by H. Y. Hanna
“Good to see you too, mate,” said Devlin, clasping Lincoln’s hand. Then he offered his hand to Elsa, but she ignored it, leaning close instead for a lingering kiss on his cheek.
“It was sooo nice to meet you, Devlin,” she purred. “If you’re ever in Melbourne, you must look me up…”
A few minutes later, we were alone again and I settled back on my stool with a sigh of relief. “Bloody hell, I thought that woman was going to invite herself into bed with us next. She was practically climbing into your lap! Not that you seemed to mind,” I added tartly.
Devlin burst out laughing. “Well, I have to say, it makes a nice change from watching Lincoln drool over you.”
“Lincoln does not drool over me! He’s… he’s just being friendly.”
Devlin mimicked Lincoln’s posh accent: “Oh Gemma—how marvellous to see you!” Then he swooped close to give me a long, wet kiss on the cheek.
I squealed and squirmed away from him, giggling. “Yuck! Stop, Devlin… stop…!”
The barman delivering our drinks finally put an end to the horseplay and I sat back on my stool, flushed and happy. I couldn’t remember the last time Devlin and I had clowned around like that. He worked so hard these days, and was often so intense and serious, it was nice to see a lighter side of him. It reminded me of our college days together. Since returning to England and meeting Devlin again as the shrewd, indefatigable “Inspector O’Connor”, it was hard, sometimes, to remember him as the boy I had fallen in love with all those years ago.
Devlin picked up his pint and looked at me thoughtfully. “Penny for your thoughts, Miss Rose?”
“I was thinking of a boy I once knew… a long, long time ago, in a life far, far away…”
“Ah…” Devlin smiled. He reached out and drew me close. “Well, in this life… he’s here to stay.”
***
I didn’t end up getting home until well after midnight, but despite the late hour I found myself awaking early the next morning. It was probably because I was anxious about what was happening with the show. There was still no news from the FPTC production team, but based on what Devlin had told me yesterday, the show was likely to resume any time. Knowing from experience that the producers could call me at short notice, I decided not to risk opening the tearoom and I called Dora to let her know.
“Oh, it’s a good thing you caught me—I was just about to start baking a fresh batch of scones,” said Dora. “As it is, I can refrigerate the dough to use tomorrow.”
“Are you at the tearoom already?”
“Of course! I get here at five every morning. How else do you think we manage to have all the baking done in time for the doors to open at ten-thirty?” asked Dora tartly.
“Yes, of course,” I said, thinking again how lucky I was to have found her. Not only did she bake like a dream, but she also lived just around the corner from the tearoom and was happy to come in early. This meant that I didn’t have to be up at the crack of dawn every day and could even do a few chores in the few hours before the tearoom officially opened.
“Why don’t you take the day off, Dora? You can put your feet up and lie on the sofa and enjoy a good book or something.”
“Put my feet up? Lie on the sofa?” Dora gave a bark of laughter. “I don’t know about you, missy, but some of us have chores to do and washing to get done. Hmm… actually, the weather looks fine today, even if it’s chilly—I might take the chance to get on with my gardening.”
“Gardening? Now? But it’s November. What could you be doing in the depths of winter?”
“We’re not in the depths of winter yet,” said Dora. “And there are plenty of things to do. Leaves to rake up, pots to bring in, seeds to sow… By the way, speaking of seeds, did you or Cassie ever find that mouse?”
“No, I don’t know where it got to but we never found it. Why—have you seen any signs in the kitchen?” I asked anxiously.
“No, thank goodness. I’ve been checking the pantry daily, but so far it doesn’t look like there have been any teeth nibbling on anything. But perhaps we ought to put down a mousetrap—”
“Oh no, those are so cruel,” I protested. “I always feel awful thinking of the poor mouse.”
“Gemma, this is vermin we’re talking about, not a pet.”
“But mice look so cute, the way they hold things in their little paws and—”
“Cute? You’ve got to be joking! Filthy, sneaky little creatures… ugh!”
“Well, anyway, I don’t think we have to worry about it,” I said. “I think it was just the one stray mouse and it’s gone. If it was still around, we would surely have seen some traces, especially with all the food lying about.”
“Hmm…”
Dora didn’t sound convinced but she said nothing more and I soon said goodbye, to let her get on with her raking and potting and sowing. I wandered around my cottage for a bit, half-heartedly answering some email and trying to catch up on admin, but I was too restless to concentrate. Finally, I remembered that I’d spilled some Béarnaise sauce on my dress at the dinner last night and I decided to take advantage of the clear morning to take it to the drycleaners. Otherwise, with my usual hectic schedule, who knew when I’d next have a chance to go into town… probably not for weeks, by which time the stain might have set permanently!
The drycleaners was situated in a lane just off Cornmarket Street, the wide pedestrianised boulevard running through central Oxford, and after I’d dropped my dress off, I wheeled my bike slowly through the centre of town, enjoying the displays in the different shop windows. Pausing in front of a café on a street corner, I admired the little terracotta pots placed around their front door; they were filled with pansies and violas which were flowering valiantly despite the cold wintry weather. The colourful blooms gave a cheerful, welcoming vibe and invited passers-by to step in.
Hmm… I should do something similar outside my tearoom, I thought. I slid my phone out of my pocket to take a photo for reference, but as I was lining up the shot, I noticed the window next to the café. It looked into some kind of shoe store, but what caught my eye was the woman talking to a customer in the shop: it was Nicole Flatley, the pianist.
On an impulse, I went in. The shelves were filled with comfortable walking shoes and other support footwear for the elderly, and several old ladies were browsing the store. I hovered next to the counter until Nicole was free, then feigned surprise at seeing her.
“Hello! It’s Nicole, isn’t it? I didn’t realise that you worked in Oxford,” I said, giving her a friendly smile. “I’m Gemma—I provide the catering for the show.”
“Oh, of course. I thought you looked familiar.” She gave me a guarded smile in return. “Yes, I work primarily in Oxford, although I do a day a week at our branch in Reading. I’m a podiatrist,” she explained. “It’s one of the services offered by the store. Aside from fitting customers with the correct shoes, we also help treat a range of foot issues…” She indicated a poster on the wall next to us.
I glanced at the poster, then did a double take as I read the words:
Let us provide complete care for your feet!
Podiatry services to treat common foot problems such as bunions, cracked heels, ingrowing toenails, verrucae, and warts…
It was the last word that caught my eye. Suddenly I remembered what Lincoln had said last night. Turning back to Nicole, I asked casually:
“So you remove warts as well? Is it a complicated procedure?”
“Oh no, it’s very simple, really. I’m trained in the use of cryotherapy for wart and verruca removal, which involves freezing the warts off in a controlled manner. This will usually cause the skin to blister and the tissue to die off, and then the wart is removed.”
“Wow… but how do you freeze the wart?”
“Well, I normally use liquid nitrogen—” She broke off suddenly and stared at me, her eyes suspicious. “Why are you asking all this?”
“Oh… um, I have an elderly aunt who has warts on he
r toes and… er… she was wondering how to remove them,” I said. “So… um… is this liquid nitrogen the same as the stuff that Albert uses in his act?”
Nicole went pale. “You think I killed her, don’t you?” she whispered.
“No, I—”
“Is that what everyone thinks?” she asked, her voice rising. “Is that what they’re saying about me behind my back? Just because I had a fight with Lara doesn’t mean that I would murder her!” She paused and narrowed her eyes at me. “Wait… I remember… you were there that day, when Lara and I were having the argument. Was it you who told the police? Is that why they’ve been hounding me?” she demanded.
I glanced over my shoulder. The customers and other shop assistant had all stopped what they were doing and were staring at us. I flushed slightly and turned back to the hysterical woman in front of me.
“No one’s talking about you, Nicole,” I said soothingly. “We’re not ganging up against you. But you have to admit, it’s logical for the police to consider you a suspect, since you’d had a terrible row with the victim the day before the murder.”
“She started it,” said Nicole. “Lara was the one who was saying those awful things and laughing at me… just like that woman Steve was—” She broke off and I saw tears shimmering in her eyes. I felt a surge of pity for her.
“I’m sorry, Nicole. I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said, putting a gentle hand on her arm.
She shook her head, taking a tissue out of her pocket and blowing her nose. “No, it’s all right. I’m just a bit sensitive about it still…” She sniffed for a few moments, then composed herself and looked up at me. In a calmer voice, she said:
“Don’t you think that it would have been stupid of me to have a very public fight with Lara and then murder her the next day? I’d just be making myself the obvious suspect.”
She had a point. It would be the silliest thing to do. Of course, it was possible that she had been so bitter after the fight that she had acted on impulse. But this murder didn’t feel like a crime of passion. And besides, if Nicole had still been furious at Lara and lashed out in revenge, she was much more likely to have simply hit the other woman on the head with a heavy object or stabbed her with a knife. Why bother with the elaborate plan of using liquid nitrogen as a murder weapon?
“But you did hate Lara, didn’t you?” I said doggedly.
“I can’t pretend that I’m sorry Lara is dead,” said Nicole quietly. “She was a horrible woman and I’m sure I’m not the only one that she hurt terribly. Yes, I hated her.” She lifted her chin and looked me square in the eye. “But I’m not the one who murdered her.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I was still mulling over my encounter with Nicole when I arrived back at the tearoom later that day, and I was so deep in thought that I didn’t notice the Old Biddies ensconced in their usual corner by the window. They had obviously been waiting for me, however, because they got up and hurried over as soon as I walked in, and surrounded me, all talking at once.
“Wait… sorry… I can’t hear properly…” I protested, trying to understand what each of them was saying. “You’re changing your name?”
Glenda nodded earnestly. “Yes, we’ve decided that our granny band needs to have more edging.”
“More edging?” I looked at her in confusion.
“To compete with the younger contestants,” explained Florence. “We were chatting to one of the other tearoom customers and they said that nowadays, it’s all about your image.”
Ethel piped up, “And your name is a very important part of your image.”
“Yes, the ‘Pussy Puffs’ doesn’t have the right connotations,” declared Mabel.
Bloody hell, you can say that again, I thought.
“We want a name that sounds younger and has more edging!” said Glenda, beaming. “The Semi-Finals are our last chance to impress the audience—”
“And don’t forget all the people watching us on telly across the country,” Florence said. “They’ll be voting for us too.”
“—yes, so we’ve decided to change our band name to something else,” Glenda finished.
“Oh, thank God—I mean, that’s great! Wonderful,” I said fervently. “So what are you changing it to?”
“Well… we’ve been busy thinking about it all morning,” said Mabel. “Ethel called one of her old librarian colleagues, who happens to collect magazines, and she told us about a very famous English girl band. It’s a group called the Spice Girls.”
“Oh yeah, I remember them: Ginger Spice, Scary Spice, Posh Spice, Baby Spice, and Sporty Spice,” I said, smiling. “I liked a lot of their songs.”
“Well, we’re going to call ourselves the Herb Girls!” Mabel announced. “I shall be Tarragon.”
“I’ll be Chives,” said Florence.
“I’ll be Dill,” said Glenda.
“And I’m going to be Parsley!” said Ethel, beaming.
“We haven’t decided a name for June yet—maybe Chervil or Borage,” said Mabel thoughtfully.
“Um… don’t you think it’ll be better to pick nicer-sounding herbs? Like Rosemary? Or Thyme?” I asked.
“Bah. Rosemary is so common. We want something different and memorable.”
You’ll certainly get that if you start calling yourself “Borage”, I thought. I started to protest again, then shut my mouth. On second thoughts, considering that the alternative was calling themselves the “Pussy Puffs”, going by “Chives” and “Parsley” was probably the lesser of two evils.
“Ooh, we must tell June,” said Glenda. “Maybe if we all meet at the concert hall later, we can have a rehearsal with our new names.”
“Has the concert hall been reopened?” I asked in surprise.
“Hadn’t you heard, Gemma? The police have released the crime scene and they’re resuming filming for the show! We’ll be continuing with the Semi-Finals performances tomorrow night.”
“Oh… I wonder why they haven’t contacted me…” I dug in my pocket and pulled out my phone, then realised that there were several missed calls and text messages waiting for me. I had put my phone on silent before bed the night before and I’d forgotten to switch the sound back on.
“I’d better tell Dora—we’ll have to start baking things for tomorrow’s morning tea,” I said, heading for the kitchen. I hadn’t gone three steps, however, when I remembered something.
“Oh, bugger!” I muttered. Our large serving platters were still at the concert hall. I’d used them on the day of the murder and in the mayhem that had followed, I’d forgotten to collect them afterwards. And with the place shut for the last three days, I hadn’t had a chance to retrieve them yet. I was going to need them tomorrow when I took in the fresh baking for morning tea.
I sighed and said to the Old Biddies, “I think I’ll be seeing you at the concert hall. I need to go and collect—” I was interrupted by the ringing of my phone. It was a number I didn’t recognise.
“Hello?”
“Oh, hello, Gemma—I hope you don’t mind me calling you. I got your number from one of the show producers. This is Cheryl—Cheryl Sullivan from the show.”
“Oh, hi! How are you? Have you found Misty yet?”
“Yes, she turned up the next day—one of the police officers found her. Goodness knows where she had wandered off to. Anyway, she’s home safe and sound now, although she’s a bit sniffly. The vet thinks that she might be having a bout of cat flu—she’s had it before, usually when she’s been a bit stressed. She’s a recue cat, you see, and many of them get infected by the virus when they’re at the shelter.”
“Is it serious?”
“Oh no, the vet thinks she’ll be fine. She just needs to remain indoors and stay warm…” She hesitated. “Actually, that was the reason I was ringing. I hate to have to ask you again, but I was wondering—would you mind letting Muesli take Misty’s place again?”
“Well, of course I don’t mind—but are you sure that’s a good idea?
I really don’t know how Muesli will behave. I don’t want you to mess up your act because of her.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” said Cheryl warmly. “Especially if we have a chance to rehearse it a few times. That’s why I was calling, actually. I know this is a lot to ask but… is there any chance I could ‘borrow’ Muesli this afternoon? They’re reopening the concert hall and I thought it would be a wonderful opportunity to rehearse my act with Muesli on stage. I can come and pick her up from you—and drop her back later,” she added.
“No, that’s okay. As a matter of fact, I was just on my way to the concert hall myself. I need to pick up a few things I’d left there. I can swing by my cottage and grab Muesli on my way, and meet you there.”
“Oh, thank you so much! I really appreciate it—thank you!”
***
It was strange walking into the backstage area and seeing members of the crew hurrying around, carrying equipment, adjusting cables… just like a few days ago. It was almost as if a murder had never happened. And in fact, as I passed Monty Gibbs in earnest discussion with some of his show producers, it seemed that the head of FPTC had decided to behave as if it never had.
“…just cut straight ter Gaz—’e was supposed ter go on after Lara, right?—and give ’im a couple o’ extra minutes longer in the programme,” said Gibbs, flipping through the pages of the call sheet. “The audience always luv ’im anyway so they won’t mind—”
“But sir…” One of the producers frowned slightly. “Don’t you think we should mark Lara’s death in some way? Maybe we can observe a minute’s silence in her slot?”
“Wot? I’m not some bloody memorial service!” said Monty Gibbs. “I don’t want one minute o’ the programmin’ wasted. We need to cash in on the ’ype around the murder, right? Everyone in the bleedin’ country will be tunin’ in tonight. This, ’ere, is a ratings dream.” He rubbed his hands together, a satisfied expression on his face.
