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

by Mackenzie, Zanna

  I drum my fingers against the oak table top. What now? I can’t just sit here. I need to do something.

  Less than a minute later I’m out of the door, fighting against the gusts of wind to yank on my waterproof jacket. The metal of Daisy’s keyring cuts into my clenched fist. I’m going to the Veggies, whether Jack is there or not.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Daisy is not keen on having to navigate the rough track from Eskdale down to the road in this storm. Concentrating, I steer her carefully, avoiding the numerous potholes which are overflowing with water, making them even more difficult to drive around than normal. Her windscreen wipers are going full tilt yet I’m still struggling to see where I’m going. The rain might have eased up a little when Frazer left but now it is absolutely pelting down again. I misjudge one of the pesky potholes and Daisy lurches alarmingly. Fearing I’ve got us both stuck, I gingerly ease her forward and thankfully she responds and we’re soon on our way again. My death grip on the steering wheel relaxes just a fraction once we reach the end of the track and turn onto the lane towards the village. Unsurprisingly the road is deserted and I allow myself to press down on the accelerator a tad more to get us to the Veggies as quickly as possible. What few trees there are around this area are bent double in the fierce wind, buffeting the bleak landscape.

  As Daisy and I head along the main road of the village, nerves ramping us as we grow closer to the Veggies, a cat suddenly darts out from somebody’s garden and races across the road in front of me. I slam on Daisy’s brakes and we screech to a halt. The cat pauses, sitting on a nearby stone wall, and I swear it’s glowering at me. Phew. At least it’s safe, even if it hates me. Gathering my thoughts and my nerves, I slip Daisy into first gear and trundle carefully, more slowly this time, through the rest of the village towards the Veggies.

  Five minutes later I pull the Beetle to a stop on the edge of the turning for the Veggie’s car park. This area, unlike most around these parts, does have some streetlights, though they’re pretty randomly spaced. Thankfully the power is still on in the village. It must just be the cables up on the hill for the farms which are out. Keeping the windscreen wipers running, I peer at the restaurant. It sits in complete darkness. Its stone façade is usually all lit up and welcoming, but not tonight. The media hounds must have dispersed after the earlier press conference given by the Chief of Police. I saw him on the news, standing outside the Veggies, face suitably solemn, giving the sparsest of details about the investigation and reassuring the locals regarding their safety. Thoughts of what this place has witnessed make me want to turn around and drive straight back home. I wonder if there’s still blood everywhere in the kitchen. I gulp. Pulling my mobile from my coat pocket, I try Jack’s number again. Still no answer. Now what? I’m rummaging around in the door pocket looking for the torch I always keep there for emergencies when suddenly the passenger door is flung open. I almost leap out of my skin, my girly squeal piercing the night air.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Don’t freak out!” A male voice hisses, just as I clearly am freaking out.

  A hand grips mine, and I look up to see Jack. He’s dressed head to toe in black, including a woolly hat and gloves. He actually does look like one of those sexy spies you see on the TV. All stubble, confidence and capability. My breathing starts to calm just a touch, but my heart is still pounding.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, an annoyed flicker in his eyes. “You weren’t actually contemplating going into the Veggies on your own, were you? You could land yourself in even more trouble by doing that.”

  “Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To get into the Veggies and have a look around?”

  “Yes. It is. But, one, I know what I’m doing. I do this sort of thing for a living. Two, I’m not the one suspected of killing Armand. You, however, are.”

  “Well, I couldn’t just sit at home doing nothing!” I protest.

  “No,” he says with a shake of his head. “I don’t suppose you can.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” I demand. I’m not usually an argumentative person, so I’m blaming my current rebellious streak more on the stress of finding myself a murder suspect and less on being in general bickering mode.

  “Nothing,” he says, lifting a hand in a calming gesture. “Nothing at all.”

  “So, are you going to let me come inside with you?” I ask, forcing bravado into my voice. I don’t actually want to go inside but, like I said, I have to do something.

  “Would I be able to stop you?” he asks, with just the hint of a grin flickering at the corners of his lips.

  “Probably not,” I concede. We both know that if he really wanted to, then yes, of course he could stop me. For starters, I’d say he must be getting on for being a good foot taller than me. Plus, he’s a trained spy. Or special agent. Or whatever. Right now, I’m just glad he’s prepared to help me clear my name. I really shouldn’t be picking fights with him. “So, amazingly, there don’t appear to be any police around, guarding the place. Do you think I’ll be able to get us inside by using my old staff key code?”

  “I’d have thought they’d have changed it for security reasons. Members of staff might be bribed by the press or even by some weird crime sightseers to get inside and take photos.”

  I grimace. “People actually want to visit crime scenes?”

  “Afraid so,” he replies. “Come on then, let’s go check things out. I suggest you put the hood up on your jacket and keep it up at all times so you’re not easily identifiable by anyone. If they spot you here, they might think you’ve returned to the scene of your crime to attempt to remove some evidence.”

  Sugar. They won’t think that, will they? I pull my hood up, tucking curls of blonde hair behind my ears, and keep my head down as we sprint across the car park in the rain. At the back door I huddle against the wall and am about to tap in the code when Jack grabs my hand and pulls it away.

  “What?” I hiss, rooted to the spot, blinking rapidly. Panic building inside of me once more. Panic and I are becoming far too well acquainted lately. Have we been spotted? “What is it?”

  “Tell me the code,” he replies. “I’ve got gloves on. No fingerprints.”

  Ah. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Thank goodness he stopped me in time. I tell him the six digit code and he taps it into the keypad. Anxiously, I watch and wait for the little green light and the buzzing sound which tells us access has been granted. When I do see the light and hear the sound though, I’m amazed the code hasn’t been altered. We’re in!

  “That’s odd,” Jack mutters as he opens the door. “Thought they would have changed it. If they haven’t, then there must be a reason why.”

  I follow him inside, hood still up and head still down. “A reason like they’re expecting the killer to come back for some reason?” I speculate, wishing that right now I was back at Eskdale. Being alone on a storm-ridden farm in the middle of a power cut is preferable to being here. I should have stayed at home and kept my nose out of things. What if my being here does make matters even worse?

  “Could well be,” Jack replies. Reaching into a pocket, he pulls out a torch and flips it on. “Come on then, Catwoman. You’re the one who knows her way around the place. Lead the way.”

  He seriously wants me to go first? That’s not very heroic or spy-like, is it? I take a step forward, but he slips a hand to my waist and gently tugs me back. “I was joking,” he chuckles. “Just tell me which door is the one to the kitchen. That’s where he was murdered, right?”

  I nod and realise he can’t see me because I’m standing - correction, hiding - right behind him. “Yes, that’s right, the kitchen. It’s the door down that corridor on the right.”

  Jack heads for the door, and I follow so close behind him I almost trip over his feet. I tell myself not to be so stupid. Armand isn’t still here, lying on the floor in a pool of blood with a knife sticking out of his back. At least, I sincerely hope he isn’t. It’s just that bein
g here, knowing what has happened, is so, well, creepy. We don’t know who killed Armand or why. Was it personal or is there a serial killer on the loose in rural Cumbria?

  We reach the door to the kitchen and the air is filled with a disinfectant antiseptic type of smell. They’ll probably have to have a health inspector go over the place with a fine-toothed comb before they can start cooking food in this kitchen again. The thought of eating meals prepared here turns my stomach, as I’m sure it will many others. When the Veggies eventually reopens, will the place be flooded with ghoulish people wanting to see the place where the celebrity chef Armand Seville was murdered? Or will the dining tables and bar be empty and the place avoided for months to come until memories fade and people forget what happened here?

  Jack turns the handle of the kitchen door. “It’s locked.”

  Of course. That makes sense. They don’t want people wandering around all over the kitchen and the storerooms and walk-in fridges. They didn’t change the outside access key code but they did lock the internal door to the crime scene.

  “I don’t have a key.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jack replies, pulling a little cloth-wrapped kit from the inside pocket of his coat. “I can pick the lock.”

  Wow. He can? It’s probably wrong for me to thing that’s kind of cool - but I do.

  I watch and wait, and within what seems like just a matter of seconds Jack has the lock picked and is opening the door. Now we have to see if there are any clues inside this room which might point to who stabbed Armand and why.

  Without a moment’s hesitation Jack is inside the kitchen, looking around, taking everything in with an obvious eye for detail. “Don’t touch anything,” he says, throwing a warning look in my direction.

  I, however, do hesitate, standing in the doorway, waiting for something… though I’m not sure what.

  “Don’t be nervous,” Jack says, correctly interpreting my hovering as anxiety. “Come on in and see if you can spot anything amiss.”

  “What, other than the fact a man was stabbed to death in here only hours ago?”

  Jack stops his visual search and comes over to stand next to me. “There won’t be anything to see. The crime scene has been assessed and the place has been cleared and cleaned.” He reaches for my hand. “Come on, it’s fine, I promise you.” He gently tugs me into the room and he’s right. It looks exactly like it normally does. It just feels…different.

  “I need your help anyway, so you’ve got to get over this creeped-out stuff. You know this kitchen; I don’t. I want you to look around, and I mean properly, thoroughly look around. See if things are missing, if anything is in the wrong place. We’re on the back foot here because the police and crime scene guys will already have gone through everything and might well have removed some things as part of the investigation, but we do have an advantage in that you’re familiar with this space and might spot something you know is unusual that they wouldn’t.” He shoots me an encouraging smile.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask, meeting his gaze, seized with concern. “You could get into all kinds of trouble.”

  He shrugs and winks. “Guess I like trouble. Now, come on, let’s get looking.”

  As I walk around, to my amazement, my anxiety about being in the middle of a crime scene is slowly fading. Jack is right – the place looks, well, normal. All of the stainless steel surfaces are pristine. Everything is in its rightful place.

  “He was stabbed, right?” Jack asks from the other side of the room where he’s opening cupboards and checking the contents. “We don’t know if it was a knife from this kitchen or not. Where are knives usually kept?”

  “Chefs can be quite funny about their knives. Most of them keep their own set, wrapped in a carry pouch. They don’t leave them lying around and they hate other people using them.”

  “Do you know where Armand’s set of knives would be?”

  “When I’ve stayed late before, helping clear up, I think he usually locks them away in the cupboard next to the walk-in fridge.”

  “Right, good.” Jack moves over to check the cupboard. It opens straight away and I walk over to peer inside as Jack sifts through the contents. “No sign of knives.”

  “So, for some reason, he didn’t put them in there that night or they’ve been stolen, or the killer took them away with them.”

  “Or the police have taken them as possible evidence,” Jack adds and goes back to checking the rest of the kitchen. “Can you spot anything which looks different to usual?”

  I try to focus, picturing how things usually look and whether anything is standing out, jarring for some reason. That’s when I see it. On the giant cork noticeboard near the door through to the restaurant, amongst the various flyers, menu ideas and notes, is something I’m pretty certain I haven’t seen before. I take a step closer and Jack appears at my side.

  “What is it?” he asks, standing so close I can feel the heat of his body next to mine, even through our clothing.

  “I’m sure that wasn’t here before,” I say, pointing at the noticeboard. There’s a poster for the save the store campaign pinned on top of all the other stuff. “I’ve been organising the promotional materials for the campaign and I definitely didn’t put this particular flyer together.” The majority of the flyer is taken up with a photo of Armand. The heading declares, ‘Top Celebrity Chef Sets Up Village Store Campaign.’

  Jack leans even closer and reads the poster over my shoulder. “According to Frazer, you and Brenda are the ones driving this campaign, not Armand. So, is he being a typical celebrity spotlight grabber and claiming it’s all his own doing?”

  “Looks that way.” I move to take down the poster, checking for anything to indicate who put it together, but Jack closes a hand over mine to stop me.

  “Fingerprints,” he whispers in my ear, so near that I can feel his breath on my cheek.

  “I just wanted to see who had put that flyer together because, like I said, it certainly wasn’t me.”

  Jack removes the pin and turns the flyer over in his hands. “There’s no name on it so maybe it hasn’t been done by a designer. I’m assuming somebody like Armand has got a manager and a publicist. Maybe they’re the ones behind it, wanting to exploit his involvement and support in the campaign to boost the good PR even further for him.”

  “Probably, yes, that makes sense.” Beneath the photo is a few paragraphs about how strongly Armand feels about supporting communities and ensuring village shops, a lifeline for those communities, are kept alive and thriving.

  “Is there any animosity about this campaign?” Jack asks as he reads through the flyer. “Frazer said the shop premises are up for change of use to holiday accommodation. That’s a pretty controversial move in areas like this where house prices are being driven sky high thanks to outsiders buying up places and turning them into holiday properties. Amswick is only about fifteen minutes’ drive to the holiday hotspots, the big walking areas and the lakes, right?”

  “Yes. It is. Most people around here are in support of the campaign. I can’t imagine anyone being against our attempts to save the village store, especially not enough to kill Armand in connection with it!”

  “Frazer said it’s a property management company behind the planned change of use. I’m thinking whoever is behind the plans can’t be happy about your campaign.”

  I step back and stare at Jack, not sure if I’m getting what he’s suggesting. “What? And you think somebody from that company who’s put in the planning application is angry a celebrity is backing the campaign and so they arranged for him to be killed off? Seriously? Jack, this is rural Cumbria, not the Mafia hotbed of Sicily.”

  “And yet a man is still dead. A man who wanted everyone to know about his involvement in this campaign.” He waves the flyer in front of me. “A man who made himself the figurehead of said campaign. Stabbed in his own kitchen.”

  I gulp and nod. “So you think Armand is dead because of my attempts to save a village sto
re?” Guilt settles heavily on my shoulders, weighing me down.

  “It’s a possibility.”

  He must spot the look of sheer panic in my eyes, because he immediately adds an appendage to his previous comment. “But probably not. I’m sure there are plenty of other reasons for somebody to kill Armand. He wasn’t exactly well liked. I reckon we’ll come across a fair few suspects along the way and a variety of reasons why somebody wanted Armand out of the picture.”

  I’m not convinced, but I am grateful for his attempt to ease my troubled mind, if only a little.

  “Now, I need you to tell me what the procedures are each night at the Veggies regarding locking up. At least we know he was definitely killed here, in the kitchen.”

  I frown. “At least?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes people are moved. You know by how much blood there is at the spot where the victim is discovered but here, well, there was loads of…”

  I raise a hand to stop him. “Don’t say it, please!”

  He, in turn, raises a questioning eyebrow. “Squeamish, huh? OK, I won’t go into the details.”

  “How do you even know the details?” I ask, moving to rest my hands on the nearest bit of stainless steel work surface for support, feeling a touch light-headed.

  Jack immediately grabs my hands to prevent my planned supportive lean. “Fingerprints,” he says again.

  Is it my imagination or does he hold on to my fingers for longer than strictly necessary? He slowly uncurls his fingers from mine and I push my thoughts away from his touch and back to our investigation.

  “Haven’t they done all of that anyway? You know, dusted for fingerprints? I thought the crime scene had been checked over, cleaned and cleared.”

  “Yeah,” he nods. “But in my experience, you can never be too careful.”

  I don’t want to ask what his experience is. In these circumstances I’m thinking ignorance is probably best. “OK. You haven’t answered my question though, about how you know Armand was definitely…” I struggle to say the word.