Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery)
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He lifts one shoulder in a half shrug of confirmation. “It kind of goes with the territory in my line of work.”
“The secret agent stuff, you mean?”
“Yeah, sometimes the bad guys fight back before they’re slapped into handcuffs.”
“So, you’re sticking with that story about being some kind of James Bond type working for a secret agency?” I ask.
“I’m not a James Bond type. At the risk of sounding like him though, my name is Mathis. Jack Mathis. And I really am a special agent. My employer, the Celebrity Crimes Investigation Agency, otherwise known as the CCIA, isn’t a secret though. If you’re rich and famous, then it’s the go-to place when you need help catching a stalker, a murderer, a blackmailer…”
I nod. “Right. Well, I’m not rich or famous which explains why I’ve never heard of it, but…” I shake my head and throw my hands up in the air irritably. “Oh, nothing, forget it, this is stupid.”
“Got something you want to talk about?” he asks, tilting his head slightly to one side and watching me carefully.
Do I? Yes. No. I shake my head again. “No, I’m…”
“Fine,” he finishes my sentence with a smile. “So you keep saying. Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look fine. You look worried sick. Are you somehow involved in Armand’s death?”
“What?” I take a step back. “No! Of course not.”
He takes a step closer. “But the police have you on their suspects list, right?”
How does he know that?
I give the slightest of nods. “If he died at around midnight that makes me the last person to see him alive.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he replies. “The last person to see him alive would have been the murderer and that’s not you.”
“You believe I didn’t…”
He holds up a hand. “Listen, I’ve been around enough killers in my time to know that you, Lizzie Carter, are far from a murderer.”
I gulp. “You have? Lots of them?”
“I have.” He nods. “Occupational hazard.”
“You’re really some kind of crime fighter?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“I am. I’ve got years of experience tracking down the bad guys. So, I’m thinking you’re worried about being a suspect and want some help finding out who really stabbed your boss…”
“But we could get into even more trouble and…”
He shakes his head. “We won’t. Trust me.”
“I find it a bit tricky trusting people at the moment,” I reply, then chew on my bottom lip wondering what on earth I’m contemplating here. Am I seriously asking this guy with a black eye who claims he’s an agent for something called the CCIA to help me track down who murdered Armand?
“Well, I swear you can trust me, no doubt about it.” He walks over and rests a hand gently on my shoulder, and despite my doubts about him, his touch is strangely reassuring. “So, any chance of a coffee while we plan out how to tackle this investigation?”
It looks like he’s going to help. Thank goodness.
We walk into the farmhouse’s rustic kitchen and I start making coffee for us both, more out of a need for something to do with my hands than actually wanting a drink. “Sugar?” I ask as Jack makes himself at home on the battered sofa next to the Aga.
“Yes, sweetie?” he replies with a wicked grin.
I turn away so he can’t see the tiny smile his flirty joke has got tugging at the corners of my mouth, despite my anxiety. “I meant…”
“Sorry,” he cuts in. “Just trying to lighten the mood. Two sugars in coffee for me, thanks. So, come on then, tell me everything about you and your boss. Leave no stone unturned. If I’m going to clear your name I need to know everything.”
Walking across to the sofa, I hand him one of the mugs and settle on the other end of the seen-better-days settee, cradling my own coffee for warmth. “What are your, er, fees?” I don’t have much in the way of savings, but if I end up in prison for murdering Armand, then what little money I do have will be of no use to me anyway. I figure right now paying Jack to stop me being charged with killing someone is going to be money well spent.
He frowns then sips his coffee. “Fees? You make me sound like some kind of gigolo.”
“I meant for your agency work,” I respond, my cheeks flushing red.
“I know, but the gigolo stuff sounds more fun.”
I push to my feet and turn on him, spilling my coffee in the process. “Don’t you ever take anything seriously? I could be slung into prison for murder here, you do realise that, don’t you?”
“Hey! Calm down. I am taking this seriously. Especially as the local police aren’t used to handling any kind of murder investigation, let alone one involving a celebrity, with the added pressures of the world’s gossip-hungry media breathing down their necks.”
“Fantastic!” I throw my hands in the air in frustration. “So you’re saying there’s an even higher likelihood of me being wrongly accused of murder because the local police are way out of their depth.”
“Look, like I said, try to keep calm. The local guys might not be winning any awards for their investigative abilities, but I’ve worked far more complex cases than this before with far more at stake. I can catch this killer with my hands tied behind my back.”
I eye him sceptically. “Won’t you get into trouble? You said you were on a sabbatical from this agency you work for. Plus, you haven’t mentioned how much I’ll have to pay if I do decide to get you to help me.”
“For you, no charge. And naturally I’ll be working freelance on this one,” he says, pushing a hand through his hair and then sipping his coffee, looking annoyingly laidback. “The agency doesn’t need to know a thing about it.”
I flop onto the opposite end of the sofa. “What happened with you and this crime investigation agency you work for? You say you’re on sabbatical, but in reality, are you suspended or fired or something? What did you do to get into trouble with your employers?”
“Let’s say there was a bit of a disagreement about the interpretation of a couple of agency rules, and so I took some time out to come up to Cumbria and help my big brother with the farm.”
I sigh in exasperation. “And that’s as much as you’re going to tell me?”
He nods. “For now.”
“But what…”
Leaning across the sofa cushions he rests a hand on my arm. “Just trust me. I won’t let you down. The way I see it we could, in a way, be helping each other out. Working this case will ensure you stay out of jail. And when I catch the killer and the agency finds out, it will go one of two ways. Instead of being suspended from active duty, they’ll fire me for working without jurisdiction, or I’ll have redeemed myself and they’ll reinstate me. Either way, it’s got to be worth a shot, right?”
So he was suspended. I shake my head. “I don’t want you getting fired for trying to keep me out of prison.”
“I won’t be trying to keep you out of prison; I will keep you out of prison. And if I get fired, then I’ll find work elsewhere with a different agency.” He grins confidently at me. “I’m good at what I do. I admit I might bend the rules a little too far some of the time but if it gets the job done, what’s the harm?”
“I’m thinking your employers have a different opinion on that front but right now I need professional help. I can’t go to prison!” I feel sick at the very thought of it.
His hand is still on my arm, rubbing soothingly through the fabric of my shirt. “And you won’t be going to prison. I will track down who killed this chef guy and you can carry on running Eskdale as a free woman. Now, do we have a deal?”
A vison of Armand, stabbed with a knife, police constantly questioning and harassing me, and my lack of an alibi for last night all crowd into my head. My hands go clammy and my shoulders tense up even more. I nod. “Yes. We have a deal.”
Jack pulls away. “Right. I need a notepad and a pen, and then I need you to tell me all about
your expired boss.”
I find the requested items and hand them to Jack, my hands shaking as I do so. He catches my fingers as he reaches for the pen and flashes me a smile. “It’s going to be OK.”
I nod and try to believe him. We take seats at opposite ends of the oak kitchen table.
“So, tell me everything you know about Armand,” he says, pen poised over the notepad. “I need to figure out who our other suspects are.”
Picking up on his words I gasp, “Other? So you’re including me on your suspects list?”
“I have to. I need to go through the details of who is in Armand’s life and what motives and opportunities they could have had for killing him off. Then I need to check alibis for each of those people. I’m assuming you have motive and, as you work with him, opportunity. As you’re so worried that you’re prepared to work with me, your unknown-quantity neighbour, without seeing any solid proof I work for a crime investigation agency, then I’m assuming you don’t have an alibi for the time of the murder.”
I shake my head and avert my eyes.
“So, come on then, tell me all about your relationship with your former boss.”
“I wasn’t in a relationship with him,” I immediately protest. “I’m sworn off relationships right now anyway, but even if I wasn’t… ewww.”
“From what I’ve seen of him on the TV, when he was in that big cookery competition a few years ago, he’s not a bad looking guy, so why would dating him be so awful?” Jack asks, his head tilted a little to one side again enquiringly.
“Well, he’s married for one thing, well, getting divorced. Plus, he’s a creep,” I reply and then feel guilt surge through me, right down to my in-need-of-a-serious-pedicure toes. “Sorry, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead; that’s what my aunt always used to tell me.”
“Come across a lot of dead people did she, your aunt?” he quips, tapping his pen against the table so fast it’s almost a blur.
“Don’t make jokes!” I protest, fearing the wrath of Aunt Molly crashing down on me as well as the might of the Cumbrian police force.
“I’m not. I’m just checking your family doesn’t have a thing about stumbling across murder victims.” He stops tapping the pen and instead raises it in the air towards me, as though it’s a sword he’s seeking protection behind. “Perhaps you’ve lured me here to help you, with your sweet and innocent façade, when actually you are the murderer and I’m in danger of becoming your next victim.”
“Ha ha! Very funny!” I scowl at him.
“So, speaking of your aunt, Frazer told me you used to spend school holidays up here, staying at Eskdale and helping out your aunt and uncle. Shame I didn’t get to do the same, spending time at Wellbeck and helping out my grandfather, we might have met when we were kids if I had.”
“Did you want to be at the farm back then?”
He shrugs. “My dad was in the army…” he falters slightly, then gathers himself and continues. “Anyway, we all had a nomadic lifestyle because of that, so we were often living overseas and stuff and I didn’t get to visit Cumbria very often. Even as a kid Frazer always used to tell me that when he was grown up he wanted to put down roots before he started his own family. As things turned out, he inherited Wellbeck, which suited him just fine. It’s a great place to raise a family. I guess I inherited the adventure gene instead, always off and about somewhere, every day different.”
The curious part of me wonders what happened to Jack and Frazer’s father but I don’t want to ask him outright. He looks a little upset.
“Tell me more about why Armand is a creep,” he says, swiftly changing the subject. “What do the police think is your motive for killing him?
“Disgruntled employee, I suppose. I mean, basically he yells at everyone and nothing is ever right.” I wonder how much I should say to Jack about Armand’s behaviour towards the young female employees at the restaurant. “He had very high standards at the Veggies.”
Jack stops making notes and looks across at me, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Veggies?”
“That’s what the locals call the pub and restaurant.”
He nods, the penny dropping. “Ah, right. Viande Et Deux Legumes. Of course, meat and two vegetables in French.”
“You speak French?”
“Oui, bien sur. Special agents need to be fluent in at least two languages. Anyway, we’ve established that, in typical chef fashion, he was a perfectionist and volatile.”
I nod. “That’s right. We had a new guy, Colin, start from catering college, and on every shift he worked he ended up crying in the stockroom or the catering fridge. Poor guy was so embarrassed he’d been reduced to tears by Armand.”
“Embarrassed enough to stab his boss with a knife at the end of his shift?” Jack asks.
I shoot him a no-way look. “Colin wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“So, who else do you know who works at the Veggies who might bear a grudge enough to murder the boss?”
“I don’t,” I reply with a shrug of frustration. If we can’t figure out who killed Armand then… I shudder again.
“Cold?” Jack asks, watching me carefully from across the table. “It might be early autumn but a Cumbrian sunny day in September is probably nearer to a wintery London day in temperature. Not fully acclimatised to being up here yet?”
“I’m just feeling a bit shivery.” I wrap my arms around myself. “It must be the shock of it all. I still can’t believe Armand is dead.”
He reaches a hand across to me and rests it on top of my own. “I know, sorry. I’d suggest you hit something stronger than coffee but…”
I look up, see his expression, and finish his sentence for him. “But the police might turn up at my door at any moment and ask me to accompany them down to the local station for further interrogation.”
“Armand is slap bang in the middle of an awkward divorce, isn’t he?” Jack asks, changing the subject. “His wife is Bryony Seville. Quite the businesswoman by all accounts.”
Wow. This guy knows his stuff about B-list celebrities. A tiny part of me is impressed. “Yes, he’d been keen to keep it out of the papers though. I think it’s in case it gets to the name calling and dishing the dirt stage between them and he doesn’t want that to affect business at the restaurant. Makes sense. So, how did you know about it?”
“I work for the Celebrity Crimes Investigation Agency, remember? Well, usually I do,” he amends. “So I have to know my celebs from A to Z, just in case.”
I nod and take in his assured gaze. There’s definitely something about this guy. He does ooze a James Bond-style confidence, despite his protests to the contrary.
“So,” he continues. “Does the ex-wife-to-be have anything to gain from getting someone to kill off her estranged husband?”
“You think she might have hired an assassin?” I gasp. I thought things like that only happened in movies about the mafia.
“Could have done. Has he ever mentioned anything about who owns what with regards to the Veggies? Does she own half? Does she want to try and take it all away from him?”
“I don’t know. He never mentioned her, not to me anyway. I have heard him ranting and raving on his phone quite often this last week or so. He was all red in the face and waving his arms about so I guess somebody was making him even angrier than usual. It might have had something to do with the pending divorce.”
Jack looks thoughtful for a moment. “Could be relevant, even if it wasn’t his wife he was talking to. You can’t remember when any of these times were, can you? If you can then I could call in some favours and access his mobile phone records, find out who he was talking to.”
I frown in concentration. “I remember the most recent one, it was on Tuesday. I remember because my feet were aching like mad and I was glad my shift was almost over. It must have been getting on for three in the afternoon. I usually work in the evenings but do extra shifts at lunch here and there as a favour for colleagues and, of course, for the extra money as
well. On that day I was covering a shift for Andrea.”
“OK.” He nods encouragingly. “Last Tuesday. Three in the afternoon. Got it. I’ll see what I can do about tracing who he was on the phone with. Now, I think we need to plan what you’re going to say to the police when they interview you again.”
“That’s highly likely, isn’t it?” I ask, hoping he’ll say it’s nothing to worry about and reassure me that I’m not at the top of their suspects list.
He nods. “Yeah, sorry, afraid so. Look, let’s get realistic. I think you need to be careful, shall we say, choosy, what you tell them.”
I shoot him a look of concern. “You mean you want me to lie to the police?”
“Not lie, as such,” he edges. “Just be selective. Don’t give them any more reasons to think you stabbed your boss. Keep your answers to a minimum and don’t let them rile you or try to get you to ramble on. That’s when you might say stuff you really shouldn’t.”
He’s right, I’m going to have to try to be careful about what I say in case some things end up getting misinterpreted. And I definitely do not want to end up in jail. Plus, who would look after Eskdale Top? And my parents would be distraught. My ex-boyfriend Adam would probably love it though. He’s a journalist and would be up to Cumbria like a shot, thinking he could use me to get the inside scoop on the story for the paper he works for.
“So, do we have any other likely suspects?” Jack asks, breaking into my thoughts.
I shake my head without really thinking. My mind all over the place. “Not that spring to mind.”
“Come on, there must be some,” he encourages. “All we have at the moment is you, his wife Bryony, and Colin, the new recruit at the Veggies who wouldn’t hurt a fly and spends all his time sobbing in the walk-in fridge. Plus, possibly whoever he was ranting and raving with on that phone call you mentioned. There’s got to be somebody else.”
“I honestly don’t know. I can’t think of anyone at the moment,” I reply with a heavy sigh, feeling beyond frustrated. Then I remember the shadowy figure in the car park at the Veggies. How could I have forgotten? I clear my throat. “I don’t know if this is relevant or not but I’ve just remembered, when I was leaving on the night Armand was stabbed, I saw a figure running across the car park.”