A Novel Murder Page 17

  Mike sat back and folded his arms. “Let me guess. Teresa Malvain and Tessa Durban are one and the same.”

  Jonathon gaped. “How did you…?”

  Mike buffed his fingernails on his shirt. “I wasn’t a DI for nothing.” He chuckled. “It’s the only logical conclusion.”

  “Apparently those three books were her first forays into writing. She was still living in Merrychurch at the time. Then she wrote the draft of a murder mystery, got herself an agent, who in turn found her a publisher, and voila! She started writing the Summersfield series as Teresa Malvain and struck gold.”

  “So, no talent for romance, but murder was different?”

  Jonathon smiled. “Sharon only found out because Teresa let it slip a few years back, when they were sharing a bottle of wine.”

  “That figures. She sure could drink.” Mike rubbed his beard. “I’m assuming this isn’t common knowledge.”

  “Absolutely not. Sharon said none of Teresa’s fans have any idea that the romances were hers, and Teresa wanted it to stay that way.”

  Mike nodded slowly. “But then somehow Fiona finds out. And starts sending the letters, warning Teresa that her past would catch up with her. What was Fiona’s plan? To expose Teresa? To humiliate her? And why?”

  He gave a start when a loud cough erupted from behind them. Rachel stood there with a plate of cake. “Sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing what you just said.”

  Mike leveled a stern gaze in her direction. “What do they say about eavesdroppers never hearing any good about themselves? One of these days, you might be the topic of conversation.”

  Rachel pulled a chair from the next table and joined them. “Okay, you know I’m not one to gossip, but—” She glared at Jonathon when he stifled a chuckle. “Do you want my help or not?”

  Jonathon bit his lip, and Mike smiled. “Please,” he said, “do tell.”

  “You want to know why Fiona might have it in for Teresa? I’ll tell you. It’s all to do with Fiona’s husband.”

  “Melinda mentioned something about her husband,” Jonathon observed.

  Rachel nodded. “Okay, this happened in 2003. Fiona’s husband, Ken, was really ill, and she tried to get a home visit from the doctor, because there was no way Ken could make it to the surgery. Teresa kept telling her the doctor was fully booked, although Fiona tried for a few days, always getting the same answer. Then Ken has a series of mini strokes, and they ended up calling an ambulance. When he got to the hospital, he had another stroke, only this was a lot more serious. He died three months later.”

  “And Fiona blamed Teresa for his death,” Mike concluded.

  Another nod. “We could understand her reaction. That’s why we were so surprised when she started Teresa Malvain’s fan club. It didn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe it was a cover,” Jonathon suggested. “She acts all friendly toward Teresa, when in reality, she’s biding her time, waiting for the right moment to reveal all.”

  The door chimes rang out, and Rachel left them to deal with some new customers.

  Mike took another bite of his scone before speaking. “Okay, I get the letters and the book. But if she was doing all that, why kill her?”

  Jonathon stared at his plate. “You’re right. Without the letters and the book, I’d agree she could be the killer. She has a good enough motive, if she holds Teresa responsible for the death of her husband. But if she wanted to kill her, she’d simply do it and not bother with the letters.”

  “Unless….” Mike sipped his coffee. “Maybe she wanted Teresa to be fearful, off-balance. And this is all supposition, you know. We have no proof Fiona sent the letters or the book. We only have Teresa’s suspicions.” He pointed to Jonathon’s laptop. “What we do have is a load of notes to go through. We need to know what was going to be in that next book. Because that might hold the key to her murder.”

  “Yes, it might,” Jonathon agreed. “Although it might not have anything to do with her new book. We need to remember—someone took that notebook for a reason. There has to be something in it they didn’t want anyone to know.”

  Jonathon was right. The notebook was clearly important.

  Mike sighed. “And there I was, anticipating a quiet afternoon with you.”

  “Oh, it will be quiet.” Jonathon smiled. “We’ll both be reading.”

  Mike leaned over. “But who says we have to be clothed while we read?” he whispered. Then he straightened, his cup in his hand. “See? Every cloud has a silver lining.”

  Jonathon smirked. “Yes, Pollyanna.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  JONATHON GAVE Ruth a hug. “Thank you for coming.” They stood beside Ruth’s car, the late afternoon sun warm on Jonathon’s back. The chirp of birds could be heard all around them, and the faint odor of a fire drifted on the warm breeze. Ben had to be burning garden waste somewhere on the grounds.

  She chuckled. “I still can’t believe we all had the same idea.” When he released her, she squeezed his hand. “I’ll make an appointment to see my doctor as soon as possible, and then we’ll talk logistics. It will probably mean you coming to a clinic to… do the deed, as it were.”

  He held on to her hand. “You’re sure about this, then?”

  Ruth nodded. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, you know. And I like the idea that the four of us will be a family of sorts.” She locked gazes with him. “Good luck for tomorrow with your father. I know you’re probably looking forward to it with as much enthusiasm as you would have for, say, root canal work, but in the end, he can’t argue. He’s getting what he wants, after all, and I firmly believe he’ll see that this is the perfect solution.”

  “I foresee one part of this arrangement that won’t be so easy to swallow.” Jonathon was hoping the surrogacy would soften the blow of a gay wedding, one that was sure to hit the headlines.

  Ruth shook her head. “You are too good, do you know that? He’s been a bigoted arse about all this, and yet you’ve tried your damnedest to keep him happy. He doesn’t deserve to have you as a son.”

  “I only have one father, right? And I want our children to have a good relationship with their grandfather.”

  Ruth cocked her head to one side. “Where does your mother stand on all this? Does she have an opinion?”

  Jonathon huffed. “Of course she does. She follows whatever my father thinks.” At that moment, Mike and Clare came out of the hall, with Mike carrying their bags. Clare walked toward Jonathon, her arms outstretched. Jonathon found himself on the receiving end of an enthusiastic hug.

  “We’ll be back soon. And before the wedding too. Are you still aiming for September?” she asked as Mike loaded the bags into the boot of the car.

  “Yes, although we need to set the wheels in motion for that.” Such as applying for a marriage license, finding a suitable celebrant, planning the ceremony, organizing the reception…. Jonathon had a feeling the next two months would fly by. “When we have a definite date, we’ll let you know.”

  Clare gave a nod before glancing at Ruth. “I’ll drive, seeing as you got us here.” She gave them a wave. “Take care, boys.”

  “Have fun storming the castle!” Ruth added with a grin as she got into the passenger seat.

  Mike frowned. “Castle?” The car roared into life, and the girls drove away from the hall, the tires crunching on the gravel driveway.

  Jonathon rolled his eyes. “I can see I have work to do if you don’t recognize that line.” He squinted at Mike. “You have seen the film The Princess Bride?”

  “That sounds like a chick flick and probably not something I’d like.”

  Jonathon let out a loud gasp. “I may have to rethink this whole marriage idea.”

  Mike narrowed his gaze. “You have heard of ELO, Genesis, and Fleetwood Mac, right?” When Jonathon stared at him, perplexed, Mike smiled. “See? Two can play at that game, sweetheart. Now get that cute arse inside, and let’s look at Teresa’s notes before dinner.”

  A
s they walked into the hall, Jonathon couldn’t resist. “I have a cute arse?”

  “PASS ME your list, please.” Mike held out his hand for Jonathon’s notepad. He peered at Jonathon’s neat writing. “Tasks yet to be done seem to be: interviewing Harold Tenby; seeing if we can find out anything about Meredith Roberts’s aunt, and if there is anything to the rumors that Meredith had something to do with the change in her will and her subsequent death; seeing if we can definitely tie Fiona to the anonymous letters and the book parcel—”

  “She was in the pub that night, remember. And she was near the bar where the coffees were,” Jonathon reminded him.

  Mike nodded. “So were Phil McCallister and Melody Richards, remember? We have quite a few suspects who could’ve put the peanut oil in the coffee, and they all have a reason for wanting Teresa dead.”

  “We know something else. Teresa had the notebook in the bar, because it was seen in her bag, but when the professor emptied her bag onto the bed, the notebook had gone. So that points to someone removing it in all the confusion.”

  “Something’s occurred to me,” Mike mused. “Remember at dinner, when Fiona introduced herself to Teresa? Well, Fiona asked if Teresa remembered her, and Teresa asked if they’d met. According to her notebook, she knew exactly who Fiona was—she already suspected her of writing the letters—which points to Teresa being a very cool customer, as well as a damn good actress. She fooled me, at least.”

  “Not an easy thing to do,” Jonathon murmured, finishing his coffee. Not for the first time, the mention of the notebook struck an uneasy chord in his mind. Jonathon prided himself on his memory, and it irked him that there was something important he’d overlooked that remained out of reach.

  Mike tapped his laptop. “Come on. We’ve got notes to read.”

  They sat on the couch, their feet resting on the coffee table, and Janet periodically brought coffee before informing them dinner was ready. Except Jonathon was in no mood to eat, and of course, Mike noticed.

  “Want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  Jonathon pushed his plate aside. “Something in Teresa’s notes, about her meeting with Professor Harcourt.”

  “What’s bothering you about that?”

  “You remember what he said? Untraceable poison? Well… according to her notes, she wanted to know if a pathologist could tell if someone had blown his own head off, or if someone else had pulled the trigger. Apparently they discussed angles of trajectory, fingerprints on the weapon. Then she shared the outline for her new venture, the true crime series.”

  Mike stared at him. “So he knew about it? He didn’t mention it.”

  “More importantly, he didn’t tell us the real topic of conversation. But why would he lie?” Jonathon didn’t like to think that the elderly professor who’d helped them with the reading and offered so much advice had lied to them.

  “There is one possibility,” Mike suggested. “Teresa hadn’t shared what she was up to with anyone, apart from her PA. Maybe she swore him to secrecy.”

  Jonathon wasn’t buying it. “But she’s dead. What harm could it do to share the information now? And something else comes to mind. Maybe her question was related to her new book. Someone appears to commit suicide…. This grieving relative she mentioned in her post—supposing he shot himself? Blew his head off with a shotgun? How difficult would it be to fake that?”

  “Maybe the person you should be talking to is Professor Harcourt,” Mike said quietly. “But do me a favor? Ask him tomorrow. You’ve hardly eaten a bite.”

  Jonathon picked up his fork. “You’re right. This can wait. Besides, we’ve got more important things to worry about. My father arrives tomorrow, remember?”

  “Now that is enough to put someone off their dinner.” Mike’s eyes twinkled. “Eat. Then after dinner, we’re going to put on a DVD and forget about this.”

  For a moment Jonathon was confused. “You want to watch a film?”

  Mike chuckled. “I want to see what I’m missing out on. The Princess Bride?”

  Curled up on the couch together watching one of Jonathon’s favorite films sounded like the perfect way to end the day.

  THE FOLLOWING morning, Jonathon awoke with a purpose. He wanted to tie up loose ends, and there was only one person who could help with that. As soon as breakfast was over, he sent Graham a text.

  Are we okay to meet this morning?

  Graham’s reply was instant. Your timing could be better. He’s on the warpath. But I can meet you in the village. Churchyard, half an hour.

  It sounded an odd place to meet, but Jonathon agreed. When he’d finished sending his reply, he slipped his phone into his pocket.

  “So what was that all about? Arranging to meet your other man?” Mike grinned.

  “Yes,” Jonathon responded promptly. “He’s dressed all in blue, wears a pointy helmet, and carries a big stick.”

  “You’re cheating on me with Graham? And I thought you had good taste.”

  Jonathon snickered. “Trust me, I have my hands full with you. I couldn’t handle two men at once. I’m just popping out to meet him. I won’t be long.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  He laughed. “And how would that look if word got back to Gorland? Graham must be thinking along the same lines.” He showed Mike the text.

  “The churchyard? Ooh, that sounds kinky.”

  Jonathon rolled his eyes. “Make yourself useful. See that my father’s room is ready?”

  Mike nodded. “I’ll make sure it’s perfect.” He leaned over and kissed Jonathon on the lips, a slow, lingering kiss that made him yearn to be back in their bed.

  Then Jonathon pushed aside such delicious thoughts. He had to meet a man among the graves.

  AS SOON as Jonathon entered the cool, leafy churchyard, he saw immediately why Graham had suggested it. Stone urns that had stood on gravestones and by headstones lay broken, their flowery contents trampled upon. Graham was standing by one of the graves, taking notes. He looked up as Jonathon approached.

  “Morning. Now who does a thing like this? I’m thinking kids from that estate. Little buggers. Melinda reported it first thing this morning.”

  “And you thought you’d kill two birds with one stone.”

  Graham laughed. “Kind of. Okay, Watson. What’s on your mind?”

  “I was wondering if the police were investigating Phil McCallister, Melody Richards, Meredith Roberts, and Paul Drake for any possible involvement in Teresa’s death.”

  Graham’s eyes went wide at the last name. “Our Paul? What motive would he have for killing her?”

  Jonathon ran through what they’d discovered, and Graham made notes. When he was done, Graham ran his hand through his hair.

  “Let me get this straight. You, Mike, and Professor Harcourt read all of her books, looking for a killer?” He chuckled. “You’d have made a great copper.” He sat on one of the headstones. “Okay. I agree there’s motive where all of them are concerned. The problem is proving it. No one saw a thing. Sure, they saw the coffees on the bar, but as for seeing the killer add the oil? Not a sausage. We interviewed the authors, but they claim to have left the pub not long after Teresa first became ill. And no one saw them leave, the pub was so packed.” He peered at his notes. “Meredith Roberts. Isn’t she the one who complained about you two?” Graham grinned. “Now I get it. You got a little too close for comfort, didn’t ya?”

  Jonathon told him how they’d caught her out in a lie.

  “So she went running to Gorland. Definitely fishy, I’d say. Yeah, I remember her. Folks around here were real surprised when old Miss Tremont died. We thought she was as fit as a flea. Not that there was anything suspicious about the cause of death. At least, I don’t think there was. But that business with the will….”

  “What business?”

  “Well, according to the will left with her solicitor, the house and all her possessions were to be sold, and the proceeds were to go to different charities. But then h
er niece turns up, armed with a new will, a later version, that leaves it all to her. The solicitor checked it over, but it was all signed and legal.” Graham rubbed his jaw. “So your take is Teresa puts all this in a book, and Meredith panics, thinking it’ll make folks look more closely into Miss Tremont’s death? You may have something there. I’ll look into that.”

  “And what about Paul?”

  Graham looked him in the eye. “You don’t think he’s a murderer any more than I do. But at least with his case, there’s one thing we can do that’ll clear all this up for good.” He grinned. “Cherchez la femme.” He pronounced it fem. “If his wife turns up alive and well, that kicks that theory in the head, doesn’t it? So let’s find her. Because wherever she is, she’s gotta be working so she can live, right?” He tapped the side of his nose. “You leave that with me. Tax records, bank records… if she’s earning, we’ll find her.” Graham straightened. “Now, is that everything?”

  There was only one thing left.

  “Have you found out any more details about that crime Teresa was going to write about?”

  Graham sighed. “I was looking into that when the DI got wind of it. So far, I’ve not pinned it down.”

  “Well, I might be able to help you. The apparent suicide? I think it was a shotgun incident.” Jonathon told him about the notes.

  Graham’s eyes gleamed. “Now that is helpful. Yeah, that might help me narrow the field a bit.” He gave Jonathon a broad smile. “Thanks, mate.”

  “If we turn up anything else, we’ll let you know.”

  Graham grinned. “It’s a good thing you’re not like that Teresa’s amateur detective. She ended every book the same way—making the local police look like bumbling idiots.” He bit his lip. “Mind you, if you were to make the DI look like a bumbling idiot….”

  Jonathon laughed. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” He shook Graham’s hand and left him in the churchyard to finish his notes. As far as loose ends went, it hadn’t been a totally satisfactory meeting.