Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery) (2 page)

“Er... actually, no, I don’t.”

“See! I knew you were lying!”

Fiddling with the muddle of leather and plastic charity bracelets on his wrists he pushes forward off my car and surprises me by saying, “I’ll just round up the cows and get out of here.”

He’s not going to continue our little banter? Striding off across the disintegrating stone cobbles of the yard, he heads towards the cows which are munching happily on my grass, staring at the two of us as though we’re part of a scene from a soap opera they’re quite enjoying watching.

“I might need to talk to your brother Frazer about farm stuff,” I shout after him. “Is he on holiday or something if you’re covering for him?”

“No, but he probably wishes he was on holiday though!” he replies with a chuckle. “His wife Emma is in hospital, haven’t you heard? I thought everyone knew everything around these parts. They’re expecting their third child at any moment and she’s got high blood pressure, so they’re keeping her in. The hospital is quite a way from here. Better safe than sorry. ”

“Yes, I know Emma, of course I do. I just haven’t seen her for a few weeks. So, you’ve got childcare duties as well as sorting out the farm?” I quiz, reluctantly impressed as he vaults over a stone wall into the field where the cows are. He could have walked five feet to the right and strolled through the opening like the cows did, but no, he has to take the more challenging route. 

He shakes his head. “Thankfully, no. Just the farm falls under my responsibility.”

“You don’t like children then?” I lean against the wall, curious as to how he’s going to round up the hefty bovines chomping merrily on my grass.

“Like them, yeah. I can do the whole fun uncle thing, no worries, but the everyday childcare stuff, not so much. I’ve had little to no experience of that, so leaving my niece and nephew in my care wouldn’t help Emma’s blood pressure problems. It would make them far worse. Plus, in my line of work, I’m not usually around very much anyway to have loads of family time – one of the perks or downsides of the job, depending on which way you look at it.”

“Oh, you mean your special agent duties,” I say with thinly disguised sarcasm.

“Yep.” He walks slowly round to the far side of the cows and raises his arms out to his sides, gently urging the beasts towards the field entrance. “Anyway, the kids are staying with Emma’s mum while she’s in the hospital. Better all round that way I reckon.”

“How did you know who I was?” I ask. “When you first arrived, you said, ‘you must be Lizzie’. How did you know that?”

The cows begin slogging their way out of the field and into the yard. “Well,” he taps the side of his head, “simple deduction really. My brother mentioned Old Joe had passed away a while back and left this place to his niece Lizzie. You’ve been up here a few months now, haven’t you?”

“Four months.” Jack mentioned being a fun uncle to Frazer’s kids. Well, Joe was my fun uncle. School holidays always found me up here, knee deep in mud, helping out. I still miss him, and my Aunt Molly. I was born in Cumbria but my parents uprooted us to London when I was six for Dad’s work. I left my parents behind in London to move back up here. I miss them too. My aunt and uncle never had children of their own, so, knowing my parents would want no part in returning to Cumbria, the farm was left to me.

“If you need a hand with anything around here just let me know,” Jack says, bringing me back to the here and now, as he manoeuvres my unexpected visitors out of the yard. “I’m pretty useful with a hammer and always happy to help a neighbour.”

Forcing a smile I say, “I can manage, thanks.”

Nodding towards the surrounding fields of crops and the ramshackle barns Jack adds, “This place is a lot to take on.”

Drawing myself up to my full height of five feet four inches I immediately realise that Jack’s six foot plus frame still towers over me. “I’ll manage,” I repeat.

He nods, kicking the mud off his boots against the wall of the yard. “Of course, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t. OK then. I’ll finish getting these cows out of your way. It won’t take long, Cin will soon have them sorted.”

“Sin?” I frown. “That’s an odd name for a dog.”

“Her name’s Cinnamon - she was named by my niece. When she’s working it’s quicker and easier to call her Cin, less of a mouthful.” He whistles to the dog who has already cornered the cows near to the farmyard wall and is standing guard, keeping a beady eye on them, from just a few feet away.

True to his word, within a few minutes the cows are out of the yard and heading home down the track, Cinnamon following along behind them, keeping the animals in check.

Leaping back onto the quadbike Jack starts up the engine. “If you
do
need anything, Catwoman, you know where to find me.” Revving the engine a couple of times he adds, “If I can help, I’d like to. See you around.”

I stand there for several minutes, pondering on what I make of Jack, watching the little procession of two cows, a dog and a man on a quadbike steadily making its way back down the lane. With his cuts and black eye, he’s obviously been in some fight. He lied about his job – special agent, hmm, I don’t think so. That guy has got trouble written all over him.  Heading into one of the polytunnels, I locate some salad leaf seedlings which need planting out. OK, I concede, Jack’s tall, blond and rather handsome but I am
so
not looking for a man in my life right now.

And I’ve had more than enough trouble in my life lately, thank you very much. That’s why I’m hiding away in Cumbria trying to run this place.

CHAPTER TWO

After a morning toiling on the soil, I take a quick shower, change and head, once again, to my second job of the day. One of the other waitresses wanted to take her lunchtime shift off today as it’s her birthday and I said I’d cover for her.

As I attempt to steer Daisy into the Veggies car park, I see the area is cordoned off. That’s odd. What on earth is going on? I spot a few police cars and a crime scene investigation van in the car park and goose bumps break out on my arms. Only last night I was fretting about muggers and murderers… No, it can’t be. This is probably about a break-in. Granted, one of those is unusual enough in these parts, but not, thankfully, a matter of life and death.

A stern-looking policeman who looks vaguely familiar is standing guard at the entrance to the restaurant’s car park. He sees me, gestures for me to stop, and wanders over as I buzz down the driver’s side window.

“Sorry, the place is closed,” he says, leaning down to speak through the window.

“But I work here. I’m due to start my shift soon,” I reply, then nervously add, “Is something wrong?” 

“The gossip being what it is around these parts, I’d have thought you’d have heard by now,” he says with a tut of obvious disapproval. “We’re expecting the TV and newspaper guys to turn up here at any second.”

“Heard what?” I ask, only just managing to keep the frustration out of my voice.

The policeman, who I seem to recall is named Mark and has been into the bar at the Veggies more than once, straightens up and looks important. “I’m afraid there’s been a suspicious death.”

“What?” I gulp, switch Daisy off and clamber out, my knees suddenly going jelly-like as concern races through me. Someone is dead? Who? When? “Suspicious as in…”

Mark nods, a suitably sombre expression on his face. “As in murder, yes.”

“You’re sure?” I ask, then realise how stupid that sounds.

“We might be in the back of beyond out here but I think we’re still capable of recognising a murder when we see one.” He shoots me an irritated look. “And unless the victim is capable of stabbing himself several times in the back with a knife then we’re definitely not talking suicide.”

My hands are all clammy. I know the answer but I still have to ask the question “He? Knife? Who’s been murdered?”

“You really don’t know?” he asks, sounding incredulous. “You work here, you say?”

I nod solemnly.

“Name?” he demands.

“Lizzie Carter. You know me. I live up at Eskdale. I’m a waitress here.”

“In that case, I’m sorry, it’s your boss who is the victim.”

“Armand is dead?” My mouth goes dry and now my knees feel as though they’re about to give way beneath me. Had I tempted fate by thinking of murderers when I’d left the Veggies last night? No, of course not. I know Armand wasn’t the most popular guy in Amswick, but, murder, well, it just doesn’t happen in places like this.

But it has.

Mark steps back and points towards the far side of the car park. “I think you’d best park up and report to the officer in charge of this investigation.” He nods towards a man standing next to the crime scene van who’s talking on a phone and pacing back and forth. “They’re working their way through interviewing all of the staff. He’ll want an official statement from you.”

“Who found Armand?” I ask nervously as I get back into Daisy, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I attempt to start her up.

“One of the cleaners, I believe. She turned up at about eight this morning and put in the code to open the back door. Went into the staffroom near the kitchen to make a drink and that’s when she saw him. Lying on the floor he was, with the knife still in his back.” I think I detect a hint of something akin to ghoulish glee as he recounts what happened. “Screamed so loud she did, it fetched the nearest neighbour from up the road and he called the police.”

My hand goes to my mouth and a wave of nausea washes over me. “That’s awful.”

“The forensic guys reckon he was killed late last night,” he continues. “Anyhow, I think you’d better get a move on. The Chief will be wanting to complete his interviews with all of the staff as soon as possible. Take my word for it, he’s not a man to get on the wrong side of.”

I nod and somehow manage to focus enough through my shock to steer Daisy to the designated area. As I’m climbing from the car, a worrying thought jostles into my head amongst the upset and whirl of emotions.

Mark said Armand was killed late last night.

As I was the last person to leave the Veggies at just after midnight, I was probably the last person to see him alive.

Does that put me on the suspects list? From my old life to this one, trouble still seems to unfortunately want to seek me out.

CHAPTER THREE

“What time did you leave the establishment after your shift last night?” The man demands.

I fidget in my seat. Chief Inspector Smith fixes me with a fierce gaze. He’s looking at me as though I’m a criminal. He doesn’t
seriously
think I stabbed Armand, does he?

“Just after midnight,” I reply, clasping my hands in my lap and wishing this was all over and done with. Now he’s starting to make me
feel
like I’ve done something wrong.

He frowns. “According to the staff rota information we’ve been given, your shift should have finished at eleven. Why were you still around at midnight?” Lifting an eyebrow he adds, “Working overtime, were we?”

The way he says it clearly infers he thinks I was doing something other than working between eleven and midnight last night. I’m not sure if he’s suggesting I was having an after-hours fling with Armand or if he thinks I was attacking him with a knife. Both options sicken me to my stomach.

“Armand asked me to stay late. He had some new publicity material and menus being designed and he wanted my opinion on them.” I fidget in my seat some more. I just want to get out of here.

Chief Inspector Smith shoots me a look somewhere between amusement and surprise. “He wanted the opinion of a waitress on publicity material?” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Now, why would he want your opinion on something important, Miss Carter?”

“I used to work in publicity and promotions in London,” I answer, not meeting his gaze and staring at my hands instead.

“Really? So why are you now just a
waitress
in the backwaters of Cumbria? Hmm?”

On behalf of fellow waitresses the world over, I bristle at his implication that waitressing is a lowly occupation for people without any brains or gumption. “It’s a long story.” I don’t want to have to explain what happened with my life in London. I’m trying to forget all about it.

“Then I suggest you tell the story quickly,” he replies. “I don’t have all day.”

I nod and sit up straight. I’ll give him the short version and miss out all the drama and other stuff. “My uncle, Joe Armstrong, sadly passed away, and he left me his farm, Eskdale Top. Well, it’s more of a smallholding really… So, here I am.”

Narrowing his eyes at me, Chief Inspector Smith gets to his feet. “And do you live alone up there?”

I get a brief flashback to London and how things could have been so very different.

“Miss Carter? Please answer the question.”

In a second the flashback is gone and I’m back in the staff room at the Veggies being interviewed as a possible murder suspect. “I live alone.”

“Which means there’s nobody to say if or when you got home last night. Nobody to have seen you wash blood off your hands or clothing. Nobody to provide an alibi.”

Panic bubbles up inside of me and threatens to burst out. What? He’s saying
I
killed Armand. “I… I didn’t do it,” I stammer, my voice not working properly, tongue-tied and terrified at what he’s now implying.

The Chief Inspector nods and smiles as though I’ve just cracked the most hilarious joke. “Oh well, in that case then, you’re free to go.”

I scramble to my feet. “I am?”

“No!” he shouts, leaning forward and getting in my face so much I can smell the coffee on his breath. “You were the last person to leave here last night at just after midnight. We’ve been told he died between midnight and two in the morning. You have no alibi.” With a malicious gleam in his eyes he adds, “It doesn’t look very good for you, now does it?”

Sweat trickles down my spine and tears prickle at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back. Yes, I’m terrified I’m going to be arrested for murder but I need to somehow keep myself together and not dissolve into a mess of tears. “Are you arresting me?”

The Chief Inspector doesn’t answer for a few moments; instead he ignores me and reads through his notes. Eventually he looks up and shakes his head. “Not yet, but we will be investigating you further. You
can
leave, for now.”

Hastily I get to my feet and head for the door, worried he might change his mind and call me back.

“Oh, Miss Carter?”

I freeze.

“Don’t go leaving the county or anything, will you?”

The bright sunlight hurts my eyes as I emerge from the building. Sniffing back tears which seem determined to break free, I march purposefully towards my car. I’m aware of several policemen watching as I cross the car park. I get the distinct impression they’re talking about me – and not in a good way.

Blipping the key fob, I climb into Daisy, eager to escape from their inquisitive gaze.

I’m a murder suspect.

I, Lizzie Carter, am suspected of killing B-list celebrity chef Armand Seville.

Now what do I do?