Contents
Cover
Contents
Bunburry – A Cosy Mystery Series
About the Book
Cast
The Author
Title
Copyright
1. A Farewell Dinner
2. Deb’s Beauty Salon
3. The Vicarage
4. Theresa Alcott
5. The Royal Blowtox Treatment
6. The Tea-room
7. The Dinner Party
8. The Suspect List
9. Two Interviews
10. The Police Station
11. Advice from Oscar
12. The Confession
13. Epilogue
Next episode
Preview - Mydworth Mysteries
Sussex, England, 1929: Prologue
1. An English Homecoming
2. The Sussex Downs
Bunburry – A Cosy Mystery Series
Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry. Here, fudge-making and quaffing real ale in the local pub are matched by an undercurrent of passion, jealousy, hatred and murder – laced with a welcome dose of humour.
About the Book
Deb’s Beauty Salon becomes the last resting place for merry widow and property magnate Eve Mosby, whose passions include haute couture and a young lover. Plenty of people disliked Mrs Mosby, but enough to kill her? And what really baffles amateur sleuth Alfie McAlister and his friends Liz and Marge is that the body is found in a locked room – how did the murderer get in and out?
Cast
Alfie McAlister flees the hustle and bustle of London for the peace and quiet of the Cotswolds. Unfortunately, the “heart of England” turns out to be deadlier than expected …
Margaret “Marge” Redwood and Clarissa “Liz” Hopkins have lived in Bunburry their entire lives, where they are famous for their exceptional fudge-making skills. Between Afternoon Tea and Gin o’clock they relish a bit of sleuthing …
Emma Hollis loves her job as policewoman, the only thing she is tired of are her aunt Liz’s constant attempts at matchmaking.
Betty Thorndike is a fighter. Mostly for animal rights. She’s the sole member of Bunburry’s Green Party.
Oscar de Linnet lives in London and is Alfie’s best friend. He tries luring Alfie back to the City because: “anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.”
Augusta Lytton is Alfie’s aunt. She’s dead. But still full of surprises …
Harold Wilson loves a pint (or two) more than his job as local police sergeant.
BUNBURRY is a picturesque Cotswolds village, where sinister secrets lurk beneath the perfect façade …
The Author
Helena Marchmont is a pseudonym of Olga Wojtas, who was born and brought up in Edinburgh. She was encouraged to write by an inspirational English teacher, Iona M. Cameron. Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2015, has had more than 30 short stories published in magazines and anthologies and recently published her first mystery Miss Blaine’s Prefect and the Golden Samovar.
HELENA MARCHMONT
Drop Dead, Gorgeous
BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT
Digital original edition
Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is written in British English.
Copyright © 2019 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany
Written by Olga Wojtas as Helena Marchmont
Edited by Allan Guthrie
Idea and series concept: Kathrin Kummer & Rebecca Schaarschmidt
Project editor: Kathrin Kummer
Cover design: Kirstin Osenau
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock: Canicula | Sk_Advance studio | ivangal | Ola-la | Helga Chirk | Andrew Roland| Manhattan001
ebook production: Dörlemann Satz, Lemförde
ISBN 978-3-7325-5525-3
Follow the author on Twitter: @OlgaWojtas
This ebook contains an excerpt of “A Shot in the Dark” (1st episode of the new series MYDWORTH MYSTERIES) by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards.
Copyright © 2019 by by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards
Copyright for this edition © 2019 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Köln
“A man’s face is his autobiography, a woman’s face is her work of fiction.”
Oscar Wilde
1. A Farewell Dinner
Alfie passed the leather-bound menu to Betty.
“Have whatever you want,” he said expansively. “Your last meal in Bunburry should be special.”
She quirked an eyebrow at him. “My last meal in Bunburry? You make it sound like ‘the condemned woman ate a hearty dinner’. I’m planning to come back, you know.”
“I’m counting on it,” said Alfie. “The Green Party meetings are going to be sad affairs without you. Just me and the vicar staring into our pints, and we’re not even party members.”
“Thanks for spelling it out.”
Alfie was confused. “Spelling out what?”
“How little difference I’ve made.”
That wasn’t what he had meant at all. This was their first dinner together, and he’d wanted her to know that he would miss her. Now the evening seemed to be going wrong as soon as it had started.
He could point out all the work she did as an environmental activist, the lectures and seminars, the articles, the tireless organising of meetings and events. But there was every chance that she would just call him a patronising jerk. You had to tread warily where forthright American feminists were concerned.
He looked round the pub. The tourist season was almost over, but The Drunken Horse had no problem attracting locals. Two barmaids and a barman were busy serving under the supervision of Edith, the elderly mother of The Horse’s owner. But there was no sign of either the owner or his wife.
“I wonder where William and Carlotta are,” he mused.
“They’re in Italy, visiting Carlotta’s family,” she said. “They left yesterday. Edith couldn’t wait to see them go – she loves being in charge.”
In a few months, Alfie would have been in Bunburry for a year. But it still amazed him how everybody seemed to know everything about everybody else, and he didn’t. Perhaps there was a secret village website. Perhaps after a year’s residence he would be given the password.
Betty closed the menu.
“So, what would you like?” Alfie asked.
“An omelette.”
Alfie blinked. If Betty had been another kind of woman entirely, he would have assumed she was on a diet. But Betty was too active to need to go on a diet, and he suspected she would have ethical objections to women dieting anyway.
“Cheese,” she elaborated. “With chips.”
He had to admit that The Drunken Horse’s hand-cut chips were outstandingly good, and he had already decided to have some along with a medium-rare fillet steak, one of his favourites. And probably mushrooms and broccoli with almonds as well. A cheese omelette paled in comparison.
“Have something more exciting than that,” he urged.
“A cheese omelette will be just fine.”
He picked up the menu and scrutinised it. Now he could see the problem. Edith was indeed in charge. Gone were all Carlotta’s pastas and risottos,
which Edith constantly disparaged as “foreign muck”. Instead, the menu was a carnivore’s delight, with vegetarians like Betty confined to an omelette – cheese or mushroom, since the other options were ham or shrimp.
And he should have been thinking more tactfully. She had never tried to impose her vegetarianism on him but marking her departure by tucking into a juicy steak wouldn’t impress her.
He stood up. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going.”
“But … we can’t. You booked the table. What will Edith think?”
He grinned down at her. “What will Edith think? I’ll tell you exactly what Edith will think. She’s already convinced that you’re my girlfriend, so she’ll think we’ve decided to spend your last evening doing something much more exciting than having dinner in The Horse. And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
She hesitated. “I don’t –”
He grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair and pulled her to her feet. “Come on! Edith’s not looking – we can make a run for it.”
He tugged her out of the pub and into the cool evening air.
She snatched her jacket from him and put it on.
“So,” she said, “what are we doing that’s more exciting than dinner in The Horse?”
“Dinner where vegetarian cooking is a speciality,” said Alfie. “Follow me.”
They walked through the narrow, cobbled streets to the village’s Indian restaurant, From Bombay To Bunburry.
It was packed, and for a dreadful moment, Alfie thought they were going to have to slink back to The Horse and order cheese omelette and chips for two.
But Rakesh Choudhury rushed over to them. “Betty, Alfie, what a pleasure. Sit in or takeaway? Sit in, good, good, I have one table left, specially for you. So sorry, we’re a little busy this evening. Here we are. I’ll leave you to look at the menu. Any drinks? Yes, of course, two Indian beers, right away.”
He shot off to attend to another set of customers.
Betty watched him go. “Wonder what’s up with him. He’s not himself.”
Alfie knew the answer to this one. Liz and Marge had told him. Feeling part of the Bunburry news network at last, he said: “Missing the family. His wife and children are in India for a month.”
“I know,” said Betty impatiently.
Alfie felt considerably deflated.
“It’s not that,” she went on. “Something’s wrong. He’s on edge.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ve never seen the place so full, and he doesn’t have his wife to help out.”
Betty shook her head. “It’s more than that.”
Alfie wasn’t sure how he had envisaged the evening progressing, but he knew he hadn’t planned to spend it discussing Rakesh Choudhury.
For the second time that evening, he handed Betty a menu. “Perhaps you could order for both of us?”
“Sure, I can do that. Now this is what I call a proper choice.” She scanned the menu. “Okay, got it, you’re going to love it.”
A young waitress, a diamond stud in her nose and a multi-coloured string bracelet on her wrist, appeared with the beers and a plate of freshly-made poppadoms with a small dish of chutney. “Ready to order?”
“Totally,” said Betty. “We’ll have a palak paneer dosa, a tarka daal and a baingan achari, pulao rice, a couple of peshawari naan, and some raita.”
“I’ll bring it as quickly as I can, but there might be a bit of a wait,” said the waitress apologetically.
“We’re in no rush,” said Betty. “And we’re quite happy with the poppadoms. Take your time.”
Alfie still had no idea where Betty was going. She had simply said she expected to be away for a while, in a tone that didn’t invite further discussion. But she might be more forthcoming now.
“Where are –” he began, just as Betty said: “You never –”
“Sorry,” said Alfie.
“No, go ahead.”
“Hello, you two!” A third voice joined the embryonic conversation, and the coy tone suggested that this was someone who had fallen for Edith’s fantasy that Alfie and Betty were a couple.
“Debbie,” said Betty. “How are you doing?”
The owner of Bunburry’s beauty salon beamed at them. “Great. Fantastic. And I’ll be even better after Rakesh’s mango lassi. I always come in for one after I close up. They’re so good for re-energising.”
“Hope you don’t need re-energising any time soon,” said Betty. “They’re run off their feet this evening.”
There was a spare seat at their table. Alfie stood up and held it out for Debbie. “Please, join us while you’re waiting.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly! I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you.”
“I’m not disturbed,” said Betty. “Al, are you disturbed?”
Debbie looked slightly puzzled. Betty was the only person who called him Al – she wouldn’t use the name Alfie because she said it reminded her of the womanising anti-hero of the classic film of the same name.
“Debbie, we’d be delighted to have your company,” Alfie said firmly, and the salon owner sat down with a murmur of: “Well, if you’re absolutely sure.”
Alfie offered her the plate of poppadoms, but she waved it away apologetically.
“Not for me, thank you, I don’t eat anything fried.”
Betty leaned over and took another, snapping it in two.
Alfie glanced at his watch. “Did you say you’ve just finished work? Isn’t this late for you?”
“Oh yes,” beamed Debbie. “I’ve been preparing the salon for tomorrow – got my first lady coming in for the Royal Blowtox Treatment.”
She seemed to be waiting for a response and Alfie hoped he looked politely interested. Betty just looked blank.
“Oh,” Debbie said. “So, you haven’t seen my advertising campaign?”
“Al,” said Betty accusingly, “how could we have missed that?”
Debbie gave a small giggle. “Perhaps you only have eyes for each other.”
“That must be it,” said Betty.
Debbie’s smile didn’t falter; apparently she didn’t do sarcasm. “It’s a special four-hour treatment, a cut and blow-dry, Botox, and lots of lovely pampering.”
Betty choked slightly on the last bit of poppadom. “So, who’s the victim – customer?”
Debbie beamed proudly. “Mrs Mosby.” Then she quickly changed her expression to one of respectful sorrow.
“Ah, the merry widow,” said Betty.
Debbie looked a little uncomfortable. “It was so sad, her losing her husband.”
Betty picked up another poppadom and bit into it. It was difficult to hear what she said through the crunching, but Alfie was pretty sure it was: “She seems to be doing okay.”
“You should pop into the salon some time,” said Debbie in what Alfie reckoned was an attempt to change the subject from merry Mrs Mosby.
“And why would that be?” asked Betty.
Debbie flapped her hands apologetically. “Oh no, I didn’t mean - just that all us ladies can improve on what nature gave us, can’t we?”
Alfie prayed that Debbie’s mango lassi would arrive in the next couple of seconds. But it didn’t, and Debbie moved her chair closer to Betty, studying her as though she was a specimen in the lab.
“Your skin’s beautiful, but there’s a little dryness in the T-zone. What range are you using for your cleanser, toner and moisturiser?”
“The range of soap and water,” said Betty curtly.
Debbie gave a small shriek. “Oh no, you mustn’t do that! You’re stripping all the natural oils off your face, and while you might get away with it when you’re younger, you really can’t afford it at your age.”
Alfie wondered whether he should leap up and shout: “One mango lassi to go!” to muffle Bet
ty’s response. But Betty was apparently too stunned to speak.
Debbie warmed to her theme. “You could use just the tiniest touch of Botox.” She leaned forward and delicately placed her fingertips on Betty’s brow. “You’ve got a few little frown lines, and if you don’t do something now, they’ll only get worse.”
Then she ran a forefinger along one of Betty’s eyebrows. “Very good shape, but because you’re blonde, the colour’s a little too light. We would recommend microblading.”
“First Botox, and now you want me to go under the knife?” Betty said.
Debbie laughed delightedly. “Oh, goodness, no, it’s semi-permanent make-up, and it would give you that extra little bit of definition that you need. Your lashes are very light as well. We could tint them, but for the best effect, we would advise eyelash extensions. They’re quite expensive, but they last for at least eight weeks, so it’s worth it. And your hair –”
Betty was wearing her long fair hair loose this evening, rather than in its usual pony-tail.
“Gorgeous colour, good condition, lovely length. But it’s not really doing anything.”
“Why, what’s it supposed to be doing?” asked Betty.
“Oh, so, so much! We could change your centre parting and have some choppy layering to give you quite a sassy look.”
“No change to the parting and no choppy layering,” said Betty. “I can do sassy perfectly well without that.”
Debbie looked momentarily disappointed but recovered quickly. “A French plait would work – classic, or accented, or wraparound …”
She studied Betty still more closely and in a sudden move, gathered her hair, expertly twisting it into a coil, and arranging it on top of her head like a coronet.
“There!” she breathed. “Doesn’t she look gorgeous?”
“She always looks gorgeous,” Alfie responded automatically.
Debbie let go of Betty’s hair and clasped her hands together. “What a lovely thing to say!”
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