Pancakes and Corpses: A Cozy Murder Mystery (Peridale Cafe Mystery Book 1)

by Agatha Frost

  Julia felt the wind rush past her as the door slammed behind her. She fished out her notepad, flicked through the recipes and paused on what had become her official investigation page.

  She added a single ring around Amy’s name and crossed out the question mark. Next to it, she wrote ‘William Smith’, and drew two arrows, one to Gertrude Smith, and another to Violet Mason.

  Julia suspected if she had any chance of tracking down Roxy Carter, it was through Violet Mason.

  Julia had another night of restlessness, once again down to Gertrude, but this time over her words, rather than her death. She had stayed up for half of the night hoping they wouldn’t print the damning two star review of her café, and the other half trying to figure out how to deal with the aftermath.

  Standing behind her counter she let out a long yawn, and looked down at the morning’s edition of The Peridale Post, not wanting to open it any more than she wanted to open the divorce papers still burning a hole on her kitchen counter.

  As expected, the front cover and most of the inside material was filled with news of Gertrude’s death. A picture of Gertrude covered the front page, but it was a picture Julia barely recognised. Not only did she look youthful and exuberant, she was smiling. There was an arm around her neck, but the rest of the picture had been cropped out. It was difficult to imagine Gertrude ever being a happy, young woman, and she wondered if that had been reality, or just a single moment captured in a photograph to paint a different picture after her death.

  She selfishly skipped past the pages of tributes, and the many more pages speculating about the murder and the evidence, to the reviews section of the newspaper. She ran her finger along the page, ignoring the four star review of a local band’s concert at the church hall and a new cookbook from somebody who once lived in Peridale forty years ago. When she saw the picture of her café taking up half of the bottom page, her heart sank more than it ever could.

  Julia’s dream to own a café was something she couldn’t trace back to a single point, it was just something she always knew she had wanted to do. Baking with her mother had always been her favourite thing in the world. She died when Julia was just twelve-years-old, and everybody expected the grief to make Julia give up baking altogether, but it had the opposite effect. She baked even more, studying her mother’s old handwritten recipe books until she had them down to memory, and then tinkering with the recipes and putting her own flair on things to make them her own. She had always looked at her owning a café as a way of preserving her mother’s memory and giving her a legacy.

  Marrying young and moving to London derailed Julia’s dream, but it never dampened. Even in her lowest lows working on a production line in a soulless baked goods factory, the glimmer of hope that she would one day do things her own way kept her going. The day she returned home to find her bags on the doorstep and the locks changed was the day she knew she had to chase that dream.

  Looking down at the grainy washed out picture of her café, she felt that dream shatter for the first time in her life. All the heart she had poured in over the last two years had been sucked out in an instant, and all that was left behind were Gertrude’s final bitter words about the place that painstakingly served her fresh blueberries and raspberries on her pancakes for two years. If Julia’s mother’s legacy was Julia’s café, Gertrude’s legacy was the words she had left behind.

  “Morning, Julia,” Johnny Watson said as he walked into the café clutching a copy of the morning paper in his hands, no doubt the first of many. “I wanted to check up on you before you got busy.”

  “After people read this, I doubt they’ll be coming anywhere near here again.”

  “Don’t say that,” Johnny said, his soft smile comforting. “The taste buds don’t lie and there’s not a single person in this village who doesn’t like what you bake.”

  “Apparently there was one.” Julia pointed to the picture in the newspaper. “Miss Piston.”

  “There’ll be a new review next week and everybody will forget all about this one. Look at Rachel! Her gallery is doing fine after her scathing review last week.”

  Julia realised she hadn’t told Johnny who the woman behind the reviews was. She almost didn’t because she didn’t want to prematurely turn the conversation around to what was likely to be a constant talking point for the months ahead, but with Dot, her sister and Detective Inspector Brown all knowing the truth, it was bound to get out sooner or later.

  “I don’t think you’ll be getting another review anytime soon,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I think ‘Miss Piston’ was Gertrude Smith.”

  Johnny smiled for a moment, as though not knowing if she was being serious or joking, and then his brows tensed together as he pieced the jigsaw together on his own.

  “Piston!” Johnny cried, snapping his fingers together. “Why didn’t I think of that before?”

  “I only figured it out right before the murder. That’s why I was the one to discover Gertrude’s body. I was going there to – well, I don’t know what I was going to do. I certainly wasn’t going to put a knife in her back, although she did the same to me, metaphorically speaking. I wanted to give her a piece of my mind, or maybe just try to reason with her, to make her see sense. I hoped if I could say the right thing, she would pull the review, or at least amend it. I shouldn’t be saying any of this. It’s not right to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Just because she’s dead, it doesn’t mean she’s suddenly a saint,” Johnny said with a smile so soft it made Julia’s heart skip a beat. “Your café will survive this. You’ll see.”

  Johnny reached out and rested his hand on Julia’s, which was on top of the photograph, trying to block out all view of it. She looked down at her hand, and then quickly up at Johnny. Their eyes locked for a second, but that connection broke when the bell above the door signalled the arrival of a new customer.

  Julia’s relief at the interruption was short lived when she saw Barker Brown strut into her café. Johnny gathered his things, adjusted his glasses and muttered his goodbyes, his cheeks blushing all the while. Julia tried to remember why she had dismissed a second date so quickly.

  “Is that your boyfriend?” Barker asked smugly.

  “No,” Julia snapped, her own cheeks blushing. “What do you want?”

  “Is that any way to speak to a paying customer?” Barker folded his arms across his chest, and scanned the chalkboard menu behind Julia’s head. “More selection than I thought for such a small place. That review in the paper didn’t mention your broad range of coffee and tea.”

  Julia felt Barker lean on the metaphorical knife that Gertrude had already planted between her shoulder blades. She had expected people to avoid her café, or even offer pity or sympathy, but she hadn’t expected somebody to rub salt in the wound.

  “What do you want?” Julia repeated again, not even trying to sound polite.

  “It’s not like you’ve got customers banging down the door to get in,” Barker said, glancing over his shoulder to the door. “I’ll have a large Americano and a scone with all the trimmings.”

  Detective Inspector Brown turned on his heels and chose the table under the window. Julia glanced at the clock and noticed that Gertrude should have been coming in any moment to take that seat. She had more than once stopped people from sitting there to save herself from the wrath of her most difficult customer, but now she wished she hadn’t tried so hard.

  Instead of rushing Barker’s order, she took her time, making sure to perfectly grind and percolate the beans, not wanting the coffee to be too weak or too bitter. Even if she knew he would have some snarky comeback no matter what she served, she wanted to try and impress him. He was the type of person who could get under somebody’s skin with just one look and he was well and truly under Julia’s. When she ignored the obvious contempt she felt for Peridale’s newest DI, the strange bubbling she felt in her stomach called out to her. It was a similar feeling she had felt
when Johnny had put his hand on hers.

  Pushing those childish thoughts to the back of her mind, she spooned jam and cream into one of that morning’s fresh scones and carefully placed it on one of her finest plates.

  When she set the order down in front of Barker, he looked up from the paper he was scribbling on. He seemed caught off guard long enough to not instantly apply his smug face, instead showing the softer version that Julia had first found so handsome, but not handsome enough to distract her from what was written on the paper. Her eyes instantly honed in on the scribbled note ‘changing her will???’ in the margin.

  “Working on anything important?” Julia asked.

  “It’s –,”

  “Classified,” she interrupted. “Say no more.”

  That told Julia everything she needed to know. He quickly flipped the paper upside down so she couldn’t read anymore, but she didn’t need to. She was in no doubt that the papers pertained to Gertrude’s murder.

  With her new information, she walked as quickly as she could while still remaining natural, and she pulled her small ingredients notepad out of her apron. She flipped it open under the counter and squinted down at it, resenting the fact that her eyesight wasn’t what it had been in her twenties, and that she was probably going to need glasses soon. She pulled out her pen, flipped over the page, added a bullet point and wrote down exactly what she had seen on Barker’s paper.

  She muttered the three words aloud, forgetting she wasn’t alone. She snapped the notepad shut and looked up, expecting Barker to be hovering over her, but he wasn’t. He was still in his seat and his face was screwed up as he chewed a mouthful of his cream and jam scone. Julia allowed herself to smile because it was a face she had grown to enjoy seeing in her café. It was the face of surprised delight. Seeing Barker enjoying her scone almost made her forget about her feature in the morning paper.

  Detective Inspector Brown settled his bill and left the café without saying another sarcastic word to Julia. She hoped her baking had softened his edges, but she knew he would be back to his default setting the moment the delicious fresh baked scone was a distant memory. She made a mental note to bake him something special and take it to his cottage so he could keep reminding himself that she wasn’t to be underestimated. If not to impress him, then to keep him on her side so she could pry useful information from him. Even if the Detective Inspector had beaten her to a vital clue, she suspected she had more pieces of the puzzle than he had.

  The rest of the day was surprisingly quiet for Julia. Out of the handful of customers she did have, only two of them mentioned the review, and they were words of encouragement, not pity. The others were more interested in her discovery of Gertrude’s body, a detail that hadn’t been reported in the paper, but had quickly circulated the village via different and more powerful channels. It seemed the rest of the villagers were either exhausted from their unusual trip to church, or too scared that a murderer was on the loose.

  At half past five, Julia closed the café and she set off towards Gertrude’s cottage, but this time she was in search of her son, William Smith.

  The addition of crime scene tape to the outside hadn’t helped the eeriness of the cottage. The blue and white tape that had been strung across the gate had been snapped, and was fluttering wildly in the early evening breeze.

  Julia looked into the cottage and unlike her previous visit, she saw a light, and it looked like it was coming from the study. There was a police car parked up the road, letting her know it was still an active crime scene, but a quick glance in the wing mirror let her know the officer was busy reading what looked to be an adult magazine.

  Julia opened the gate and hurried down the garden path. She knew she was probably breaching a dozen different laws, but the door being unlocked made her feel a little less like she was breaking and entering.

  As she tiptoed through the semi-dark cottage, she caught her reflection in a passing mirror and she barely recognised herself. It was only last week her biggest worry had been her divorce, and now it was trying to figure out a murder case because she was convinced the DI in charge wasn’t capable of doing so.

  Pausing outside the study where the light was emitting from, she glanced to the cottage’s open front door, knowing she could turn back. The rustling of paper prickled her ears, compelling her to go forward. She pushed on the study door, which let out an almighty creak, as it swung open.

  A hooded shadow, much like the one she had seen in the window, was huddled over a box, digging through a box of paperwork. Despite the creaky hinges, the hooded figure didn’t turn around, and continued to dig. Julia cast an eye around the study, avoiding the chair she had found Gertrude in. There was an obvious sign of a frantic search for something.

  Inhaling deeply, Julia summoned her courage and knocked loudly on the wooden door she was standing next to.

  “Hello, William,” she said confidently.

  The figure spun around and froze, like a police spotlight had just found them in the dark. Julia felt pleased with herself for a moment, until she saw an icy strand of blonde hair fall from under the hood.

  “Who are you?” A thick Eastern European accent belonging to a woman asked.

  Julia was at a loss for words, but when she finally found her voice, she realised there was only one woman the mysterious figure could be.

  “Hello, Violet.”

  Violet tore down her hood and stared at Julia, clutching a brown envelope in her hands.

  “How do you know my name?” Violet asked, her voice dark and harsh, telling Julia that despite her youthful face, she was a woman who had lived life. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a friend,” Julia said, holding out her hands. “I’m a friend of Roxy’s. Roxy Carter. She might have mentioned me.”

  Hearing Roxy’s name softened Violet’s expression and she dropped her hands to her sides and looked down at the envelope in her hands.

  “The cake lady?” Violet asked. “I’ve heard lots about you.”

  Julia wasn’t familiar with European dialects, but she would have placed Violet from Russia, judging by her thick, deep accent, beautiful striking features and white as snow hair. Her eyes were dazzling blue, piercing and twinkling through the dark. There was a hardness to her looks, but also an undeniable beauty and strength.

  “I’m looking for Roxy,” Julia said, jumping straight to the point. “Do you know where she is?”

  “I was hoping to ask you the same thing,” Violet said. “I have looked everywhere and I cannot find her.”

  Julia’s stomach clenched. She believed Violet, which only condemned Roxy even more. For a moment, she dropped her guard, but she remembered where she was, and that neither of them should be there.

  “Is that the will?” Julia asked.

  “Will?” Violet asked, visibly confused. “I know nothing of a will. I found what I came for and now I must go.”

  She tried to push past Julia, but even though Julia wasn’t taller than the beauty, she was wider. Julia held out her hand for the envelope but Violet moved her hand away and retreated back into the shadows, clutching it tightly to her chest.

  “This does not concern you,” Violet said sternly. “Let me leave.”

  “I don’t think you understand the seriousness of what is happening here,” Julia pleaded. “A woman has been murdered and I think our friend is the prime suspect. I need to find her and prove her innocence.”

  “Roxy would not hurt anyone.”

  “I don’t think the police think that. She was seen on the morning of the murder arguing with Gertrude in my café. I witnessed it.”

  “This was separate,” Violet said, clearly knowing the crucial information about what trouble Roxy was in. “I need to destroy this evidence before the police find it.”

  “Evidence?”

  “Please, let me go.” Violet’s voice cracked, and Julia could tell whatever was in the envelope meant a great deal to either Roxy or Violet, or both.

  Before e
ither of them could negotiate any further, Julia heard footsteps behind her, and she felt Detective Inspector Barker Brown looming over her before she saw him.

  “Well, well, well,” Barker cried. “You just can’t help yourself, can you Julie?”

  “It’s Julia,” she snapped. “Pronounced Juli-ah.”

  “Of course,” he said. “You’re under arrest. Both of you.”

  Julia turned around to see Violet casually drop the envelope on the floor without Barker noticing. When she did, two photographs fell out of the top and it took all of Julia’s energy not to gasp in shock and cover her mouth. Instead, she turned back to Barker and held her hands high enough for cuffing so that he didn’t notice her kicking the photographs under the desk.

  “That won’t be necessary, Julia,” Barker said with so much smug satisfaction, it made Julia wish she had given him one of the misshapen scones. “That is, if you’re both going to come quietly?”

  Both women nodded so Barker led them out of the house and towards the waiting police car outside. Julia wondered if the officer had put his magazine down long enough to spot the light in the house and call for backup. Before she could wonder any longer, Violet hopped the small garden wall and disappeared into the night. Barker started to chase her, but she was as nimble as a gymnast and vanished in seconds. Julia suppressed her pleased smirk.

  “Perhaps the handcuffs are necessary after all, Baker.” Julia said, holding her wrists up once more.

  “It’s Barker.”

  “Of course.”

  Julia sat in the interview room and went over her story for the third time. She had never been arrested before, so she decided to tell Barker the truth about what had taken her to Gertrude’s house once more. She told him about Amy revealing the argument, and wanting to ask William some questions about his mother’s murder.