“Killed here?” Jack helpfully supplies.
I nod.
He taps the side of his nose in the universal ‘that’s my business’ gesture. “Let’s just say I have my sources and leave it at that.”
“So, what do you want to know again? You were saying you need me to tell you about night time locking up procedures here?”
“Please.”
“Well, as soon as the last customers have left the premises, we lock and bolt the front door.”
“Lock with a key and then slide across a bolt as well?” Jack checks.
“Yes. Then we do any clearing up that needs sorting. Glasses back to the bar. Any coffee cups and plates to the kitchen. We don’t hoover up or anything like that. The cleaners do that the following morning.”
Jack nods thoughtfully. “And the toilets? I’m assuming they’re dealt with by the cleaners the next morning too?”
“That’s right.” I tilt my head to one side questioningly. “Why?”
“If you were the last person to leave here at around midnight and Armand was killed around that time, then somebody else got into the premises and was waiting for you to leave so that Armand was all alone. That person could have been a customer in the bar, and he could have gone off to the toilets and hidden in there until after closing time.”
My hands fly to my mouth as I realise a killer could have been lurking in the toilets when I was bustling about doing my usual closing-up duties that night. “I could have served the killer a meal in the restaurant!”
“It’s a possibility but I’d say there’s more chance of him being in the bar instead. If someone books a table they’d need to give what kind of details?”
“Just a name and a phone number,” I answer.
“So, the killer could have given false details but he would also have had to pay in cash because a card payment would have been traceable. The prices at the Veggies aren’t cheap, so most people probably pay by card these days, yes?”
“Yes.” I close my eyes and think back to that night. “I can’t recall taking any cash payments on the tables I served that night. You’re right, cash is pretty unusual these days in here. Most of our diners are visiting the area while they’re on holiday or have made a special trip to celebrate a birthday or anniversary. They’re attracted by Armand’s excellent reputation and celebrity status. Our prices aren’t sky high but they’re still pretty expensive. There are at least two wait staff working most nights though, more on the weekends…”
“So, somebody else could have taken a cash payment on a table,” he adds, reading my thoughts, “but I still think the killer would have headed for the bar instead; it makes life easier for them. Our other options are that the killer broke into the Veggies somehow, but there’s no sign of a break-in.”
I shoot him a questioning look which he correctly interprets. “Yes. Information from my contacts again. Plus, I had a bit of a scoot around outside before you turned up. No broken windows now boarded up or anything to suggest a break-in. They couldn’t have got in via the accommodation upstairs without a ladder which would have raised attention. There is the option somebody, as in a member of staff, let the killer in. To do that they must either have known the person they were giving access to or they were paid a hefty amount to just do it anyway and keep quiet. Though, with the news of the murder and the police asking all the staff questions, I’m thinking that somebody might well have panicked and talked by now.”
“Which they haven’t…” I half say and half question. Jack’s contact probably knows the answer to this query as well.
“Which they haven’t,” he confirms.
“So, the most likely option then is that the killer was lurking in the toilets until after closing.”
“Exactly. So, back to the locking up procedures. The door between the kitchen and the restaurant doesn’t have a lock on it. Meaning it would have been simple for the killer to come through here, to the kitchen, after you left, and then attack Armand.”
My mouth is dry at the very thought, so I just nod my agreement.
“Did Armand tidy his knives away while you were still here?”
Forcing my mind to remember, I mentally travel back to that fateful night. I was more focussed on providing my requested opinion on the new bits from the designers and ensuring I got out of here without Armand hitting on me than noticing things like whether or not Armand had tidied away his stuff. I conjure up an image of the kitchen. I think I remember seeing his knives lying on their leather pouch on the central workstation in the kitchen.
“I think his knives were cleaned and tidied onto the top of the leather pouch he keeps them in but not closed up inside. I can’t be one hundred percent sure, though. My mind and my eyes were on other things.”
“Like the design stuff he asked you to stay late to check out?” Jack clarifies.
“Yes… and other things too.”
He frowns. “Such as?”
“Armand had wandering hands,” I admit, my voice quiet, a shudder escaping as I utter the words.
Jack leans over the kitchen’s island work station, his gloved hands resting on the steel surface, his shoulders tense, expression angry. “You’re saying he hit on you?”
I nod slowly, avoiding his gaze.
“And, of course, you reported this as sexual harassment, didn’t you?” His voice has a hard edge to it now and, even though I’m still not meeting his gaze, I can feel he’s glaring at me.
“No.” I almost whisper the word.
“And why not?” he demands.
“There aren’t many employers around these parts, and I need the money to subsidise Eskdale,” I say solemnly, knowing what I did was wrong. I should have reported him, but I wasn’t the only who had that particular responsibility, was I? What about the other girls he hit on?
“You’re not the only female member of staff at the Veggies keeping quiet about Armand’s harassment, are you?” he correctly guesses.
I shake my head.
Jack turns away, curses loudly and slams a hand down hard on the door of the walk-in fridge.
“I know I should have said something,” I say, trying to make excuses. “But…”
Jack shakes his head and walks towards me. I back away and instantly his whole expression and demeanour changes. The scowl goes and his voice softens. “What did he do?”
“Nothing… nothing serious,” I stammer back. “I was taking the rubbish out one night and he came out and met me behind the dumpsters. He asked me out and tried to corner me and kiss me. I made a joke of it. Told him I had a fiancé with a black belt in karate and then ducked out of his reach.”
“If he’d already tried it on with you, then why the hell did you agree to stay late with him that night he was stabbed?” he asks, still keeping his voice soft and body in unthreatening mode.
“I couldn’t really refuse. Anyway, I didn’t think things would get out of hand…” My sentence drifts into the air, unfinished.
“What about the other women, members of staff, he’s hit on. Have you ever talked about it between you?”
“Yes, with some of the waitresses. We think there might be others too. The Veggies has a kitchen garden. It’s just on the edge of the village, not out the back of the premises here. It’s run by a woman called Katya. She always gives him a very wide berth when she brings fresh produce into the kitchen and she glowers at him a lot.”
Jack swears again. “So now we have several women, understandably fed up at being groped by their non-PC boss, any one of whom might have flipped and attacked him with a knife.”
“I’m sure they would never…” I begin.
“People can do all sorts of things they didn’t think themselves capable of when they’re backed into a corner.” He shoots me a questioning look. “You’re sure none of you have reported these incidents?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so, no. We all wanted to keep our jobs.”
“OK.” He sighs and rubs at his face, lo
oking annoyed. “Well, it’s definitely something to factor into this investigation. What are their names?”
Should I tell him? We were keeping it quiet, not wanting to stir up any trouble but now, well, in the circumstances, I have to share their names so that Jack can try to clear mine. “Marla Heaton, Vanessa Pace and Katya Stevens. Marla and Katya share a flat in the village with another girl. Vanessa moved to Delamere a month or so ago. Her fiancé works in a hotel in the tourist area and they’d just started renting a place together. Vanessa got a job in a pub over there, a place called the Fellside, right in the middle of town.”
“And now I’m beginning to understand why they found this guy murdered. Right. Let’s get back to checking this place out, shall we? Are there any CCTV cameras on the premises? Inside, I mean. I already checked out the exterior of the property.”
“No. Not that I’m aware of anyway.”
Gesturing towards the door to the restaurant, he says, “Let’s have a look around in there.”
Nervously I nod, glancing around us. “And we’re definitely OK to be in here like this? I thought it would be a five minute check on the kitchen, not a lengthy grand tour.”
“There isn’t anybody else on the premises, so we’re fine. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure we’re safe. Promise.”
He seems to be making me a lot of promises lately. Can he live up to them though?
I stop in my tracks, a thought popping into my working-overtime head. “What if Armand’s wife turns up here? The news of his death has been released now, so the police would have told her first, right? She might have a key and could…”
“She’s too upset to travel up here at the moment apparently,” he replies.
How does he know these things?
“Look, forget about that for now,” he soothes. “Let’s just get on with our search.”
He leads me into the restaurant. The door swings shut behind me, making me almost jump out of my skin. My nerves are all over the place. I stay behind Jack and peer around the room via the light from his torch. It’s strange, seeing it like this. It’s so dark and eerily quiet. The empty solid oak chairs and tables seem foreboding, lurking in the shadows, as if they’re waiting for customers who will never again walk through the doors. Without their cream linen covers they look bare and jar with the smart and stylish décor of the Veggies. The old original wooden floor, completely re-varnished when the place was fitted out, squeaks ominously beneath my feet. Without the usual delicious food aromas wafting through it, the room around me doesn’t even feel like the restaurant of the Veggies. It seems redundant. Next, we check out the bar area and then I point towards the door into the corridor which the Ladies’ and Gents’ toilets are located off. Jack goes to look for anything suspicious in them while I hang around in the hallway, biting my fingernails again, my back pressed against the wall so nobody can creep up on me. I’ll soon have no fingernails left to bite.
Thankfully Jack reappears after just a few minutes and nods towards the door upstairs. “You want to check out Armand’s flat upstairs?”
I just want to get out of here. It feels as though we’ve been ages conducting our search. And the longer we’re here, the more chance there is of somebody – the police, Armand’s wife, the killer - walking through the door and stumbling across our little private investigation.
Jack doesn’t even reply, instead he heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time. I follow him. Not out of curiosity, more out of personal safety. At the top of the stairs there’s a small vestibule area and the door into the flat which is, surprisingly, wide open. I grab at Jack’s arm, my whole body jangling with nerves. “I don’t think we should go in.”
He gently lifts my hand from where my fingers are digging into his arm. Good job I have bitten all my nails down otherwise I’d probably be drawing blood by now. I expect him to drop my hand and stride off through the doorway. Instead he holds onto my hand as he edges into the flat, keeping me slightly behind him in a protective stance. For which I am extremely grateful. The flat is all open plan so we can instantly tell the space is empty. Phew. Thank goodness for small mercies.
“The police must have left the door open,” Jack reasons. “So, let’s have a little look around, shall we?”
There’s some paperwork out on the coffee table in front of the leather sofa and Jack crouches down to read through it. I walk over and spot some more copies of the new promotional bits from the designers for the restaurant. “You know, that flyer we saw downstairs, the one on the noticeboard about the campaign, maybe Armand got the same designers to do that who are working on the new stuff for the Veggies.”
Jack nods. “Could be. Let me have the details and I’ll give them a call tomorrow. Pretend I’m his assistant and ask them some questions.”
We circle the flat, Jack working anticlockwise and me clockwise until we meet in the kitchen. The pristine, designer kitchen. All grey shaker style with soft-close cupboards and a fancy blue Aga. It’s surprisingly feminine. I’d have thought Armand would have chosen glossy black cupboards and a high tech modern cooker.
At the same time we both turn to face the two doors on our right.
“Bathroom and bedroom?” Jack says, more statement than question.
“Must be.” The thought of venturing into Armand’s bedroom makes me feel nauseous. I hold back and Jack looks at me. In an instant he must see my reluctance and understand the reason for it.
“I’ll check these rooms out.” He pulls off one of his black leather gloves and hands it to me, along with a spare torch from his pocket. “Want to help me out? Put this glove on and have a rummage through the kitchen drawers and cupboards.”
I take the glove and slip it on. It’s warm and smells of citrusy aftershave. As Jack disappears behind one of the doors, I begin my own search. I open the top drawer on a unit of three and am met with a jumble of things. This must be Armand’s junk drawer. We all have one of those. There’s a bunch of envelopes, most of which appear to be bills. Nothing significant. Opening a cupboard next, I find a box and gently pull it out. Inside is a wooden photo frame. I lift it up and turn it over to see if there’s actually a photo inside it. There is. It’s of a woman. The image is black and white and gives her a glamourous movie star air. She’s blonde, her hair done up in an elegant chignon. Her face perfectly made up. It looks like one of the portraits done in professional studios where they miraculously gloss over all your imperfections and make you look like a catwalk model. Who is this vision of beauty and sophistication? With the image in black and white, it makes it tricky to date. It could have been taken yesterday or it could be years old. Then I spot the bits of paper at the bottom of the box. Postcards, theatre tickets, menus pinched from restaurants. It looks like a box of mementoes. Does this suggest Armand was a romantic? Do all of these things relate to his wife Bryony? Even though they’re separated, does he keep his memories of when times were good for them, tucked in this box?
“Found something?”
Jack’s voice makes me jump, and I almost drop the frame. He comes and stands close to me. Very close. Looking at the photo from over my shoulder.
“Know who she is?”
I shake my head. “I can’t even judge how old the photo is.”
“Have you ever met the woman Armand is married to?”
“No. She’s never visited the Veggies as far as I know.”
“Right. Let’s keep looking then.”
Glancing at the clock ticking loudly on the wall, I realise we’ve been checking around the place now for more than half an hour. I really think we should get going.
And that’s when I hear a car pull up. Scooting over to the window, I spot a couple of men get out of a vehicle parked outside the restaurant and walk straight for the front door. My already sky high anxiety hits stratospheric levels. Who are these people?
“Jack!” I hiss, trying to get his attention. He’s gone back into the bedroom.
In a second he’s at my side again. “Wh
at is it?”
I lean back from the window so he can look outside. “Who are they?” I ask.
“Police I’d say. Plain clothed. Senior officers. Guess they want to look the place over again.”
“And we’re stuck up here! What are we going to do?” Frantically I look around us. “Hide?”
Jack steps back from the window and shakes his head. “No. Don’t panic. They might not even come up here. Probably just want to visit the scene of the crime.”
“But what if they do?” I say, grabbing at his arm. He might not be fazed by the situation we find ourselves in but I’m completely freaking out. “We’ll get caught!”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve got it covered.” He lightly touches a hand to my cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I want to find his words, and his touch, reassuring but fail to. “And what about you? You’re already suspended. You might end up getting fired.”
“I won’t,” he replies with an unshakable air of confidence.
The unmistakable sound of footsteps echoes up the stairs. Footsteps coming in our direction.
“They’re coming up the stairs!” I shriek moments before our visitors walk into Armand’s flat, flicking on the light switch as they do so.
Sugar.
It was bad enough being on the suspects list.
Now I’m going to get arrested, too.
CHAPTER TEN
Before the men can speak Jack barrels towards them, an indignant expression on his face. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demands. “I said I wanted to conduct a private search of these premises. Private as in no other officials barging in and distracting me and messing things up!”
One of the men steps forward. “Who are you?”
“Who am I?” Jack repeats. Then, with more force this time, “WHO AM I?”
“This is a crime scene, authorised personnel only,” the man says, clearly not fazed by Jack’s rant.
“I am authorised personnel,” Jack retorts, glaring at the man. “Why else would I be here? More to the point, why the hell did they allow you lot to come down here when I’d specifically said…?”
Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery) Page 7
