Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery) (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

The tears are even closer now, and I take a deep breath, forcing my mind to focus on the task of driving Daisy, of coordinating depressing the clutch with selecting first gear. Usually something I do on autopilot, today it seems I cannot get it right. The clutch and gears refuse to cooperate and make loud screeching protests as I fumble around, probably doing a lot of damage to poor Daisy’s gearbox.

A sharp rap of knuckles on the driver’s side window makes me jump a foot. I turn, expecting to see a policeman holding handcuffs, poised to arrest me. Instead I see Jack the Spy standing next to my car, a worried look on his face.

“Are you all right?” he shouts through the closed window.

With a nod I half-heartedly wave him away. I just want to get out of here.

The next thing I know, he’s got the door open and is crouching down so his eyes are level with mine. “I heard what happened to the guy who owns this place. Frazer said you worked here, so I thought I’d drop by and see what was going on and check if you’re all right.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I say, trying to reach around him for the door handle so I can pull it shut and make my escape. But I can’t, because he remains where he is, blocking the door completely.

He shakes his head in a bemused way, and when I look into his eyes, he gently rests a hand on my arm. “You keep saying you’re fine when clearly you’re not. I’m beginning to think you just don’t want to accept help from anybody, any time for anything.”

“And you’d be right,” I reply in a clipped voice. I used to accept help from people, trust people – but not after what happened in London.

“And what’s wrong with accepting help?” he asks with a frown.

I shrug, not wanting to explain.

“Look, Frazer dropped me off down here on his way to fetch some stuff for the farm. I need a lift home. Any chance I could cadge a ride with you? You’d really be helping me out.”

I can hardly leave a neighbour stranded, now can I? Reluctantly I nod. “I’ll run you back.”

Gently he eases my hands away from the car’s controls. “Tell you what. I love VW Beetles and have always wanted to drive one. Any chance you’ll let me have a quick spin in her?”

Is he doing what I think he’s doing? Trying to find a way to drive me home while making it look as though I’m the one helping him out.
Sweet.
My hands
are
still shaking, and judging by the mess I made of trying to select first gear it might be wise to let somebody else navigate the narrow lanes and steep hills back to the farm.

“OK,” I say with a tentative nod. “But Daisy isn’t keen on anyone else driving her so you’ll have to be extra careful. Promise?”

I detect the slightest of eyebrow raises at the mention of the name Daisy. He thinks I’m crazy for naming my car.

Solemnly he nods back. “I promise. I’ll treat Daisy as though she’s made of glass.”

Seconds later I’ve scooted across to the passenger seat and Jack takes control as we leave the restaurant’s car park. Daisy whizzes along the lanes as though she’s enjoying herself and her new driver.
Traitor.

When we reach the track which leads up to Eskdale, I frown as Jack turns Daisy onto the muddy, bumpy surface. His brother’s farm is a little further on up the lane so why is he turning here?

“What are you doing?” I ask as he navigates Daisy with ease around the ferocious potholes lying in wait for us.

“The yard at Frazer’s place is a right mess, covered with cow muck. You don’t want that all over your car, believe me. It stinks to high heaven. Thought it would be best to bring you and Daisy to Eskdale and then I can walk back home. If I cut across the fields it’ll only take me five minutes or so.”

Right. Yes. Of course. If he sprints at world record pace, that is. Even at a steady jog it’ll probably still take twenty minutes. “There’s no need. Honestly, I’ll…”

“Do you have to argue about everything?” he asks in an amiable tone as we reach the farmhouse and he pulls Daisy into the parking slot just inside one of the barns.

“Not usually,” I admit, feeling more than a bit ruffled.

“Good, because I’d hate to spend all of our time together bickering.” He turns off the engine. “It’s such a waste when we could be doing far more pleasurable things,” he adds with a wink before climbing out of the car.

I open the door and get to my feet, my knees still a little shaky. I’ve been mulling something over on the way here and now I’m wondering if I’m prepared to ask a question and risk making a huge fool of myself or not. I need help and I’m going to have to find it somewhere – and fast. Jack might be able to help me, but…

“Well, thanks very much for the drive, really appreciate it,” he says, walking away from me backwards, lifting a hand in a see-you-around wave.

“Wait!” I shout, deciding to go for it, no matter how much the sensible part of me resists. I don’t have many options and he does claim to be a secret agent for this crime agency place he mentioned. But what if he says no? He might not want to help clear the name of his grumpy neighbour. I’m sure he’s got better things to do.

Jack stops in the middle of the yard and holds my gaze, curiosity sparkling in his intensely blue eyes.

“How did you get that black eye and the cuts and bruises on your face?” I ask. “Have you been fighting with somebody?”

He lifts one shoulder in a half shrug of confirmation. “It kind of goes with the territory in my line of work.”

“The secret agent stuff, you mean?”

“Yeah, sometimes the bad guys fight back before they’re slapped into handcuffs.”

“So, you’re sticking with that story about being some kind of James Bond type working for a secret agency?” I ask.

“I’m not a James Bond type. At the risk of sounding like him though, my name is Mathis. Jack Mathis. And I really am a special agent. My employer, the Celebrity Crimes Investigation Agency, otherwise known as the CCIA, isn’t a secret though. If you’re rich and famous, then it’s the go-to place when you need help catching a stalker, a murderer, a blackmailer…”

I nod. “Right. Well, I’m not rich or famous which explains why I’ve never heard of it, but…” I shake my head and throw my hands up in the air irritably. “Oh, nothing, forget it, this is stupid.”

“Got something you want to talk about?” he asks, tilting his head slightly to one side and watching me carefully.

Do I?  Yes. No. I shake my head again. “No, I’m…”

“Fine,” he finishes my sentence with a smile. “So you keep saying. Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look fine. You look worried sick. Are you somehow involved in Armand’s death?”

“What?” I take a step back. “No! Of course not.”

He takes a step closer. “But the police have you on their suspects list, right?”

How does he know that?

I give the slightest of nods. “If he died at around midnight that makes me the last person to see him alive.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he replies. “The last person to see him alive would have been the murderer and that’s not you.”

“You believe I didn’t…”

He holds up a hand. “Listen, I’ve been around enough killers in my time to know that you, Lizzie Carter, are far from a murderer.”

I gulp. “You have? Lots of them?”

“I have.” He nods. “Occupational hazard.”

“You’re really some kind of crime fighter?” I narrow my eyes at him.

“I am. I’ve got years of experience tracking down the bad guys. So, I’m thinking you’re worried about being a suspect and want some help finding out who really stabbed your boss…”

“But we could get into even more trouble and…”

He shakes his head. “We won’t. Trust me.”

“I find it a bit tricky trusting people at the moment,” I reply, then chew on my bottom lip wondering what on earth I’m contemplating here. Am I seriously asking this guy with a black eye who claims he’s an agent for something called the CCIA to help me track down who murdered Armand?

“Well, I swear you
can
trust me, no doubt about it.” He walks over and rests a hand gently on my shoulder, and despite my doubts about him, his touch is strangely reassuring. “So, any chance of a coffee while we plan out how to tackle this investigation?”

It looks like he’s going to help. Thank goodness.

We walk into the farmhouse’s rustic kitchen and I start making coffee for us both, more out of a need for something to do with my hands than actually wanting a drink. “Sugar?” I ask as Jack makes himself at home on the battered sofa next to the Aga.

“Yes, sweetie?” he replies with a wicked grin.

I turn away so he can’t see the tiny smile his flirty joke has got tugging at the corners of my mouth, despite my anxiety. “I meant…”

“Sorry,” he cuts in. “Just trying to lighten the mood. Two sugars in coffee for me, thanks. So, come on then, tell me everything about you and your boss. Leave no stone unturned. If I’m going to clear your name I need to know everything.”

Walking across to the sofa, I hand him one of the mugs and settle on the other end of the seen-better-days settee, cradling my own coffee for warmth. “What are your, er, fees?” I don’t have much in the way of savings, but if I end up in prison for murdering Armand, then what little money I do have will be of no use to me anyway. I figure right now paying Jack to stop me being charged with killing someone is going to be money well spent.

He frowns then sips his coffee. “Fees? You make me sound like some kind of gigolo.”

“I meant for your agency work,” I respond, my cheeks flushing red.

“I know, but the gigolo stuff sounds more fun.”

I push to my feet and turn on him, spilling my coffee in the process. “Don’t you ever take anything seriously? I could be slung into prison for murder here, you do realise that, don’t you?”

“Hey! Calm down. I
am
taking this seriously. Especially as the local police aren’t used to handling any kind of murder investigation, let alone one involving a celebrity, with the added pressures of the world’s gossip-hungry media breathing down their necks.”

“Fantastic!” I throw my hands in the air in frustration. “So you’re saying there’s an even higher likelihood of me being wrongly accused of murder because the local police are way out of their depth.”

“Look, like I said, try to keep calm. The local guys might not be winning any awards for their investigative abilities, but I’ve worked far more complex cases than this before with far more at stake. I can catch this killer with my hands tied behind my back.”

I eye him sceptically. “Won’t you get into trouble? You said you were on a sabbatical from this agency you work for. Plus, you haven’t mentioned how much I’ll have to pay if I do decide to get you to help me.”

“For you, no charge. And naturally I’ll be working freelance on this one,” he says, pushing a hand through his hair and then sipping his coffee, looking annoyingly laidback. “The agency doesn’t need to know a thing about it.”

I flop onto the opposite end of the sofa. “What happened with you and this crime investigation agency you work for? You say you’re on sabbatical, but in reality, are you suspended or fired or something? What did you do to get into trouble with your employers?”

“Let’s say there was a bit of a disagreement about the interpretation of a couple of agency rules, and so I took some time out to come up to Cumbria and help my big brother with the farm.”

I sigh in exasperation. “And that’s as much as you’re going to tell me?”

He nods. “For now.”

“But what…”

Leaning across the sofa cushions he rests a hand on my arm. “Just trust me. I won’t let you down. The way I see it we could, in a way, be helping each other out. Working this case will ensure you stay out of jail. And when I catch the killer and the agency finds out, it will go one of two ways. Instead of being suspended from active duty, they’ll fire me for working without jurisdiction, or I’ll have redeemed myself and they’ll reinstate me. Either way, it’s got to be worth a shot, right?”

So he was suspended. I shake my head. “I don’t want you getting fired for trying to keep me out of prison.”

“I won’t be
trying
to keep you out of prison; I
will
keep you out of prison. And if I get fired, then I’ll find work elsewhere with a different agency.” He grins confidently at me. “I’m good at what I do. I admit I might bend the rules a little too far some of the time but if it gets the job done, what’s the harm?”

“I’m thinking your employers have a different opinion on that front but right now I need professional help. I can’t go to prison!” I feel sick at the very thought of it.

His hand is still on my arm, rubbing soothingly through the fabric of my shirt. “And you won’t be going to prison. I will track down who killed this chef guy and you can carry on running Eskdale as a free woman. Now, do we have a deal?”

A vison of Armand, stabbed with a knife, police constantly questioning and harassing me, and my lack of an alibi for last night all crowd into my head. My hands go clammy and my shoulders tense up even more. I nod. “Yes. We have a deal.”