by Carrie Marsh
Laura hit him in the shoulder and he yelped. Laughing, they walked down the stairs to the driveway. They had a city to explore.
Later, they returned to the hotel. It was dark. Howard looked at his phone. There was one message on it. He read it and turned to her, face carefully neutral.
“He bought it.”
“Oh,” Laura said in a small voice. That meant they were right. That meant they would have to go through with this after all. Which meant they could be killed.
Holding hands a moment, they slowed their breathing. Then they went to get ready.
At nine o' clock that evening, it was pitch dark. The only light came from a handful of scattered stars. Laura waited on the edge of the trees, a kilometre or so from the hotel. Here, beyond the street-lamps, was utter darkness.
Every sound was danger. Laura shuddered. She knew Howard was somewhere, but she did not know where. She hoped he was watching her.
Trust me, she thought. That was what he had said to her. And she did trust him. She just never thought she would have to rely on it this much.
Trust me.
She stood and listened to the silence, to the whisper of the trees in the wind. To the distant sound of traffic. And, somewhere closer, to the sound of footsteps, a whisper over the dew-soaked grass, the crack of a twig. Footsteps coming closer.
Trust me.
Laura closed her eyes and held her breath.
“Mrs Hugh?”
The voice was cultured, low and elegant. It was also just behind Laura. She snapped round.
“Yes?”
“Anthony Morrison.” He held out his hand and Laura took it. He shook hers firmly. His hand was dry and smooth, his grip firm. Laura cringed. What should she say?
“I'm pleased you could make it,” she said. Her voice was hard with nerves and she laughed, a little hysterically.
“I had to make it,” the man said bitterly. “Since you seem to have decided to continue what your husband started.”
“What choice did I have?” Laura asked. She tried to stay in character, but her heart was pounding and her hands were perspiration-soaked, and she knew she would not be able to keep it up much longer.
“You could have left well alone,” the man said in that smooth, refined voice that had charmed even Imogen the actress. “In fact, you should have done,” he said. He turned away from her and seemed to be coming to a difficult decision.
“I should have..?”
“Yes,” he said coldly. “Because you didn't – because you insist on continuing your husband's blackmailing trade – I am going to have to kill you.”
From his sleeve he produced a narrow blade. Laura screamed. She ran backwards, but he caught her arm. He had the knife in his right hand and her arm in his left and he was dragging her forward, the knife stabbing up for her rib.
“Howard..?” Laura said, desperately.
At that moment, just before the knife entered, the man collapsed. He fell smartly forward, soundlessly, his knees giving way. Howard, carrying a folding-stool, stepped out neatly behind him.
“A tap on the head in the right place, and out like a light,” he said, sounding satisfied. He saw Laura, lying on the ground, and then the knife. “Laura!”
Laura swallowed. Her face was soaked with silent tears, her breath rasping. “I'm okay,” she managed. She leaned back on the grass, breathing heavily.
“That bastard didn't manage...” Howard began, then stopped as Laura shook her head.
“No, he didn't,” she said quietly. “You were exactly on time. Do you think we should just leave him..?” she asked, indicating the prone body.
“He's knocked out,” Howard observed dryly. “And I hit him hard enough to keep him out for a while. But let's tie him up. You never know,” he added, already bending down to reach for the man's arms, which he took in one wrist, a piece of rope in the other, “he might surprise us and wake up before we need him to.”
Laura couldn't help chuckling as Howard matter-of-factly went about his business, as if knocking out high-profile businessmen in the woods was his daily trade, and not healing the sick and comforting the wounded, as she knew it really to be.
At length, when the man was safely tied up, Howard produced his phone. He called the police and explained to them, succinctly, what they should do. Then he turned to Laura.
She took his hand to help herself to her feet and they embraced.
“Come on,” he said wearily. “Let's go home.” He was shaking, too, Laura noticed, and his face was pale with lack of sleep.
“Come on,” Laura agreed. She patted her pocket, where she had concealed a recording-device. Howard raised a brow.
“I think we got it,” Laura explained. “He just confessed to murder. And now we have a record.”
Howard nodded, impressed. The recording had been her modification to the plan – he had wanted to set up the meeting and then call the police. But Laura wanted a record: she wanted to be sure that Judy's name was clear.
Howard kissed her hair. “It was a good plan,” he said gently. “I'm proud of both of us.”
“Me too,” Laura said firmly.
They kissed and then, exhausted, they headed back to their car, just as the police-sirens blared and the blue lights flashed and the police finally arrived.
Laura and Howard headed wearily home to their hotel. They were tired. They were safe. And they had just caught a murderer.
EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE
The sitting-room was warm where Laura and Howard sat at the table, savouring the late afternoon sun.
“So what do you think?” Howard asked gently.
“Yes,” Laura said, agreeing. “I think we should.”
“Good.”
Monty climbed up onto her knee. I suppose I can put up with that, he said huffily. After all, you won't be long. And Janet's okay company. For a few days.
Laura laughed. She lifted him up and whispered in his ear. “Thank you, Monty.”
Monty settled down on her knee. Don't mention it.
Howard, sitting opposite her, drained his coffee. He looked back and smiled. “It was nice of Judy to pay for such a nice hotel,” he said.
“It was,” Laura agreed. “And I am glad she decided to move house, too. She'll be much happier closer to her son and daughter. And she'll get a lot for selling that place, I'm sure of it.”
“She will,” Howard agreed. He leaned back and chuckled. “Trust us to do this,” he added, amusedly.
“Trust us about what?” Laura asked, puzzled.
“Well,” Howard sighed, “we don't go away for about a year, and then suddenly we go to Canterbury to catch a murderer, and then to Mallorca?”
Laura laughed. It was crazy...Crazy and wonderful. They would be leaving the next day. Cousin Judy had come into her inheritance and set aside some money to pay for Laura and Howard.
“I'm just so glad you're safe,” Howard added, reaching for her hand. “Please. We mustn't ever take a risk like that again. I don't think my heart could handle it again.”
Laura smiled. “Mine neither. Though, I always knew I could trust you. Now I know for sure.”
Howard laughed. “You should have known without such drastic proof,” he said kissing her. “I always knew I could trust you, after all.”
Laura laughed. “Good!” she squeezed his hand and they sat together for a while in silence. “In which case,” Laura added, warmly, “you shall have to trust my advice.”
“About what?” Howard asked, eyes twinkling.
“About the fact that we should finish packing right now, so we can go to bed.”
“To bed?”
“To bed, yes. But not to sleep. Not necessarily.”
They laughed together and, still laughing, they kissed. They walked together, hand in hand, to the bedroom. To pack. To bed. But only to sleep when the first rays of the sun shone through, gilding both their hair and their skin, arms intertwined.
THANK YOU
f
or reading my book and
I hope you have enjoyed this story as well.
“COOKING WITH THE DEAD” is a standalone story.
If you have enjoyed reading “Paying Back The Dead” so far, I believe you will be interested in checking out “Cooking With The Dead”.
This book will be focusing on a young and pretty receptionist of a small hotel, Ms Laura Howcraft on her mysterious adventures in Millerfield Village.
What do you do when there’s trouble brewing in the kitchen…?
Already pressed to solve one murder investigation to clear her name, Laura Howcroft is glad that her life has settled into a pleasant and predictable routine. Enjoying her new-found acceptance to the quaint village of Millerfield, Laura is grateful for the shared life with new friends. Even her tentative relationship with Dr. Lucas seems to be progressing nicely, a fact that makes Laura content to have things simply carry on.
But when she employs a contracted pastry-chef to mind the kitchens of The Woodend Cottage Hotel, Laura could never have guessed that it might cost him his life. With the newly-hired chief found murdered by his own pastry cloth and police suspecting that his death was directly linked to his acceptance of the position, Laura feels honor-bound to investigate the cause of his death. Wrapped up into a world of challenge rivalries, flaky franchisers and crooked chefs, Laura, Howard and Monty once again find themselves on the tail of a killer. But this is no missing crumpets case and Laura is forced to realize that this time her meddling could cost her more than just her reputation…it could cost her life.
Can Laura clear her conscience of the dead pastry-chef?
Or will the killer track her down and silence her for good?
I have enclosed a preview of “Cooking With The Dead ”.
Check it out below…
It is currently at $0.99 for a Limited Time ONLY!
CLICK HERE TO GET IT NOW
CHAPTER ONE
THE HIRE
Peaceful? Laura thought to herself, collapsing in her chair behind the desk at the Woodend Cottage Hotel. Why did I think life in Millerfield was peaceful?
Already that day at work the boiler had stopped working, an elderly guest had needed the doctor, and the delivery of vegetables had been late. Laura felt like she had not sat down since her arrival.
Laura sighed and thought back to her previous days working as a receptionist at a law-firm in Cambridge, a hundred miles away. The work had seemed tedious and demanding at the time, but it was a Sunday-school picnic compared to the demands of this little hotel. It's better here, though, without Ron to contend with... Ron had been her boyfriend, a difficult character who worked at the same firm as a lawyer. Handsome, refined, cruel and an emotional bully, Laura was still healing from her years with him. Just then, her reminiscences were interrupted by a shrill voice just above her head.
“Laura?”
“Yes, Janet?” Laura asked, raising her head off the desk. Janet sounded excited, which was, she thought, a sure indication that something was causing trouble.
“Laura!” Janet exclaimed. “We have a Mr. Duvall here at reception. Says he's looking for you?” Janet gave her a questioning look, and Laura held her head, trying to think. In all the chaos of the morning, she couldn't remember her appointments for later.
“Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “Peter Duvall?”
Janet nodded. “Yes.”
“He is someone I approached about supplying pastries for the restaurant! You know,” she elaborated, “for teatime and breakfast and after dinner...Just to elevate this place a bit! Make it stand out from the crowd, you know?” Having grown up in Cambridge, Laura had a sense of refinement which, she found to her chagrin, was somewhat lacking here.
Janet looked at her oddly, but nodded. “If you say so...anyhow, he's in the reception area.”
“Good!” Laura enthused. “Could you bring him through? Tell him I'll be a minute...” she quickly finished writing down a booking, and, refreshing her lipstick, ran through to the breakfast room. The hotel was surprisingly large: a renovated farmhouse that had (Laura guessed) belonged to a wealthy farmer in the early nineteenth century. Traces of old-world elegance still remained in the elaborate staircase and the inlay in the floor of the entrance. Laura did not notice these now as she ran past, skidding to a halt in the breakfast-room door.
“Mr. Duvall?”
A man of average height with very blue eyes and gray hair stood there. He was a solid-looking man. He looks like a chef, Laura thought. Had she been asked – she would not have known she had such an expectation of what a chef would look like.
“I'm Peter Duvall.” He held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you...Laura?” he asked questioningly.
“Yes. Pleased to meet you, too.”
Laura shook his hand, surprised by the size of it. He seemed more like a blacksmith than a chef this close, with large, strong hands. He looked at Laura unsmiling, and she blinked, surprised.
“Let's get on with it.” he said, somewhat brusquely.
“I think it would be best if I showed you around a bit.” Laura began, feeling a little uncomfortable – she had never actually employed someone before, and it would have helped if her first try was not with someone so abrupt and unpleasant. She swallowed and searched for her manners. “I'll show you the kitchen. Then, perhaps you can show me some of your products. Does that work for you?”
The man shrugged easily. “That works,” he said. “There are some things I want to be able to produce fresh for you, so that makes sense.”
“Well, then,” Laura said with forced cheerfulness. “Come this way.”
Her heeled shoes clicked as she led Mr. Duvall down the stairs and into the kitchen. She stood back in the entrance, allowing him to walk past.
He seems a bit melancholic, Laura thought, As well as being a bit of a bully. She dismissed her misgivings and carried on downstairs to the kitchen.
“Mrs. Poole!” she greeted their chef warmly. The chef was an imposing lady with a shock of white hair.
“Laura,” Mrs. Poole remarked, looking up through thick glasses. “Who might this be?”
“This is Mr. Duvall. I want him to work with us. Making pastries.”
“Pastries?” Mrs. Poole looked insulted, and Laura groaned inwardly. Why are village-folk so suspicious, and so offended by any implication that they aren't doing a good enough job?
“No one is going to replace you, Mrs. Poole,” Laura said gently. “I wouldn't want to do that for the world!” She touched the older woman's shoulder fondly. Mr. Duvall snorted and turned away.
Laura blinked. This man is so rude! She carried on addressing the older lady as if nothing had happened.
“I just thought it would be something novel – something they don't have at the Worthington Heights Hotel in Hillcrest,” she said, deliberately mentioning their rival establishment in the next village.
“Oh,” Mrs. Poole looked at her thoughtfully, clearly considering the idea. “That's not a bad idea, lass. Not a bad idea at all.”
Laura nodded.
“Thank you, Mrs. Poole,” she said, relieved. “Now, if you could help us, I think Mr. Duvall would like to find out what we have down here.”
Mr. Duvall, still smirking, stepped forward and Laura stood back while the two chefs looked at everything in the kitchen. Mr. Duvall, evidently humoring the old lady, listened to her explanations with a slight smirk still in place. Laura felt offended, and hoped Mrs. Poole, who was a good friend, did not notice it.
“Ready,” Mrs. Poole said, beaming.
“Right,” Laura began, “and then we can...” Her phone rang. “Excuse me...”
She ran back up the stairs and answered when she reached the landing.
“Laura?” the voice on the other side of the line asked. Laura recognized it instantly.
“Oh! Howard!” Laura felt her cheeks warm as she heard the familiar voice of Dr. Howard Lucas, her best friend, and potentially more-than-friend. “What is it?”
/> “I just wanted to tell you I'd be late today. I'm afraid I'm being held up in the village – lots of work here. I'll tell you later.”
“Oh,” Laura said, feeling upset. “Thanks for letting me know. Will you still bring something, or shall I?”
“I'll still bring supper,” he promised. “Scout's honor. I'll just be about an hour late.”
“I can live with that,” Laura replied, feeling cheered. They said goodbye and hung up. She hurried back to the kitchen.
By the time Laura got back, Mr. Duvall was already halfway through a batch of dough. He worked intently, and, half an hour later, he had three different pastries fresh from the oven for Laura to sample.
“Oh, my...” Laura said delightedly, as she bit into an almond-flavored confection. “These are amazing!” Whatever she thought of the man and his manners, he could certainly cook.
Mr. Duvall looked down, clearly embarrassed. “Thank you,” he said gruffly.
These pastries were magnificent. Melting on the tongue, filled with almond paste and dusted with sugar, Laura could not recall their equals, even in the fancy coffee-shop in London she used to visit with Ron.
“You are hired, Mr. Duvall,” Laura grinned. She wiped the flakes of pastry off her mouth with a napkin and held out a hand. “You are so hired.”
Mr. Duvall coughed awkwardly and Laura shook his hand.
The hotel had a new pastry chef. Whatever she thought of him, she had to admit he was good.
After finishing the pastries and discussing the terms of employment, Laura led Mr. Duvall upstairs to sign the contract she had drawn up with the hotel owner.
“Well,” Laura sighed after he had left, “Step one of putting the Woodend Hotel on the map went rather well.”
She dabbed a flake of pastry off her lip and put on fresh lip gloss, ready to face the rest of the day. She did, after all, have dinner to look forward to. Even if Howard was going to be a little late.
