Profiteroles and Poison: A Cozy Murder Mystery (Peridale Cafe Cozy Mystery Book 21)

by Agatha Frost

  “Any idea what killed him in the first place?”

  “Blunt trauma to the skull,” he replied after a sip of coffee. “Suggests it was maybe a spur of the moment thing. If she’d called the police, she might have got by on a manslaughter charge, depending on the judge. She’s blown that now.”

  “That’s if she wakes up.”

  “Even if she doesn’t, we have enough to charge her.”

  “Even with Lynn’s murder?”

  “She was on one of the blood pressure pills found in Lynn’s system. Now that we know who we’re looking into, it’s only a matter of time before we trace the rest.” He snapped his fingers. “You never know, she might have used Jade’s magic prescription pad.”

  “Any luck tracking her down?”

  “Not a whisper.” John finished his coffee and tossed the cup into a bin. “She’s pulled a Terry Trotter and vanished, although I suspect she’s gone on the run to evade prison time. You know how judges get with the Fern Moore lot, especially when it’s about drugs.” He slapped his knees and stood. “Drink at River Lounge to celebrate? Almost felt like old times given how often our paths crossed on this one. I technically finished half an hour ago, and it doesn’t look like Trotter the Plotter is awaking from her slumber anytime soon.”

  Barker pretended to consider the offer but going for a drink in a noisy bar was the last thing he wanted to do tonight.

  “How about next week?”

  “Suit yourself, Brown.” John pulled off his tie and messed with his hair in the slight reflection of the window into Debra’s room. “You won’t have many more Friday nights before that newborn’s got you under house arrest. Next week, and no excuses, okay? I need a wingman.”

  John left, but Barker lingered outside the window, unable to pull himself away from watching the machines supporting Debra’s breathing. She didn’t look like a murderer, but they rarely did. He’d met enough over the years to know very few fit the cartoonish ‘bad guy’ stereotype.

  It was always more unsettling when he couldn’t tell.

  The suspicious look the doctor gave Barker when he came to check on his patient was enough to move him on. He drove back to Peridale in silence, unable to shake the image of Debra. He pulled into the alley and went down to his office; he needed to get the case out of his system.

  With only the light of the desk lamp and the furry blanket to warm him, he settled in the corner of the aged Chesterfield with his case files. He pruned the notes and organised them with closing statements and pictures of the fire (courtesy of Peridale Chat) printed from his phone via Bluetooth (courtesy of Jessie teaching him the trick).

  Satisfied he’d covered as many bases as he could with what he knew, he closed the file. He tapped the pen on the armrest, wondering whose name to put on the front. In the end, he opted for ‘Trotter the Plotter’ and pulled off his reading glasses. Yawning, he rubbed at his tired eyes, hoping the nagging holes in the case wouldn’t keep him awake for yet another night.

  Where is Jade?

  Where is the blackmail money?

  Will Debra live to fill in the gaps?

  It was his most significant case as a PI so far, and neither conclusion was satisfying. The monumental ruin of Stacey’s life left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. As shattered as the pieces were, he hoped she’d be able to pick them up somehow, someday.

  Mind cleared, he slotted away the case file and flicked off the desk lamp. The darkness didn’t vanish. An artificial light lit up the desk, exposing all the dust on the surface. The office hadn’t had a good clean since Lynn’s final visit.

  He squinted at the doorbell’s video screen, the grainy picture of outside barely visible in the dark. He almost dismissed the detection of movement until he saw it himself.

  Kerry walked up to the door in a dark fur coat, a pale rectangle in her hands. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

  Barker tore away from the desk, ready to confront her for daring to be so brazen. He didn’t know the conditions of her bail, but this had to be breaking them. Before he reached the stairs, she surprised him by ringing the doorbell.

  He was unsure if he should even open the door. If she wanted, she could kill him now; a fitting ending to her imaginary book. Somehow, that didn’t seem likely.

  “Mr Brown,” she said, jumping back when he threw open door. “I was planning to leave this on your doorstep, but I thought better of it when I saw your car in the alley.”

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  “An apology, actually.” She looked down at the letter and stuffed it in her pocket. “I thought you’d see the humour in it, but yes, too soon, I suppose. And I have you here now, so I can deliver my apology to your face.” She cleared her throat and pushed at hair somehow defying the light wind by remaining frozen in place. “Mr Brown, I’m sorry.”

  Barker waited, but nothing else came.

  “Is that it?”

  “Well, yes,” she said. “That’s all I wrote. I didn’t think there was much else that I hadn’t said already. After some reflection in my criminally small cell, I realised that I perhaps went too far. My lawyer is building a case based on the idea that the trauma of my divorce and impending bankruptcy influenced my out-of-character decision making. Perhaps he has a point. Maybe I’m crazy. Who knows?”

  Barker folded his arms and stared at her. After the level of ‘crazy’ he’d experienced since figuring out Kerry’s harassment hobby, he couldn’t find it within himself to fear her. Pity, yes, but what had she actually done apart from writing some letters? Knowing the threats were as empty as her bank account lifted the curtain. What he saw confused him, but her actions seemed more entitled than harmful.

  “Mr Brown, you’ve been silently staring at me for quite some time.”

  “I’m thinking,” he said. “Did they charge you?”

  “They did. Apparently, I will receive a letter in the post notifying me of my day in court.” Her cheeks quivered as though fighting back a smile. “My lawyer thinks that since it’s my first offence, there will be a fine and community service, and I’ll hopefully evade prison time. I’ve seen every episode of Bad Girls. I don’t think I would thrive in such an environment.”

  “No, I don’t think you would either,” he said, unable to believe what he was about to say. “Look, it’s too late for me to drop the charges. The prosecution team must think they can gain a conviction based on the evidence they have. I can, however, withdraw my support for the prosecution. Since I’m ex-police, that should carry some weight for minimising your sentence.”

  Kerry’s chin recoiled towards her neck.

  “That’s not why I came here,” she said. “I really only wanted to apologise.”

  “And I appreciate that.” He forced himself to smile. “I’ll pull some strings and write a letter to the judge, although my handwriting won’t be anywhere near as impeccable as yours.”

  Kerry blushed through her makeup, her thankful smile the most genuine expression he had witnessed from her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t suppose I could peek into your office to see your writer’s lair?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Fair.”

  “And I didn’t write the book here,” he said. “I wrote it on a typewriter at home, sitting at the dining room table, and I enjoyed the experience very much.”

  “I’d hoped that detail was true.” She smiled again. “I read that you lost the first draft when a storm destroyed your cottage, and you started again with a new idea?”

  “That’s true too.” He looked over his shoulder into the dark office. “The very same storm that cracked open the cold case I based the novel on, actually. This used to be a basement.”

  “The basement?” Her eyes lit up. “The basement from The Girl in the Basement?”

  “The basement.”

  “Wow.” She peered over his shoulder, but he blocked the doorway, and she took a step back. “Then I really am dismayed by your re
tirement. It’s quite the life you live.”

  “It’s probably not what you think,” he said. “Writing, I mean. It involves long, sometimes difficult hours immersed in imaginary worlds. It’s easy to forget about the life going on around you. I have a baby on the way. I need to be here.”

  “I understand.”

  “And maybe one day, I will pick up my typewriter again,” he said, “but only when I want to. The expectation was too much. I’m not ashamed to admit that. I’m old enough to know when to take a step back and re-evaluate my life.” With a smile, he said, “I suggest you do the same.”

  Kerry nodded as she backed away. She reached into her fur coat and lay a single red rose on the ground in front of him. Silently, she walked over to the gate.

  “Kerry?”

  She spun around.

  “Did you really see Debra put poison in Lynn’s teapot, or was that part of your game?”

  “Debra?” Kerry shook her head. “Not Debra.”

  “What?”

  “I did see someone,” she said, pulling open the gate. “But it wasn’t Debra. I kept their secret because they knew I was the one sending the letters. I was sloppy.”

  “Who?” Barker urged, stepping forward and squashing the rose under his foot. “Who was it?”

  Kerry’s eyes flicked down to the crushed rose petals, red-stained lips slightly parting. She looked up with a smirk and pulled her fur tighter around her.

  “There are only two people left,” she said. “I’m sure the great Barker Brown can figure it out.”

  Kerry slipped through the gate and into the night, leaving Barker to stare up at the dark sky as everything he thought crashed down around him.

  “What?” he repeated to himself. “What?”

  15

  Julia

  Julia’s ringing phone pierced her dreams and dragged her from sleep. She peeled open her eyes to near darkness; the dull grey light seeping through the curtains hinted at the early hour. The urge to roll over and ignore the call was strong, though the annoyance of the noise won.

  “Who is it?” she muttered, politeness abandoned in her between state.

  “It’s Stacey.”

  Julia’s eyes opened fully as her mind jolted awake. She’d been trying and failing to get in touch with Stacey since watching her walk away from the fire. Now that she had her on the line, she couldn’t think of a thing to say other than ‘how are you?’. Her tongue forbid the question; considering what she’d been through, the words were an insult.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” she said. “I haven’t slept, and I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “No, it’s fine.” Julia forced her best ‘I’ve been awake for hours’ voice, though it never sounded convincing. “I’m glad to hear from you.”

  “Sorry about ghosting you. Haven’t been able to face . . . well, anything.” She paused, and Julia heard a car drive by in the background. “Can we meet? I need help with something.”

  “Absolutely,” she said, suppressing an almighty yawn. “Anytime.”

  “Now?”

  Julia squinted at the LED clock display.

  7:52 a.m.

  Anytime.

  “Yep.” Eyes clenched, she scratched at her matted hair. “No problem. The Plough opens for breakfast at eight. Do you want to meet there?”

  “I’m not really hungry,” she said. “Can you meet me at the bookshop?”

  A strange request.

  “I can be there in ten.”

  “Thank you.”

  Stacey hung up, leaving Julia to force herself out of bed, instantly regretting saying ‘ten’ and not ‘twenty’. Not too long ago, she’d have been up and already baking for the day ahead at the café. Her natural wake time had slipped further and further lately; some days, she slept in until noon. Apparently, it took only a month of maternity to break years of conditioning.

  Having left herself no time to shower, she went through her routine for the rare occasions she slept through her alarms. Dry shampoo and a ponytail, a face wipe, a quick coat of mascara to make it look like she’d done something, and a rapid brush and gargle.

  After wrapping up warm, snoring drew her to the sitting room. She peeked over the top of the sofa. Barker, still wearing his glasses, an open file on his chest and scattered notes around him, was fast asleep. These days, he usually woke and was out of the house long before Julia, so she hadn’t been surprised to see Mowgli curled up in place of her husband. She considered waking him, if only to move him to bed, but he looked peaceful, even buried under the paper. She hadn’t heard him come home last night. Late nights didn’t suit her these days.

  Creeping out of the cottage, she wondered if November’s final day had brought its coldest weather yet or if she’d just forgotten how cold the first hours with the barely risen sun were. On the entire drive to Mulberry Lane, her car’s abysmal heating had her questioning her love for her vintage vehicle. She glanced at the left wing mirror, still hanging by a thread after her mad dash down the same lane only two days earlier.

  Thankfully, the chaos was over.

  The police block had gone, allowing Julia to park on the shopping street. Some of the businesses had already opened for the day, though it was hard not to look straight at the burned-out shell of Trotter’s Books. Chipboard blocked the windows and door, which only made the charred stonework stand out more. The roof seemed solid, though she wasn’t sure if her imagination had increased the sag.

  Thankfully, the structure seemed to have survived despite its age. It would never be the same, but Julia hoped someone would rebuild what was lost and restore the scorch mark on the historic street to something of its former glory. After so many centuries undamaged, Julia could hardly believe they’d nearly lost it thanks to Debra and a can of petrol.

  Julia climbed out when she saw Stacey in her rear-view mirror. Her claims of not having slept weren’t difficult to believe. She’d seen Stacey upset over the months, but never like this.

  She looked broken.

  And yet she attempted to raise a smile when she noticed Julia.

  Julia immediately pulled her into a tight hug. Stacey’s leather jacket was freezing to the touch. How long had she been wandering around? When they parted, Stacey stood before the bookshop and stared up at the smoke-damaged sign above the boarded window.

  “I needed to see it,” she said, blinking slowly. “I keep thinking I’m about to wake up from a nightmare, but it doesn’t happen. It just keeps getting worse.” She reached into her jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Post came early this morning. I couldn’t bring myself to open it. I don’t even think I want to know what it says.”

  Julia examined the envelope, immediately recognising the scruffy handwriting as Debra’s. Unlike Kerry’s letters, this one had a stamp and a postmark with the time and date.

  10:03—THURS NOV 28.

  Sent hours before the bookshop went up in flames.

  “I thought about taking it straight to the police, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that either.” She glanced at the envelope. “I don’t want to hear a thing she has to say. I just want to know if it’s full of excuses. I know it’s a lot to ask, but can you open it and read it?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Please.” Stacey’s watery eyes stared skyward as though trying to stop more tears. “I tried, and I . . . I just can’t.”

  As curious as Julia was to hear what Debra had to say, reading the letter intended for her daughter felt wrong on every level. And yet, she couldn’t refuse. She ripped open the envelope and pulled out a sheet of A4 lined paper, the torn binder holes still frayed down the edge. Erratic handwriting covered both sides.

  Stacey turned away as though even being in the presence of the letter pained her.

  Julia took a deep breath as she smoothed out the paper and read:

  My Darling Stacey,

  By the time you receive this letter, I will be gone, and you will know what I have done. For the latter, I am genuin
ely sorry. I know you won’t believe that, but I feel that it’s true in my heart. I don’t expect forgiveness, so I won’t ask for it. What I have done is beyond forgiveness.

  I lost control.

  I lost control of everything.

  I never seemed to get life right.

  Perhaps I spent too long living in fantasy worlds, seeing how life should be. I fell in love with books as a small girl. They gave me an escape from my parents. They were violent, cruel people. Bullies, though the naivety of youth blinded me from that truth. I thought I was the problem, and I carried that with me for far too long.

  Meeting your father changed everything.

  It was like something out of a fairy tale. We reached for the same book in the library. I can still see his face now. His red cheeks. His shy smile. You know how easily embarrassed he could get. He said I could have the book if he could take me out for a cup of tea. It should have been cheesy, but he was so nervous that I was drawn to him instantly.

  He seemed so pure, undamaged. So unlike me.

  I knew I should have walked away then, but instead, I fell in love.

  Your father became my whole world.

  I thought I’d found it.

  My happy ending.

  But it was only the start of a new story. Motherhood. I tried my hardest to be the perfect mother. I struggled. I struggled a lot. I never told you any of this. I sank into a depression deeper than anything I’d ever felt. I couldn’t do it. I felt like I’d failed.

  Gulping, Julia turned the page. She looked up at Stacey, who had walked halfway down the street, back still turned. She continued:

  I spent your whole childhood trying to play catch up. You adored your father, and I wanted that bond too, but I just couldn’t get it right. I didn’t know how. People made it look so easy, but it never came naturally for me. The more I tried, the worse it got. I was jealous of what you had. I felt like I was looking through a window into a life I was in but not part of. I don’t blame you for that. You were only a child.