Murder by the Book (Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries 4) Page 3

  He picked up a wine glass, filled it to the lower line with chilled Sauvignon Blanc, and tipped the wine into the tumbler.

  “Besides, you’re doing me a favour,” said Ella. “If you don’t have at least a tiny drink, you’ll be turning me into a solitary drinker. And that is bad.”

  I held the tumbler steady as Donald topped up the wine with soda water.

  “OK, but just the one.”

  With the pub otherwise empty, Ella and I sat up at the bar to keep Donald company. We perched on the high oak stools with red velvet tops that always make me feel like a candidate on Blind Date.

  “So tell me, Ella,” I asked carefully, “how clever is Tommy Crowe? You must know, having had him at your school for seven years. You must have seen his test results, and that sort of thing.”

  She considered for a moment. “I wasn’t there for his whole seven years. It’s three years since he left, and I’ve been at the school for five, so I can only tell you about his last two years. He’s a bright boy, but lacks application in the classroom. His other interests distracted him, and his behaviour held him back. With twenty-nine other children in the class, the teachers sometimes misinterpreted his curiosity as insolence and reacted accordingly.”

  “I can see why teachers might feel that way.”

  “But why do you want to know? Has he applied for a Saturday job in the bookshop? He could probably do with a bit of pocket money. His mum’s always skint. I don’t think she gets anything from his dad.”

  “He did hint at a Saturday job a while ago, before telling us that he thought all books looked the same. Fortunately he’s on to something quite different now. He’s setting himself up as a detective. I’m wondering how good his powers of deduction might be.”

  Polishing glasses behind the bar for want of something better to do, Donald chuckled. “Why, have you got something to hide, Sophie? Are you worried you might get found out?”

  “Yes, Sophie, what have you been up to, you bad girl?”

  “My conscience is clear, thank you very much. It’s others that I’m worried about.”

  Donald held a port glass up to the light to check for smears. “So there’s a gang of you now, is there?” He winked at Ella. “Well, you know what they say. Who was it who once sent a note to his colleagues saying ‘Fly at once, all is known’, and they all disappeared, never to be seen again?”

  “Ooh yes,” said Ella. “I bet there’s a few people in the village who Tommy could make disappear. He could double up as a conjuror.”

  I laughed. “It’s hard to imagine how he could detect things without getting into trouble. You know, sneaking around places where he shouldn’t be, disturbing things better left undisturbed.”

  Ella leaned forward, clasping her hands with impish glee.

  “Sophie, are you sure there’s not something you’d like to tell us? You’re among friends. You can tell me and Donald, and it will go no further.”

  “That’s right,” said Donald, elbows on the counter, poised to receive confidences. “You can spill your heart out here, Sophie, and apart from me and Ella, nobody will be any the wiser. It’s not as if there are any other customers about to hear you, more’s the pity.”

  I glanced towards the toilets that stood sentry beside the door that led to the rear courtyard.

  “Not even in the loo,” he added.

  I hesitated. “Actually, Donald, it seems to me as if you’re the one who needs assistance, not me. It doesn’t seem right that the pub should be so empty at this time of the evening. It’s way past tea-time. Is there anything we can do to help?”

  Donald arranged the polished glasses on the shelf above the bar. “Well, you could have another round for a start.”

  Ella shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve got to drive home soon.” I put my hand over the top of my glass in fellow feeling.

  Donald set down his tea towel, raised the flap on the bar, and came round to sit beside us on a high stool.

  “Sophie, Hector tells me you’re a dab hand at this marketing lark. Have you got any ideas that would help me fill the bar in the long, dark winter nights?”

  I sipped my drink slowly to give myself time to think, then set the tumbler down on the bar.

  “I would have thought that was obvious, Donald. I mean, what falls in the middle of February? The one date that no-one can forget that month?”

  “My dog’s birthday,” said Donald, “but I wouldn’t have thought that was much of a draw.”

  Ella rolled her eyes. “Oh, Donald, you’re such a man!”

  Donald brightened. “Thank you, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

  “I mean Valentine’s Day,” I said. “Don’t tell me you never bother with Valentine’s Day? And you a married man, too.”

  “Don’t worry, I was only kidding, girls,” he said, though I suspected he wasn’t. “But who wants to spend Valentine’s Day in a pub? You ask any bloke what his girlfriend would say if he offered to take her to the pub for Valentine’s Day. He’d get short shrift. My wife would kill me if I tried to pull that on her, even if I wasn’t a publican myself. If I wanted to do something themed for Valentine’s Day, I’d be better off holding a movie night in the meeting room. How about The Valentine’s Day Massacre? That would go down well with the darts and dominoes teams.”

  Ella looked reproachful. “There’s a world of difference between saying ‘Come down the pub for a pint, love’ and ‘Darling, I’ve booked us a special table for two at a romantic Valentine’s Night dinner with fancy food, sparkling wine, and a chocolatey pudding’.”

  “And flowers,” I added. “Flowers on the table that they can take home.”

  “And what about a special present for each lovely lady?” said Ella.

  “Now who’s being sexist?” asked Donald.

  Ella shook her head dismissively. “Yes, but sometimes you really want to be treated as a woman,” she said.

  “You speak for yourself,” said Donald.

  I flipped a cardboard beer mat over to its blank side and pulled a pen out of my pocket.

  “Donald, we’re going to make you a plan. You’re going to put on a Valentine’s Day supper like Wendlebury Barrow has never seen. And it will more than make up for your quiet January. You wait and see.”

  I began to write a list of all the things that we’d been suggesting.

  “You could give a prize,” said Ella brightly. “People always like prizes. How about a hamper?”

  Donald scratched his head. “If I’ve got to supply a hamper, surely I’ll have to charge more for the dinner to cover the extra cost? That’ll make it more expensive, then nobody will want to come. There’s no point running an event at a loss.”

  Ella wasn’t School Business Manager for nothing. “Then get people to sponsor the hamper’s contents. Surely there are enough businesses in the village that would stump up local products in return for a bit of PR? If it doesn’t cost you a penny to provide the prizes, every raffle ticket sold will be pure profit.”

  “Each ticket could also count as a discount voucher for their next meal at The Bluebird,” I said. “That way everybody is a winner, nobody goes home disappointed, assuming their date doesn’t go horribly wrong, and you get repeat business after the special night is over.”

  Ella nodded in support. “As soon as you’ve got the hamper together, you can display it to promote your special Valentine’s Dinner and start selling raffle tickets too. I bet you’d sell loads in advance.”

  Donald sat up straighter on his barstool. “The pub will be looking smarter by Valentine’s Day, because I’ve scheduled some interior maintenance work in the next few weeks. A coat of paint all through, some new lighting, that sort of thing. Then in spring I’m going to start on the outside, and turn the back yard into a courtyard garden ready for the summer, with tables and chairs and umbrellas and planters.”

  Ella raised her eyebrows. “What about that smelly old well in the middle of it?”

  I re
alised I’d never been out the back before, the courtyard currently being the preserve of smokers between drinks. “You’ve got an old well?”

  “Not for much longer. I’m getting it filled in. I had wondered whether I could resurrect it for its original use, and bottle my own water and sell it, but I had the water tested before Christmas, and it’s beyond redemption. Too much rubbish has been thrown down there for far too long. Mostly cigarette butts lately, but God knows what else has been ditched down there over the years.”

  “Can’t you just leave it there as an ornament? It seems a shame to seal up something so historic.”

  “I agree. But I’ve got a living to make, which won’t be helped if some tom fool visitor to my new beer garden decides to taste its waters and dies of nicotine poisoning. Besides, it’ll be a family area. I have to think of the children’s safety.”

  “We don’t want any of them falling down it, like the pussy cat in the nursery rhyme,” Ella laughed.

  “Well, if anyone’s going to fall in, my money would be on Tommy,” I said. “He’s been crashing about the shop lately like a golf ball in a pin ball table.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past Tommy to climb down the well out of curiosity,” said Ella. “You know, someone once found him inside a wheelie bin?”

  I shuddered. “Ugh! I heard about that.”

  “Anyway, back to Valentine’s Night. Would you girls like to help me round up some raffle prizes? You’ll be a lot more persuasive than me. There’s a drink in it for you if you do.”

  “I bet Carol would donate a box of chocolates,” said Ella.

  “I can get Hector to give you a romantic novel,” I said.

  “Ooh, yes,” said Ella. “How about one of those signed copies of Hermione Minty’s that you had in the shop before Christmas? Got any left?”

  “I’m sure there’s at least one,” I said. “I’ll pop it over to you in the morning, Donald.”

  “Now here’s an idea,” said Ella. “Why not make it a Minty-themed evening? With a minty menu – Mint Juleps on arrival, lamb cooked with mint, peppermint ice-cream with hot chocolate sauce.” She licked her lips in anticipation. “Donald, you can ask the brewery to put in a bottle of Crème de Menthe.”

  “And a tube of toothpaste,” I said. “Joke.”

  “Thanks, girls,” said Donald. “I think that calls for a top up, on the house.”

  Before I could protest, he’d nipped round the other side of the bar and refilled both our glasses – soda water for Ella, as she was driving, and white wine for me. Well, it would have been rude to refuse.

  “So why are you on the wagon?” asked Ella. We’d moved across to a private booth by now, as more people had come into the pub. “Overdid it at Christmas, did you? I’ve heard what those Scots are like at New Year. They get an extra day off to recover, don’t they?”

  I nodded. “Yes, two public holidays after New Year’s Eve. Or rather, Hogmanay. It’s a whole different country up there, you know.” I decided to take her into my confidence. “The thing is, Ella, it’s a long time since I’ve been home to my parents’ house, and I’d forgotten how much my dad drinks. It’s put me right off.”

  “But I thought he was a university professor?”

  I smiled weakly. “And that makes him immune? I don’t think so.”

  She pushed her glass away. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I wouldn’t have pressed you to have a drink, had I known.”

  We fell silent. I felt awkward for crushing the jovial atmosphere we’d conjured up with Donald. Ella tried to strike a brighter note.

  “I wonder what Hermione Minty gets her other half for Valentine’s Day?” she said. “It must be hard to keep some surprises up your sleeve when you’re pumping all your romantic ideas into the pages of your books every day.”

  I was looking forward to finding out.

  5 Distinctly Minty

  “Donald’s Valentine’s dinner sounds wonderful to me, Sophie,” said Carol, pulling her apron over her head and tying it behind her back. Having her long-lost daughter Becky and grandson Arthur move in with her just before Christmas had slowed down her morning routine. “I wish I had someone to go with.”

  “You never know. Valentine’s Day is still over a month away.”

  Carol put her hands in her apron pockets. “You’re right, I should look on the bright side. New year, new beginnings. I’ll be happy to provide something for the hamper. A box of chocolates, you say?”

  “Peppermint creams, if you’ve got them.” I spotted a familiar dark green box on the sweet counter. “Donald’s giving the whole evening a minty theme – Hermione Minty, that is.”

  Carol looked wistful. “That sounds wonderful. Becky gave me a signed copy of her latest novel for Christmas. Wasn’t that kind? Although the arrival of Becky and Arthur was the best Christmas present ever, I can’t get enough of Hermione Minty’s books, can you?”

  “I’ve never actually read any.” As I said it, I realised I’d missed a trick. Although romantic novels weren’t my thing, reading Minty’s books would help me get to know Hector better. After all, don’t writers put their hearts and souls into their books?

  Carol raised her hands. “Oh, Sophie, you don’t know what you’re missing. You’re in for a real treat. Funny thing is, although everyone round here has read her, she doesn’t seem famous further afield. Becky said she’d never even heard of Hermione Minty before she came to live with me. I can’t understand it.”

  “I expect she sells most of her books online,” I said quickly. “As ebooks, you know.”

  Carol shook her head. “I can’t be doing with ebooks. Give me a proper book any day. One you can read in the bath without electrolysing yourself.”

  I suppressed a smile. “I don’t think ebooks ever electrocuted anyone. It’s not like using a toaster in the bath.”

  Carol wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t want to do that either. The steam would make the toast go soggy. Anyway, if you want to take a box of mints over to Donald, help yourself. I must get on now. I’m a bit behind this morning. I spent far too long giving little Arthur his breakfast.”

  She didn’t look in much of a muddle to me, but Carol’s standards for orderliness were rather higher than mine.

  I picked up the chocolates, and tucked one of the shop’s business cards from the counter under the ribbon around the box to give Carol credit for the donation. She would be having as much trouble with her profits as Donald during these lean post-Christmas weeks, especially as she had just taken on two extra mouths to feed. Her daughter Becky, as an unemployed single mother, would not be contributing much to the household financially.

  “Which is the best book of Minty’s to start with?” I asked, guessing that Carol, as a diehard romantic, would be familiar with her complete works.

  “Oh, the very first one, Angel Heart.”

  “I’ll start on it tonight,” I said, hoping to enjoy it as much as Carol had. “And thanks for the mints. I’ll get Donald to give you a free raffle ticket as a thank you.”

  “Or find me a nice man to go to the Valentine’s Dinner with,” she said quietly. “All I want is one man for one night. Is that too much to hope for?”

  I smiled sympathetically. “You never know, perhaps you’ll get one for your birthday tomorrow.”

  I meant it as a joke, but she took me at my word.

  “Yes, never say die!” she said brightly, and patted her hair into place.

  “I would have thought the answer was obvious.”

  Hector, busy removing Christmas decorations from the shop window, climbed down from the stepladder.

  “Well, it might be, if only I knew what the question was.”

  He brushed his hands on his trousers to get the dust off them and crossed the room to sit down at a tearoom table. Taking the hint, I went to switch the kettle on.

  “The question of how to boost your profits. It’s easy. You just need to put more effort into promoting your Minty books.”

  Hector pointed to t
he central display table, where there was always at least one prominent pile of them. “Exhibit A,” he said. “There are some in the window too.”

  I wasn’t going to let him off that lightly.

  “Becky had never heard of Hermione Minty before she came to Wendlebury. And she’s quite well read.” I didn’t want to overpraise Becky. Swapping literary jokes was meant to be a game that Hector played with me, and I wasn’t keen that she’d started joining in. “Why ever not, when she’s so popular here?”

  Hector looked guarded. “It’s not that easy, Sophie. I’d rather do something else to boost my income. Start a proper series of author talks, for example, with other authors. That’d be a good idea.”

  I shook my head. “You’re selling yourself short, Hector. I don’t believe you’ve tried to get your books into other shops, have you?”

  His sullen silence served as a confession. Was it simply modesty holding him back? I tried a different tack.

  “You and I know how well the books do here. They’re a major contributor to the shop’s profits. If they’re that good, it’s selfish not to offer other booksellers the opportunity to increase their takings.”

  Hector frowned. “I only make such a big profit on them because I publish them myself and get them at cost price. Other booksellers would need a cut of the cover price, which would not leave much for me. The game wouldn’t be worth the candle.”

  I took two cookies from a jar on the counter and passed one to him.

  “Perhaps if you told them that Hermione Minty is a fellow bookseller, they’d stock your books on more generous terms.”

  “But I can’t do that without revealing my real identity.”

  I shrugged. “Does that really matter? Perhaps you should give the game away. It would make a great news story in The Bookseller. You’d get orders from bookshops all over the country. It’s not as if members of the public read The Bookseller. Your secret would be safe in Wendlebury.”

  “No, but other journalists read it. The national newspapers are always running stories about bookshops and booksellers – the death of the ebook, the death of print, the closure of bookshops – nearly always getting it wildly wrong. So there’s every reason to think my name would end up in the nationals. No thank you, Sophie, I’m happy as I am – quiet and private, with mid-range but respectable sales.”