Candied Crime (4 page)

She heard a gasp behind her.
“But how could you…?”

Sir Bellini had already switched
his attention to those supercilious vicar´s daughters, and when
Toffee turned around to see who was behind her, she stumbled over
the wheelchair. She caught hold of the armrest and found herself
eye to eye with the blind antique dealer.

Jim Partridge clenched his fists
and drawled, “So you´re having a bit of fun, are you, Miss
Brown?”

“
Sorry to
interrupt you two turtledoves, but it´s high time to get home and
feed the cat, Jim.” Agatha Mistletoe released the brake of the
chair and wheeled it away so swiftly that Toffee landed very
inelegantly on her silken bum. Ouch.

IV
Rhapsody poured herself a
generous glass of cold water in the kitchen. It was the day after
the party, and eggnog always made her feel out of sorts.

What was that? Miss Brown´s
Pekinese darted up and down the pavement outside her semi, yapping
furiously. And Miss Brown´s front door stood wide open. Something
must be wrong.

“
Psally.
Psalmonella
, where are you?” Rhapsody
showed her sister the open door and the agitated dog.

“
Something
must be wrong,” Psalmonella declared while she put on her coat.
“Perhaps Miss Brown had too much eggnog.”

They crossed the street and ran
towards the new development of ugly, semidetached houses.
Tweedledee bared his teeth and tried to look thrice his size, but
in a no-nonsense movement Psalmonella grabbed his collar and told
him to sit.

Rhapsody threw one glance into
the living room and stepped back. “This is a case for the police,”
she informed her sister. “I´ll call Archie immediately.”

Constable Archibald Primrose was
Rhapsody´s fiancé. He arrived on his bicycle a few minutes later,
all ready to cordon off Miss Brown´s house and garden with yellow
tape.

Someone had killed the old woman
in the most horrible fashion and left the axe behind. Rhapsody and
Psalmonella told Primrose what they knew while he was waiting for
reinforcement.

Back in the kitchen Rhapsody put
the kettle on. “Do you remember she claimed she was a famous
writer?”

“Of course I do. Poor
woman.”

“Her house was full of
paperbacks. Hundreds, or probably thousands of romances.”

“Surely you don´t believe it´s
true?” Psalmonella wasn´t inclined to fantasize and made short
thrift with anyone who did.

“No, of course not, but… Well,
if she was just a harmless, old pensioner, why should anyone kill
her?”

Constable
Primrose dropped in as soon as possible to tell them what he had
learned so far and enjoy a nice cup of coffee. “Weird case. Nothing
stolen. It´s not as if she had much to steal, of course, but she
had a gold wrist watch and some pearls that look
expensive.”

“So the motive seems to have
been personal?” Rhapsody tried.

“Personal, or perhaps even
worse.”

“Worse? What could be
worse?”

“
A mass…”
Primrose glanced at Psalmonella and shook his head. “No, it´s far
too early to say yet. But he left something behind. Or we think he
did.”

“What? Please tell me!” Rhapsody
urged.

“
A postcard.
It only says ´Santa was here´ on it, and it hasn´t been delivered
by the postman because there´s no address or stamp on
it.”

“
A Christmas
card.” Rhapsody couldn´t
hide her
disappointment. Anyone could have slipped a Christmas card through
Toffee Brown´s letterbox, and though they had no clue, she might
have known who ´Santa´ was.

“
No, not
really. It´s not a Christmassy motive but an ordinary postcard from
Stockholm.” He took a gulp of his coffee. “It reminds me of
something I´ve read in a book recently, but I can´t for the life of
me remember which one.”

V
Rhapsody didn´t really have
time to solve a murder mystery in between all the Christmas
preparations in the large vicarage so she tried her best to leave
it to Archie and his colleagues. She was very pleased, though, when
he came to ask for her help the next morning.

“
I have
something I´d like you to take a look at. The forensic team have
left so you can come in and tell me what you think about her
books.” Primrose knew when it was best to call in an expert, and
Rhapsody worked as a part-time librarian.

Rhapsody followed him and took
her time to study the sagging shelves thoroughly. As she had
guessed yesterday they were all romances. Not really Rhapsody´s
taste – at least not if anyone asked her.

“
But this is
crazy! No one does that … unless?” She chose one of the pink
paperbacks and pulled at it until she succeeded in wringing it off
the shelf. She checked the back flap and when she found a picture
of an old, white-haired woman she let out a low whistle. “So she
was actually… Darling, our Miss Toffee Brown was really the famous
writer Barbara Cartwheel.”

Primrose
nodded. “I thought so but I wanted to hear what you said before I
ran out and told the superintendent. This is awful. When the press
find out…” He tore at a tuft of his short hair.

“
But then
we´ll just have to solve the case before they do!” Rhapsody raised
her chin and looked around her, ready to strike down on any clue
the police force had not found yet. All she saw was Barbara
Cartwheel paperbacks from floor to ceiling. Thousands of them,
mostly in garish colours, and many of them were not even in
English.

How sad. So Toffee Brown had
really come here to get away from the limelight. And now she was
dead.

“
The
neighbours are getting really curious,” Primrose complained. “They
march up and down the street all day as if they have all sorts of
errands. It´s just a question of time before one of them will
inform the local rag.”

Rhapsody looked out of Toffee,
or rather, Ms Cartwheel´s windows. Agatha Mistletoe was struggling
to push Jim Partridge´s wheelchair over a kerbstone. “I´d better
offer to help her. Perhaps I can divert their attention a bit.”

“Hello, Mr Partridge and Miss
Mistletoe,” she began while she took charge of one of the handles
of the chair. “But where is your sweet cat? I have hardly ever seen
you without Kitty.”

“We´ve had to keep her indoors
since yesterday,” Agatha Mistletoe snapped. “With that ferocious
dog at large poor Kitty has been frightfully upset.”

“Eh, you mean Tweedledee?”
Rhapsody didn´t know what to say as her goal had been to keep their
minds off the murder of Ms Cartwheel.

“
Awful
brute,” Jim Partridge grumbled, and Rhapsody had a feeling he
didn´t refer to the dog only. She stared at a black leather shoe
that stuck out underneath the warm coverlet which covered
Partridge´s useless legs.

“Pardon me, but I just
remembered something.” She ran back to the cottage and grabbed
Primrose´s uniform sleeve. “I´m sure I have found your murderer.
You must come with me immediately!”

They caught up with the
wheelchair right in front of Partridge´s door.

“Look at those shoes,” Rhapsody
exclaimed. “See those salt stains on the leather.”

For a moment, Partridge seemed
to forget that he could not see. Swiftly, he adjusted the coverlet
so the stained leather was invisible.

“Get down!” Rhapsody wailed.

Agatha Mistletoe raised a heavy
frying pan and let it crash down where Primrose´s head had been a
split second earlier. The pan continued its trajectory and hit
Partridge´s right shoulder. He jumped out of the chair, bellowing
like a wounded bear.

“Oh, no. Poor James.” Miss
Mistletoe broke down, weeping inconsolably. “I knew it would go
wrong.”

“
And now
you´d better explain what this is all about.” Primrose had not
quite forgotten that the nurse had tried to bash his head in as he
pushed them both in front of him into Partridge´s house.

Jim Partridge had turned so
white that Rhapsody feared he would faint. His right arm hung down,
and she suspected it was broken.

“If you´ll call a doctor, I
promise I´ll tell you everything.” He sank down on a sofa, wincing
when his arm touched the seat.

“
You see, I´m
here incognito. My real name is James Prattlesome. The thriller
writer?” He was vain enough to check that they had recognized his
name before he went on. “Somehow, the daft goose in there must have
been able to hear us through the wall.”

“James, no, don´t tell them…”
Agatha Mistletoe whispered.

“
It´s too
late now, Agatha.” He smiled bravely. “The other night at Sir
Bellini´s party she as good as told everybody who I was. I sort of
lost it and went over there and killed her before she could tell
the press that it is my dear, old nanny, Agatha, who has written
all my bestsellers. Nanny has a wonderful imagination. She began by
making up the most gruesome nursery rhymes for me, and later her
stories sort of developed into those scary novels all my fans love
so much.”

“Oh, James. And now the whole
world will know that I have switched from my cosy puzzles to those
gory thrillers.”

12. Casualty

Poor Betty lost her little dog
and her husband on the same night. To the same accident, to be
exact.

They had just
celebrated Miles´ fifty-seventh birthday with a few close friends.
The evening had been so quiet and mild that they had moved out on
the terrace with an assortment of drinks. “A really enjoyable
evening,” they said to each other.

Shortly after midnight the last
guests said their goodbyes, leaving the untidy house to Betty and
Miles. Not that Miles used to do much on these occasions as Betty
emphasized, but for once he seemed steady on his bandy legs. He
grabbed a tray and filled it with glasses and bottles.

“
Are you
really sure you should…?” Betty exclaimed, watching her antique
crystal.

“
I´m okay,
don´t fuss, will you?” With his fragile load he aimed for the door
and succeeded in giving the first threshold a wide berth. He took
the next one with flying colours, and it wasn´t until he had to
manoeuvre the step between the living room and the kitchen that
things began to get out of hand.

Betty´s dear little pug, Trixie,
loved to snuggle in the warm kitchen, but she heard their voices
and waddled closer, hoping for a titbit. She was somewhat plump,
even Betty had to admit that, and when she tried to wag her curly
tail, her whole body shook in convulsions. “The spitting image of
Betty in her grey fur coat,” Miles would say to his mates down the
pub.

Miles took an
exaggerated step to circumvent the dreaded obstacle and put his
size twelve foot on top of an overgrown, furry sausage. After a
rather impressive flip-flop, still clutching the red lacquer tray,
he ended up on the living room carpet, buried underneath a cascade
of shattered glasses and half-full liquor bottles.

Betty threw
up her hands in bewilderment while looking from one to the other.
Poor little Trixie was whining helplessly, bone ends sticking out
through red patches of fur, and Betty just knew this was the end of
her dearest friend. Miles, on the other hand, hadn´t uttered a
sound.

“
Dear me, his
jugular vein was cut by the neck of a bottle of white wine. A first
class South American Sauvignon Blanc, will you believe it? You
should have seen the blood splashes on the wallpaper. And that
lovely, beige carpet.”

Betty babbled
about the accident to her mother and her sister, her friends and
her neighbours, her hairdresser and any old passer-by. And to the
local police, of course, who wanted to know how a suburban birthday
party could go so horribly wrong. Over the days and months the
number of details grew, but Betty just couldn´t stop recounting the
most dramatic moment of her life.

“
I saw my
poor little Trixie gasping helplessly on the floor. Miles always
hated my little baby and he would say the most awful things about
her. I was sure Miles was going too, he was all white and quiet
beneath the heap of glass, but suddenly he lifted his head and
started swearing at Trixie. He had fragments of glass all over, and
he was bleeding on our lovely carpet.”

“
And there
was I, with my little darling and a raging, cursing husband. You
see; I just had to do something so I grabbed one of the broken
bottles and cut his jugular vein to stop his foul
mouth."

Betty´s
cellmate fanned a cloud of cigarette smoke away from her eyes.
Indifferently she continued flicking through the pages of her
weekly. “The trouble with you, Betty, is that
you don´t know when to shut your trap.”

13
. The Red Shoes

Olivia
Cadbury-Flake took a quiet stroll in the dark,
rainy night. She ought to go to bed; it was late and she was in for
another long day tomorrow. She needed to digest the official
convention dinner plus she had several things to think through, and
she preferred to do so before she crawled into her comfortable
hotel bed. She was determined that she would make a decision before
she returned home on Sunday: should she continue her well-paid,
respectable life as the headmistress of Much Boredom Girls´ School
in the vicinity of Knavesborough, or should she plunge into her
secret life here in London? Lots of pleasures and excitement, but
absolutely no safety net.