The Dough Must Go On (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 9)

by H. Y. Hanna

  I turned away in disgust. I hadn’t particularly liked Lara but this sort of cold-blooded exploitation of her death seemed utterly despicable. Then I stopped in my tracks as a new thought struck me: how far would Monty Gibbs go to ensure a “ratings dream”? Would he go as far as murder? No, surely not. Besides, Monty had an alibi—he couldn’t have been sitting on the judging panel outside and also shoving Lara into a cauldron of liquid nitrogen. I laughed and shook my head. The last thing I needed was to add another person to the suspects list!

  I found Cheryl waiting for me beside her chest of puppets. Her eyes lit up when she saw Muesli in her carrier and she said:

  “My goodness, she really does look like Misty!”

  “Oh… I thought you’d met Muesli but I just remembered, I never saw you on the day of the murder,” I said. “When I came back to the concert hall with Muesli, you weren’t here in the Waiting Area.”

  Cheryl gave a nervous laugh. “Really? I was around; we must have just missed each other. It’s so easy to in this place—so many rooms and corridors.”

  “I did search through all the backstage rooms—in fact, that was why I stumbled across Lara’s body—but I didn’t see you anywhere.”

  “Er… oh, I remember now—I must have been outside. I went out into that little car park again to see if there was any sign of Misty.” Quickly, Cheryl reached out and opened Muesli’s carrier, lifting my cat out of the cage. “Hello! Aren’t you gorgeous?”

  “Meorrw?” said my little cat, her green eyes wide as she checked out her surroundings.

  “Here’s her harness,” I said, handing over the halter and leash. “Do you need me to put it on her?”

  “No, I can manage. It will be a good bonding exercise,” said Cheryl, smiling.

  Leaving her cooing to Muesli, I went in search of my platters. They weren’t where I’d left them, on the long trestle table at one end of the Waiting Area, and they weren’t in the staff kitchen either. I sighed in frustration. Where could they be?

  I set off through the warren of corridors, poking my head into each room and casting a swift look around. Most of them were empty—in fact, there were very few people in the corridors. Most of the crew seemed to be busy in the Waiting Area and on stage. It was almost eerily quiet and I couldn’t help thinking of the last time I’d been wandering around these empty rooms. It had been just a few minutes before I’d found my way into the wings and seen Lara’s body. I shuddered at the memory and pushed the thought away.

  Hastily, I turned and began to retrace my steps. Then I paused as I recognised the doorway in front of me. This was where I’d been standing the day I heard Nicole and Lara fighting. Almost without conscious thought, my feet moved and carried me towards the doorway. I hesitated, then peeked in.

  The dressing room looked exactly as I’d remembered, with a row of chairs standing before tables and mirrors framed by lightbulbs. There was someone huddled over the last dressing table, in the corner. The person jumped and whirled around when she heard my step in the doorway—and I saw that it was Trish Bingham.

  “Oh! Hi…” I said awkwardly.

  “What do you want?” she snapped.

  “N-nothing,” I said, taken aback by her aggressive manner. “I was just searching for my platters and I thought I’d check in every room, just to be on the safe side…” I trailed off, annoyed with myself for feeling the need to explain. Why did Trish always put me on the defensive?

  “Well, they’re not here,” she said rudely. She pushed past me and hurried out of the room, leaving me staring after her.

  What on earth was wrong with that woman? I turned back to scan the room. There was nothing unusual that I could see, other than the fact that some of the bottles and jars on the dressing table in the corner were moved from their usual neat rows and there was some powder spilled on the table surface.

  Shrugging, I gave up on the mystery and continued the search for my platters. I found them eventually, in the last place I’d expected. They’d been emptied and neatly stacked in a pile beneath the long trestle table, and covered by a plastic sheet—which was why I hadn’t seen them at first. I collected them, then went back to find Cheryl and Muesli. They were just about to go on stage and I watched nervously as Cheryl led my little cat into the wings on her leash and harness. To my surprise, Muesli trotted obediently along, only pausing to sniff the curtains by the wings for a few moments.

  “Oh, she walks so much better than Misty!” said Cheryl in delight.

  “She isn’t normally that good,” I said. “Usually she keeps stopping and sitting down, or wanting to go in the opposite direction… but she must be excited in this new environment and keen to explore.”

  I decided to go out into the auditorium to watch Cheryl’s act properly and settled myself in the front row, where I had a good view of the whole stage. Cheryl was just placing Muesli in her basket, which was perched atop a stand, next to a large, old-fashioned brass-bound chest. I watched anxiously, half expecting my cat to jump back out, but to my surprise, she nuzzled the blanket, then lay down and began rolling around on her back, purring so loudly that even I could hear her from the front row.

  Blimey. Cheryl’s catnip trick really works! I thought. I really had to try it with Muesli’s bed at the tearoom. It would be great if I had some way of getting her to stay put in one place.

  Cheryl made cheerful pretend conversation with Muesli, asking if the little cat wanted to hear a story, and I smiled as Muesli let out a loud “Meorrw!” in reply, sounding exactly as if she was answering the woman. It was incredibly cute, and I could see that it would be a great crowd pleaser. Then Cheryl picked up a pair of puppets and began manoeuvring them with expert skill. Muesli watched with interest as the puppets jerked on their strings in front of her, and again I expected her to jump out of the basket and pounce on them, but she seemed happy to remain in the basket, nestling against the fleece blanket. My doubts began to fade away; maybe Cheryl was right and this could work after all…

  The nursery teacher began singing and even though she didn’t have the advantage of backing music during this rehearsal, her melodic, sweet voice carried the notes beautifully. The combination of her song and lyrics, matched to the puppets’ movements, was delightful, and Muesli’s occasional “Meorrw” only added to the charm of the whole performance. I had never had much interest in puppets before and hadn’t expected to be very interested in this act, but now I was pleasantly surprised. I could just imagine that with some proper backing music and maybe some lights and special effects, Cheryl’s piece could be fantastic entertainment—especially for children. When she finished the song, I stood up and clapped enthusiastically.

  “That was brilliant!” I said. “Really—I enjoyed it so much.”

  “Thanks,” said Cheryl, beaming. “And Muesli did her part beautifully! I just hope we can repeat this tomorrow.”

  “If you do, I think you’ll stand a good chance of going through to the Finals,” I said excitedly. “I think your act could easily rival Trish and Skip for the ‘aww’ factor.”

  “Yes, it’ll be cats versus dogs…” said Cheryl with a laugh. She lifted Muesli out of the basket and cuddled her close. “We’re going to beat them, eh, Muesli?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “You don’t really think Trish was in the dressing room for no reason, do you?” Cassie gave me a sceptical look.

  I shrugged and leaned back in my chair, enjoying the warmth of the open fire on my back. We were sitting in one of Oxford’s historic pubs, and the cosy interior made me feel soporific. The place was packed, the air humming with conversation and laughter, as people queued at the bar to order drinks, sat with their friends at the various booths, or stood in small groups between the tables. A popular student hangout, this pub attracted a younger crowd—especially now in the middle of the Michaelmas term—and it wasn’t normally the place I would have chosen to have a drink after a tiring day. But funnily enough, despite the noise and the crowds, I found th
at I enjoyed the lively atmosphere.

  I cradled my mug of mulled wine, leaning in to inhale the wonderful cinnamon aroma rising from the steaming red liquid. I’m usually a bit of a lightweight and don’t drink much alcohol, but I love the warm, spicy sweetness of mulled wine on a cold winter’s day. I yawned, then belatedly covered my mouth, sending Cassie an apologetic look.

  “Sorry… I feel knackered. All that cycling back and forth today, from Oxford to the tearoom and then to the concert hall and back again…” I smiled at my friend. “But I’m glad you suggested this drink. I didn’t think I’d be up for it, but now that I’m here, I’m really pleased I came.”

  “Seth said he might try and join us later, if he could make it. He wanted to hear the latest on the murder investigation.” Cassie sipped her own mulled wine and added, “Speaking of which, you never answered me about Trish.”

  “She’s always like that,” I said, shrugging again. “I’ve never met a woman who’s such a stroppy cow all the time.”

  “Maybe she was filching some of the make-up and felt embarrassed when she was caught out,” said Cassie. “I’ll bet she was up to no good. Why else would she have been so defensive?”

  I sighed. “Maybe Devlin is right—maybe we’re just biased against Trish because she’s so unpleasant. But that doesn’t mean that she’s a murderer.”

  “Okay, what about Cheryl then?”

  “Cheryl? No, no, I’m sure she wouldn’t murder anyone. She’s a nursery teacher, for heaven’s sake!”

  “So?”

  I thought back to the performance I had watched earlier that day, the sweet way Cheryl had sung and the obvious delight she had taken in entertaining with the puppets. I knew appearances could be deceptive, but it was really stretching the bounds of imagination to think that woman could be a murderer…

  “She just doesn’t seem like the type,” I protested. “Besides, what motive would she have? Unlike Trish, she’s not one of the front runners to go through to the Finals, so even if she had got rid of Lara, it wouldn’t have made much difference to her chances.”

  Cassie shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to kill Lara for other reasons. I mean, you suspected Nicole and that wasn’t because of the contest. You just thought she hated Lara and killed her out of rage.”

  “I’ve changed my mind now,” I said. “I know it’s just her word but after speaking to Nicole this morning, I… I believe her when she says she didn’t murder Lara.”

  Cassie rolled her eyes. “Okay. So if it’s not her… and it’s not Cheryl… and it’s not Trish… who’s left? Gaz? He’s the other person who would have really benefited from Lara being eliminated from the competition.”

  As if conjured by Cassie’s words, a handsome young man in a leather jacket stepped into the pub. It was Gaz Hillman. He pushed his way through the crowd towards the bar, offering everyone his trademark friendly grin and getting a few flirtatious smiles from several young women in return.

  “Hey, talk of the devil!” said Cassie. “I didn’t realise Gaz lived in Oxford too.”

  “I don’t think he does,” I said. “I seem to remember the Old Biddies saying he’s from Cheltenham. But he must have come for the Semi-Finals and he’s obviously hanging around while the show’s still on hold.” I watched him greet the barman with easy familiarity and make a joking remark to a group of men next to him, causing them to roar with laughter. “Looks like he’s going to be best mates with everyone by the time he leaves.”

  “Yeah, but—” Cassie broke off and did a double take. “What are they doing here?”

  I followed her gaze to see four little old ladies trotting into the pub: the Old Biddies. They were wrapped up warmly in their ankle-length woollen coats, with old-fashioned plastic rain bonnets covering their heads, and they looked completely incongruous in the pub filled with students in hoodies and ripped jeans. Casting a furtive look around, they sidled after Gaz and took up a position near him at the bar. When he leaned over the counter and gave the barman his order, they leaned over as well, clearly trying to eavesdrop on what he was saying.

  “What are they doing?” said Cassie in exasperation, watching them.

  I groaned. “Doing some ‘investigating’ of their own, no doubt. You know how much they love snooping around, and now this murder has given them the perfect opportunity. They’ve probably decided that Gaz is the murderer and are following him around town, hoping he’ll drop some incriminating clue.”

  Cassie shook her head, laughing. “Why can’t they be like other little old ladies and spend their time knitting and gardening?”

  As we watched, Gaz turned from the bar with a pint of beer in his hand and the Old Biddies darted out of his way with amazing speed for ladies of their age. Keeping a few feet behind him, they followed him across the room as he searched for an empty table. A couple at a table next to us were just rising and Gaz hurried to take their place, with the Old Biddies shuffling a few paces behind him. I wondered what they were going to do when he sat down—hover around him like avenging angels?

  As it happened, the Old Biddies spotted me and Cassie, and their wrinkled faces creased into delighted smiles. They rushed over to join us.

  “Gemma! Cassie! How nice to see you, my dears,” said Mabel. She leaned forwards and added: “We’re tailing a suspect!” She made an exaggerated head motion, indicating Gaz at the next table.

  “Yes, we think Gaz is the murderer!” said Glenda in a melodramatic whisper.

  I glanced at him, embarrassed that he might have overheard, but to my relief, he had his head down, busily texting on his phone, and he wasn’t paying us any attention. In any case, the loud hubbub in the pub managed to drown out most conversation between tables.

  “Why are you picking on Gaz?” asked Cassie. “He hasn’t got any motive—other than wanting Lara out of the competition. But that’s the same as several other people and they’re far more likely than him to be the murderer.”

  “Ah… but you don’t know what we know,” said Mabel with a smug smile.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Glenda leaned forwards and said in a dramatic whisper: “Lara and Gaz had a one-night sleep!”

  “You mean ‘one-night stand’,” I said.

  “Oh no, dear, it’s an expression which means they were in bed together—so they couldn’t have been standing.”

  “No, I mean… Oh, never mind. Anyway, how do you know this?”

  “Well, when we were at the concert hall rehearsing last night, we had a chat with one of the girls in the crew,” said Mabel. “Lovely girl, engaged to be married next summer, although I thought her chap sounded like a bit of a layabout and I told her so. Probably needs more fibre in his diet; constipation is known to cause lethargy, you know, and—”

  “Yes, but what does all this have to do with Gaz and Lara’s affair?” I asked, exasperated.

  “I was coming to that.” Mabel gave me an irritable look. “Anne—that’s the girl’s name—told us that she came into the concert hall one morning and overheard Lara talking on the phone. Apparently, Lara was boasting about the night she had just spent with Gaz.”

  “So Lara and Gaz knew each other much better than they let on!” said Glenda triumphantly.

  “And they always say that most murderers are familiar to their victims,” said Florence.

  “We think Gaz murdered Lara out of jealousy!” squeaked Ethel.

  I gave them a sceptical look. “That’s a bit of a leap, don’t you think? I mean, just because they spent one night together doesn’t mean that Gaz developed a jealous obsession with Lara.”

  “Yeah, Lara sounds like the kind of woman who had ‘one-night sleeps’ with lots of people—especially if you believe half the things written about her in the papers,” said Cassie, grinning. “By that token, half of the nation could be her murderer.”

  “Ah… but half the nation weren’t backstage with her on the night she was killed,” Mabel pointed out.

  I frowned at her. “A
re you sure about this information? Devlin never mentioned anything about Gaz and Lara when I spoke to him last, and I would have expected the police to have known.”

  “Bah! The police!” Mabel waved a dismissive hand. “Much as I like your young man, Gemma, I must say, the police are about as effective as a chocolate teapot. And the fact that they didn’t know about Gaz and Lara’s affair just proves my point.”

  “To be fair, this is the kind of thing that’s hard for the police to dig up, unless people are willing to volunteer the information,” I said, feeling the need to defend Devlin.

  “They volunteered the information to us,” said Mabel loftily. “It’s simply a matter of technique, dear. For example,” she glanced across at Gaz, still busily texting on his phone at the table nearby, “you could easily get that young fellow to confess just by lulling him into a false sense of security and then asking him suddenly about the murder. That’d catch him off guard.”

  Cassie snorted. “What? Where did you hear that stupid idea?”

  “It’s done all the time in books and films.”

  “Exactly!” said Cassie, rolling her eyes. “In fiction. Not in real life.”

  “The principles are the same,” insisted Mabel.

  “Bollocks! People don’t behave like characters in books! They don’t just conveniently blurt out the truth or confess guilty secrets, just because you smile nicely and get chatty with them. That whole Miss Marple thing is a complete myth!”

  Mabel gave her a challenging look. “How can you be sure unless you’ve tried it?”

  “All right—you’re on!” said Cassie. “I’ll go over and chat to him—get all friendly and flirty—and then ask him outright if he’s the murderer. We’ll see if he reveals anything!”

  Cassie stood up and fluffed out her hair. Then she smoothed a hand down her top, pulling the clingy fabric over her hips, and sauntered over to Gaz’s table. The Old Biddies quickly shifted their seats so that they were closer to the next table and could eavesdrop more easily, and I followed suit. Luckily, a large group had also just left the pub so it was suddenly a lot quieter and easier to hear the neighbouring conversation.