A Novel Murder Page 16

  “If she’s an assistant, she’ll probably have an answer phone. You can always leave a message.” Mike poured him another mug of coffee. “I thought I’d ask Abi if she wants to work today.”

  Jonathon regarded him intently. “Can I ask you something? Seeing as Abi is already doing so many shifts, why don’t you make this a more permanent arrangement? You could make her the pub manager, giving her more and more shifts as we get closer to the wedding. Because if you’re serious about traveling with me….”

  Mike sat in the chair facing him. “I’ve been thinking about that too. If I go down that route, I might have to open the pub for more hours. Twelve till four, and six till closing is fine when there’s only me to consider. But if I open from eleven until closing, that might improve the financial side of things.” He smiled. “I should explain. The only time you make any real money with a pub or a bar is when you sell it. Until that point, whatever you make pays the bills. Employing Abi for a few shifts here and there has been okay, but if she’s permanent, the salary I’d pay her would be income I’d lose.”

  “Then why the plan about opening more hours?”

  “I want to increase the pub’s profitability before I put it on the market.”

  Jonathon stilled. “Then you are going to sell it.”

  Mike shrugged. “I’m certainly considering it. I want to spend time with my husband, and then with our kids.”

  Jonathon chuckled. “Oh, so we’re definitely having more than one? Better make sure Ruth knows.” Something Mike had said struck home. “You know I have no money issues, right? What my grandfather left me is plenty for both of us, for the rest of our lives.” Jonathon paused for a moment. “I’ve never been one to lie around all day being one of the idle rich. That is anathema to me. The photography allows me to do what I love, what I’m good at, and earn a living. The Vietnam trip would be my chance to get one more book out before our little family increases in size. When I asked if you would sell the pub, I wasn’t suggesting for a second that you become a stay-at-home husband. It would be wrong of me.” He reached across the table for Mike’s hand. “I want to spend as much time as possible with you too.”

  Mike lifted his hand and kissed the knuckles. “We’re both playing this by ear. Everything will work out, sweetheart. The key thing is, we’re meant to be together. And we’re going to be.” His eyes twinkled. “Now call that PA.”

  Jonathon laughed as Mike released his hand. “Fine. I’ll call her—as soon as someone gives me her name and number. Because I’m not going to get far without those.”

  Mike got out his phone, shaking his head. “Seriously rethinking this whole wedding idea. Not sure I want to be married to such a smartarse.” He tapped the screen. “There. She’s called Sharon Weston, and now you have her contact details.”

  Jonathon batted his eyelashes. “Thank you, sweetheart. Love you too.” He opened the text and clicked on Sharon’s number. He had to smile when Mike placed his notepad within easy reach, then left a pen on top of it before vacating the kitchen.

  He thinks of everything.

  “You’ve reached the voicemail for Sharon Weston. I’m sorry I can’t answer your call right now, but please leave your name and number after the beep, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  “My name is Jonathon de Mountford, and I recently helped host the Merrychurch Literary Festival. I’d be grateful if you’d call me. My fiancé and I have been looking into Teresa Malvain’s death, and—”

  A click interrupted him in full flow. “Mr. de Mountford? This is Sharon Weston. I thought you might be getting in touch with me, although I had no idea you were an investigator of some sort.”

  Jonathon coughed. “That’s because, technically, I’m not. My fiancé, however, is an ex-police officer, and we’re helping the local police with their inquiries.” Which was true—Gorland wasn’t local.

  Using the word fiancé sent a wave of pleasure through him. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that.

  “Isn’t that what they say about people who’ve been taken in for questioning? Helping police with their inquiries?”

  In an instant he realized she was right. “Oh God. No. We’re not suspects. We’re just… helping them investigate, shall we say.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, as you can imagine, this has been a hell of a shock. It still doesn’t seem real.”

  “I would have contacted you earlier, but we didn’t know you existed until yesterday,” Jonathon told her. “Mike—that’s my fiancé—owns the pub where Teresa was staying, and we were wondering about a parcel she received.” He told her about the book with the highlighted phrase. “Has she ever received anything like that before?”

  “God, yes. There have been three or four anonymous letters too, and all the same—hinting at something she’d done in her past. Secrets she’s been keeping.”

  “Did Teresa have any idea who was sending them?”

  There was a pause. “If she did, she certainly didn’t share it with me. The only reason I know about them is that I was with her one morning when she received one in the mail. When she didn’t appear surprised, I asked her about it, and she showed me the others. I wanted her to contact the police, but she wouldn’t.” Another pause. “You know what? I think she had a good idea who was sending them. Like I said, she didn’t name anyone—it’s just a gut feeling.”

  “Did she have a diary of some sort?” There hadn’t been one in her belongings.

  Sharon laughed. “That notebook of hers. She wrote down everything in there.”

  “I know that’s where she wrote notes for her next book. Could you share anything about that?”

  “Feel free to look in the notebook. It’s all in there. And it’s not like she can complain about it, right?”

  “But that’s the problem. Her notebook is missing.”

  “Seriously? You mean, someone took it? Because I can’t for one minute imagine her losing it. Was that after she died, because I think she’d have kicked up one hell of a fuss when that happened? That was her precious, truly.”

  “It was seen with her before the allergic reaction, but not since.”

  “But it’s all still on the cloud.”

  It took a minute for the full import of her words to sink in. “She uploaded everything onto the cloud?”

  “She didn’t bother typing it all out and uploading. Teresa was way too lazy for that. But she did take photos of every page in her notebook before uploading them. That way, if she ever lost it, she still had the notes.”

  Jonathon’s heartbeat raced. “Can I get copies of those photos?”

  Another longer pause. “You said you’re helping the police with their inquiries. Into what, exactly? Why would they be investigating death by anaphylactic shock?”

  He sighed. “Because we have reason to believe she was murdered. Someone placed peanut oil in her coffee.”

  He couldn’t miss Sharon’s gasp. “Oh shit. Sorry, that just slipped out. So that’s why you asked about the book and whether she’d received anything else. You think the killer might have sent them.”

  “It’s a possibility we have to consider.”

  “Okay, to be honest? I never read the contents of her notebook. I wasn’t given permission to do that. But… I can try to find the link and send it to you. Should I send this to the police too?”

  “Haven’t they already interviewed you? I’d have thought you would be one of the first people they’d contact.”

  “They probably contacted her agent first. I’m further down the pecking order. But doubtless I’ll get a call soon.”

  “When you do, give them the link too. That’s if you can find it.” Not that Jonathon wasn’t going to send it to Graham. Keeping on Graham’s good side was high on his list of priorities. “How far back does this notebook go?”

  Sharon laughed. “She was on maybe her tenth notebook. Everything went in them—research notes, plot notes, meetings, musings…. And if she saw a notebook that she liked,
she bought it. There’s a shelf in her apartment that contains nothing but notebooks—ones she’s already filled, and others waiting to be filled.” Sharon snickered. “I called it stationery porn. The present notebook has been going since January of this year.” A slight pause. “The link should give you access to all her notebooks. Each one is in its own folder. I hope you have some spare time to read it all. You also have my sympathies.”

  “Why?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Because you’re going to have to wade through a lot of notes to hopefully find a few nuggets of information that might help you. I hope they do help, though.”

  “Thank you.” Jonathon gave her his email address. “I’ll be awaiting the link.”

  “Good luck.” Sharon sighed heavily. “She was a pain in the arse to work for, I have to admit, but she didn’t deserve this.”

  “Well, apparently someone thought she did.” Jonathon thanked her again, then disconnected the call. He got up from the table and went into the pub in search of Mike. He found him checking the stock and making notes on a clipboard.

  Mike glanced up as he approached the bar. “Well? I gather you were able to speak to her.” Jonathon gave him a précis of what Sharon had said, and Mike groaned. “More reading? And we can’t even ask Professor Harcourt to help us this time, because he’ll be gone sometime soon.”

  “I’ll go up to the house and grab my laptop. While I’m up there, I’ll check my email to see if it’s arrived. Then I’ll download what I can and come back here.” He grinned. “Besides, I need to put in an appearance. The girls have hardly seen us since they arrived.”

  Mike snorted. “The girls have been enjoying themselves, mark my words. Ivy is feeding them, they shopped till they dropped yesterday, they don’t have to do anything today but relax…. And it sounds like they don’t get that much time together, so they’re making the best of things. That’ll change when they move into their house, but for now, I’m sure a weekend of leisure is heaven for them.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Jonathon gave Mike an innocent glance. “Is Abi doing the first shift?”

  “Yes, why?” Mike narrowed his gaze. “I know that look. You’re up to something.”

  “Do you know what would go well with reading notes? Cake. A lot of cake. And coffee. Specifically, Rachel’s coffee and cake.”

  Mike laughed. “Elevenses at the tea shop? Why not? Only, be prepared to have Rachel looking over our shoulder.”

  Jonathon chuckled. “Teresa got it all wrong, you know, making a doctor’s receptionist her amateur sleuth. She should have made her the owner of a coffee shop. They get to hear everything.”

  Mike reached into his jeans pocket, removed his keys, and tossed them to Jonathon. “Take my car. I’ll meet you at Rachel’s.”

  “Are you sure?” Then Jonathon widened his grin. “It’s not like you didn’t get enough exercise this morning. I get tired thinking about it.”

  And hot. He also got very hot.

  Chapter Twenty

  MIKE SMILED as Jonathon strolled into the tea shop, his backpack slung over one shoulder. “I remember the day we met, when I picked you up near the train station. You were holding on to that backpack like it was made of gold. Later, of course, I understood. It contained your camera.”

  Jonathon sighed as he took the seat next to Mike. “Almost a year ago. The time has certainly flown by.” He removed his laptop from the backpack and placed it on the table, then glanced around. “Why is there no coffee and cake? You’re slipping.” His eyes twinkled.

  Mike indicated the rear door of the tea shop. “Rachel has just baked some scones.” When Jonathon’s eyes widened and he licked his lips, Mike laughed. “Now you know why I waited. You can’t resist freshly baked scones. And yes, they come with butter, strawberry jam, and cream.”

  “I once started a small war in here,” Jonathon confided. “I asked—very innocently, I might add—why some people felt it necessary to put the cream on the scone before the jam.” He arched his eyebrows. “I had no idea emotions ran so high on the subject.”

  Mike groaned. “Of all the things to ask in a tea shop.” At that moment, Rachel came into the shop, carrying a cake stand, and the aroma was mouthwatering. She placed it on the table before disappearing back into the kitchen to fetch the coffee. “Did Sharon send you that link? Did you download all the photo files?”

  Jonathon nodded. “Yes and yes. Sharon was right. There were ten folders in the cloud. I haven’t taken a peek at any of the contents yet, but I have taken the liberty of emailing them to you too.” His phone warbled, and he removed it from his backpack with a scowl. “I don’t want to answer calls or read texts right now. I want to eat—” He froze.

  “Jonathon? What is it?” Jonathon’s expression was one of displeasure.

  “Change of plan. My father has a meeting tomorrow in Bath, so rather than visit us next weekend, he intends stopping at the house tomorrow evening and staying the night.” With a sigh he composed a text, his fingers flying over the keys. “I’m letting Janet know. She hates last-minute changes.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Mike suggested.

  Jonathon stared at him in frank astonishment. “There’s a bright side?”

  Mike chuckled. “I can tell you never read Pollyanna as a child. If he comes tomorrow night, that’s a whole week you don’t have of dreading his visit. Plus, Ruth and Clare will be leaving tonight, so they won’t run into each other.”

  “Good point.” Jonathon’s face brightened as Rachel approached with the coffeepot, which she placed on their table.

  “Anyone would think you didn’t like my coffee.” Mike aimed a hard stare at him.

  “You know when I really love your coffee? When you bring it to me in bed.” Jonathon lowered his voice. “Of course, the best part is, you’re naked.”

  Obviously his voice wasn’t low enough, judging by the splutters that broke the tea shop’s quiet. Rachel gave him a mock glare, her hands on her hips, but when she turned to head back to the kitchen, her shoulders were shaking.

  Mike sighed. “Is nothing sacred?” He pointed to the laptop. “Boot it up. Let’s get your mind on other things.”

  Jonathon bit his lip but complied. Mike poured the coffee, then split a warm scone for Jonathon before placing it on a small patterned plate next to the laptop.

  Jonathon stared at the screen, deep in concentration. “This might take us a while. There’s a lot to go through here. I mean, where do we start? These cover six years.”

  “Pick a year.” Mike buttered half of the scone, then added the jam. “We have to start somewhere. However, Sharon said Teresa had received anonymous letters, so let’s start with this year. We want to find out about the next book too.” Then he realized Jonathon had fallen silent. “You’ve found something already.”

  Jonathon nodded. “From January this year. It’s a note about Fiona McBride, actually.” He scanned the screen. “Teresa thought she was the source of the anonymous letters.”

  “But why?”

  Jonathon was still reading. “Okay, this is interesting. Teresa thought Fiona had found out about someone called Tessa Durban.”

  “Who on earth is Tessa Durban?” Mike got out his phone and opened a search engine. He typed in the name, then put down the phone and took a bite out of his scone. “God, these are good.” He peered at the screen. “Ah. She’s a writer.”

  “What does she write?” Jonathon helped himself to a bite of his scone and rolled his eyes. “Agreed. This is amazing.”

  “Correction—what did she write. Tessa Durban wrote three romance novels between 2008 and 2011, and hasn’t written since.” Mike clicked on a link and skimmed through the information. “Oh wow. Now I know why she stopped writing.”

  “Did she die?” Jonathon’s eyes shone. “Was she killed by Teresa Malvain, and Fiona found out and was threatening to tell all?” He was clearly enjoying the thought.

  Mike read aloud from the page. “On what planet could this
be described as a romance? It’s like the author delved deep into every romantic cliché, yet came up with something that has no soul, no plot, a heroine who isn’t even likable, and a hero who obviously has no taste. I for one will never buy another of her books. Don’t give up the day job, Tessa.”

  “Ouch. What is that?”

  “That is a review of her first book. And there are lots more like it.” He clicked on another book, then headed for the reviews. He grimaced. “Oh boy. She was an awful writer, if these reviews are anything to go by.”

  “I guess you were right about why she stopped writing. She couldn’t have made any money at it. Who was the publisher?”

  Mike searched for a name. “There doesn’t seem to be one—oh, hold on a minute. Lulu.”

  “That’s a platform for self-publishing,” Jonathon told him. “So she self-published back in 2008? A pioneer.”

  “An unsuccessful pioneer, judging by her reviews. Obviously she was disheartened and never wrote again.”

  “Never mind that,” Jonathon said with a hint of impatience. “The notes say Fiona had ‘found out’ about Tessa Durban. What exactly did she find out? That she was a dreadful writer? That isn’t a secret. You only have to read her reviews.” He got out his phone and tapped the screen.

  “Who are you calling?” Mike asked as Jonathon put the phone to his ear.

  Jonathon held up his hand for silence. “Hey, Sharon? It’s Jonathon de Mountford again. Sorry to disturb you, but—” He smiled. “Thanks for picking up the call. I wanted to know if a name is familiar to you. Tessa Durban.” He listened intently, one hand scrabbling in his backpack for his notepad and pen. “I see. You’re sure? Wow. … Oh, course she didn’t….” He chuckled. “Who would want that on their CV? … Thanks. Yes, that helps a lot.” He disconnected the call. “Now it makes sense,” he announced triumphantly.