A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (9 page)

“If it’s the Devlin O’Connor I’m thinking of, I’m not surprised,” said my mother, compressing her lips.

I felt a flare of annoyance, although I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like I felt any loyalty to Devlin.

“Well, a good-looking lad like him—I shouldn’t wonder if he has a weakness for a pretty face,” Dorothy tittered.

“Is there any man who doesn’t?” said another lady and everyone laughed politely.

Mabel folded her arms. “Inspector O’Connor may be good but there will be things he doesn’t see because he’s not a real local. We know Oxford, we live here, we’re involved in the village communities, we know who to talk to… I think we have an advantage that the police will never have.”

I looked at her in puzzlement. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Florence and Glenda and Ethel and me,” said Mabel, as if it should have been obvious. “We’ve decided we are going to conduct our own investigation.”

I gaped at her. “Your own investigation?”

“Yes! We’re not going to let the police arrest Glenda’s great-nephew when he’s innocent. This isn’t a simple murder—there’s a mystery behind this and we’re going to find out what it is. After all, if Agatha could do it, so can we.”

“Who’s Agatha?” I said, really lost now. 

Mabel looked at me impatiently. “Why, Agatha Christie, of course!”

“Er… But Mabel, you
do
realise that those are all just fictional stories? I mean, she made them up, so of course she knew who the killer was and how the murder was committed. She didn’t actually solve any real-life murders.”

Mabel waved this way as if it was a minor detail. “I’m sure the principles are the same, dear. When I get back to Meadowford-on-Smythe later, I’m going to speak to Inspector O’Connor myself.”

Heaven help Devlin
, I thought with a flicker of malicious amusement. It was a bit of retribution for his brusque manner towards me. He was going to suffer at the hands of the Old Biddies… and I was going to enjoy watching it.

“Ooh, Mabel—you must tell us what you find out from the police.”

“Yes, and don’t forget to mention that Mr Thomas’s gnomes have been going missing from his garden—that might be significant.”

“What about the sewage leak last month? I thought that was very suspicious.”

“Yes, yes, the smell was awful.”

“Do you think maybe it was a ritual killing? I mean, you hear about people getting involved in all sorts of dreadful cults—”

“Aren’t we all rather jumping at conclusions?” my mother spoke up. “I mean, it sounds like the police have a strong suspect in Mike Bailey already and there’s no need for much further investigation.”

Mabel frowned. “But there
is
a need! I’m telling you, Mike is innocent. If they arrest him, the real murderer will get away.”

“Does Mike have an alibi for Saturday morning?” I asked.

“No,” Mabel admitted. “Not really. The poor boy was hungover and was in bed until nearly noon. But he lives alone so there was no one to confirm that. Glenda did speak to him around eleven o’clock on Saturday morning when she rang to tell him what had happened at the tearoom.”

“That’s hardly an alibi,” I said gently. “After all, the murder happened around eight-thirty in the morning.”

“Well, he told her that he never saw the American again after leaving the pub—he and his friends went to have a curry and then he went home to bed.” Mabel nodded emphatically. “And that’s what he told the police when they questioned him last night.”

“I wonder if the police spoke to anyone else last night,” said Dorothy.

“Yes, they did,” Justine spoke up for the first time. “They questioned me.”

All eyes turned on her.

“You?” Mabel said, “Why would the police question you?”

“Because…” Justine took a deep breath. “Because Smith is my maiden name. My married name is Washington. The murdered man was called Brad Washington and I was his wife.”

I was still pondering Justine’s bombshell as I cycled slowly to Meadowford-on-Smythe a few hours later.
Brad Washington’s wife?
I couldn’t believe it. But there had been no doubting her cool certainty. She was married to the American—though they were separated and he lived in the U.S. while she lived in Oxford. As his spouse, she was automatically one of the first suspects the police would consider, but she had an alibi for Saturday morning: she had been at a yoga class, which had started at eight and didn’t end until nine.

“In any case, why would I want to kill him?” she said with laugh. “Brad and I were separated, but it was an amicable separation. We kept in touch occasionally via email but we hardly saw each other. I didn’t even know he was in Oxford until the police showed up on my doorstep on Saturday night.”

Something in the way she said “police” made me wonder if Devlin had been the one who had questioned her. The thought bothered me in a way I couldn’t explain.

The book club meeting had deteriorated completely after that, with no one making any attempt to even pretend that they were interested in discussing books. Mabel and the others were practically falling over themselves in their eagerness to pump Justine for information. She dealt with them all expertly—smoothly answering their questions, talking a lot without actually saying much of anything. I’d watched her with admiration. It took some skill to evade Mabel’s prying but Justine was a pro.

A woman skilled at hiding the truth, I thought. Or at least, spinning a version of what she wanted the truth to appear to be.

The meeting had finally concluded with the others none the wiser about the details of Justine’s marriage, financial affairs, family, or background. Mabel’s face had been flushed with frustration as she left my parents’ place, although she was no doubt heading straight for Meadowford to share what little she had managed to glean.

I arrived at the Little Stables Tearoom to find that the police had left and Cassie was already there. She was clearing out the fridge, dividing the food into that which could still be used and that which had to either be eaten today or thrown away. I winced to see the amount of food that would go to waste. Because we had been closed for business the whole weekend, we hadn’t gone through our usual supplies, and since I prided myself on the tearoom only serving items which were freshly made, I couldn’t save these to be served on Monday. I decided that I would drop them off at the city shelter for the homeless—at least someone should enjoy eating these lovingly-made cakes, scones, and desserts. I rolled up my sleeves and joined Cassie. As we worked, I told her about the book club meeting and Justine Washington.

“Bloody hell… small world, eh?” She shook her head. “Do you think she’s involved?”

“I don’t know. She’s an interesting woman… I was surprised that she volunteered all that information. But maybe it was actually quite clever of her. She must realise that in a place like Oxford—especially with Mabel Cooke around—the news about her identity would get out soon enough. By being really open and honest about everything, it makes her look less guilty than if she had kept quiet and then it had come out later that the police were questioning her. They obviously have her as one of their suspects for the murder.”

“Yeah, and I know a few other suspects the police are considering,” said Cassie wryly. “Me and Fletcher.”

I stared at her. “You’re not serious!”

She made a face. “I am. I had that cocky sergeant chasing me down last night, wanting me to account for my movements on Saturday morning. And he had the gall to say that with my short fuse, I was just the type to murder someone.”

I grinned at Cassie. “He’s not wrong, you know.”

She scowled at me. “The prat just didn’t like the way I answered back to him when he was questioning Fletcher yesterday morning.” She shrugged. “Anyway, lucky for me, I was over at my parents’ place on Friday night and staying there this whole weekend. Half my brothers and sisters were there too. I wish the sergeant luck interviewing them all to verify my alibi…” She gave an evil chuckle.

“What about Fletcher?”

Her face sobered. “The sergeant’s still got it in for him—keeps going on about wanting Fletcher to account for the fact that he turned up at work late. He can’t get hold of Ethel to verify Fletcher’s alibi: she’s gone to visit her nephew in Bath and won’t be back all weekend. So until then, I think Fletcher is being treated as a suspect.” She sighed. “And Fletcher doesn’t help. You know what he’s like—having a strange policeman invade his home is bad enough without being bombarded by questions. He ends up acting all nervous, which makes the police think he’s guilty… plus he’s still upset about Muesli—”

“Has she not turned up yet?” I asked in sudden concern.

Cassie shook her head. I winced and felt slightly guilty for hanging around at home this morning. I should have come to the village early and gone to check on Fletcher.

“Why would they even consider you and Fletcher as suspects? You never met the man before Friday.”

“Well, they seem to be fixated on the scone as the murder weapon, so I suppose they’re just going through everyone who could have had access to the scones from the tearoom.”

“But that could be half of Oxfordshire, considering all the tourists who pass through here!”

Cassie gave me a curious look. “So the sergeant hasn’t been to question you? Interesting. Maybe Devlin has decided to give you special treatment…” She raised an eyebrow suggestively.

“Of course he hasn’t,” I said, more sharply than I intended. “Why should he? There’s nothing between us anymore.”

“Did I say there was?” said Cassie with a smile.

I knew that look. “Cass… don’t start. You know it’s been over eight years since I last saw him.”

“Yeah, and I also saw how you looked at each other yesterday when he walked in here.
Phwoar
… I could have lit a bonfire from the sparks in the room. Anyway, there’s no expiry date on love.”

“Who said anything about love? It was just a stupid college crush.”

“College crush? Come off it, Gemma! You may fool everyone else but you can’t fool me. Devlin O’Connor was the first man you really loved! You used to talk my ear off about him! You said he was your soulmate, your—”

“That was a long time ago and I was very young,” I said quickly. “And okay, maybe he was the first man I had serious feelings for, but—”

“Everyone knows that first love burns the brightest.”

“Maybe in books, but not in real life.” I changed the subject. “Anyway, Mabel Cooke thinks that the police are making a mess of the investigation and I’m beginning to think that she’s right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, she thinks they’re focusing wrongly on Mike Bailey and letting the real murderer get away.”

“Well, she
is
Glenda’s friend—and Mike is Glenda’s great-nephew—you don’t think she might be a little… uh… biased?”

“Maybe. But I still think she’s right. The police are missing a lot of connections.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like Washington’s weird behaviour when he was here on Friday and those things he said which suggested a past connection with Oxford University—”

Cassie groaned. “Gemma, not that again!”

“I’m telling you, it was not my imagination! I’m sure it’s relevant to the murder. Besides, even if I’m wrong about Washington’s past, there was that folder with the letter.”

“But the police must have found that folder when they searched Washington’s room. There’s been no mention of it, has there? Which suggests that maybe it wasn’t as significant as you think.”

I paused. Cassie was right. If a folder had been discovered with a connection to Oxford University, you can bet that Mabel would have known about it. But she hadn’t mentioned it that morning.

I frowned. “That
is
strange. Maybe I should contact Devlin—just to make sure that the police found the folder.”

“Are you sure you’re not just looking for an excuse to speak to him again?” asked Cassie with a sly smile.

“Cassandra Jenkins! You take that look off your face!”

She laughed. “What look? You’re getting awfully defensive—in fact, you’re blushing!”

“I am not,” I said, as I fought the rising tide of colour in my face. This was ridiculous. I had nothing to be embarrassed about—and I certainly wasn’t looking for an excuse to speak to Devlin again. In fact, I had been determined yesterday not to help him at all and not even tell him about Gloucester College and Geoffrey Hughes. But I had to admit—after a good night’s sleep—I had calmed down a bit and felt slightly ashamed of my attitude. It seemed spiteful and childish. Whatever my personal feelings were about Devlin, I ought to share relevant information with the police.

“Well, it’s probably a good idea to double-check with the police about the folder. You would just be doing your civic duty,” said Cassie kindly. Then she added with an impish smile, “Of course, it’s always easier to do your civic duty when it involves speaking to a dashing, sexy, blue-eyed hunk of a detective.”

I made a face at her and changed the subject. Cassie left soon after and I finished off on my own. Then, on an impulse, I took out my phone, dialled the number for police headquarters, and asked to be put through to Inspector Devlin O’Connor of Oxfordshire CID. I was informed that he was not on duty today, but that they would give him my message. I hung up, resigned to not speaking to him until Monday morning, but to my surprise, my phone rang a few minutes later. It was a withheld number. My heart gave a little jolt as I heard Devlin’s deep voice on the line.

“Gemma? They said you wanted to speak to me.”

He had caught me off guard and I said the first thing that came into my head. “Oh… I… um… well, I was just… um… I think it’s ridiculous the way your sergeant is hounding Fletcher. I told you yesterday that he’s sensitive about things and now I hear that your sergeant’s been barging into his house, upsetting him with questions and—”

“Gemma.”

He didn’t raise his voice but I faltered into silence.

Devlin sounded amused. “Did you call me on a Sunday just to give me a lecture about police abuse?”

“No, I… um… there was something else but I do think that Fletcher—”

He sighed. “My sergeant can be a bit… over-enthusiastic in his approach. I’ll have a word with him. Now, you said there was something else?”

“Yes, I… I had some information which might be useful. About the American who was murdered.”

There was a pause, then Devlin said, “Where are you at the moment?”

“At the tearoom.”

“Okay, shall we meet?”

“Meet?”

“Yes, it’s easier sometimes to speak face-to-face. Besides, I haven’t had a chance to ask you properly about your movements on Saturday morning yet.”

“Oh yes,” I said coldly. “So you’re adding me to the list of suspects too?”

He gave an impatient sigh. “It’s standard police procedure. You know we have to question everyone about their alibis and eliminate all possible suspects.”

I was contrite. “Yes, you’re right. Sorry.”

“Listen, why don’t you come over to my place?”

“Your place?”

“Yes—I live just outside Meadowford. You’re at the tearoom, right? It would be on your way back into North Oxford.”

Somehow I had imagined the impersonal neutrality of a police interview room. Going to see Devlin in his own place was a different proposition entirely.

“Gemma?”

“Um… are you sure it’s appropriate? I mean, me coming over to your place…”

He sounded amused again. “I promise not to abuse my police powers. Look, I just thought it might be more comfortable than going down to the station. But we can go there if you wish.”

“No, your place is fine,” I said. “Do you want me to come over now?”

“There’s no time like the present.”

“Fine, I’ll see you there.”

He gave me directions and I hung up. I stood staring at the phone in my hand. A part of me wanted to ring Devlin back and tell him I’d changed my mind—that I would prefer to meet him at the station. Then I squared my shoulders. Why should seeing him alone at his place be a problem? After all, like I’d told Cassie, what Devlin O’Connor and I had was past history. It was over between us.