by K. C. Wells
Mike laughed. “And would that be solving a murder by any chance?” He tut-tutted. “If your dad knew….”
“Well, he’s not going to know.” Jonathon was still amazed that he’d found out in the first place. “Especially as the only person left to see from Ben’s list is his new pal, Joshua Brent. I still haven’t worked out how I’m going to do that.”
“Then isn’t it a good thing I have?” Mike gave a smug smile. “What would you do without me?”
“Have more sausages and toast for breakfast, for one thing.” Jonathon took no notice of Mike’s mouth falling open. “Now quit looking so self-satisfied and tell me how we get to see him.”
Mike pulled out his phone. “According to his website and Facebook page—and yes, he has them—every second Monday in the month, Brent meets with his constituents in Merrychurch village hall. He’s there for a couple of hours before lunch, and anyone can come along and ask him questions, voice concerns, whatever.” Mike grinned. “And tomorrow happens to be the second Monday in November.”
Jonathon sighed happily. “Guess where we’ll be tomorrow morning? I’m still not sure how I’m going to bring up the whole topic of ‘Hey, that was you walking your dog past a cottage where someone was murdered last week, wasn’t it?’ That might require some forward thinking.”
“Or some on-the-spot inspiration,” Mike added. “And that still leaves us with the rest of today. Any ideas about what you’d like to do?”
Jonathon couldn’t hold back his grin. “I might have a couple.”
Mike gave him a hard stare. “Ones that don’t involve going back to bed?” He rolled his eyes when Jonathon huffed. “Honestly, you really do have a one-track mind. I was thinking more along the lines of trying to crack Naomi’s codes.” He shivered. “In front of the fire, with hot chocolate.”
“Now you’re talking.” Jonathon headed toward the main door, more aware of the cold morning wind. “Lying on the rug on piles of cushions, in front of a roaring fire, applying our minds to the task….”
Mike sighed as they stepped inside the house. “I notice you said task. A nice, nonspecific word. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re contemplating.”
Busted.
Monday, November 13
MIKE HAD only been inside the village hall once, the first Christmas he’d spent in Merrychurch. It was a quaint stone building with a thatched roof, and at one end, a stage had been set up, complete with deep red velvet curtains. At the other end was a tiny kitchen, and in between was a wooden floor, heavily varnished. Windows lined both sides, lace curtains frothed against the leaded glass, and a small vase with tiny flowers sat on each deep sill, an indication of the thickness of the walls.
“They have a carol concert here every year,” he told Jonathon as they stepped into the warm interior. Wall heaters glowed orange above the windows. There were only a handful of people in the hall. A few ladies were arranging flowers on the stage, and Mike spotted Melinda Talbot, deep in conversation with one of the women.
Along one wall was a wide table, and behind it sat a very handsome man, dressed in a dark gray suit, reading a newspaper. The two lines of chairs in front of him were empty, as were the two chairs facing him.
“Perfect timing,” Mike whispered. “It looks like he hasn’t got any villagers beating down the door to ask him questions.”
Just then, Joshua Brent glanced up and saw them. He smiled widely. “Good morning.” He closed his newspaper and put it to one side.
Jonathon hadn’t budged from Mike’s side, so Mike nudged him. “Come on. Let’s go and talk to him.”
“Hmm. Oh. Sure.” Jonathon went over to the two empty chairs and sat down. Mike joined him, waiting for Jonathon to introduce himself.
Nothing.
Mike peered at Jonathon, who was staring intently at Mr. Brent. Mike nudged Jonathon again, this time with his thigh.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” Mr. Brent appeared amused by Jonathon’s intense observation.
If you want something doing….
Mike stretched out his hand. “Good morning. We haven’t met before, but I’m Mike Tattersall. I own the Hare and Hounds. And this is Jonathon de Mountford.”
Mr. Brent shook his hand. “Delighted to meet you.” He winced as Mike let go.
“I didn’t think my grip was that strong.” Then Mike winced too when Mr. Brent turned over his hand, revealing cracked skin that appeared very sore. “Ouch.”
Mr. Brent sighed. “The weather’s turned colder. It always sets off my eczema.” He regarded his hand sadly. “I’ve spent my life avoiding irritants and wearing gloves, but when you’re meeting the general public, that doesn’t go down too well.” He smiled. “Shades of Howard Hughes.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “I’ve been intending to meet you for some time. I wanted to talk about the pub’s opening hours. I’ve had several people—” He broke off and stared at Jonathon. “De Mountford?” His smile widened. “I know your father. In fact, I was only having drinks with him last week.” He extended a hand to Jonathon. “I’m pleased to meet you at last.”
Jonathon said nothing but shook his hand, blinking.
Mike had never seen Jonathon so tongue-tied.
“Thomas was talking about you this weekend, when he came to visit.” Mike took a closer look at Mr. Brent. He had to be in his forties, with thick brown hair, green eyes, and what his sister Sue described as a Gillette jaw, clean and well defined. His first impression of a handsome man quickly gave way to the admission that Mr. Brent was drop-dead gorgeous. Not his type, of course—Brent’s shoulders were way too wide, his chest too broad, and there was this sneaking suspicion that the man spent a lot of time taking care of that body—but he could see how Brent might break hearts.
Then it hit him. Apparently Brent was Jonathon’s type, judging by his starstruck, glazed look.
Mike wasn’t sure if he was amused or jealous.
“Was he? I’m sorry I missed him.”
Jonathon cleared his throat. “He spoke very highly of you. In fact, he was the one to bring you up in conversation.”
Mike heaved a silent sigh of relief. Finally.
“Really? I’m flattered.” Brent’s smile revealed gleaming white, perfect teeth.
“Yes. He said you told him about our recent murder.” Jonathon sighed. “Terrible business, of course.”
“Yes, terrible.” Brent’s facial expression grew more solemn. “An elderly lady, I believe.”
“But… you knew her, didn’t you?” Jonathon frowned. “I’m sure that’s what I heard.”
Brent arched his eyebrows. “I can’t think where you heard that. I’d never spoken with her.”
“Ah, that’s it.” Jonathon’s eyes gleamed triumphantly. “I know what it is. I got my wires crossed. You were one of the last people seen in the vicinity of her cottage the day she died. That was it. You were walking your dog.” He spoke with conviction, although Mike wasn’t convinced Ben had mentioned a dog in connection with Brent.
“Was I? When was that?” Brent stroked his jaw.
“Last Sunday. The day after the bonfire party.” Jonathon gazed at him steadily.
“Ah, yes. I was sorry to miss that. Apparently it was very successful. Now, let me see. I do recall walking my dog that morning. I often do when I’m down here for the weekend. Where did she live?”
“Close to the edge of the forest. The lane through it runs right past her house,” Mike volunteered.
“The forest… that rings a bell.” Brent straightened in his chair. “Ah. The cottage with the jam table. Now I remember. I thought it was such a charming thing to do. I even bought a jar myself.”
“It seems a lot of people were very fond of her jam,” Mike admitted. “I like the—”
“Which flavor did you buy?” Jonathon interjected. “I’m trying to find someone who tried the cherry. It’s a favorite of mine. Not that I could buy a jar now.”
Brent tapped his finger against his lips. “Hmm. I thin
k it was raspberry jam. Although the mango-and-peach was very tempting.”
“And you didn’t see Mrs. Teedle?”
Brent appeared to consider the question. “I didn’t see anyone, come to think of it. I dropped my money into her box and continued on my way.” He tilted his head to one side. “Why did you come here this morning? Surely not to ask me about walking my dog.”
Jonathon chuckled. “Of course not. I felt it only proper to meet you, after my father had spoken about you. He seemed surprised that we hadn’t met yet.” He gave a shrug. “I felt it was time to rectify that.”
Mike was impressed. Jonathon’s laid-back response came out as natural and genuine.
“I’m delighted that you did. I shall definitely mention this visit the next time I see him.”
The scrape of a chair behind them told Mike their time was at an end. He rose to his feet, holding out his hand once more. “I’d be happy to see you in the pub, although I do understand if you feel you couldn’t do that. I’m sure a person in the public eye as much as you are must have people wanting to talk to you all the time. I don’t imagine you get much peace.”
Brent smiled. “You hit the nail on the head. But I will stop by one of these days so we can talk about the licensing hours.” He shook Mike’s hand once more before doing the same with Jonathon. “And at least now I can say I’ve met the lord of the manor.”
Jonathon laughed. “Compared to you, I’m no one. You’re the one who’s always on TV.”
Brent groaned. “Don’t remind me. The press…. You have no idea what they can be like.” He glanced between them. “And now I must speak with these good people.”
Mike and Jonathon thanked him, then vacated the chairs. From the stage, Melinda beckoned them, and Mike headed toward her. She greeted them with a hug.
“So pleased to see you. I was only thinking about you this morning. I told Lloyd it was high time we had you both for afternoon tea.”
“But we’d taste awful on sandwiches,” Mike joked.
Melinda rolled her eyes. “Really. Just for that, I’ll expect to see you both at four. No buts.”
“Yes, Melinda,” Jonathon said with a sigh of resignation.
They left her to her flower arranging and headed for the door. When they reached it, Jonathon paused.
“Something wrong?” Mike asked.
“Damn it. There was one question I should have asked.” Before Mike could inquire what that was, Jonathon turned and looked back into the hall. The elderly couple who’d arrived after them had concluded their conversation with Mr. Brent and were getting up to leave.
“Mr. Brent?” Jonathon’s voice rang out clearly.
The MP gave him a polite smile. “Mr. de Mountford.”
“I forgot to ask—what kind of dog do you have?”
Mr. Brent blinked. “A Yorkshire terrier.” He grinned. “Are you conducting some sort of a survey into the village’s dogs?”
Jonathon laughed. “No, merely curious.” He gave a nod, then exited the hall.
Once outside, Mike tugged on Jonathon’s arm. “Okay, want to explain what that was all about?”
Jonathon gazed at him innocently. “What? I wanted to know what his dog was. The paw prints by the jam table, remember?”
“Don’t you give me that. I’m talking about before that, when you went all bashful on me.”
“I asked him the questions, didn’t I?”
“Sure—when you finally remembered where you kept your tongue. And when you’d got a good enough look at him.” Mike smirked. “Oh, wait a minute. That was your tongue I kept tripping over, wasn’t it?”
Jonathon’s cheeks were flushed. “Oh, come on. Who wouldn’t want to get an eyeful? He’s gorgeous.”
Mike stared at him. “Jonathon de Mountford. You’ve got a crush on our MP.”
Jonathon’s eyes widened. “So what if I have? I can look, can’t I?” His lips twitched into a smile. “It’s not him I’m in love with, is it?”
Mike huffed. “Just you remember that.” He groaned. “And now we’re seeing Melinda at four. You know what that means.”
Jonathon grinned. “Tea and gossip. I think we’re about due for a chat with the vicar’s wife, wouldn’t you say? Only, be careful what you say in front of Melinda., all right? Last time was bad enough.”
“What was bad about last—?” Mike snickered. “Oh yeah. You said I had a nice arse.”
“Exactly. She doesn’t need any more ammunition.”
“What—like knowing you think our MP is dishy?”
Jonathon’s growl as he made his way to the car was adorable.
Chapter Eighteen
“I THINK you should get one of these, Mike,” Jonathon murmured, stroking Jinx between his ears. The black-and-white cat purred, lifting its chin, and Jonathon scritched him under there. “I can just picture a cat strolling around the pub, getting cuddles from all the regulars.” There was something about stroking a cat that always made him feel at ease—not drowsy, but in that pleasant state of not giving a damn about anything.
“Jinx has this unerring knack of finding the right lap,” Melinda commented. “But I’m afraid if you want some cake, he’ll have to find another place to snooze.”
In seconds, Jonathon grasped the cat around its middle, lifted it into the air, and deposited it on the rug. “Bye, kitty.”
Melinda, Lloyd, and Mike all laughed.
Melinda cut a slice of carrot cake, which Mike passed to him. “Here,” he said, thrusting the plate at Jonathon. “Start eating this and Jinx will be back in a heartbeat. And why me have a cat? You could have a cat at the manor.”
It was on the tip of Jonathon’s tongue to say it wasn’t fair to have a cat when he didn’t plan on being there for a few months at a time. But something stopped him. For one thing, he hadn’t mentioned anything to Mike, and for another, he wasn’t about to do it in front of the vicar and his wife.
“Can we leave the subject of cats alone for a moment and get to my reason for inviting you to tea?” Melinda poured Jonathon a cup of coffee.
Jonathon blinked. “We’re not here because we’re scintillating good company?”
Mike snickered.
Lloyd peered at his wife over his rimless glasses. “My dear? What are you up to?”
Melinda patted his knee. “Nothing you need worry about. I just wanted the opportunity to talk to Jonathon about the parish council.”
“I see.” Lloyd met Jonathon’s gaze. “Run, dear boy. Run while you still can.” He smiled, however.
“Should I be worried?” Jonathon asked before swallowing a mouthful of carrot cake.
Melinda gave her usual musical laugh. “Not at all. I simply felt that you might like to become a member of the council. Your uncle was for a great many years.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mike commented.
“Who’s on it?” Jonathon had no aversion to following in Dominic’s footsteps, and he liked the idea of becoming more involved in village life.
Melinda counted off on her fingers. “There’s myself; the mayor, John Barton; Grant Spencer, the planning officer; Doris Pullman, who runs the village shop; Esther Thompson, who runs the WI; and our MP, Joshua Brent.” Her cheeks pinked. “You remember, the gentleman who so captivated you this morning.”
Jonathon should have realized that nothing escaped Melinda.
“That man will never become prime minister, you mark my words.” Lloyd’s voice quavered.
Melinda regarded him with mild surprise. “And why is that?”
Lloyd huffed. “He’s far too good-looking. Let us be brutally honest here. When has there ever been an attractive prime minister in this country?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Mike’s eyes gleamed. “I dare say there are some who might like a good-looking PM. Eh, Jonathon?”
Jonathon gave him a hard stare, and Melinda aimed an intense gaze at Mike. “I sense someone is being teased. Pay no attention to him, Jonathon. Joshua Brent might be prettier than h
im, but we all know Mike has your heart, don’t we?”
Jonathon’s stare softened, and he smiled.
Mike, however, almost choked on his mouthful of coffee-and-walnut cake. “Prettier than me? Says who?”
Melinda ignored him and addressed Jonathon. “Besides, I’m the only one allowed to tease in this house.” Her eyes twinkled. “Now, what do you think about the council? Is it something that might interest you?”
Jonathon grinned. “I think so.”
Mike was still spluttering.
Melinda beamed. “Excellent. Our next meeting is tomorrow evening in the village hall. I’ll tell everyone to expect you.”
Jonathon almost choked on his coffee. “Talk about short notice. You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Why do you think I got you here today?” Melinda leaned forward conspiratorially. “Now, boys, how are you doing? Are you close to solving the case yet?”
Mike burst out laughing. “What makes you think we’re doing anything?”
Melinda arched her thin eyebrows. “That wasn’t a serious question, was it? I remember how you were this summer. As soon as I heard you’d been to her cottage, I knew you were doing a little sleuthing.” She poured herself another cup of tea and dropped a slice of lemon into it. “So, what progress have you made?”
“I should think you have a great many suspects,” Lloyd commented. “One has only to listen to village gossip to glean that much.”
“Surely you don’t listen to such things,” Mike said innocently.
Melinda hurriedly put down her cup. “Mike, you really shouldn’t say things like that when I’m drinking. That might have been disastrous.” She eyed her husband. “And the less said about Lloyd’s propensity for gossip, the better.”
“It’s not gossip,” Lloyd remonstrated. “Everyone knows that little upstart sent those flyers. Sheer jealousy. It wasn’t Mrs. Teedle’s fault his business is doing so appallingly. The man should look to his own house first.”
“I take it we’re talking about Nathan Driscoll, the chemist?”
