile.
The door burst open then and a small Indian woman walked in, bundled up in a coat larger than herself.
“Morning Pritti,” Sandy said, glancing up from the counter where she was making fresh coffee for Elaine.
“Good morning. Cup of hot chocolate please.” She said, taking a seat at the table next to Elaine. People’s seating habits fascinated Sandy. People open to talking but who didn’t know the other visitors well would usually sit at the next table and strike up a conversation, while the people who did not want to speak would sit as far away from other people as they could. It was very rare that a person would join the table of someone else unless they’d planned to meet.
“How are you, Pritti? Are you getting by ok?” Elaine asked.
“Oh yes,” Pritti said, appearing even smaller as she took off the large padded coat. She was a beautiful woman with perfect posture. Her posture had been the first thing Sandy had ever noticed about her. “I’m keeping very busy. Nice to have a break.”
Pritti had been the housekeeper at Waterfell Manor until Benedict and Penelope Harlow had left to visit their son Sebastian.
“When will they be back?” Elaine asked. The Harlows were missed by the whole village.
Pritti shrugged. “They don't answer to me.”
“Oh no, no, of course not. Please send our regards if you’re speaking to them.”
“I am of course speaking to them,” Pritti said. Despite living in Waterfell Tweed for as long as Sandy could remember, Pritti still carried a thick Indian accent. It was rhythmic, like a song. Sandy could listen to her speak all day long.
“Did you hear about last night?” Elaine asked as Sandy placed the drinks in front of her and Pritti.
“Last night? The quiz?”
“Oh no, not the quiz. Someone was killed, Pritti.” Elaine said.
“Awful business. What are the homeless doing here, anyway?” Dorie Slaughter asked, bursting into the cafe and taking a seat at the table in front of Elaine’s. “Morning ladies. Full English please Sandy and a mug of tea.”
“Coming right up,” Sandy said and passed the food order into the kitchen for Bernice to prepare. She set to work making the tea.
“I can’t believe you didn’t know,” Elaine said.
Pritti shrugged. “It sounds not important. Who can miss a homeless man?”
“My question is, actually I’ve got a lot of questions,
but my question is they’d better let my Jim handle this case,” Dorie said, not realising that her sentence didn’t even include a question. Her son, Jim, had been removed from the last murder investigation when city police took over the case.
Sandy rolled her eyes and walked into the kitchen.
“And so it begins, eh?” Bernice asked, looking up from the two frying pans she was juggling, one containing onions, mushrooms and vegetarian sausages and the other filled with eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, and onions. “I’m better off out of it in here.”
“It’s strange.” Sandy said. “People seem to think that because Anton was homeless, his death doesn’t matter.”
“Well, the police won’t think that. Murder is murder.”
“How do they know it’s murder?” Sandy asked out loud. She thought back to Ignatius Potter’s cry for help the night before. “Couldn’t it have been an accident?”
“No signs of braking.” Sandy’s sister Coral said, appearing in the kitchen doorway. She pulled off her own woollen coat and blanket scarf and pulled on her apron. “And evidence suggests the car actually accelerated, which shows intent.”
4
It had been a long morning, as Sandy had expected it would be. She had done her best to remain in the kitchen or upstairs hiding in the books, but she couldn’t escape all of the gossip about the murder. Many of the villagers had appeared in the shop to share their theory or, more often, share random pieces of information that didn’t seem to have any relevance to what had happened.
The joys of small village life!
“He’s being interviewed.” A voice called across the cafe. Conversations that morning had been loud and for the benefit of the whole cafe. Sandy had the start of a migraine coming on. She looked up to see Dorie Slaughter holding court, holding up her mobile phone to show a photograph of the front door of the police station as if that solved everything.
