A Novel Murder Page 3

  Teresa stared. “We’ve met before?”

  Fiona nodded. “I’ve lived in Merrychurch many years. And I remember you before you were Teresa Malvain.”

  Teresa stilled, her expression impassive. Then she nodded slowly. “Fiona McBride. Of course. You’re the one who runs that little club.”

  Fiona gaped, but then regained her posture. “Seeing as it currently has over four thousand members, I wouldn’t call it little.”

  Mike coughed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Let’s go in.” He gave Jonathon a compassionate glance, then gestured to the ballroom door. “After you, Ms. Malvain.”

  Jonathon waited until everyone was inside before entering. He smiled to himself when he caught Mike’s clear voice, announcing to the waiting crowd that dinner would be served shortly and for everyone to take their places. Leave it to the ex-copper to take charge. When Jonathon felt a pat on his arm, he turned to find Heather at his side, the only person remaining.

  “Let me repeat what a wise man said to me last night. Breathe, Jonathon.”

  Jonathon chuckled. “Is it that obvious?” He held out his arm. “Allow me to escort you in to dinner, Miss Caldicott.”

  “Delighted, Mr. de Mountford.” As they strolled through the ballroom doors, she leaned in. “Dinner is going to be more interesting than I anticipated.”

  Jonathon sighed. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  Heather laughed. “It probably won’t be as awful as you think.” She cast a glance in Teresa’s direction. “Although….”

  They made their way to the top table, where Mike had seated Teresa. Most of the seats were already occupied. A tall, thin man with a shock of brown hair and gold-rimmed glasses stood as Jonathon approached, his hand held out.

  “Mr. de Mountford, I’m delighted to meet you. Phil McCallister.”

  Jonathon shook his hand. “I recall your name from the program. You also write murder mysteries.” He didn’t miss the appreciative gleam in Mike’s eyes.

  Phil nodded enthusiastically. “I’m on the fourth book in a series.”

  “Though whether he writes them is debatable,” Teresa muttered under her breath.

  Phil flashed her a scowl but quickly schooled his features. “I’m really looking forward to the festival. It’s the first time I’ve attended one.” He retook his seat.

  “And we’re glad to have you.” Heather beamed. She smiled at the petite woman next to him. “You must be Melody Richards.”

  Melody returned her smile. “It’s my first literary festival too. I’m quite excited. It’s going to be—”

  “When you’ve done as many conventions and book signings as I have,” Teresa interjected, “it gets to be old hat, especially when you meet so many fans. Although I don’t suppose you have that problem, do you, dear?”

  Jonathon blinked, as did a couple of the seated guests. He threw Mike a puzzled glance, but Mike gave a quick shrug. Apparently, he found Teresa’s behavior as bewildering as Jonathon did.

  “I’m not late, am I?” An elderly man with thinning white hair joined them.

  “Not at all,” Jonathon said warmly. “And you are…?”

  “Professor Lionel Harcourt.” He extended his hand and gave Jonathon’s a vigorous shaking. “I would have been here earlier, but my taxi was delayed for some reason.”

  Mike smiled. “There aren’t that many taxis in Merrychurch, and I’d bet they’ve been kept busy this evening.” He held out his hand. “Mike Tattersall, professor. We’ve never met, but I’m aware of your reputation. I used to be in the Met.”

  Professor Harcourt beamed. “Oh, how wonderful. An ex-colleague.”

  “Hardly that, but I did hear you giving evidence in several trials.”

  He chuckled. “I may have done that on a few occasions.”

  “Nice to see you again, Professor.” Teresa gave him a polite, tight smile.

  Professor Harcourt reciprocated with a courteous nod. “Ms. Malvain.” He glanced around the table, smiling. “Well, this is delightful.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “So how many other people at this table are authors?” Phil and Melody raised their hands, and Professor Harcourt beamed again. “Since my retirement, I’ve become an avid reader. I look forward to chatting with all of you.” He sighed. “You have no idea how many times I’ve been approached by publishing companies with a view to writing about my career as a forensic pathologist, but I’m afraid I have no such aspirations. I don’t know how you writers do it. I used to hate writing my reports.” The professor peered at Fiona. “Your face is familiar. Where do I know you from?”

  “I run the Teresa Malvain Fan Club.”

  He nodded. “That’s it. Your picture is on the site.”

  “You’re a fan?” Mike appeared surprised.

  “Certainly. I love a good murder mystery. Not that authors get it right all the time.” His eyes sparkled. “But I’ll talk more about that at the festival.”

  “What’s that, Ms. Malvain?” One of the guests pointed to a large book sitting on the table next to Teresa’s place setting.

  She patted it. “That is my notebook. It goes where I go, and with good reason. When you have a memory as cluttered as mine, it pays to write everything down.”

  “Isn’t that what phones are for?” Melody inquired. “I just make a voice recording if I get an idea.”

  Teresa’s smile was nothing more than a stretching of her lips. “Which is all well and good, but can we rely on technology? Batteries run out. Phones stop working. As Mark Twain said, ‘The dullest pencil is better than the sharpest memory.’ Which is why my notebook never leaves my side. One never knows when inspiration will strike, when a new idea for a book will suddenly flash into one’s mind.”

  Melody Richards cleared her throat. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read on Twitter. Mark Twain didn’t say that—it’s actually a Chinese proverb. ‘The faintest ink is more powerful than the strongest memory.’” Her smile matched Teresa’s perfectly.

  Teresa’s eyes flashed, but she said nothing. Mike’s gaze met Jonathon’s, and he mouthed ouch.

  The waiters appeared, armed with the starters, and for a while the conversation dried up a little as the guests ate. Yet more waiters circled, pouring wine.

  Beside him, Heather nudged Jonathon. “This is wonderful,” she said quietly.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he replied warmly. She seemed more relaxed than the previous evening, thankfully, although she kept glancing in Teresa’s direction, the faintest frown in evidence.

  Jonathon could understand that. There was an atmosphere around the table, and he had no doubt as to what—or rather, who—had caused it. He made a mental note to discuss it with Mike later that night.

  “I’m sure you must get asked this all the time,” Mike began, looking at Teresa. “Where do you get your ideas from?”

  Teresa wiped her lips with her napkin and sat back in her chair. “You’re right. I do get asked that a lot.” Polite laughter rippled around the table. “Do you know what the hardest part of my job is? Weaving plot lines. And I’ll let you into a little secret.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, and Jonathon was amused to watch most of the people seated around her mimicking her action. “I hate writing plots.”

  Chuckles broke out at this, while waiters collected plates and whisked them away.

  “But isn’t that part and parcel of being a murder-mystery writer?” Fiona inquired.

  Teresa shrugged. “Yes, but I’m basically a lazy person. Besides, I don’t have to come up with new ideas all the time.” She flung out her arm. “There’s a rich vein out there in the real world. Cold cases. Real cases. One has only to find them.”

  “But then… it’s not original.” Mike was frowning.

  “Oh, I don’t write all my books based exactly on real-life cases,” Teresa remonstrated. “In fact, I’ve only ever done that once. Or should I say, I’ve planned to do that. Isn’t that right, Professor?” Before he could res
pond, she plowed ahead. “I do a lot of research into police cases. In fact, sometimes I feel my research is more thorough than the original investigation.”

  “The police might disagree with you on that point,” Mike muttered. He took a sip from his wineglass and leaned back, regarding her thoughtfully. “Let me ask you something. Supposing in the course of your research, you turn up something that the police missed. Maybe there was a miscarriage of justice. Maybe they got the wrong man. What would you do? Would you have a moral obligation to share it with the police? Because if they reopened the case, it would be all over the media, and there goes your book.” He tilted his head to one side. “Or would you just write it and be damned, letting the criminal walk free?”

  Jonathon knew Mike well enough to know he wasn’t happy about the latter. He regarded Teresa with interest, awaiting her response.

  Teresa ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “I’ve made more than enough money with my writing. Six years of successful murder mysteries adds up to quite a lot, especially when they continually top the bestsellers list. In fact, if I never wrote another book, I’d still be very comfortable.” She looked Mike in the eye. “That kind of wealth allows you to do the right thing.” She drained her glass, then picked up the wine bottle, pouting slightly.

  Mike heaved a sigh that was clearly of relief. “Then you’d share your information with the authorities.”

  She nodded slowly. “Justice must be served, after all.” Her face brightened as the waiters arrived with the main course. “Is there more wine coming? Because this bottle is empty.”

  Jonathon had a feeling they were going to need a lot more wine on their table before the evening was finished.

  Chapter Four

  BY THE time dessert arrived, Mike had had his fill of Teresa Malvain. Every remark aimed at Phil, Melody, and Fiona seemed to have a barb attached, which only reinforced his initial impressions. Bestselling author or not, Teresa was an unpleasant person. Professor Harcourt had tried to engage her in conversation about topics not related to writing, but with little success. And the more she drank, the sharper her comments became. Fiona had given up trying to initiate conversations and had seemingly retreated into herself, while Heather looked on, clearly appalled by her guest’s behavior.

  Teresa is a nasty piece of work. What made it worse was that Mike loved her books. The dinner had given him an insight into the author that had left a sour taste in his mouth. It seemed to him that Professor Harcourt was the lucky one. He’d emerged unscathed, as Teresa had hardly exchanged more than a couple of words with him. Phil, Melody, and Fiona had not been so lucky.

  The waiter placed the dessert plates on the table, and as he went to fetch more, Fiona caught his arm. “Please make sure Ms. Malvain doesn’t get anything with nuts in it. She’s allergic.”

  Teresa gave her a frankly amused stare. “I’m pretty sure they already have my allergies on file. I filled out the online form, same as you probably did.” Despite the several glasses of wine she’d imbibed, her speech remarkably showed no signs of slurring.

  “I think Fiona is just being careful,” Mike said smoothly. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to the guest of honor.” Except at this point, he couldn’t have cared less. Throughout the meal, Phil and Melody had answered questions from the two guests who were obviously fans of their work, responding with interest and genuine enthusiasm. Professor Harcourt had regaled them with interesting tales, thankfully none of them as grisly as Heather had feared, and Mike had enjoyed listening to him.

  “So, Melody.” Teresa filled her wineglass before giving Melody a bright, false smile. “Won any awards lately?”

  Mike had no clue what that was about, but judging by the way Melody’s face tightened, it was obvious the question was loaded with malice.

  Melody straightened in her chair. “Not lately, no.” She bit her lip, as if trying to prevent herself from saying more.

  “Tell me more about your next book,” Fiona said quickly, addressing Teresa. “I saw your post on Facebook. It sounds really interesting. I can’t wait to read it.” Her eyes gleamed. “Will you be talking about it in the Q and A tomorrow? I know you said it would be a surprise, but I’d love to share more details with your fans. From the horse’s mouth, as it were.”

  Teresa grinned. “And I promise to answer all questions—stopping short of revealing who the murderer is, of course.” Polite chuckles broke the silence that followed her announcement. Teresa patted her A4 notebook. “What I have in here is going to please a lot of readers, though perhaps not those in Merrychurch. It’s rather fitting that I should reveal details about it in my former village.” Her eyes were bright. “There’s a reason murder mysteries work well in a small village setting. There’s such an abundance of secrets. Everyone thinks they know everyone else, but do they, really? You have no idea what your neighbor gets up to behind closed doors.” She grinned at Jonathon. “Or your tenants.” Teresa gave Mike a sideways glance. “Or your patrons.”

  Professor Harcourt chuckled. “I can see I need to attend your sessions, Teresa. They promise to be highly entertaining. As a former GP of a small village, I can attest to the accuracy of your statements. Village life may look peaceful on the surface—all fetes on the green, homemade jams, and WI meetings—but if you look closer, there is always something lurking in the shadows.”

  Mike said nothing. As a former policeman, and having had two murders committed in Merrychurch in the past year, he knew they spoke truthfully. He only knew he preferred to look into the sunlight, and leave the shadows alone.

  “But this is where I should add that the plot of my next Summersfield novel isn’t going to be the only surprise,” Teresa announced, her eyes sparkling. “I’m about to dip my toes into a new, lucrative market.”

  “And will you be talking about that at the festival?” Fiona asked eagerly.

  Teresa tapped the side of her nose. “That will have to remain a secret a little while longer.” A waiter leaned in to place a dessert in front of Teresa, and she beamed. “That looks delicious. And nut-free, which I’m sure will please our hostess. Heaven forbid her main speaker should be unable to attend the festival, carried off due to an allergic reaction. I imagine the entire event would collapse.” And with that, she took a forkful of lemon-and-lime cheesecake and ate it with gusto.

  “Is your allergy that severe?” Jonathon asked.

  Teresa nodded. “I’ve had a few encounters with the dreaded nut during my life. Of course, each time the reaction is stronger, faster. I dare say another would see me off completely. That’s why Mike is right. It pays to be careful.” She pointed to the cheesecake with her fork. “This really is delicious.”

  Mike realized it was the most cheerful Teresa had been all evening.

  I wonder if I’ve got cheesecake on the menu in the pub. It would certainly be one way of keeping her happy. Because he was already learning that very little made Teresa Malvain happy.

  Across from him, Heather grimaced. “Okay, that’s weird.” She put down her fork.

  “What’s the matter?” Mike inquired.

  Heather peered closely at her dessert. “For some reason, my cheesecake is dusted with ground almonds. Now, while I do like almonds, they don’t really go with a lemon-and-lime cheesecake.”

  Jonathon frowned. “That is weird. There are no almonds on mine.” He glanced at Mike’s plate. “Or Mike’s either.”

  Heather chuckled. “Someone in the catering company is having an off day.” She took a look at Teresa, who seemed oblivious to the entire exchange. “Thank God it was my plate and not hers,” Heather said in a low voice. “She’d be threatening legal action by now.”

  Mike had a feeling Heather’s assessment was probably correct.

  MIKE GLANCED at his watch: nine o’clock. Coffee had been served, and a large number of the guests had already departed.

  Jonathon touched his arm. “Go on. Go back to the pub. It’s likely to be a busy night, with all these atten
dees staying in the village. Poor Abi will be rushed off her feet.”

  Mike gave him a grateful smile. “You sure? I don’t want to leave you to deal with all this.”

  Jonathon laughed. “Deal with what? The waiters will clear the tables, the volunteers are already lining up outside to set up for tomorrow, and Janet is going to lock up when everyone has left. They don’t need me—which is a good thing, because I’ll be in the pub, helping you.”

  If they weren’t sitting at a table in a room full of mostly strangers, Mike would have leaned over and kissed him. “You’re wonderful,” he said softly.

  “Is there a number I can call for a taxi?” Teresa asked loudly.

  “There’s no need,” Mike assured her. “I’m going to the pub myself. I’ll take you.”

  She waved her hand. “I don’t want to impose. Just give me a number for a taxi.”

  “Here, I’ll call one for you.” Professor Harcourt removed his phone from his pocket, then scowled at the screen. “Damn thing’s dead. The battery must have run out.”

  “See?” Teresa sounded almost gleeful. “What did I say about technology?”

  Jonathon coughed. “Except in this case, having a notebook wouldn’t help you find a taxi.”

  She gave him a hard stare.

  “How about I drive both of you to the pub?” Mike announced. “Only, can we leave now?” He had visions of Abi struggling to cope on her own with a packed pub.

  “That works for me,” Professor Harcourt said cheerfully. “I’m staying in a B and B in the village. But I wouldn’t say no to a nightcap. Would you like a drink, Teresa?”

  “Make that a coffee and you’re on. There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.” Teresa rose to her feet, grabbed her notebook, and shoved it into her large shoulder bag. “Well, come on if we’re going.”

  Mike muttered under his breath as he led them out of the hall and toward his 4x4. Jonathon came too, chuckling to himself. As he opened the car door, Mike spied Heather. “Want a lift to the pub?”