Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery)

by Mackenzie, Zanna

  The cows begin slogging their way out of the field and into the yard. “Well,” he taps the side of his head, “simple deduction really. My brother mentioned Old Joe had passed away a while back and left this place to his niece Lizzie. You’ve been up here a few months now, haven’t you?”

  “Four months.” Jack mentioned being a fun uncle to Frazer’s kids. Well, Joe was my fun uncle. School holidays always found me up here, knee deep in mud, helping out. I still miss him, and my Aunt Molly. I was born in Cumbria but my parents uprooted us to London when I was six for Dad’s work. I left my parents behind in London to move back up here. I miss them too. My aunt and uncle never had children of their own, so, knowing my parents would want no part in returning to Cumbria, the farm was left to me.

  “If you need a hand with anything around here just let me know,” Jack says, bringing me back to the here and now, as he manoeuvres my unexpected visitors out of the yard. “I’m pretty useful with a hammer and always happy to help a neighbour.”

  Forcing a smile I say, “I can manage, thanks.”

  Nodding towards the surrounding fields of crops and the ramshackle barns Jack adds, “This place is a lot to take on.”

  Drawing myself up to my full height of five feet four inches I immediately realise that Jack’s six foot plus frame still towers over me. “I’ll manage,” I repeat.

  He nods, kicking the mud off his boots against the wall of the yard. “Of course, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t. OK then. I’ll finish getting these cows out of your way. It won’t take long, Cin will soon have them sorted.”

  “Sin?” I frown. “That’s an odd name for a dog.”

  “Her name’s Cinnamon - she was named by my niece. When she’s working it’s quicker and easier to call her Cin, less of a mouthful.” He whistles to the dog who has already cornered the cows near to the farmyard wall and is standing guard, keeping a beady eye on them, from just a few feet away.

  True to his word, within a few minutes the cows are out of the yard and heading home down the track, Cinnamon following along behind them, keeping the animals in check.

  Leaping back onto the quadbike Jack starts up the engine. “If you do need anything, Catwoman, you know where to find me.” Revving the engine a couple of times he adds, “If I can help, I’d like to. See you around.”

  I stand there for several minutes, pondering on what I make of Jack, watching the little procession of two cows, a dog and a man on a quadbike steadily making its way back down the lane. With his cuts and black eye, he’s obviously been in some fight. He lied about his job – special agent, hmm, I don’t think so. That guy has got trouble written all over him. Heading into one of the polytunnels, I locate some salad leaf seedlings which need planting out. OK, I concede, Jack’s tall, blond and rather handsome but I am so not looking for a man in my life right now.

  And I’ve had more than enough trouble in my life lately, thank you very much. That’s why I’m hiding away in Cumbria trying to run this place.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After a morning toiling on the soil, I take a quick shower, change and head, once again, to my second job of the day. One of the other waitresses wanted to take her lunchtime shift off today as it’s her birthday and I said I’d cover for her.

  As I attempt to steer Daisy into the Veggies car park, I see the area is cordoned off. That’s odd. What on earth is going on? I spot a few police cars and a crime scene investigation van in the car park and goose bumps break out on my arms. Only last night I was fretting about muggers and murderers… No, it can’t be. This is probably about a break-in. Granted, one of those is unusual enough in these parts, but not, thankfully, a matter of life and death.

  A stern-looking policeman who looks vaguely familiar is standing guard at the entrance to the restaurant’s car park. He sees me, gestures for me to stop, and wanders over as I buzz down the driver’s side window.

  “Sorry, the place is closed,” he says, leaning down to speak through the window.

  “But I work here. I’m due to start my shift soon,” I reply, then nervously add, “Is something wrong?”

  “The gossip being what it is around these parts, I’d have thought you’d have heard by now,” he says with a tut of obvious disapproval. “We’re expecting the TV and newspaper guys to turn up here at any second.”

  “Heard what?” I ask, only just managing to keep the frustration out of my voice.

  The policeman, who I seem to recall is named Mark and has been into the bar at the Veggies more than once, straightens up and looks important. “I’m afraid there’s been a suspicious death.”

  “What?” I gulp, switch Daisy off and clamber out, my knees suddenly going jelly-like as concern races through me. Someone is dead? Who? When? “Suspicious as in…”

  Mark nods, a suitably sombre expression on his face. “As in murder, yes.”

  “You’re sure?” I ask, then realise how stupid that sounds.

  “We might be in the back of beyond out here but I think we’re still capable of recognising a murder when we see one.” He shoots me an irritated look. “And unless the victim is capable of stabbing himself several times in the back with a knife then we’re definitely not talking suicide.”

  My hands are all clammy. I know the answer but I still have to ask the question “He? Knife? Who’s been murdered?”

  “You really don’t know?” he asks, sounding incredulous. “You work here, you say?”

  I nod solemnly.

  “Name?” he demands.

  “Lizzie Carter. You know me. I live up at Eskdale. I’m a waitress here.”

  “In that case, I’m sorry, it’s your boss who is the victim.”

  “Armand is dead?” My mouth goes dry and now my knees feel as though they’re about to give way beneath me. Had I tempted fate by thinking of murderers when I’d left the Veggies last night? No, of course not. I know Armand wasn’t the most popular guy in Amswick, but, murder, well, it just doesn’t happen in places like this.

  But it has.

  Mark steps back and points towards the far side of the car park. “I think you’d best park up and report to the officer in charge of this investigation.” He nods towards a man standing next to the crime scene van who’s talking on a phone and pacing back and forth. “They’re working their way through interviewing all of the staff. He’ll want an official statement from you.”

  “Who found Armand?” I ask nervously as I get back into Daisy, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I attempt to start her up.

  “One of the cleaners, I believe. She turned up at about eight this morning and put in the code to open the back door. Went into the staffroom near the kitchen to make a drink and that’s when she saw him. Lying on the floor he was, with the knife still in his back.” I think I detect a hint of something akin to ghoulish glee as he recounts what happened. “Screamed so loud she did, it fetched the nearest neighbour from up the road and he called the police.”

  My hand goes to my mouth and a wave of nausea washes over me. “That’s awful.”

  “The forensic guys reckon he was killed late last night,” he continues. “Anyhow, I think you’d better get a move on. The Chief will be wanting to complete his interviews with all of the staff as soon as possible. Take my word for it, he’s not a man to get on the wrong side of.”

  I nod and somehow manage to focus enough through my shock to steer Daisy to the designated area. As I’m climbing from the car, a worrying thought jostles into my head amongst the upset and whirl of emotions.

  Mark said Armand was killed late last night.

  As I was the last person to leave the Veggies at just after midnight, I was probably the last person to see him alive.

  Does that put me on the suspects list? From my old life to this one, trouble still seems to unfortunately want to seek me out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “What time did you leave the establishment after your shift last night?” The man demands.

  I fidget i
n my seat. Chief Inspector Smith fixes me with a fierce gaze. He’s looking at me as though I’m a criminal. He doesn’t seriously think I stabbed Armand, does he?

  “Just after midnight,” I reply, clasping my hands in my lap and wishing this was all over and done with. Now he’s starting to make me feel like I’ve done something wrong.

  He frowns. “According to the staff rota information we’ve been given, your shift should have finished at eleven. Why were you still around at midnight?” Lifting an eyebrow he adds, “Working overtime, were we?”

  The way he says it clearly infers he thinks I was doing something other than working between eleven and midnight last night. I’m not sure if he’s suggesting I was having an after-hours fling with Armand or if he thinks I was attacking him with a knife. Both options sicken me to my stomach.

  “Armand asked me to stay late. He had some new publicity material and menus being designed and he wanted my opinion on them.” I fidget in my seat some more. I just want to get out of here.

  Chief Inspector Smith shoots me a look somewhere between amusement and surprise. “He wanted the opinion of a waitress on publicity material?” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Now, why would he want your opinion on something important, Miss Carter?”

  “I used to work in publicity and promotions in London,” I answer, not meeting his gaze and staring at my hands instead.

  “Really? So why are you now just a waitress in the backwaters of Cumbria? Hmm?”

  On behalf of fellow waitresses the world over, I bristle at his implication that waitressing is a lowly occupation for people without any brains or gumption. “It’s a long story.” I don’t want to have to explain what happened with my life in London. I’m trying to forget all about it.

  “Then I suggest you tell the story quickly,” he replies. “I don’t have all day.”

  I nod and sit up straight. I’ll give him the short version and miss out all the drama and other stuff. “My uncle, Joe Armstrong, sadly passed away, and he left me his farm, Eskdale Top. Well, it’s more of a smallholding really… So, here I am.”

  Narrowing his eyes at me, Chief Inspector Smith gets to his feet. “And do you live alone up there?”

  I get a brief flashback to London and how things could have been so very different.

  “Miss Carter? Please answer the question.”

  In a second the flashback is gone and I’m back in the staff room at the Veggies being interviewed as a possible murder suspect. “I live alone.”

  “Which means there’s nobody to say if or when you got home last night. Nobody to have seen you wash blood off your hands or clothing. Nobody to provide an alibi.”

  Panic bubbles up inside of me and threatens to burst out. What? He’s saying I killed Armand. “I… I didn’t do it,” I stammer, my voice not working properly, tongue-tied and terrified at what he’s now implying.

  The Chief Inspector nods and smiles as though I’ve just cracked the most hilarious joke. “Oh well, in that case then, you’re free to go.”

  I scramble to my feet. “I am?”

  “No!” he shouts, leaning forward and getting in my face so much I can smell the coffee on his breath. “You were the last person to leave here last night at just after midnight. We’ve been told he died between midnight and two in the morning. You have no alibi.” With a malicious gleam in his eyes he adds, “It doesn’t look very good for you, now does it?”

  Sweat trickles down my spine and tears prickle at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back. Yes, I’m terrified I’m going to be arrested for murder but I need to somehow keep myself together and not dissolve into a mess of tears. “Are you arresting me?”

  The Chief Inspector doesn’t answer for a few moments; instead he ignores me and reads through his notes. Eventually he looks up and shakes his head. “Not yet, but we will be investigating you further. You can leave, for now.”

  Hastily I get to my feet and head for the door, worried he might change his mind and call me back.

  “Oh, Miss Carter?”

  I freeze.

  “Don’t go leaving the county or anything, will you?”

  The bright sunlight hurts my eyes as I emerge from the building. Sniffing back tears which seem determined to break free, I march purposefully towards my car. I’m aware of several policemen watching as I cross the car park. I get the distinct impression they’re talking about me – and not in a good way.

  Blipping the key fob, I climb into Daisy, eager to escape from their inquisitive gaze.

  I’m a murder suspect.

  I, Lizzie Carter, am suspected of killing B-list celebrity chef Armand Seville.

  Now what do I do?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The tears are even closer now, and I take a deep breath, forcing my mind to focus on the task of driving Daisy, of coordinating depressing the clutch with selecting first gear. Usually something I do on autopilot, today it seems I cannot get it right. The clutch and gears refuse to cooperate and make loud screeching protests as I fumble around, probably doing a lot of damage to poor Daisy’s gearbox.

  A sharp rap of knuckles on the driver’s side window makes me jump a foot. I turn, expecting to see a policeman holding handcuffs, poised to arrest me. Instead I see Jack the Spy standing next to my car, a worried look on his face.

  “Are you all right?” he shouts through the closed window.

  With a nod I half-heartedly wave him away. I just want to get out of here.

  The next thing I know, he’s got the door open and is crouching down so his eyes are level with mine. “I heard what happened to the guy who owns this place. Frazer said you worked here, so I thought I’d drop by and see what was going on and check if you’re all right.”

  “Thanks, but I’m fine,” I say, trying to reach around him for the door handle so I can pull it shut and make my escape. But I can’t, because he remains where he is, blocking the door completely.

  He shakes his head in a bemused way, and when I look into his eyes, he gently rests a hand on my arm. “You keep saying you’re fine when clearly you’re not. I’m beginning to think you just don’t want to accept help from anybody, any time for anything.”

  “And you’d be right,” I reply in a clipped voice. I used to accept help from people, trust people – but not after what happened in London.

  “And what’s wrong with accepting help?” he asks with a frown.

  I shrug, not wanting to explain.

  “Look, Frazer dropped me off down here on his way to fetch some stuff for the farm. I need a lift home. Any chance I could cadge a ride with you? You’d really be helping me out.”

  I can hardly leave a neighbour stranded, now can I? Reluctantly I nod. “I’ll run you back.”

  Gently he eases my hands away from the car’s controls. “Tell you what. I love VW Beetles and have always wanted to drive one. Any chance you’ll let me have a quick spin in her?”

  Is he doing what I think he’s doing? Trying to find a way to drive me home while making it look as though I’m the one helping him out. Sweet. My hands are still shaking, and judging by the mess I made of trying to select first gear it might be wise to let somebody else navigate the narrow lanes and steep hills back to the farm.

  “OK,” I say with a tentative nod. “But Daisy isn’t keen on anyone else driving her so you’ll have to be extra careful. Promise?”

  I detect the slightest of eyebrow raises at the mention of the name Daisy. He thinks I’m crazy for naming my car.

  Solemnly he nods back. “I promise. I’ll treat Daisy as though she’s made of glass.”

  Seconds later I’ve scooted across to the passenger seat and Jack takes control as we leave the restaurant’s car park. Daisy whizzes along the lanes as though she’s enjoying herself and her new driver. Traitor.

  When we reach the track which leads up to Eskdale, I frown as Jack turns Daisy onto the muddy, bumpy surface. His brother’s farm is a little further on up the lane so why is he turning here?

&
nbsp; “What are you doing?” I ask as he navigates Daisy with ease around the ferocious potholes lying in wait for us.

  “The yard at Frazer’s place is a right mess, covered with cow muck. You don’t want that all over your car, believe me. It stinks to high heaven. Thought it would be best to bring you and Daisy to Eskdale and then I can walk back home. If I cut across the fields it’ll only take me five minutes or so.”

  Right. Yes. Of course. If he sprints at world record pace, that is. Even at a steady jog it’ll probably still take twenty minutes. “There’s no need. Honestly, I’ll…”

  “Do you have to argue about everything?” he asks in an amiable tone as we reach the farmhouse and he pulls Daisy into the parking slot just inside one of the barns.

  “Not usually,” I admit, feeling more than a bit ruffled.

  “Good, because I’d hate to spend all of our time together bickering.” He turns off the engine. “It’s such a waste when we could be doing far more pleasurable things,” he adds with a wink before climbing out of the car.

  I open the door and get to my feet, my knees still a little shaky. I’ve been mulling something over on the way here and now I’m wondering if I’m prepared to ask a question and risk making a huge fool of myself or not. I need help and I’m going to have to find it somewhere – and fast. Jack might be able to help me, but…

  “Well, thanks very much for the drive, really appreciate it,” he says, walking away from me backwards, lifting a hand in a see-you-around wave.

  “Wait!” I shout, deciding to go for it, no matter how much the sensible part of me resists. I don’t have many options and he does claim to be a secret agent for this crime agency place he mentioned. But what if he says no? He might not want to help clear the name of his grumpy neighbour. I’m sure he’s got better things to do.

  Jack stops in the middle of the yard and holds my gaze, curiosity sparkling in his intensely blue eyes.

  “How did you get that black eye and the cuts and bruises on your face?” I ask. “Have you been fighting with somebody?”