by Agatha Frost
“I’m going to find out the truth, Gran,” Julia assured her. “No matter what it is. You can’t spend the rest of your life in here for someone else’s crime.”
“Pass on my love to everyone,” Dot said, squeezing Julia one last time before she pulled away. “Be safe, Julia.”
Dot drifted away, following the group of identically dressed women back into the prison. She looked back before she vanished to give Julia a small smile.
“How did it go?” Brenda asked when they were back in the reception area waiting for their items to be handed back. “Not scared you away, has it?”
“I don’t think I’ll be coming back here,” Julia said certainly. “I’m going to get her out.”
Brenda arched a brow at Julia, her smile letting Julia know she thought she was crazy. When Brenda’s items were handed back, she hurried out of the prison without saying another word to Julia. With the moonstone in her hand, Julia sat in one of the chairs as she refilled her coat pockets with her things.
She pulled her phone out of the plastic bag, surprised to see seven missed calls from Jessie, along with a text message: ‘Kim is here!!!! @ the café!!! Not gud. Hurry up xx’
8
As Julia drove back to Peridale, snow slowly drifted from the pale sky, dusting everything in another blanket of white like a freshly baked Victoria sponge cake sprinkled with a layer of icing sugar. After pulling into the parking space between her café and the post office, Julia hurried into the warmth where Kim was seated at the table nearest the counter, looking over the contents of a file.
Julia unravelled her scarf as she walked across the warm room, the scent of cinnamon and hot cocoa in the air. It seemed that the rest of Peridale’s inhabitants were staying in the warmth of their homes because the only customer aside from Kim was Evelyn, who appeared to be giving herself a tarot reading.
“Julia!” Kim exclaimed as she looked up, snapping the file shut. “There you are!”
Kim was wearing a bright red and green Christmas jumper with a rigid denim skirt and fluffy snow boots. The butterfly clips in her hair had been replaced with small slides depicting Rudolph’s face. Her lips were covered in badly applied glittery pink lipstick, but she still had the frosted blue eye shadow. Her smile looked a lot more strained than at their last meeting.
“I’m so sorry, Kim,” Julia started as she shrugged off her pink coat. “I had some errands to run. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. I didn’t realise we had a meeting today. Can I get you anything?”
“She’s already had three mince pies,” Jessie announced. “And two hot chocolates.”
“I was just passing,” Kim said, her fingers drumming on the file. “Had some business over on the Fern Moore estate. I saw a newspaper headline there that caught my attention.”
Kim reached into her purple handbag and pulled out the edition of The Peridale Post announcing Dot’s ‘revenge’. Julia gulped as she stared down at the picture of Dot’s hand blocking the camera. She hurried around the counter, hung up her coat and scarf, swapping them for her Christmas themed Mrs Claus apron.
“Is it a problem?” Julia asked casually as she checked over the stock levels in the display fridge.
“Yes, it’s a problem!” Kim cried shrilly, her eyes dancing to the pile of fresh mince pies in the fridge before they snapped on Julia. “Your grandmother has been charged with murder! I feel like I should know things like this.”
“She’s not been convicted,” Jessie cried as she scowled at Kim. “This is what you always do! Your fingers are firmly on that rug, and you’re about to pull it right from under me.”
Kim’s eyes snapped to Jessie, her glittery lips pouting like a little girl who had just been told off by her mother. Kim stiffened her spine as she stood up, her rigid skirt jutting out at her calves in an unfashionable way.
“I was just passing to let you both know that I will be looking into this further and it might slow down, or even hinder your adoption application.”
“But that’s not fair!” Jessie cried, beating her hands down on the counter. “You’re such a dumb –”
“It’s all just a big misunderstanding,” Julia jumped in before Jessie got them into further trouble. “Someone switched the gun to frame my gran for the murder.”
“Has this been proven?” Kim asked, glancing again at the newspaper article. “It sounds like she planned the whole thing quite meticulously, if you ask me.”
“We didn’t ask you,” Jessie snapped with a roll of her eyes. “We’re going to prove she was stitched up. Dot didn’t murder him.”
“Well, that remains to be seen,” Kim said as she wandered over to the display cabinet, her eyes firmly on the mince pies. “Crimes like this are serious, especially when they’re committed by close family members. It casts everything in a very different light and makes me want to reconsider the suitability of this adoption.”
“You can’t force me to leave,” Jessie cried. “I’m over sixteen. I’m a young adult. I should be out of care by now anyway.”
“That is true,” Kim said to the mince pies. “I’ll take two of these to go.”
Julia reluctantly bagged up two mince pies, making sure to charge Kim full price for both of them.
“When my gran is found to be innocent, will it still matter?” Julia asked as she passed Kim her change.
“If that happens, we might be able to overlook it. But time is running out for this adoption to be finalised in time for Jessie’s eighteenth birthday, so unless you get a signed and sealed confession from this so-called person who framed your gran, you might miss the deadline altogether.”
With that, Kim turned on her heels and plodded out of the café, dropping her mince pies on the ground the second she was out of the door. One of them rolled out of the brown paper bag, but she quickly scooped it up, blew off the snow, and bit into it.
“I told you something would happen,” Jessie said, her hands tensing into fists on the counter. “I hate her.”
“We’ll fix this,” Julia said as she rested a hand on Jessie’s shoulder. “Dot will be out for Christmas. I’ll make sure of it.”
Jessie sighed before doubling back and heading into the kitchen. Julia decided to let her have a moment, so she started wiping down the tables.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Evelyn whispered as she adjusted her berry red turban. “You know you don’t need a piece of paper for Jessie to be your daughter. I see your auras very clearly, and it is definitely one of mother and daughter. You both remind me so much of Astrid and me, God rest her soul.”
“Thank you, Evelyn,” Julia replied as she picked up Evelyn’s empty cup. “Salted caramel latte? Let me get you a refill on the house.”
While Julia got to work making Evelyn’s drink, the bell above the door rang out, and Johnny Watson walked in, a sheepish smile on his face. His dark curls peeked out in tufts from under a red Santa Claus hat, and he was holding what looked like a charity collection pot.
“Can you believe it’s only a week to go?” Johnny asked as he approached the counter, his eyes trained on the chalkboard menu on the wall behind Julia. “It comes around quicker every year.”
“Can I make you a drink?” Julia offered as she poured the milk into Evelyn’s latte. “The gingerbread hot chocolate has been especially popular this year.”
“I can’t stop,” he said, shaking the small charity pot. “My editor has sent me out collecting for The Peridale Post charity drive. We’re raising money for the children’s hospital, but our readers are getting less and less generous every year, so we keep falling short of our targets. I was just passing, and I wanted to talk to you about the case.”
Julia took Evelyn her latte as she was digging in a tiny purse. Evelyn pulled out a ten-pound note and slotted it into Johnny’s charity pot.
“Anything for kiddies,” she said with a soft smile. “I’ll be asking the universe to send healthy energy their way tonight.”
“Thank you,” Johnny
said as he sat in the seat nearest the counter pulling the strap of his bag over his head. “I’ve been walking around the village all morning going door to door, and you’ve just doubled the total.”
“Consider it tripled,” Julia said as she pulled a ten-pound note from the petty cash tin under the counter. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
Julia popped a peppermint and liquorice tea bag into a cup, filled it with hot water, and sat across from Johnny. He pulled off his Santa hat before pulling a stack of photocopied newspaper articles from his bag. He slapped them on the table, his handwritten notes filling the margins.
“I still feel awful about having to write that piece about your gran,” Johnny said as he fiddled with his glasses, his pale cheeks turning red. “I feel like people have clung to that story and used it as a way to blame her without looking at other potential motives.”
“The police will have made the connection without you,” Julia reminded him as she blew on the hot tea. “You have papers to sell.”
Johnny pulled a paperclip from the corner of the papers before flicking through them. When he landed on the one he wanted, he slid it across the counter to Julia; it was an obituary page, and one entry had been circled in red pen.
“I’ve been looking into the other members of the group,” he said, an excited smile shaking his lips. “Nothing suspicious jumped out at first, but I’m a journalist, so it’s my job to read between the lines.”
“‘Martin Tucker, aged 85, died on Sunday, September 23rd, 2014’,” Julia read aloud from the clipping. “‘Son of famous Politician, Jonathan Tucker, Martin served northern town Accrington as MP for The Labour Party between 1984 and 1992. He is survived by his wife, Catherine Tucker, 41, and his two sons, Simon Tucker and Harry Tucker, 52 and 59 respectively’.”
“I stumbled upon it by accident,” Johnny said. “I was cross-referencing Catherine Miller’s date of birth with other Catherines, and I found this one. She’s been married more times than I’ve had hot dinners. Here’s another one.”
Johnny pulled out a second obituary, this time about sixty-nine-year-old French restaurant millionaire tycoon Louis Bernard, leaving behind his thirty-nine-year-old wife, Catherine Bernard. He pulled out a third, this time Jack Harris, seventy-one, leaving behind his thirty-four-year-old wife, Catherine Harris.
“This is all the same Catherine as Marcus’ wife?” Julia asked as she looked over the obituaries. “Are you sure?”
“Born Catherine Marsh in 1972,” Johnny stated as he read from another sheet of paper. “Father was a miner, mother was a housewife. She was the middle child of seven and the only girl. Married her first husband, David Power, in 1990 when she was eighteen, and he was twenty-nine. They were married for twelve years but divorced in 2002, with David claiming she had been ‘unfaithful with multiple partners’. Over the course of their marriage, David amassed a fortune in the taxi business, but she walked away with nothing thanks to some good lawyers. David is the only one of her husband’s not to have died. She married Jack in 2003, and he died in 2006, she married Louis in 2009, and he died in 2011, she married Martin in 2013, and he died in 2014, and finally, she married Marcus in July 2017, and he died last week. Five husbands in five different parts of the country, all of them wealthy in their own way, and four of them now dead.”
Johnny passed over his handwritten notes summarising everything she had just heard. She read over them quickly, soaking in every last detail.
“This is incredible,” Julia whispered, unable to believe what she was reading. “And she’s got away with this every time?”
“Well, here’s the thing,” Johnny said, pulling out a second piece of paper. “I obviously noticed the pattern too, so I went digging even further. Jack died of surgery complications getting his fourth facelift, thanks to a pre-existing lung condition, Louis was a lifelong diabetic who ignored his condition and died from heart disease, Martin had cancer when he met Catherine, and the whole village saw what happened to Marcus.”
“So, you’re saying it’s a coincidence all her husbands died, and she inherited their fortunes?”
“I’m saying, she clearly had a type,” Johnny pulled out a wad of wedding pictures and spread them on the table, each depicting a not-so-healthy looking man with a woman with a different hair colour in each picture. “What if she sought out men who were ill, or even dying, made them fall in love with her, took their money, and ran off into the sunset with a bottle of hair dye to do it all again somewhere else.”
“Is that legal?”
“It’s not illegal,” Johnny said with a shrug as he tapped his finger on one of the pictures showing one of the unlucky husbands in a wheelchair with oxygen tubes up his nose. “This is Martin. They met in a private cancer hospital, where she was his nurse. Checked it out, and there’s an open investigation because she faked her qualifications.”
“She’s a con-woman.”
“A very good one too,” Johnny said, almost impressed. “She doesn’t stay anywhere too long, never looks the same, and in between cons goes by dozens of different names. Even if these men searched for her online, they wouldn’t find any of this. It’s my job to find this stuff, and even I struggled.”
“Do you think she switched the guns to kill Marcus and take his money?” Julia asked, her head spinning with all of the new information. “That doesn’t really fit the pattern, does it?”
“It doesn’t, but I found Marcus’ lawyer and called pretending to be a distant relative,” Johnny said with a pleased grin. “The will is being read tomorrow, per his wife’s request.”
Julia nodded as she looked over the papers on the table.
“Can I have a copy of these?” Julia asked, not wanting the information to leave her side. “This is all really helpful.”
“This is your copy,” Johnny said with a wink. “I made two of everything for this very reason. Investigating Catherine’s past has taken me days, but I’ve not finished digging up information about the rest of the cast and crew.”
“Keep up the brilliant work,” Julia said as she gathered up the papers. “I had my suspicions about Catherine before, but this has kicked things up a notch.”
“Do you think she did it?” Johnny asked, standing up and putting his messenger bag over his head. “I’ve been thinking about taking this stuff to the police before she flees the village.”
“Don’t,” Julia said firmly. “We need a concrete confession if my gran stands a chance of having her charges reduced. It needs proving beyond any doubt.”
“How are you going to get a confession?” Johnny asked as he sandwiched the hat back on his head.
“I haven’t figured that part out yet,” Julia said after a sip of the peppermint and liquorice tea. “I’m sure I’ll think of something. Thank you for this, Johnny. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not brilliant.”
With blushing cheeks, Johnny headed back to the door with the charity pot in his hand, a pleased smile on his face. As he turned around, he bumped into Barker before scurrying off.
“Someone looked like they were in a good mood,” Barker said, closing the door behind him as he watched Johnny hurry across the village green. “Did you finally agree to go on a proper date with him?”
“Very funny,” Julia said as she straightened up the bundle of papers. “He was just collecting money for the newspaper, and he has found some very interesting information on Catherine Miller, or should I say, Catherine Marsh-Power-Harris-Bernard-Tucker-Miller?”
Barker arched a brow at Julia out of the corner of his eye as he leaned into the display cabinet to look at what was on offer.
“What are you talking about?” Barker asked with a confused smile. “Where’s the chocolate cake?”
Jessie appeared from the kitchen with a slice of Barker’s favourite double chocolate fudge cake, of which Julia always made sure to have extra in the kitchen fridge. Barker picked it up with a wink before taking the seat across from Julia.
“Catherine has
had five husbands,” Julia said, pushing the file across to Barker. “All dead, apart from her first. I suppose you haven’t looked that deeply into it yet, have you?”
“It’s not my case,” Barker mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate cake. “Chief decided I was too close to it to be unbiased, especially with – well, with your reputation. He thought I might be feeding you information.”
“And yet here I am,” Julia said, reaching across to wipe chocolate icing off Barker’s chin. “Feeding you information from Johnny Watson, a measly journalist.”
Barker took another bite of the chocolate cake as he flicked through the paperwork, squinting at the glossy wedding photographs.
“Can I keep this?” Barker mumbled through a mouthful of cake. “I could pass it on to the investigation team. Might help your gran’s case.”
“No.” Julia pulled back the file in a flash. “I have a feeling it will be too easy to spin any information into making my gran look guiltier. If they want this, they can figure it out for themselves.”
Barker smirked before taking another bite of the cake.
“I suppose you won’t want to know the information I just heard in the bathroom then, would you?”
Julia tucked the file into her handbag behind the counter before slowly rising up to look at Barker. Evelyn, who was still shuffling through tarot cards and picking them out at random was clearly eavesdropping on the entire conversation, and had probably been doing the same throughout Johnny’s.
“Shoot,” Julia said as she leaned against the counter.
“Forensics pulled two sets of fingerprints off the gun,” Barker said as he wiped chocolate from the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. “One belonged to Dot, and another to an unknown person.”
“How is that useful?” Julia asked.
“They don’t belong to anyone on file,” Barker said, pushing the plate away. “But it’s only a matter of time before they fingerprint everyone who was at the village hall that night and get a match.”
