Murder in the Aisle

  MURDER IN THE AISLE

  Merry Summerfield Cozy Mystery Book 1

  Kris Pearson

  ISBN 978-0-9951021-8-7

  Hi – I’m freelance editor Merry Summerfield, and it’s another fantastic day in drowsy Drizzle Bay. That’s until Vicar Paul and I find Isobel Crombie lying dead in a sea of flowers in the aisle of Saint Agatha’s church. Who’d kill a harmless old girl like her?

  In no time flat I’ve scored a house-and-pet-sitting gig – Isobel’s remote seaside cottage and her two darling dogs. It comes complete with hollyhocks and seagulls and a SEAL from California who looks a lot like a younger Jon Bon Jovi. He's certainly cute, but aren’t his questions about Isobel's house a bit – well, suspicious?

  Then I find a secret office stuffed with alarming files about car-thefts and Black Ops assassins. Maybe Isobel wasn't as harmless as we all thought?

  Sleuthing’s more fun than I’ve had in ages, but how safe am I on my own now things are unraveling? Little white Bichons are hopeless attack dogs.

  *

  For more information about me and my books, visit http://www.krispearson.com Sign up for my newsletter while you’re there.

  As always, love and thanks to Philip for unfailing encouragement and computer un-snarling, and special thanks to my friends Diana Fraser and Shirley Megget who persuaded me to try writing something different.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is co-incidental. There are many beaches which could be Drizzle Bay, but let’s just say it would be ‘a short drive north of Wellington’ if it existed.

  Copyright © 2019 by Kris Pearson

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 – Finding Isobel

  Chapter 2 – A cottage of my own

  Chapter 3 – The Police come calling

  Chapter 4 – Lurline and Lisa

  Chapter 5 – The calm before the storm

  Chapter 6 – Spying in the garage

  Chapter 7 – Lord Drizzle of Drizzle Bay

  Chapter 8 – A visit from surfer John

  Chapter 9 – Bernie the butcher

  Chapter 10 – Paul’s unfortunate problem

  Chapter 11 – Crafting at Horse Heaven

  Chapter 12 –Dinner to deceive

  Chapter 13 – Another possible weapon

  Chapter 14 – Taped and terrified

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1 – Finding Isobel

  Nice legs!

  I tilted my head to one side, and my curtain of hair flipped over my eyes in the salty spring breeze.

  Nice male legs, I’d better add. In fact they were nice enough to admire for a few minutes longer while I considered if there was anything else I should add to the little card I’d written up for the community noticeboard.

  I tucked my hair back under the brim of my sunhat and gazed across the main street that runs through Drizzle Bay on the coast of New Zealand’s North Island. The southern part of the North Island, to be precise, although that might sound confusing if you’re not from here.

  A big waft of Iona Coppington’s scrumptious baking drifted across from the café. That woman can really cook, as my hips all too cleverly demonstrate. Lemon and…coconut? Maybe. My nose was probably whiffling like a rabbit’s.

  I suppose I should tell you I’m Merry Summerfield – 44, freelance editor, divorced, no children – and I need more excitement in my life.

  The cake aroma drifted away and the salt of the sea took over again so I crossed the first half of the street to the central barrier and got back to those legs. Yes, now I was closer they were very nice legs indeed. They started with big feet in brown sports sandals, and above them narrow ankles led up to long, strong, curving calves and the start of thighs that looked capable of supporting quite a lot of weight. Unfortunately the flexing tanned thighs were mostly concealed by a pair of khaki shorts, but that didn’t stop me imagining the muscles that undoubtedly existed higher up. I mentally turned the man around and pictured a woman’s arms clasped over the broad shoulders that stretched his black T-shirt to the max.

  A woman who looked a lot like me. Blonde, blue-eyed, and a bit too curvy.

  It’s far too long since I’ve wrapped my arms around any man’s neck.

  I did say divorced, didn’t I? From serial philandering, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth Duncan Skene. Geez, the lies that man told me! How was I so easily taken in? It knocks your confidence, something like that.

  At least I’ve got rid of the nasty name of Skene which I hated, and reverted to Summerfield which I always thought sounded pleasantly optimistic.

  I clenched my teeth and I possibly scowled. I’m doing fine without a man. If I tell myself that often enough it might even start to feel true.

  So I continued to stare, being somewhat starved of male company, compliments, candle-lit dinners and enthusiastic rolls in the hay.

  Or rolls anywhere, really. How long had it been? At least four months since that all-too-brief encounter with Jerry Palmer that I hadn’t been keen to repeat.

  But the man over the road? Great legs, nice bod, and strong arms shining in the late spring sun as he did something to the top of the wrought-iron fence bordering St Agatha’s Church. Probably slightly sweaty. Yum. Dark hair just visible below the back of a wide-brimmed straw hat trimmed with a rosette of red feathers.

  I drew a very deep breath and tried to divert my concentration back to the ad I’d been planning. Iona’s baking smelled so good I might have to buy something on my way back. Maybe a chocolate caramel square?

  Digging into my bag, I pulled out the card. So far it read: ‘Responsible person will mind your home and pets while you’re away. Impeccable references. Extremely reasonable rates.’

  Would I need to say any more? Well, a phone number of course. I wouldn’t add my name in case it led to all sorts of queries and conversations with my nosy friends. Maybe just my first name, although here in Drizzle Bay I’m the only Merry I know of so even that would be a giveaway. Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip and resting the card beside me on the railing, I added ‘Mary’ and the phone number onto the end. Close enough, and might assure me of anonymity – for a while, anyway.

  I found my eyes had gone back to watching the man attending to the top of the fence. Right at that moment he turned to one side, set down a small can of paint and a brush, pulled off his hat, and ran his fingers to and fro through his hair as though the hat was too hot.

  That drew a long, low, frustrated groan from deep in my throat. It was the vicar – totally unrecognizable in his casual clothes. I was lusting after the vicar? Things were worse than I’d thought. Vicars are not the first men to spring to my mind when considering a good bit of naughtiness.

  I clutched the card. I really did need to shake life up a bit. The sooner I found a house and some pets to look after, the sooner I could have a few days of freedom and privacy away from the watchful eyes and quelling company of my much older brother, Graham.

  Don’t get me wrong – it’s wonderful sharing the big old family home with him rent-free after the untimely death of our parents, but Graham’s life is mostly focused on his work as a lawyer. Outside that, his idea of a good time is to check over his stamp collection, and he doesn’t seem willing to invite friends – male or female – home. I want some music and laughter and some distractions from my currently very sta
id life. It’s not happening with Graham always present and I can see it’s not going to.

  Honestly, you should hear the long-suffering sighs if I suggest something like inviting a few people to dinner.

  So I came up with this cunning plan to live on my own for a while. Days or weeks, I’m not fussy how long people need me for, but it’ll give me privacy for a little misbehavior if I’m so lucky and enough money for petrol and the occasional bar of chocolate, or macadamia square, or slice of pecan pie – always supposing they’re looking even more tempting than the fig and fudge cupcakes in Iona’s shining glass display case.

  I tore my gaze away from the vicar’s legs as he picked up the paint again and resumed tickling along the top of the fence. After running over the wording on my card one final time I crossed the road to the noticeboard next to the church.

  “Morning, Vicar!” I chirped as I passed close by.

  I wasn’t perving at your legs in the least.

  It must have been acrylic paint because I couldn’t smell it. He, on the other hand, smelled delicious. Even better than those cupcakes. I got a waft of hard-working man and washed cotton and that nice scent human skin gets when it’s warmed by the sun. And… peppermints?

  “Morning, Merry,” he said around the peppermint. I heard it faintly rattling against his teeth. “Wonderful day. I always think this place is so badly named.”

  I provided the expected chuckle. “Well, in lovely spring weather like this, yes. But it’s because of Lord Drizzle’s farm which used to be the only thing around here when they came up with the name a hundred odd years ago.”

  The vicar had to know that. He’s been at St Agatha’s for about twice the time I’ve been notionally single. Long enough to know my name apparently – and I’m not a regular church-goer.

  Hmmm. That got me wondering!

  He re-settled his hat. “You’d think old Lord D would have made the most of the opportunity to claim a different name when they tracked him down and told them about the title. He could have been Lord Something-a-lot-grander. Windsor… or Buckingham…”

  “Trust an Englishman to think that,” I said.

  The vicar is definitely English. And Jim Drizzle is such an unlikely Lord that I’m sure the ‘real’ ones don’t know what to make of him. He’s the final living member of a noble family, and as such he’s qualified to take his place in the Palace of Westminster. And he does! Once or twice a year he bowls over to England, does a bit of shopping and voting, checks a few supermarkets to see if they’re displaying the prime cuts of his New Zealand lamb to advantage, and then trundles home again.

  “Jim Drizzle’s pretty down to earth,” I added, fiddling with the catch on the glass door protecting the notices pinned on the board. I removed a note about a garage sale the previous week and used the push-pins to put my own message up.

  The vicar took a couple of steps in my direction, not the least bit embarrassed about being nosy as he read the notice over my shoulder. “House-minding, eh?” He offered me a peppermint from the bag he pulled from his shorts pocket as “A new career for you?”

  “Hardly,” I said, shaking my head to refuse the peppermint. Did he even know I was a book editor? “Just to get me away from Graham sometimes. It’s not a laugh a minute living with your brother.”

  Then, remembering who I was talking to, I added “Not that I’m planning to misbehave,” which only made it worse because it sounded as though I absolutely was.

  And I was. If I got the opportunity, I’d be off along the new expressway to the bar in Burkeville for the evening, leaving cats and dogs (and hamsters and parrots?) to fend for themselves while I sat on a tall bar stool sliding sideways glances at anyone male, halfway attractive, and hopefully single.

  “Yes,” I added, pushing on through what felt like a red-hot blush. “Editing’s a job I can do anywhere. All I need is my laptop. No new career for me.” I took another pleasurable sniff of him. “Cattery charges and kennel fees can really add up so I thought I’d offer to look after the pets for less, provided the owners supply the food.”

  The vicar nodded along with my brilliant business plan, stuffed the crackling bag of peppermints back in his pocket, and rescued his brush from its precarious one-handed grip with the can of paint.

  Neatly trimmed nails. No big tufts of black hair on his fingers. Nice.

  I cleared my throat. “So they’ll know Fido or Furball will get the food they’re used to, and that someone will be right there to take them walking, or to the vet should they need it. And I’ll water the pot-plants and the garden. Collect the mail… happy to do whatever.”

  I glanced up at his hat-band, and now I was closer I could see it wasn’t a rosette of red feathers at all. It was a fresh carnation. “I like your hat trim,” I said. “But it won’t last long in this sun.”

  The vicar (I really must stop calling him that – his name is Paul McCreagh) pulled his hat off again and glanced at the carnation.

  “From Isobel Crombie,” he said. “She’s by far the keenest on the church flower roster. She came by earlier to freshen things up. Although…” His dark eyebrows drew together.

  “What?” I asked.

  ‘Don’t say ‘what?’ darling, it’s rude,’ my dear, dead mother insisted from somewhere between my ears.

  The corners of Paul’s mouth pulled down. “Isobel’s been in there quite a long time. I’m sure she’d have stopped by for a few words on the way out.”

  He deserted his job of dabbing at the arrowheads on the fence top and set down his small pot of black paint and brush in a patch of shade. It seemed to be an invitation, so together we walked up the four wide steps into the church porch and he courteously stood aside so I could enter first, although on reflection I’ll bet he wished he hadn’t.

  I gave a strangled gasp. “Oh my God!” I blurted. Pretty bad of me in a church, but Isobel Crombie lay sprawled on the somewhat threadbare carpet runner. Her eyes stared up to heaven and all around her were shards of pottery, stems of forsythia, arum lilies, carnations, hellebores, and branches of foliage – camellia leaves, I think. The back of her head was leaking. A dark red and sticky puddle contrasted starkly with her silver hair.

  Paul the vicar uttered a foul and unexpected curse, dropped to his haunches behind a pew end, and said in urgent voice, “Take cover.”

  I obeyed, suddenly frightened the assailant might still be around.

  Paul peered in every direction, head tilted, neck tendons stretched. No sounds, no moving shadows. Only the faint swish of waves, and distant traffic. Once he was sure we were alone he looked toward the ceiling and muttered, “Never again; you promised I was done with things like this.” Then he rose and walked forward to feel for Isobel’s pulse.

  I tried not to gag. Thank heavens he was there because I’d be screaming uselessly if I was on my own.

  “Call an ambulance, Merry. And the Police,” he ordered.

  I’d slumped down onto one of the other pews, knees gone to jelly. Clutching my throat with one hand, I dug in my bag for the phone with the other. It skidded out of my grip and fell onto the floor with a clatter. Praying it would still work, I finally managed to tap in the emergency number and was asked which service I required. When I said Police and ambulance, the operator asked which I needed first.

  “Ambulance?” I hazarded, my mind refusing to form coherent thoughts. “We … we… think she’s dead, so I guess the Police need to get onto it as soon as possible, too. Or not. I don’t know.” I cringed. She must think I’m an idiot.

  Paul was now crouched beside Isobel as though still taking cover from whoever the enemy might be.

  I was quickly transferred to the ambulance and Police communications centers. It was all info and details for the next couple of minutes.

  “I’ll just check the rest of my church,” Paul said when I lowered my phone for a few seconds. “Will you be okay? I’ll only be a minute, but I might find something – or something insecure.”

  He rose s
lowly, still peering all around, and then strode off down the aisle looking incongruous in his shorts and T-shirt. He tossed his hat sideways as he walked, and it landed on one of the pews. True to his word he was back in a flash and shaking his head.

  I relaxed slightly. No intruder still lurking. Good.

  “She’s in the Lord’s hands now,” he said, glancing at Isobel and then at me with grief-filled eyes. I watched as he sank to his knees, clasped his hands together, and began to ask his heavenly boss to look after her soul. Or something like that anyway. His lips moved but he prayed silently.

  Once he’d finished his prayer he bent right over. This, of course, pulled the khaki shorts further up his strong thighs and tightly around his lovely taut bottom. I shouldn’t have noticed, but the sight seemed to give my scattered thoughts a very welcome focus.

  “I’m sorry you had to see her like this,” he said, looking across at me.

  I pulled my gaze away from his rear end.

  “You’re still okay?” he asked.

  I nodded, too overcome to speak.

  “It’s an odd injury. Leaking only very slowly.”

  I looked doubtfully at the dark red puddle, holding my breakfast down by sheer force of will. I wouldn’t know how fast anyone’s head was supposed to leak. It looked terrible to me.

  “Do you have a mirror?” he asked.

  I rummaged in my over-full bag, not liking the thought that he’d poke it under her head for a better look. I passed it across but to my relief he held it close to her nose and mouth to check if she was breathing.

  “If she’d been shot I’m sure I’d have heard it,” he said. “And there’d be more blood, and – er – brain matter.”

  “Do you know a lot about gunshot wounds?” I asked, still trying not to gag. It was hard to imagine our mild-mannered English vicar stomping about the steep green New Zealand hills, shooting wild pigs or deer in his time off and then dragging them down through the trees after roping them to his back. Although maybe that’s what had toned up those excellent legs?

  “Chaplain in Afghanistan,” he said, totally surprising me. “Not so long ago. You learn things you feel you never need to know. And never want to see again.”