It wasn’t quite the dinner party that Alfie had planned. Over the past few months, he had got back into the habit of cooking, something he found relaxing. And a comfortable routine had grown up where one week his late aunt’s closest friends, Liz and Marge, would come around to Windermere Cottage to dine with him, and the next, he would go around to theirs.
Jasmine Cottage was a haven of chintz and floral patterns. The dining room had a solid mahogany table, the seats of the mahogany dining chairs covered in green velvet. A glass-fronted display cabinet was filled with Liz’s Royal Doulton china and silverware. Dinner was always a substantial traditional meal: a roast, a stew, or local sausages and mash, followed by a fruit crumble, or treacle tart, or (Alfie’s personal favourite) Eton Mess, a delectable mixture of home-made meringue, whipped cream and strawberries.
After dinner, they would move to the sitting room for coffee and fudge, often followed by a gin and tonic. Alfie would sit on the chintz-covered sofa, with Liz choosing one of the matching armchairs, and Marge perched on her rocking chair, the room dominated by a massive television on which the ladies watched their favourite crime box sets.
Dinner in Windermere Cottage was quite different. The kitchen was the only room Alfie could tolerate, apart from the tranquil bedroom. It was a riot of colour, the walls covered in bold multi-coloured tiles, the woodwork and surfaces a rich purple, and the window blind bright scarlet. The large wooden table was plain oak rather than polished mahogany.
Alfie had now personalised the kitchen by ordering the equipment he wanted, such as an ice-cream maker, a steamer and a coffee machine, in primary colours wherever possible. After selling his start-up, he indulged his long-held dream of travelling, and picked up recipes along the way.
His plan for this evening was a spicy lentil soup, followed by aubergine stuffed with minced beef, and then an almond milk pudding with coconut and pistachio nuts.
But he hadn’t had a chance to do any of the necessary preparation. After Debbie fled, he felt obliged to stay at the crime scene, reluctant to turn his back on the late Mrs Mosby, but equally disinclined to look at her. In the end, he let his eyes unfocus slightly and kept his gaze well above floor level.
Eventually, he heard a car pull up outside. The salon door was pushed open and Alfie turned to see a uniformed policewoman.
She exhaled loudly. “Alfie McAlister. Give me strength. Why is it that whenever there’s a murder in this village, you’re at the scene?”
“Hello, Emma,” he said.
“Constable Hollis, if you don’t mind,” she snapped as she came over to survey the trashed treatment room. She studied it methodically, then relayed the information over her police radio. Alfie smiled at her to show how impressed he was by her calm professionalism.
She gave him a cold stare in return. “Have you touched anything?”
Alfie shook his head. “Nobody has. I stayed here after Debbie ran off to make sure everything remained as it was. Well, that is, Debbie unlocked the door, and we probably touched it but –”
“Where is Ms Crawshaw?”
Still the same peremptory tone.
“I’m not sure. She was in shock. She thought the murderer was still here, but I don’t think he can be. I haven’t heard a thing.”
“Stay here,” she commanded, and crossed the treatment room, careful to avoid the body and surrounding debris. She disappeared through a second set of pink curtains and there was the sound of doors opening.
“Cupboards, lavatory, all clear,” she announced as she returned.
A handle clicked and Alfie jumped.
“Emma!” wailed Debbie, standing at the front door with Rakesh beside her. “Oh, Emma, it’s awful. What can I do?”
“You can start by giving me a statement,” said Emma curtly, although Alfie noticed she didn’t instruct Debbie to call her Constable Hollis.
Alfie had to give a statement as well, and then felt obliged to escort Debbie home since she was still shaking with anxiety.
He led her out of the salon where she stood bewildered, blinking up at the sky as though she had just been liberated from a lifetime underground.
“I feel so dreadful,” she said, clinging to his arm. “Is it all my fault?”
“Your fault?” repeated Alfie as they began walking along the pavement, nervous of what she would say next.
“My bad karma. First, I found poor Mario Bellini, struck down in his prime. Bad intent and bad deeds lead to bad karma.”
“But you had nothing to do with Mario’s death,” said Alfie.
She squeezed his arm. “You’re such a comfort. But I was getting so cross with Mrs Mosby. She was being really nasty, and I didn’t like it, and … and …”
Alfie wondered whether he should stop her talking. If she confessed to him, did he have a moral obligation to report her? Perhaps he could take advice from Philip.
“Oh, Alfie,” she whispered, “I even thought of hurting her. I was going to press on her sciatic nerve, and that was really sore.”
“A perfectly understandable thought to have if someone’s being difficult,” said Alfie in relief. “You don’t need to worry. These deaths are two completely unrelated incidents which have nothing to do with you.”
“That’s so kind of you to say so. You’re the sort of person who spreads good karma. But I still think I need to get my aura checked.”
“Yes, probably wise,” said Alfie.
Perro trotted alongside them on the lead, seemingly no worse for having been dropped in the salon.
“Rakesh was hopeless,” said Debbie. “I ran straight into the restaurant because it was the closest place, but, when I told him what had happened, he was as upset as I was – more upset. Although he gave me a mango lassi, and he gave Perro some chicken. You like chicken, Perro, don’t you, boy?”
The poodle looked round at the sound of his name, his tongue hanging out in apparent agreement.
Alfie was going to leave Debbie at her cottage, but she positively insisted that he come in and have a drink to ease the trauma.
Alfie admitted that he could do with a drink to calm himself. He followed her into the small cottage, which thankfully wasn’t a study in pink although it had rose-coloured accents through bright floor cushions and crocheted throws.
There was only one chair, which didn’t look very chair-like. It was a distorted X shape, with pads on the two upper spars.
“Don’t try my kneeling chair,” said Debbie. “It’s configured for me, and it won’t suit you with your lovely long legs. Just grab a cushion, and I’ll get you that drink.”
Alfie sat awkwardly crossed-legged on the massive cushion, and the poodle jumped up beside him and rested its head on his knee.
“Have I stolen Perro’s bed?” Alfie asked as Debbie returned with two tall glasses.
“No, but you’re very honoured. He’s not usually so friendly to visitors. I told you, he’s a very good judge of character.”
She handed Alfie a glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” he said, knocking it back. Then, spluttering: “What is this?”
“Don’t worry, it’s proper mineral water – I really don’t trust the tap water round here, whatever they say about the purification systems. I’ve put in four drops of Star of Bethlehem.”
Alfie looked at her blankly.
“The Bach flower remedy,” she expanded. “It helps to process shock.”
Alfie needed it. It was a shock to find himself drinking water when he thought he was being given either gin or vodka.
“I can give you a remedy bottle to take away with you,” Debbie offered.
“No, I’m sure I’ll be perfectly well processed by the time I finish this.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “I can’t yet see auras myself, unfortunately, although I’m working on it, but I sense from your serenity that you have a very strong heart chakra. You’re very open to love. Your energy is green.”
“Green energy?” said Alfie. “That sounds more appropriate for Betty than for me.”
He saw her lips tighten and realised he shouldn’t have made fun of her New Ageism.
“Sorry,” he said. “As Shakespeare said, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy. I don’t know the first thing about chakras and auras.”
“I can tell you all about them,” she enthused. “Why don’t you stay for supper?”
He stood up. “I’d love to, but unfortunately I’ve got Liz and Marge coming round.”
“Another time, then,” she said brightly. “Thank you for being there for me. I couldn’t have coped without your serenity.”
He hadn’t been remotely serene. He had been shocked, horrified, and, when he thought Mrs Mosby’s assailant could still be around, downright afraid. Perhaps he should ask for that flower power stuff after all.
“Thank you,” said Debbie again. She flung her arms round him and hugged him, pressing her head against his chest. He gave her a reassuring pat on the back, but she showed no sign of letting go.
“Er … I have to get home to prepare dinner,” he said and her grip on him eased.
But once outside, a glance at his watch told him he didn’t have the time to do the cooking he had planned. He retraced his steps to Deb’s Beauty Salon, now cordoned off with blue and white police barrier tape. He hoped Mrs Mosby was no longer there.
The salon wasn’t his destination. Directly opposite was “From Bombay to Bunburry” which had the huge advantage of selling takeaway meals.
Rakesh seemed even quicker than usual to greet him. “What a terrible business, Alfie. Terrible! Poor Debbie, she ran in here with her little dog, so upset. Such an upset for all of us.” He spoke very rapidly, as though he was reading from a prepared speech.
The previous evening, Alfie had noticed nothing amiss with Rakesh when Betty said she was sure something was wrong. But today, he felt Rakesh was definitely behaving oddly. The restaurateur didn’t seem upset. He seemed almost hyper, excitable.
“I had to give a statement to Emma,” Rakesh went on. “But what could I tell her? Nothing.”
“I suppose it was helpful that you could tell her about Debbie being upset. With it being Debbie’s salon, and Debbie finding the body, Emma will want to get evidence showing Debbie isn’t the murderer.”
There seemed to be a moment’s hesitation before Rakesh said: “Of course, of course, that will be it. I hope I have put everyone’s mind at rest. But what can I do for you? You would like to make another booking?”
“Not a booking, but I do need a meal for three. Anything you can give me that I can heat up when Liz and Marge arrive this evening.”
Rakesh tutted. “Heat up! You will have a meal that’s freshly made. Tell me what time the ladies are dining, and leave everything to me.”
Liz and Marge had only just arrived when the doorbell rang for a second time. A schoolgirl, her bicycle propped against the wall, was holding a large cardboard box that exuded a seductive aroma of spices.
“How on earth did you manage to balance that?” Alfie exclaimed.
The girl grinned. “Tied it on with my school tie.”
“That deserves danger money,” said Alfie, handing over a sizeable tip.
“Another case for the Bunburry Triangle,” enthused Marge as she, Liz and Alfie began unpacking the box’s contents on the kitchen table.
“I do wish you’d stop calling us that, dear,” said Liz.
“Certainly,” said Marge. “Just as soon as one of you comes up with an alternative.”
“And,” said Liz, “it’s not very seemly to be so cheerful when poor Eve Mosby is dead.”
“Oh, come on,” said Marge, removing lids from containers. “She was horrible. Robert wasn’t bad as a landlord, but Eve just wanted to grind the faces of the poor. Not that they were necessarily poor before she got her claws into them.”
“She was a businesswoman.”
Marge banged down some cutlery on the table. “Stop being so reasonable, Clarissa. You never liked her. Nobody liked her.”
“You mean women didn’t,” said Liz, putting out the plates. The ladies knew their way round Aunt Augusta’s kitchen better than Alfie did. “Men liked her.”
“Rakesh didn’t.”
“Yes, but she was his landlady. What was the name of that big cat? Oh yes, a cheetah. Mrs Mosby was a cheetah.”
“Sorry?” said Alfie, baffled.
“That’s what you call an older lady who’s fond of younger men,” Liz explained.
“Not a cheetah, a cougar,” Marge corrected wearily. “Don’t try to get down with the kids, Clarissa. It doesn’t suit you.”
She handed Alfie a bottle of red wine and the corkscrew, then set out glasses.
“So,” said Liz as they sat down and began spooning the contents of the containers on to the plates, “we have a key witness here. Tell us all about it, Alfie.”
“It’s a locked-room mystery,” said Alfie. “Mrs Mosby was Debbie’s first client for her new Royal Blowtox Treatment.”
Marge snorted. “Ridiculous nonsense. But Eve Mosby spent her life trying to improve on what nature gave her.”
“Yes, she did,” said Liz. “And I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Don’t forget what a deprived background she came from. She had a terrible start in life. She made the most of her attributes, and Robert Mosby was more than happy to marry her. She did look very like Marilyn Monroe in those days.”
Liz and Marge were eating without obvious interest, consuming the occasional mouthful as though they were simply re-fuelling. Alfie was torn. He wanted to savour Rakesh’s cooking, but his attention was on the conversation.
“I hear she was called The Merry Widow,” he commented.
Marge jabbed her fork into some curry. “She was merry long before she was a widow.”
“Maybe so,” said Liz. “But she was always very discreet. Robert never suspected.”
Alfie spotted a flaw in this. “If she was very discreet, and her husband never suspected, how do you know?”
Marge looked at him pityingly. “She might have moved to a posh mansion in Cheltenham, but she was born and brought up in Bunburry. We keep tabs on our own – you can’t keep secrets round here.”
That was true, Alfie thought. The Bunburry Triangle – he wasn’t really calling them the Bunburry Triangle, was he? – had uncovered quite a few secrets during their previous investigations.
“She stopped being discreet the second Robert dropped dead,” said Marge. “Carrying on with that boy all over Cheltenham. Apparently, you can’t go anywhere without falling over them.”
“Couldn’t go anywhere,” Liz corrected.
“Edward is the boyfriend?” asked Alfie.
“Yes, and I don’t know why Marge is being so judgemental,” said Liz. “He’s in his thirties, she was in her fifties. If the age gap was the other way around, nobody would bat an eye. As far as I can see, Eve was very much in love with him.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Marge. “He’s a very dishy young man. But Eve Mosby, I bet she was nothing but monkey glands and silicone, and I can’t believe he had a Coco Chanel fetish.”
Suddenly, her fork clattered on to the plate. “I’ve just remembered something I heard from Dot! Once Eve and Edward were officially an item, Eve kept telling people about all the expensive presents she bought him. And she hinted that she’d done something really special. Dot got the distinct impression that she’d changed her will in Edward’s favour.”
“I think,” said Liz, “that we should call the police.”