Murder in the Cake: Cozy Murder Mystery (Harley Hill Mysteries Book 4) (9 page)

“Aw. Cordi.” I gave her a hug. “I’ll be fine. Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we both meet Mike and swing by Renholm’s place at the same time. What could be safer than going there with my partner and my big bro?”

Cordi brightened immediately. “Sounds like a plan.”

***

We called Michael and arranged to meet him outside Café H. When we got there, he was just stretching after what must have been a pretty intense run if the sweat was anything to go by. I thought he looked pretty gross, but Cordi clearly didn’t.

“He’s so trim, don’t you think, Harley? Just look at those muscles.”

“To be honest, I try not to think of my brother as ‘trim’. But yeah, he looks good… for an old guy.” I winked at her and playfully dug her in the ribs. Cordi made a
tutting
sound and swatted me away, giggling.

She might be straight-laced, but she had a sense of humour as well as style. Speaking of which, she’d come dressed for the occasion—not. She was wearing a 1950s-inspired green skirt suit with matching purse and shoes and one of those funny tiny little hat things.
 

I was wearing skinny black jeans, one of Cordi’s old Sisters of Mercy T-shirts, a black hoodie under my leather jacket, and my biker boots.

When we met up, Michael and Cordi had eyes only for each other and kissed like teenagers. I had to cough to remind them I was there. So much for being a long-lost sibling!

“Oh, good morning, Sam… I mean, Harley.” My brother blushed. He’d almost called me Samantha, which was my real name. I let it go, everyone makes mistakes, especially when they were in the first flush of love.

“Good morning, Mike. Sleep well?” I grinned.

“Er… Yes. I… er…” He was really blushing now. “Shall we go in?”

“Yes, let’s. Come on, Harley, open the door, dear. It’s quite chilly out here,” Cordi said.

I laughed at the two of them, who were acting like naughty school kids, and unlocked the door. The place was a bit of a mess after the police had gone through it. There were patches of grey dust everywhere from where the fingerprint team had been. Torn pieces of yellow tape littered the floor and drawers were left half open. It looked like the place had been burgled.

“So much for forensic detective work,” I said. “It looks like they did this with a bulldozer.” I sounded snippier than I intended, but right now cops—Cole and Alex in particular—weren’t in my good books. Although Cole’s flowers certainly helped to amend things.

“Well, Renholm must have been doing something right,” Michael said. “He won the Notting Hill Small Business of the Year Award this year.” He picked up the chunky glass award that I’d accidentally knocked over when I’d seen Renholm’s body in the kitchen. On the wall, to the right of the door, was a gallery of photographs. Cordi was looking at it.

“Looks like he won the year before too. Look at this clipping,” she said, pointing to one of the pictures. I went over and, sure enough, there he was, smiling, clutching another ugly lump of art glass with last year’s date emblazoned across the headline, declaring Café H, Notting Hill, Artisan Business of the Year 2014.

Glancing at the other photographs, I could see that his fame had spread amongst the glitterati, as there were more than a few A-list celebrities featured on the wall, posing with gorgeous slices of cake and pots of tea.
 

“That’s Lana Van Hey,” I said, spying a candid snap of the famous pop star.

“Who, dear?” asked Cordi.
 

“Lana Van Hey? The singer?”
 

She looked blankly at me. “I haven’t a clue who she is, dear, but I do like her hat, classic 1940s, very chic.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to have a look in the kitchen.” The last time I’d peeked into the kitchen, Henry Renholm had been in there, lying face down in a plateful of cake.

The shutters were closed so the room was gloomy, and still smelled faintly of corpse. A shiver ran down my spine. I half expected to see a chalk outline on the floor, but there wasn’t one; in fact, there wasn’t a mark, not so much as a crumb.

“The police will have had a hazmat clean-up team in here,” Michael said over my shoulder, making me jump out of my skin. “After they finished their forensic investigation, they will have cleaned it thoroughly, because of the poison.”
 

“Doesn’t help us much, does it?” I said.

“No, unfortunately. Oh, by the way, Maggie was asking about Mum and Dad.” He looked sheepish. “I might have told her more than I intended.”
 

“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “Oh, Michael, why would you do that?”

He shrank away and shoved his hands into the pockets in his shorts. He looked like a naughty schoolboy.

“I couldn’t help it,” he said. “She bribed me with caramel shortbread.”

“Great.” Now he
sounded
like a naughty schoolboy. I took a deep breath. “Well, what’s done is done, I suppose. Let’s take a look upstairs, shall we?”

I was angry. I knew Maggie had been a finder for a long time, but that didn’t give her the right to pry into my personal business. I was still smarting over Michael’s confession when Cordi joined us, and the three of us went upstairs. It was weird to think the last time I’d been here I’d been creeping around in the dark while Henry Renholm was lying dead in the kitchen.
 

The cops had made quite a mess of the apartment; the cushions had been tipped up on the sofa, cupboard doors and drawers had been left half open.
 

I pointed to the living room. “You have a sniff round in here, Cordi. Michael, you check out the bathroom. I’ll have a snoop in the bedroom.”

Michael nodded and headed to the bathroom, still looking embarrassed about his confession. I wasn’t yet ready to let him off the hook, but I knew I couldn’t remain angry for too long. I knew how persuasive Maggie could be.

Cordi opened her bag and got out her washing-up gloves. The pink clashed with her outfit.

“Are you planning on doing the washing up, Cordi?”

“No, dear. But I’ve seen CSI; I know they wear rubber gloves to preserve evidence.” She pulled on the gloves with a snap that meant business.

“As far as I’m aware, they don’t use fancy washing-up gloves, though,” I said, trying not to laugh.

“Improvisation is the grandmother of invention!” She tapped her nose and gave me a cheeky little wink.

Renholm’s bedroom smelled of cat pee and sweaty socks. I opened the window, but then closed it again. You never know what unscrupulous type might see it and break in.
 

I had a poke around in Renholm’s wardrobe. He had some pretty fancy 1920s-style suits hanging up. I went through the pockets of the jackets, just in case the cops had missed anything, but they hadn’t.

I checked under the bed, lifted the rug, looked behind the wardrobe, but all I found were dead spiders and dust bunnies. I was about to give up when I noticed the laundry basket. I lifted the lid and was hit by the smell of cheesy socks. I held my breath and tipped the contents onto the floor. There were, of course, several stinky pairs of socks, some underpants, a tie, and a pair of trousers. I checked the trouser pockets.
 

There was some loose change and a crumpled letter, which read:

Dear Mr. Renholm,

With regards to your celebration the other night.
 

Though I’m grateful for the custom, I have to say that I find it most unusual that you’ve won the Artisan Business Award twice now. Those less charitable than myself might think it was your, shall we say, ‘elite’ connections that have stood you in good stead, others that, perhaps the judges who have
been seen eating in your establishment
were bribed by delicious free cakes. I just thought, as a word to the wise, that I’ve got my eye on you, sir, and if there has been any bribery shenanigans going on, I’ll damn well find out and expose you!

Yours, Rex Farquar.

“Wow,” I said aloud. I guessed Rex Farquar must be the owner of Farquar’s Emporium, and the note made it abundantly clear that he was bent out of shape about not winning the business award.
 

The question was, was he angry enough to kill? I put the letter in my pocket and was just about to go tell the others what I’d found when a blood-curdling scream rang out from downstairs. I headed into the corridor that ran the length of the apartment to see Michael and Cordi doing the same thing.

“What the hell was that?” I said. Before either of them could answer, another scream echoed around the apartment. We headed downstairs, Michael first, with Cordi in the middle and me bringing up the rear.

I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t a woman with her back to the gallery wall, being hissed at by the big ginger cat that I’d first encountered the night that I broke in.

Chapter Ten

“Get that horrible monster away from me!” the woman hissed as she pressed herself against the wall of photographs. Quite rightly affronted, the cat hissed back.
 

The woman clutched an overlarge bag tight against her chest, like a Gucci shield. “Please, save me!” she cried. She was wearing killer, patent black heels and a plaid suit. Her hair was drawn up into a tight chignon pinned at the nape of her neck.

I crouched and rubbed my fingers together. “Come here, puss,” I said.
 

Much to my surprise, ginger padded over and nuzzled my hand with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. I picked him up and was relieved to find that he was heavy—perks of being a chef’s cat, I guess.

“Urgh!” The woman brushed herself down. “I need a drink. Do you mind?” she asked Michael.

Mike turned to me. “Do we?”

“No. Go right ahead, Miss?”

The woman click-clacked across the tiled floor. “Kessingworth, Caitlyn Kessingworth.” She fished a card out of a tiny pocket in her wasp-waisted jacket and handed it to Cordi before going behind the counter and helping herself to a drink.
 

I noticed that she knew her way around the place as she pulled a dusty bottle of cognac from under the counter. She poured a finger, thought about it, then poured the whole hand.

“So, Miss Kessingworth, what are you doing here?” I asked. Puss nuzzled my chin.
 

She slugged the cognac down in one. “That’s better. I, er, came to see Henry.”

“Oh? Is he a friend of yours?”

“No, not really. He’s more a friend… ex-boyfriend of my sister, Jana.”

Cordi gasped. “Not
the
Jana Kessingworth?”
 

I didn’t have a clue who she was. Caitlyn gave a smug grin. “Yes.”

“Well, I haven’t got a clue who she or you are. Care to enlighten me?” I said.

“The Kessingworth family is one of the oldest families in England,” Caitlyn said, pride oozing out of her. “My sister Jana is engaged to Prince Rupert of Klostenstein. They’re due to be married at the end of the month.”

“And you’re here to deliver a wedding invitation to Henry?” I said. I put puss on a table because he was making my arms ache. Kessingworth looked at him like he was poison.

“Hardly. I just came to… see him. Anyway, Never mind who I am, who the hell are you?”

“I’m Harley Hill. This is my partner, Cordelia Silvers. We’re investigating the death of Henry Renholm.”

“What? Henry’s dead?” She sounded shocked, but she didn’t look it.

Cordi tapped Kessingworth’s card. “Yes. It’s been on the news. I’m surprised someone who works in PR didn’t know that.”
 

Kessingworth shrugged. Her cheeks flushed. I wasn’t sure if it was a response to the booze or embarrassment about being caught out in a lie. “I don’t read local news, darling. I’m more internationally based. Speaking of which, I really must be going.”

She slid from behind the counter and strutted over to the door. “You have my card; do get in touch with my office with details of where we can send flowers.”

“Just a minute, Miss Kessingworth,” I said and went to head her off before she could leave. “You said your sister was Henry’s ex. How ex is she?”

“What do you mean?” She looked flustered. “A long time. Didn’t you hear me? Jana’s getting married in a month.”

“Oh, I heard you.” I smiled. “Have a nice day, Miss Kessingworth.”

She looked down her nose at me. It wasn’t the first time a toff had given me a look like that. Which was why I didn’t feel guilty for doing what I did next. “Here, let me get that,” I said. I grabbed the door and accidentally swung it into her, knocking her bag out of her hands. I pretended to try to catch it before it hit the floor and accidentally opened it, spilling the contents over the tiles.

“Oh, gosh, I’m so clumsy!” I said and immediately got down on my knees and ‘helped’ put everything back.

“You bloody idiot!” Kessingworth snapped. She struggled to bend down and pick up her things because her cute suit was too tight. Talk about fashion victim. While she muttered, I stuffed
almost
everything back in her bag and handed it to her. “So sorry, Miss Kessingworth,” I said in my best cockney sparrow accent.

“I should think so too! Good day!” she said huffily and stormed out.

“Gosh, Harley, that was clumsy,” Michael said.

I smiled and pulled the photograph I’d lifted from my sleeve. “You think?”

“What’s that?” Cordi asked, a smile slowly spreading across her face.

“That, if I’m not very much mistaken, belongs here.” I walked over to the photograph wall and put the picture I’d just taken from Kessingworth’s bag against a blank space. It fitted perfectly.
 

“I noticed the blank space when Kessingworth was standing with her back to it. I also noticed that she was holding onto that bag like it contained the crown jewels. I just put two and two together.”

“Clever girl!” Cordi clapped. She was still wearing her washing-up gloves, which was a little strange.

Michael grinned. “So you knocked her bag out of her hands on purpose?”

“You got it.” I winked. “Now, any bets on who this scantily clad young lady is hanging on Henry Renholm’s arm?”