Jack nods encouragingly. “Anything you can remember about their clothing? Height? Build?”
“It was dark,” I reply, desperately trying to recall the scene.
“The slightest thing might turn out to be relevant, Lizzie. Just take a second and try to picture the scene.”
“I think it was a man. Though, I suppose it could have been either, really. The person was of slim build. Wearing jeans and a top with the hood up. That’s all I saw, sorry.”
“Right. If you remember anything else, let me know as soon as possible.”
“Oh! What about that TV show he was on? A volatile guy like Armand must have made some enemies there, surely?”
He scribbles a note. “I’ll check it out.”
I nod. “Right. So, what happens now?”
“I need to get into the Veggies to have a look around,” he says, all matter-of-fact. “You work there, so you must know how to get in, right?”
I nod, feeling hot and cold at the thought of stepping foot back in that kitchen. My place of work. The place where Armand was stabbed to death. “There’s a key pad and you have to input the code.”
“OK, good.” He reaches for his pen. “Tell me the code. I want to go over there tonight.”
“But won’t they have police guarding the place? It is a crime scene, after all. And the person who was killed is a celebrity. They won’t just leave the place for anybody to wander around, surely? I don’t think they were even letting them open up for business today.”
“Who’s in charge when Armand isn’t around?” Jack asks suddenly, and I can see his mind whirring, planning something.
“Peter Drummond. He’s the assistant manager.”
“What do you know about him?”
I shrug. “Nothing. He’s a workaholic. Has a good professional reputation. Armand gets involved in a lot of promotional publicity stuff, so has to be away from the Veggies at least one day each week. Everyone heaves a sigh of relief when Pete’s in charge. He has high standards but he doesn’t bawl everyone out. Pete isn’t hands-on with the cooking side of things. He prefers to oversee the kitchen, not get involved himself.”
“Does he fall under the category of what you’d call a decent guy? Happily married?” Jack questions. “Family?”
“I don’t know. He never talks about anything personal. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring but that doesn’t mean anything. Many men don’t. Do you think he’s a suspect too?”
“He’s on the list, let’s put it that way.”
“So, what about this visiting the restaurant tonight? If it’s still all cordoned off then you won’t be able to just waltz up to the staff entrance and enter the code.”
He closes his notepad and gets to his feet. “I’ll think of something.”
“Can I come with you?” I surprise myself by asking.
Jack, obviously equally as surprised, shoots me a questioning look. “And why would you want to do that?”
“I know where everything is,” I reason. “I could help save you time while you’re looking for whatever it is you’re looking for, you know clue-type things.”
“Clue-type things?” Heading for the door he turns back and looks at me over his shoulder. “I don’t think so, but thanks anyway. You just keep yourself safe. I’ll be in touch soon.”
Before I can reply, he’s out of the door and striding off across the yard. I stand in the doorway and debate my next move.
Do I dash after him, grab his arm and beg and plead? How pathetic will that make me look? Do I care if I look pathetic right now? I’m more concerned with ensuring Jack catches the killer. What should I do though? Leave him to it or park up near his brother’s farm and wait for Jack to go off to the Veggies in the dead (ugh, unfortunate choice of word) of night and then follow him? I don’t feel like staying up at Eskdale on my own – what if the killer is still around? But then I’m not sure I want to go running after Jack either.
And that’s when I spot the car making its way down the potholed track towards Eskdale’s yard.
CHAPTER FIVE
By the time I’ve composed myself and Jack has disappeared off into the distance to do goodness knows what, Brenda from the village store is out of her car and walking across the yard towards me.
I’d completely forgotten that we’d arranged to meet here this afternoon to talk through our campaign to try and save the village store which Brenda co-owns with her husband George. They rent the premises and have done so for over a decade. Now the landlord, some property management company, apparently wants to turf them out and sell to a developer. A developer with plans to turn the place into holiday cottages if the rumours are true. As the imaginatively named Village Stores is the only shop for miles around, all of the locals are eager to band together and try and save the place. With my background in promotion and publicity, I’ve been roped into helping lead the campaign along with Brenda. Even Armand had got involved. He frequently championed supporting local food shops, producers and suppliers in the media and had recently flung his not inconsiderable influence behind our own campaign. I think it was primarily to bolster his good PR quota, but improving his likeability amongst the locals was probably a factor too.
“Lizzie, dear!” Brenda shouts across to me. She’s in her late fifties and a grandmother several times over. Her grey-blonde hair is neatly tucked behind her ears and her hand-knitted jumper is teamed with black leggings. Today, with my thirtieth birthday looming on the horizon, I feel decades older than Brenda, not younger than her. “Have you heard about Armand?”
I nod and usher her inside. “Yes, I went to work, well tried to, earlier today and there were police all over the place. I still can’t believe Armand has been stabbed.”
Brenda plonks a cake box onto the dining table and pulls out a chair to make herself comfortable. “Have the police spoken to you? You know, with you working at the Veggies?”
“Tea?” I ask, ignoring her question and lifting up the kettle questioningly.
“Please,” she nods in reply. “I’ve bought along some homemade cherry cake for us as well. Thought we deserved it, you know, to ease the stress of the day. Your Aunt Molly was the best baker around these parts. People would go crazy for her bread and cakes. She always won first place at the local shows. I still miss her – and your Uncle Joe too, of course. They were a lovely couple.”
A small sigh of good memories escapes me and I nod. “I miss them too.”
“Do you bake?” she asks, cutting two generous slices and popping them onto some plates. “I bet you’ve got some of Molly’s baking genes!”
“I’ve never tried. In London we just popped into a coffee shop or bakery when I felt a craving for cake.”
“You should give it a go,” she enthuses. “Molly’s recipe books will still be around here somewhere.”
I nod. “Yes, they are. I’ve seen them. Maybe I will attempt one sometime.”
As I busy myself making our hot drinks, Brenda asks again, “So, have you spoken to the police?”
Putting the two cups on the table, I sit down. “Yes, but I think they’ll probably be wanting to ask me some more questions as well. Unfortunately, I was the last one to leave the restaurant on the night he was…”
Brenda gasps and almost drops her cup of tea. “They’re not thinking you had something to do with all of this terrible business, surely?”
I twine and untwine my fingers in the handle of my own cup. “They might well be thinking along those lines, yes.”
“In that case you don’t want me round here bothering you about this save the store campaign. I’m sure you’ve more important things on your mind.” She leans across the table and clasps my hands with her own. “If you want to talk or there’s anything I can do to help, you just say the word. Promise?”
I nod, wondering if I should mention about Jack helping me out and trying to keep me out of jail. Perhaps not. He probably wouldn’t want it known he’s working the case while suspended from his agency job. �
�Anyway,” I say, finding my voice again. “I think talking about the next stage in the store campaign is just what I need right now. It’ll be a welcome distraction.”
“You’re sure?” she checks, then lifts her cup of tea to her lips.
“I’m sure. Let me just get my folder and we can get started.” As I sit back down and open the purple cardboard folder I try not to think about Jack, the murder or the police. Instead, I focus on our campaign schedule.
Brenda snakes a hand across the table and rests it on top of my own. “I appreciate this so much, Lizzie. We can’t lose the store. It’s our livelihood and our home. We’ve got no chance of setting up again in business and we don’t want to have to move house. The store is our anchor. The grand-kiddies love to visit us there and help unpack boxes in the storeroom. It’s…”
I squeeze her hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll save the store. I’m determined.”
Brenda nods and smiles. “Bless you, dear.”
We return to organising and an hour later we just about have the next stage of our plan ready to implement.
“Did you, you know, see anything?” Brenda asks after she’s finished another drink and we’ve eaten more cake.
What is it with people and their macabre interest in murder? I shake my head. “No, nothing at all. Armand was alive and well when I left the restaurant and the police wouldn’t let me anywhere near the kitchen when I turned up for work today so, no, I didn’t see anything at all. Thankfully. Look, Brenda, I don’t mean to be rude, but could we please talk about something else? This whole business with Armand being stabbed is really freaking me out.”
“There’s no need for you to worry yourself about getting into trouble with the investigating authorities, dear,” she says, glancing around in a cloak-and-dagger way. “If you need an alibi one can be arranged,” she adds with a conspiratorial wink.
What?! Seriously? Brenda has transformed right before my eyes from village store owner and stalwart of the local community to some kind of gangster’s moll. I lean across and place a hand on her arm. “Thanks, Brenda but I don’t think it will come to that.”
At least I hope it won’t!
“We had another letter from the landlord yesterday, via the lettings agent of course, going on about how they’ve already got plans finalised and saying we need to be moved out by the end of next month,” she says, worry flickering in her eyes.
I flip through my pages of notes about the campaign. “That doesn’t make sense. The last we’d heard, the local authority said they hadn’t given planning permission for the change of use yet. You know, from retail premises to holiday accommodation.”
“Well, this letter says differently. I put a call in to the planning department at the council, but as usual, there wasn’t anyone around who could answer my questions. I’m waiting for them to ring back.”
I sigh. “OK. In the meantime, we’d better push on with our own plans. We still have the meeting in the village hall tomorrow night to try and garner more support.”
“Armand being involved, being our ambassador in the campaign to save the store, had got us some decent press coverage but now…” Brenda cuts two more slices of cake and drops one onto my plate.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, putting down my pen and rubbing a hand across my forehead. “We can’t carry on using all the posters and petitions and press pack stuff we’d prepared because all of it mentions Armand backing the campaign and it wouldn’t be right in the circumstances. I’ll have to get to work on redoing them all on the computer so we’ve got new stuff in time for the village hall meeting.”
“Oh, you are a love,” Brenda says, looking relieved. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
If I get arrested, the rest of the campaign team might just get to find out. I pick up my pen again and begin to write a list. “Right, OK. Let’s think. We need to hear back from the council and double-check about the situation with planning permission for change of use for the store. Then we need to sort out the new petitions and get them distributed around the pubs and eateries in the area. Oh, and also get some volunteers to go around to different villages and farms to get as many signatures as we can manage onto the petition. We’ll sort the new posters and put them up on parish noticeboards to raise awareness even more. Hopefully the meeting at the village hall will help with all of this. In the circumstances, with Armand’s death, I think it best if we avoid contacting the newspapers about the campaign for a little while. They’ll only want to talk about Armand, not promote our efforts to keep the store open.” My mind flickers to Adam. He could open some doors for me if I asked him. With his journalistic contacts I could get this save the store campaign splashed across the front of the national newspapers, generating huge support. Especially with the current interest in Armand, following his terrible demise. But, for one thing, I don’t want to speak to Adam. And, for another, it definitely wouldn’t feel right using Armand’s murder to bolster interest and support for our save the store campaign. No matter how much we want to see the village store survive and thrive.
“Lizzie, you’re amazing.” Brenda looks more cheerful now. “Do you really think we can do it? Actually save the shop?”
I nod, trying to paint a positive expression on my face. “I think we have a decent chance. We really do need everyone’s support though.”
“Frazer was just saying that he’d help out in whatever way we want him to. He’s a good customer of the store.”
“Frazer wants to join the campaign? I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the time, not with his family commitments and the new baby on the way.”
“I know what you mean, but he values rural life and wants to protect the few local amenities we do have left. He said he’d help in any way he could, even volunteered his brother to help too. You’ve met Jack, have you?”
I get to my feet and collect up our cups. “Yes, he called by the farm yesterday to collect some cows which had got out from their place and wandered over to Eskdale.”
“He’s quite the handsome young man, don’t you think?” Brenda says, trying to look innocent.
Right. I recognise a matchmaking attempt when I see one.
“Handsome boys, both of them, but Jack has something else, something special about him,” she adds.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I reply, trying to head off this particular topic of conversation. A part of me is tempted to ask her what she knows about Jack and this mysterious agency he works for, but if I do that then she’ll think I’m interested in him and things will get even more complicated. Which, at the moment, I can well do without.
“Could have sworn I saw Jack leaving, jogging across the field, when I drove up here.” Brenda beams me a mischievous smile. “But maybe I was mistaken.”
Silence echoes around the room as I search for something to say that doesn’t land Jack and me on the gossip radar. “He was just checking something farm related,” I eventually say. Not the most inspired response, but it will have to do.
“So, will you call in and see us soon, once you’ve got everything ready on your computer?” Brenda asks as she makes her way towards the door.
“Yes, if you can just leave it with me for today. I’ll be in touch soon, I promise,” I reassure her.
“Bless you, dear. It must be difficult being up here all on your own. Are you still unattached? Did you know that Jack’s single too? Yes, you two would make a lovely couple. Shall I play Cupid and perhaps invite you both round for dinner one day?”
I try to usher Brenda out of the door as quickly and discreetly as I can. I have a pig of a headache coming on and I’m not in the mood for matchmaking – no matter how well intentioned. “That’s kind of you, Brenda but I’m not looking to get involved at the moment.”
I wave Brenda off, standing in the hazy sunshine in Eskdale’s yard. A sunny day is almost as rare around these parts as a decent job. The cry of a swallow makes me turn around and survey my surroundings. I’m relieved to see th
e farmhouse still looks as though it will stay upright for a good few years yet. That’s one less thing to worry about on my ever growing list. Thankfully, most of the walls, made of a deep grey Cumbrian slate, look sturdy enough - from a distance anyway - and the tiles on the roof seem pretty sound too. It’s a pity the same can’t be said for the assortment of outhouses (some might call them barns but I fear their barn days are long gone) surrounding the courtyard to the side of the main house. The largest of the motley collection no longer has a door or a roof and has clearly lost its battle with the foot high weeds slowly overpowering it. I still need to get round to some repairs, but at the moment I don’t have the time or the money for such things.
Memories of my Uncle Joe keeping this place spick and span pop into my head and a surge of guilt reminds me I’m determined to get Eskdale back to its glory days. I used to earn some pocket money helping out around Eskdale in the school holidays and learnt a fair bit about sowing, planting and growing from my uncle and aunt, but confess I’ve had to refer to books and am eternally grateful to the Internet for providing answers where my memory couldn’t. For a while after I’d moved here I felt as though I had a dual personality. There was corporate me – all suits, meetings and deadlines. And then there was farm girl me - happy in wellington boots, mud under my now-short fingernails, pottering around in the greenhouses. I suppose the real me is a mix of the two.
Before Brenda is even at the end of the driveway, I sit in front of my computer and will myself to concentrate. Working on the material for the save the store campaign is, in a way, a distraction. In another way though it reminds me of why I’m having to change the petitions and posters – because Armand has been murdered.
And I’m a suspect.
I wonder where Jack is and what he’s doing. Getting up, I pace around the room, chewing on my fingernails – something I haven’t done for ages. Finding my phone on the table I debate calling him before, fingers hovering over the screen, I realise I don’t know his number. Why on earth didn’t we exchange contact details?
Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery) Page 4
