Xmas Marks The Spot (Merry Summerfield Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

by Kris Pearson

  “Paul has one on the coffee table. I’ll have a look. And yes, our district at home has a local rag that we make fun of but never miss reading, so I know what you mean. Happy to visit Iona next.” Heather waved a hand at our empty mug and cup. “On the house,” she said softly, and we both grinned.

  *

  I should have gone home and attended to Elaine O’Blythe’s latest tale about Kerry the kereru flapping around in the tree-ferns and kowhai trees, eating buds and flowers. But the weather was beautiful, Heather was easy company, and somehow I found we were ambling the length of Drizzle Bay’s main street and checking out the shops. It’s not a long main street at first glance, but the shops continue around the corner by Paul’s church as far as the big old oak tree with the seat around it. Heaven only knows how that survives the salt spray.

  “Good butcher,” I said, indicating Bernie Karaka’s meticulous display of steaks and cutlets and other meaty treats. “He and his wife adopted the two little dogs after Isobel died. And the Mini-mart’s groceries cost a bit more than the big supermarket further north, but if you factor in the petrol to drive there, then it’s not that much of a difference.”

  We walked a few steps further. “OMG! That’s Mother to a T,” Heather said, pointing to an out-of-season very sensible pink woolen cardigan with a collar. Yes, Drizzle Bay Modes is that kind of place, and I wasn’t going to tell her I had exactly the same garment at home in jade green. No-one ever sees it except Graham, but when you’re working at a keyboard for ages, something warm and cozy is just the ticket.

  Then she gave a long, appreciative moan and stopped outside the Brides by Butterfly window next door. “That’s just gorgeous,” she whispered. “I had a great pouffy meringue of a wedding dress, but look at that slinky thing with the lacey fishtail. Pure Hollywood.”

  It was easy to picture her in it. Her pale skin and long blonde hair. Those innocent big blue eyes that hid all kinds of wicked twinkles. “Yes, I can definitely see you in that. To my mother’s disappointment I chose a cream wool crepe suit and a hat with a veil.”

  Heather dragged her eyes away from the Hollywood dress and sent me a doubtful glance.

  I shrugged. “I was past thirty and thought I looked suitably elegant, but the outfit was probably trying to tell me ‘all downhill from here’.”

  “Don’t,” she said, giving me a nudge with an elbow. “I’m sure you looked very classy.” Then she linked her arm through mine to slow me from walking any further until she’d had a good look at the rest of the wedding finery on display. “Brides by Butterfly,” she murmured. “Nice name. Floaty and memorable – just like that dress over there.”

  “The owner’s name is Buttercup,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Belinda Buttercup. She could hardly have Brides by Buttercup because Buttercup sounds like a farmyard cow – not the least bit bridal.”

  “So she called the place Butterfly? Clever. Much more graceful and pretty.” Heather peered into the window again and I let her look. We were just about to resume our wander when my phone exploded with ‘Jingle Bells’. I scrabbled in my bag for it and found it was Bruce Carver. I could practically smell his cologne down the line.

  “Good morning, Detective. Lovely day.” (Or was that too chirpy?)

  “Morning Ms Summerfield.” By contrast he was sounding pretty abrasive. “Wondering if I could come around for that word. What time would suit?”

  “I’m not at home. I’m out with Paul McCreagh’s sister who you saw last night. Just around the village, though. Not doing anything too important.”

  I’m sure I heard the cogs in his brain whirring before he said, “Two birds with one stone, then. Where can I meet you?”

  I didn’t fancy being grilled in a public place like Iona’s café, so I suggested the side of St Agatha’s church. There are a couple of big wooden benches there, set in an L shape, and partly in the shade of the pohutukawa trees. I’m sure he got the point we’d be away from flapping ears.

  “Five minutes,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have Mr Jacobsen with you?”

  Kill me now – I couldn’t resist. “He’s gone to buy another helicopter.” I hoped that sounded as though I had friends who bought extra helicopters every day. “He won’t be back for a while.”

  “Understood,” Bruce Carver snapped. “I’ll phone him.”

  And once again it seemed he was just around the corner because his car glided up and then stopped with a squeal only a couple of minutes later. Did he need new brake pads or something? Detective Marion Wick’s very long legs slid out of the passenger side, followed by her equally slender body and over-large eyes.

  “Wouldn’t you like legs like those?” I muttered to Heather. This was possibly unfair because I hadn’t seen Heather’s legs out of trousers yet. Capris at the Burkeville for brunch, and camel-colored chinos today – no doubt chosen to be practical for our aerial jaunt. She could have amazing legs for all I knew.

  I did the introductions. Marion Wick sat on the bench at an angle from Heather and me, and Bruce Carver seemed to feel more at home pacing up and down in front of us all – his harem of three. He wished.

  He waited until Detective Wick had switched her phone to record and told it when and where and who. “Thank you for the Maisie Hardacre information last night,” he began. “And for Mr Haldane’s whereabouts. We’ll investigate the old cottage and see if we can find him.”

  I took a deep breath, fearing the reaction that would surely follow. “When we flew over Devon Downs this morning –”

  “This morning?” the DS barked. “What were you doing there?”

  “Checking out suitable locations for a TV commercial. Have you been in contact with Graham today yet?”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Was he with you, too?”

  “No, but I phoned him once we’d landed. He told me last night about Perce Percy having a new QE2 covenant over a big piece of his farm, and we saw someone was inside the fence because we spotted a stock truck partly hidden under a tree.” I looked up to the leathery leaves and feathery tufts of scarlet flowers above me. “One of these. Quite large.”

  “And…?” That sounded as cold as ice cracking off a polar glacier.

  “And I let Graham know, so he could check it out with Perce.”

  Marion Wick uncrossed her endless legs and leaned forward. “There certainly shouldn’t be anyone there with a vehicle if the land is under covenant.”

  Heather cleared her throat. It seemed she’d conquered her giggles. “We didn’t see people from the air. Only the truck.”

  I nodded along with her. “We wondered if it was the rustlers, and they’d put the meat in Paul’s car and also killed that boy, and were now hiding.”

  Bruce Carver looked daggers at me. “And why would you think that, Ms Summerfield?”

  “Well…um…stock truck, rustling, keeping out of sight?”

  I could see his teeth were clamped together. A sinew was jumping not far from his ear –presumably with fury at my impertinent theory.

  Hoping to sweeten him up, I said, “I took some photos as we flew. We were doing it for possible filming locations, but there might be something useful for you?”

  I never saw a man so desperate to get his hands on anything I possessed. Even Duncan Skene on our wedding night hadn’t looked so keen.

  Oh, the twitching desire on poor Bruce’s face as I scrolled to my shots from the helicopter and stood up to show him!

  Marion Wick unfolded herself from the seat and moved to the other side of me, peering over my shoulder.

  I was trapped. I couldn’t breathe. The Carver cologne was asphyxiating. I thrust my phone at him, stepped away, and sat down again, rummaging in my bag for anything I could sneeze into. Found a somewhat crumpled but clean-looking paper tissue – better than nothing. I held it to my nose, waiting for the tickle to turn explosive.

  Heather’s brows rose halfway to her hairline and she pressed her lips together. It looked like the giggles weren’t fa
r below the surface again.

  Carver and Wick were in heaven. We may as well not have existed as they flicked to and fro, muttering to each other and pointing at things on the screen.

  “Would you like to transfer some of those to your own phones?” I asked. “Then you can play with them any way you like. Print them out. Blow them up bigger. Whatever?”

  Marion Wick sent me a distracted smile. DS Carver’s gaze didn’t lift.

  She joggled his arm. “I’m still recording on mine, sir. Send them to yours.”

  He came out of his trance of concentration and looked across at her, blinking – rather like Graham does when I interrupt him at his office.

  “Or shall I do it?” I offered, reaching forward and snagging my phone while trying to avoid his bitten fingernails. I wasn’t too keen on the Police having free rein over everything in there.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said. And then remembered his manners. “Thank you very much, Ms Summerfield.”

  So I did it, and returned my phone safely to my bag with a slight sigh of relief. “All yours. Hope they’re useful. Sorry I don’t have any of the tree on the beach.”

  He shot me a glare of disbelief. “All taken care of yesterday by Mr Jacobsen and then the Scene of Crime team.”

  “Will you have to go up that farm track at the low end of the land?” I asked. “It looks like it’ll be a bit bumpy.”

  The DS nodded and grimaced. “Yes, not a fun trip, but they obviously got the truck up that way. We’ll use a four wheel drive. It doesn’t quite merit the Police chopper, seeing no-one has reported another body.”

  I hoped I was only imagining an unspoken ‘yet’ on the end of his sentence.

  10 – Walking into Trouble

  After some more questions, which as far as I could see established nothing else useful, Carver and Wick drove away and Heather and I continued our stroll in the sun.

  “Do you want five minutes in here?” I asked as we drew level with Winston Bamber’s upmarket gallery.

  She peered through the window at some big abstract panels. The surfaces appeared to undulate. I looked more closely and decided they’d been quilted or padded before being painted. Hadn’t seen anything like them before. There were also striking driftwood-and-stone sculptures which reminded me of Nic who I’d met at the Horse Heaven crafting conference.

  “It’s beautiful stuff, but too big to get home easily,” Heather said. “I’d love to look, though.”

  I reached for the big glass door to open it for her. “There might be smaller pieces at the craft sale,” I murmured before we got close enough for Winston to overhear such sacrilege. “Cheaper, too.”

  She grinned and preceded me in to the light-filled space. Quiet classical music swirled in the rarified air.

  Cravat-wearing Winston gave us about two minutes of peace before oozing out from his expensively appointed office and offering us his expertise. He’s nice – I shouldn’t describe him like that – but all the works have huge price tags and there are seldom any customers visible. Maybe he sells a lot online? There was speculation when Isobel Crombie died that she’d been helping him launder the proceeds from stolen artworks he was fencing. I’ve no idea how that would work. Mind you, Brett Royal was possibly people-smuggling on his whale watch boat, and Isobel herself was supplying cannabis grown in her large and very private garden to the Sand Knights motor cycle gang. Drizzle Bay is full of gossips, all desperate for a bit of excitement, and almost always wrong.

  I waved an arm as though I was presenting a prize. “Winston, this is Vicar Paul McCreagh’s sister, Heather.”

  “Visiting from England I’m afraid, so most of these lovely things will be far too big for my luggage,” she said with a blink of her blue eyes and a pretty smile.

  Winston stood a couple of inches taller and beamed at her, holding out a hand to shake. “We can easily arrange secure packaging and delivery across the world,” he said. “Do it all the time.”

  She blinked again. “Certainly something to think about, then,” she agreed.

  I caught her slight wink and furtive grin in my direction. She was a lot flirtier than her brother! Paul is so gorgeously dependable and well-mannered he’d probably apologize if anyone thought he was flirting.

  I tried to keep my expression neutral. “Heather’s here for a break from the English winter.”

  “And I daresay you didn’t expect to end up in the middle of a murder investigation,” Winston suggested.

  This time her eyes opened very wide. “I’m hardly in the middle,” she protested.

  He patted her hand, which he hadn’t yet relinquished. “Goodness me, of course not. Not what I meant it all. But I gather you were in the helicopter when the body was discovered?”

  Heather withdrew her hand and gave a dramatic shudder. Knowing her background I had no idea whether it was real or manufactured. “Terrible,” she said. “Just terrible. So bizarrely laid out. I suppose the story has gone all around the village by now?”

  Winston smiled, showing teeth so perfect they couldn’t be real. “Not a lot of local news in a little place like this, so I’m afraid it was yesterday’s hottest topic, and is still today’s, no doubt.”

  “Midweek Murder,” she muttered. “When I was younger I had a small part in a repertory production called that.”

  His carefully tamed salt-and-pepper brows rose over his twinkling brown eyes. “You’re an actress? What might I have seen you in?”

  Heather was obviously used to being asked that because she rattled off a fast list that included ‘a small part in Corry – tiny really – I was Geraldine in ‘Tuscany Forever’, the abused wife in ‘You’d Never Suspect’… umm… the ditzy blonde housewife in a fish fingers campaign… but for the past several years I’ve been working on school productions – writing, producing, acting. No money in that, but enormous enjoyment.”

  “Young people have no qualms about making their honest views felt,” Winston said. “I see parents in here wondering how to describe or appreciate something abstract and their child will bellow cheerfully, ‘Dad – that looks like spew’.”

  I coughed a bit at that, but Heather simply grinned, and lisped, “Miss, Miss, I’m not kissing Brad Longfield.” She changed to a brisk bossy tone. “You are if you want to play Juliet.”

  We both laughed, and moved off around the displays as a threesome. Winston still had the metallic striped timber tray I’d admired several times before. “Love that,” I said to Heather, just as his phone rang. He excused himself to answer it, and we took the opportunity to walk somewhat faster. We reached the exit as he emerged from his office again.

  “It’s a fabulous gallery – I’ll certainly be back,” Heather called as she opened the door and we made our escape to Iona’s.

  “So you’re genuinely famous?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Had some nice parts – stage and TV, but no movies – because I didn’t dare leave Rob alone for long as time went by.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Don’t take that as sacrificing my life for his. I wouldn’t have swapped a thing.” She linked her arm through mine, and it felt like an apology for her sharp retort.

  The tables outside Iona’s resounded with cheerful chatter and the clink of cups on saucers and cake-forks on plates. Muffins and cupcakes and assorted other goodies glistened in the shafts of sunshine, bursting with raisins and blueberries, swirled with frosting, sprinkled with nuts and chocolate chips or cheese and bacon. No wonder the village boasted a few big tummies and stout legs these days! Heather peered with interest at some of the offerings.

  “Morning Merry,” our next door neighbor Nancy Simmons called as we drew near. She had her daughter Rochelle with her, but there was no sign of Kaydee-Jane so presumably the ‘cold’ had cleared up in time for the last few days of the school year.

  “Morning Nancy,” I said. She’s a little dynamo of a woman and was a good friend to my mother.

  “Excitement all over now?” she asked, no doubt re
ferring to the leg of beef and Monday’s visiting Police.

  “A ‘one-off’, I’m sure.”

  “But then they found that body,” Rochelle said, holding the remains of a sausage roll aloft. Flakey pastry crumbs drifted down onto her ample lap.

  “There’s no guarantee they’re connected,” I said through slightly gritted teeth.

  “And I heard the vicar’s sister was there.” Rochelle’s eyes goggled in her pale face.

  “Rochelle,” I said in the sweetest tone I could manage, (which wasn’t very sweet). “I’d like you to meet Vicar McCreagh’s sister, Heather.”

  Nancy smirked. Rochelle crammed the rest of her sausage roll into her mouth and nodded like one of those parcel-shelf dogs that used to be popular in old cars.

  “No – the helicopter pilot found it, if anyone did,” Heather said. “I had the misfortune to be sitting beside him at that moment.” She raised her hand, twiddled a few fingers in a parody of a wave. “Toodles,” she said as she swept into the café, leaving Rochelle with chipmunk cheeks and Nancy trying to stop her smirk from growing wider.

  Once we were clear of them, Heather leaned over and muttered in my ear, “Is this going to happen all day?”

  “All week, I expect,” I murmured back, trying to keep a straight face. “Good thing it’s already Thursday.”

  We joined the end of Iona’s short queue. She had an unknown girl behind the counter who appeared to be more of a hindrance than a help. I wondered if Heather would replace her if she proved useful, but no, she seemed keener on the actual baking than the shop aspect, so probably not. And she was only here for a while.

  Beside me, she sighed. “It was better being the fish finger ditz. If this ends up on the news pages at home Mother will go full-fury.”

  I looked at her doubtfully. “Do you think it will?”

  “Depends how much time and space they have to fill.” She wrinkled her nose. “The internet has no size restrictions.” She dialed down her volume. “English actress Heather Gregson, on an exotic holiday in coastal New Zealand, has been questioned by the Police after reporting a body on an isolated beach. Ms Gregson was enjoying a helicopter excursion with two handsome Americans…. No – make that ‘two wealthy American entrepreneurs.’ May as well make me sound as though I’m a gold-digger as well as the paramour of two men!”