A Fete Worse Than Death (Pippa Parker Mysteries Book 3)

by Liz Hedgecock

  ‘I know,’ said Pippa, and even to herself she sounded incredibly smug. ‘You see, I decided that if I would be working for you then I ought to find out a bit about you. That proved harder than I thought. Your Wikipedia entry’s pretty short, with nothing before six years ago. Nothing about your background, only your Cockney wide-boy persona and a list of your TV appearances. It took me a lot of digging — oh, and a phone call to my friend Suze — to learn more.’

  ‘Go on.’ Dev’s face had settled into a sort of pale resignation.

  ‘Arthur Smythe, public-school educated, graduated from the London School of Economics with a 2:1. Brought up in Berkshire, youngest son of Sir Gerald and Lady Smythe. Worked on the Stock Exchange for some years after graduating, then left. Enter Dev Hardman, lovable bad-boy chef and C-list celebrity.’

  ‘You found me,’ said Dev, without a trace of London in his voice. ‘Are you quite satisfied now?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’ Pippa drew her notepad from her bag, and consulted it, flicking over the pages. Dev swallowed, painfully. ‘I checked out this Stefan whatsisface, too. In fact, I saw his name on the sheets of paper Dahlia brought in last time I was here. Stefan Cohen. He’s an acquisitions editor with a publisher, isn’t he? A publisher who doesn’t do cookery books.’

  ‘If you’d like to tell me where this is going, I’d be delighted to know,’ said Dev. His tone was casual, but Pippa saw the stiffness of his shoulders; the tensing of an animal ready to spring or run.

  ‘I’m getting there, Dev. Believe me, I’m getting there. I phoned Stefan’s office earlier this morning, representing myself as acting on Dahlia’s behalf, and asked about a final delivery date for your manuscript, since you were having a relapse —’

  ‘You did what?’ Dev sprang to his feet. ‘You had no right to do that! That’s getting information under false pretences!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pippa. ‘You’d think they’d be more careful, wouldn’t you? The woman on the other end of the phone was rather huffy with me, but confirmed that they were expecting a rough draft for the editors to work on by the end of July. Back from the Brink, she called it. I assume it’s some kind of illness memoir.’

  ‘They call it sick lit,’ said Dev, glancing at the laptop on the bed. ‘And while you might not like the idea of it, it sells. Thanks to your fete, I have a medical problem which may blight the rest of my cooking career. You can’t blame me for taking care of myself.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t,’ said Pippa. ‘But do you really have a medical problem? Every time I’ve asked you about your health, you’ve wriggled out of the question.’

  ‘I had an exclusive with a magazine!’ Dev cried. ‘I can’t just tell everyone I meet what’s wrong with me!’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ said Pippa. ‘What was it, a vague sensitivity to food? Which might be an ongoing problem, but no-one knows yet? I’m sorry, Dev, but it doesn’t sound too serious. And while you are rather pale, some time away from the fake tan would explain that.’

  ‘And of course you are medically qualified,’ sneered Dev. In Pippa’s eyes, he had never looked so punchable.

  ‘I did think it was interesting that you went to a private hospital, not the local casualty department. Hardly man-of-the-people, is it? One might almost think,’ said Pippa, dreamily, ‘that you had something to hide.’

  Dev’s mouth trembled. ‘I think it’s time you left. I don’t know if you’re some sort of psycho, or if you’re just cross about your stupid fete, but I’ve heard enough. I don’t have the patience for this.’ He reached over and pressed the buzzer.

  ‘The nurse won’t come,’ said Pippa. ‘She’s busy dealing with someone.’

  ‘No she isn’t,’ said Dev. ‘I’m the only person in here.’

  ‘I’ll keep talking till she comes, then,’ said Pippa, settling herself in her chair. ‘Now, about the fete…’

  Dev groaned. ‘I knew it would come down to this.’

  ‘You were right, Arthur.’

  Dev winced. ‘Please don’t do that.’

  ‘I don’t know when you were planning to pull off the big reveal of your terrible affliction,’ said Pippa. ‘But I imagine when Suze phoned you looking for a favour, all your Christmases had come at once. A village fete; the perfect setting for a dramatic spectacle, with a captive audience. And no television cameras to pick up anything you didn’t want seen.’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish now,’ said Dev. ‘I suppose you think I can vomit at will?’

  ‘With the aid of an emetic, you pretty much can,’ said Pippa smoothly. ‘Maybe a proper one, like ipecac, or alternatively, you could have drunk a lot of salt water. I believe that works quite well, especially after a great deal of cake.’ She hadn’t thought it was possible for Dev to get much paler, but she was proved wrong. ‘Bingo. One sick chef, a nice big headline, and lots of publicity for a new angle, a memoir, and a comeback tour.’

  ‘Is that so wrong?’ asked Dev, his forehead glistening. ‘It didn’t hurt anyone…’

  ‘All that cake, thrown away,’ said Pippa. ‘All those hours of work. All the money which would have been donated to mending the church spire —’

  ‘All right.’ Dev’s voice was thick. ‘I’ll top up the shortfall, whatever it is. I’ll double it. Get out of here and keep quiet, and you can have what you want.’

  ‘What about my reputation?’ asked Pippa. ‘You don’t care that the fete closed early. You don’t care that people blamed me.’

  ‘Fine!’ Dev snapped. ‘I’ll pay you off. I’ll even give you a recommendation, if that’s what I have to do —’

  ‘No.’ Pippa watched Dev’s face fall, as he realised she meant it. ‘If it was just the fake illness, it might have been different. But switching the sword —’

  ‘I had nothing to do with that!’ cried Dev. ‘That was Dahlia!’

  ‘You admit it happened, then,’ said Pippa. ‘One of you switched the sword on purpose after you got to Higginbotham Hall, knowing someone could get seriously hurt, so people would think the fete was a shambles, and assume your episode was part of it. Oh, and then one of you — Dahlia, I assume — rang the Chronicle.’

  ‘I told her not to do any of it!’

  ‘Of course you did.’ Pippa turned towards the door. ‘All right, PC Horsley, you can come in now.’

  It was Inspector Fanshawe who came in first, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Well well well,’ he said. ‘Fancy that.’ PC Horsley followed him, looking no less pleased. Pippa suspected neither of them was a big fan of Dev’s.

  ‘Did you get all that?’ asked Pippa.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said PC Horsley, tapping his ear. ‘Loud and clear. Every. Single. Word.’

  ‘How the —’ Dev looked from one to the other, mouth open.

  ‘As in any good hospital, this room is fitted with an audio induction loop,’ said Pippa. ‘Invaluable for hearing-aid users, and also for people who might like to listen in. My, erm, colleagues asked your nurse very nicely to switch the setting to T, and they’ve been enjoying the show on headphones.’

  ‘Dahlia will back me up,’ said Dev. ‘It was her idea. She’ll admit it.’

  ‘She won’t,’ said PC Horsley, with a cat’s-got-the-cream smile. ‘What time did she leave for her meeting?’

  Dev frowned. ‘Eight fifteen, I think. She was getting the train to London.’

  ‘She never caught that train,’ PC Horsley said, solemnly. ‘When she reached the car park, she found a couple of our officers waiting for her. Apparently she did try to run, but those heels —’ He whistled. ‘She sang like a bird, and it wasn’t your song, Dev.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Pippa, catching sight of the clock. ‘I should be at preschool!’ She almost upset her chair in her haste to go. ‘Mrs Marks will kill me!’

  ‘She’ll understand when you explain,’ said PC Horsley. ‘Just don’t break any speed limits, eh? Now,’ he said, turning to Dev, ‘we’re prepared to take you out by the back entrance without a fuss, provided you play ball.
I don’t think the inspector has decided exactly what to charge you with yet, so behave and you might get lucky.’

  ‘Then again,’ said Pippa, ‘imagine what a book you could write about your time in jail.’ And with a very Dev-like wink, she disappeared.

  CHAPTER 26

  ‘It’s going well, isn’t it?’ said Simon, his arm snaking round Pippa’s waist.

  ‘Very,’ said Pippa. Serendipity was addressing the crafters sat round Lady Higginbotham’s dining-room table, her hands describing complicated figures in the air to their rapt faces. ‘Who’d have thought, eh?’

  Things had gone surprisingly smoothly ever since the apprehending of Dev and Dahlia; probably because Dahlia was no longer able to leak anything to the press. The newspapers, however, now had more than enough material. The picture of Dev on a stretcher was reused several times on the front page, with headlines such as ‘SICKENING’, ‘MAKES YOU WANT TO THROW UP’, and ‘TV CHEF POISONS HIMSELF FOR BOOK DEAL’. Pippa considered making a collage of them and framing it, before reflecting that firstly, it would be churlish of her, and secondly that Freddie would probably make a better job of it. She found herself torn between satisfaction at another thing to skewer Dahlia on — ignoring the instructions of a police officer — and plain relief that Sam hadn’t been responsible for the leak.

  Sam had, in fact, saved her bacon. When Pippa had screeched to a halt in front of preschool, she had found Sam sitting on the step with Livvy and Freddie, playing I-spy. ‘I told Mrs Marks you were running late,’ she explained. ‘She wouldn’t let me take Freddie out of her sight, but she agreed that so long as Freddie wasn’t in the building, but she could still see him, she’d let you off.’ Pippa peeped in, guiltily, and intercepted rather a grim wave from Mrs Marks. She considered explaining, but decided in the end that it could wait until she had managed to form a coherent version of that morning to herself.

  Even Beryl had come round. After the news about Dev and Dahlia had leaked out — Pippa had no idea how, but it had — the doorbell had rung at eight one Saturday morning. Pippa had grumbled her way downstairs, expecting the vicar, and just managed not to recoil in horror when Beryl Harbottle was revealed on the doorstep.

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ Beryl said grandly, inclining her head, and Pippa tried not to feel unworthy. ‘I was too quick to judge.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Pippa, resolving to put up a sign in the porch reading ‘No Callers Before 9AM Please’.

  ‘May I come in?’ said Beryl, her foot already on the threshold.

  ‘Why not,’ said Pippa. I can hardly stop you.

  ‘It’s about this event of yours,’ said Beryl. ‘Lady Higginbotham and I were wondering if you would like to hold it at the hall.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Pippa, totally taken aback. ‘After all that’s happened?’

  ‘Well, since the perpetrators are out of the picture’ — the emphasis Beryl Harbottle gave to ‘perpetrators’ was astonishing — ‘things should run smoothly. It can’t be as hard as a two-day event, can it?’

  ‘It might be quite involved, though,’ said Pippa. ‘Serendipity got so many enquiries that she’s running three masterclasses.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Beryl, ‘shall we offer afternoon tea in the garden? Finger sandwiches, scones, strawberries and cream, cakes. We could open it up to the general public, too.’

  ‘That would certainly raise funds,’ said Pippa. ‘Will you be able to manage all that?’

  ‘Everything but the cakes,’ said Beryl. ‘However, I now know of several local people who can make an excellent Victoria sponge.’

  Pippa’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that why you were prodding the cakes at the competition?’

  Guilt flashed across Beryl’s face for a split second. ‘I’ve never been able to make a light sponge,’ she admitted. ‘We were trying to think of ways to raise a bit of money to keep up the hall, and tea on the lawn seemed like a good idea — very British, not too intrusive — but without proper cake —’

  ‘You’ve no idea how relieved I am,’ said Pippa. ‘So, about these events. Would you be looking for a coordinator?’

  Beryl smiled a surprisingly warm smile. ‘I was hoping you’d get to that.’

  ***

  ‘This. Is. Amazing,’ said Freddie, almost knee-deep in jam and cream.

  ‘He’s not wrong,’ said Simon, opening his mouth so wide that Pippa feared his jaw would dislocate, and dispatching a huge amount of scone in one go.

  ‘Now we know where Ruby gets it from.’ Ruby, in her highchair, was grinning through a disintegrating mouthful of scone. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘I could get used to this,’ said Sheila, buttering her scone with precision and spreading a scant amount of jam on top, followed by a meagre layer of cream. ‘Terribly fattening, though.’

  ‘Come on, Mum, you can get way more on than that,’ said Simon. ‘Watch those two. They know how it’s done.’ He jerked a thumb at Lila and Jeff, two tables away, feeding each other bites of scone. Jeff was immaculate as ever, while Lila had blobs of cream in her hair and a smear of jam on her cheek. Bella was looking from one to the other, giggling fit to bust.

  Pippa sighed with pleasure. Happy crafters, sated afternoon tea customers, sold-out stalls, and the lady from the WI had got rid of all her strawberry jam. Lady Higginbotham was floating from table to table, being charming, and even Beryl, sleeves rolled up and bearing another heaped plate of scones, seemed happy. Plus two clients on the books, a nice fat cheque to the vicar, and a hall to save. What could be nicer?

  She smiled at Ruby, absolutely covered in jam and cream. Ruby beamed. ‘Ma-ma-ma,’ she said, waving her piece of scone. ‘Ma-ma-ma-ma.’

  She’s babbling, thought Pippa. It doesn’t mean anything.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked Simon. ‘You’re shaking.’

  ‘Ruby said mama.’ Pippa wiped away a tear which had come from nowhere. ‘She said mama.’

  ‘Ma. Ma,’ said Ruby. ‘Da.’

  ‘So she did,’ said Simon, squeezing Pippa tight. ‘So she did.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My first thanks are to my beta readers — Ruth Cunliffe, Paula Harmon, Stephen Lenhardt and Mike Williams — and to my proofreader, medical advisor and poisons expert, John Croall (now there’s a dangerous combination!). As ever, they have done a brilliant and speedy job — hats off to you all!

  I would also like to thank the members of the Facebook Cozy and Traditional Mystery Writers group for their helpful cover critique, and mostly supporting my decision not to go overboard with the oozing jam!

  Massive thanks to my husband Stephen, who, despite thinking there should be more jam oozing from the cake on the cover (sigh), has been as big a support as ever.

  My final thanks go to you, the reader. I hope you’ve enjoyed Pippa’s latest mystery, and if you have, please would you leave me a short review on Amazon or Goodreads? Somehow, since my last book, I’ve managed to start co-writing another series, so now I have five on the go! Therefore I’m trying to prioritise which series I publish in next by their review rating. If you want the next Pippa book sooner rather than later, review this one!

  Font and image credits:

  Fonts:

  DEATH font: Edo Regular by Vic Fieger (freeware)

  Classic font: Nimbus Roman No9 L by URW++ (GNU General Public License v2.00)

  Script font: Dancing Script OT by Impallari Type (SIL Open Font License v.1.10)

  All fonts available from FontSquirrel

  Vector graphics:

  Hall: Fort by nightwolfdezines

  Tree: taken from Free Tree vector by nightcharges (edited and recoloured)

  Cake: taken from Cake and Dessert Vectors (yum) by Natalka Dmitrova – see if you can spot where I’ve added jam!

  Plate: actually listed as a dog bowl

  Tent: Circus Tent by freevector

  Bunting: taken from Set of lines of buntings by happymeluv (I recoloured the flags to make the lettering easier to see) />
  All graphics at Vecteezy.com except the plate, which is at pixabay.com

  Cover created using GIMP image editor

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Liz Hedgecock grew up in London, England, did an English degree, and then took forever to start writing. After several years working in the National Health Service, some short stories crept into the world. A few even won prizes. Then the stories started to grow longer…

  Now Liz travels between the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries, murdering people. To be fair, she does usually clean up after herself.

  Liz’s reimaginings of Sherlock Holmes, her Pippa Parker cozy mystery series, and Bitesize, a collection of flash fiction, are available in ebook and paperback.

  Liz lives in Cheshire with her husband and two sons, and when she’s not writing or child-wrangling you can usually find her reading, messing about on Twitter, or cooing over stuff in museums and art galleries. That’s her story, anyway, and she’s sticking to it.

  BOOKS BY LIZ HEDGECOCK

  Short stories

  The Secret Notebook of Sherlock Holmes

  Bitesize

  Halloween Sherlock series (novelettes)

  The Case of the Snow-White Lady

  Sherlock Holmes and the Deathly Fog

  Sherlock and Jack series (novellas)

  A Jar of Thursday

  Something Blue

  Mrs Hudson and Sherlock Holmes series (novels)

  A House Of Mirrors

  In Sherlock’s Shadow (2018)

  Pippa Parker Mysteries (novels)

  Murder At The Playgroup

  Murder In The Choir

  A Fete Worse Than Death (2018)

  Caster & Fleet Mysteries (with Paula Harmon)