Читать книгу A Nosey Parker Cozy Mystery - Fiona Leitch - Страница 7

Funny how things turn out. I only went in to buy a sofa.

Penhaligon’s was one of those old-fashioned family-run department stores – the type that once upon a time every town had but which were now disappearing (and with good reason, to be honest; most of the stock looked like it had been procured in the 1950s and came at such an exorbitant price you were forced to step outside and double-check you hadn’t inadvertently wandered into Harrods by mistake). But Penhaligon’s had persisted, remaining open through world wars, recessions, and the rise of internet shopping. The zombie apocalypse could hit Cornwall (I know, I know, would anyone even notice?) and Penhaligon’s would still be there, clinging stubbornly to its prime spot on Fore Street, serving the needs of both locals and the undead brain-hungry horde (or ‘holidaymakers’, as they were otherwise known).

I wouldn’t normally have bothered with Penhaligon’s, but we’d been at our new house for four days now and Daisy and I were sick of sitting on my mum’s old garden chairs – they were literally a pain in the backside – so as I was passing I ventured inside.

It hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d been there. It had barely changed since the first time I’d been there forty years ago. But I was pleasantly surprised to see that someone had given the furniture department a bit of a makeover and there were a few lounge suites that looked like they’d actually been designed sometime after the fall of the Berlin Wall (as opposed to before the building of it).

I sank gratefully into a big, squashy sofa, stroking the fabric appreciatively and reaching for the price tag. The figures made me suck in my breath in mild horror (along with an unfortunate fly who was just passing), but the words ‘Next day delivery!’ had an immediate soothing effect.

I stood up to get a better look at it and jumped as a voice boomed across the shop floor at me.

‘Oh my God, Nosey Parker! Is that really you?’

I turned round, already knowing who it was. Tony Penhaligon, great-grandson of the original Mr Penhaligon, old classmate and sometime boyfriend (we went out for two weeks in 1994, held hands a bit, kissed but didn’t – ewww – use tongues), stood in front of me, a big smile on his face. Like his family’s shop, he also hadn’t changed all that much over the last forty years and every time I looked at him I could still see a hint of the annoying little boy with the runny nose who had sat next to me on my first day in Mrs Hobson’s primary class. But he had a good heart and it was nice to see a friendly face.

I did a double-take as I took him in properly. Hang on a minute; he actually had changed. The last time I’d seen him, on one of my trips back to see my mum, he’d been sporting a dad bod, a paunch brought on by too many pasties and pints. But that was gone and he was looking rather trim. Also gone was the unflattering store uniform of white polo shirt and black chinos, replaced by a sharp, well-tailored, and expensive-looking suit. A little voice in the back of my mind went, I’d blooming well let him use tongues now, before I shut it up with a contemptuous internal glare.

‘It’s been a while, Tone. I haven’t seen you since—’

‘New Year’s Eve, three years ago.’

I laughed. ‘You’ve got a good memory.’

‘Last time anything exciting happened here. Did you stick to your resolution?’

‘That was the first Christmas after I broke up with Richard,’ I said. ‘I think I probably made a lot of drunken resolutions that year.’

Tony grinned. ‘Yeah, there were one or two. Tell me you’ve stuck to the main one though? “Avoid idiot men”?’

‘Oh, that one I live my life by these days. What was yours?’

He shook his head. ‘I never announce my resolutions. That way nobody knows whether I followed it up or not.’

‘And did you?’

‘Nope. But it doesn’t matter now anyway. So what’re you doing here? Visiting your mum? I heard she’d been ill.’

‘Buying a sofa,’ I said.

‘You do know we don’t deliver to London,’ he said.

‘That’s just as well because I don’t live there anymore.’

He looked surprised. ‘Since when? Are you back, then?’

‘Yeah.’

I could see that he was dying to ask me more but the thought of pushing it too far and losing out on his commission was too much for him. Plus, he knew that if I was sticking around he’d get it out of me eventually.

‘So what do you think of the sofa?’

I sat back down. ‘Honestly? It feels like my backside has died and gone to heaven where it’s being caressed by the wings of an angel.’

He laughed loudly. ‘Do you want a job in our marketing department? I always said you should be a poet, not a copper.’

‘I’m not either anymore,’ I said, fishing in my bag and handing him one of my new business cards.

“‘Banquets and Bakes”,’ he read. ‘What’s this?’

‘My new business,’ I said. ‘I’ve just started up—’

‘Wait, are you a chef now? Do you do weddings?’ Tony looked at me hopefully.

‘Weddings, christenings, bar mitzvahs, you name it. If people want to eat there, I can cater for it.’ I hoped I could anyway; I hadn’t actually had any clients yet, but in theory…

‘This is brilliant!’ cried Tony. ‘It’s … what’s that word? Serentipidy?’ I thought about correcting his pronunciation but decided against it; it would only make both of us feel bad. And anyway, he was waving across the shop floor to a woman who was stalking proprietorially around a display of crystal glass vases. ‘Cheryl! Come over here! I’ve found a caterer!’

He held out my business card as Cheryl approached. She read it, then looked me up and down, clearly not overly impressed with what she saw. Which was fair enough as I had really only popped out to get some teabags in between coats of paint and was looking more like the Michelin Man than a Michelin chef.

‘We’re getting married,’ said Tony proudly, and I could understand why. Although the expression currently occupying Cheryl’s face was reminiscent of a bulldog sucking a lemon, she was (probably, in the right light) quite attractive, and she had to be ten years younger than him, even if she did dress a bit like Dynasty-era Joan Collins. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen shoulder pads that size outside of the Super Bowl. It also explained the dapper suit that Tony was currently sporting, as well as his newly svelte figure.

‘Congratulations,’ I said. He deserved happiness. Tony’s first wife had left him for her driving instructor, the betrayal made all the worse by the fact that Tony had paid for the lessons and she hadn’t had the decency to leave him until she’d passed her test (after three attempts), done a motorway safety course and a defensive driving course, and was halfway through getting her HGV licence. The driving instructor hadn’t lasted long and, according to my mum, who knew her mum, she now drove tankers up and down the country with just her dog – a Pomeranian called Germaine – for company.

I hoped he was going to ask me to do their catering – I needed the money – but at the same time I wasn’t sure I wanted to risk cocking up his nuptials. Oh, well, I would just plan everything really, really carefully.

‘Our caterer let us down and the wedding’s next weekend,’ he said.

Next weekend? Holy—

‘I was just saying to Jodie’ – he turned to his fiancée, indicating me with a wave of his hand –‘I was just saying, it’s serentipidy—’

‘Serendipity,’ she corrected, smiling at him condescendingly. Hmm. ‘So – Jodie, was it? – what are your credentials? How many weddings have you done? We’ve got a very upmarket venue – Parkview Manor Hotel, do you know it? – and lots of guests coming from all over the country.’

I opened my mouth to confess that I hadn’t actually done any weddings but if they were this close to their wedding day, good luck finding someone else as willing (or as desperate for the money) as me. But Tony beat me to it.

‘Her credentials are, she’s an old friend and ex-copper, and you don’t get better references than that,’ he said. Cheryl pursed her lips but didn’t argue, aware that if she didn’t want to end up feeding her upmarket guests pasty and chips in the very downmarket Kings Arms in Market Square, she didn’t have much choice. I smiled.

‘I’ll do it for whatever the last caterer was going to do it for, if you throw in the sofa.’

So that was how I found myself, six days later, standing outside the imposing entrance to Parkview Manor Hotel. It was early evening, the day before The Wedding of the Century™; many of the guests were staying overnight and Tony had (against Cheryl’s wishes, I thought) invited me to join their welcome drinks. I tugged down my dress; I’d put weight on since leaving the force, and even more since doing my catering course, and my going-out clothes, which I didn’t get the chance to wear much, were all starting to get a little snug. My shoes were already pinching my toes. They were hardly Jimmy Choos but they were the only ones in my wardrobe that weren’t made by Nike or Dr Martens. I comforted myself with the thought that I’d be in the kitchen tomorrow and back in my eminently more sensible jeans and trainers, took a deep breath, and entered.

The hotel foyer was very plush and wouldn’t have looked out of place in London, rather than in the Cornish countryside. Marble covered every conceivable surface and I got the feeling that if I stood there gawping for too long I’d get marble-ised as well. There were lush, exotic ferns and birds-of-paradise dotted all over the place, and the plant-killer in me (I have brown thumbs) immediately suspected they were plastic. I surreptitiously stroked a leaf as I passed (thereby condemning the poor unsuspecting fern to an early grave); they were real and all very well cared for.

I vaguely recognised the woman behind the reception desk. Although I hadn’t lived in Penstowan for almost twenty years, I’d grown up and gone to school here, and seventy-five per cent of the inhabitants were either old classmates, siblings of classmates, or parents of them. She smiled and inclined her head slightly towards the sign that said, ‘Penhaligon and Laity Wedding Party’, with a photo of the happy couple and an arrow pointing towards a function room. It was forebodingly quiet, with very little in the way of music or chatter floating into the foyer.

Inside the function room, there were a few guests standing at the bar chatting, with Tony holding court. He was clearly very excited about his upcoming big day, chattering away with a boyish enthusiasm that was quite endearing. It was still fairly early so presumably this wasn’t it; Cheryl had said they had guests coming from all over the country so maybe they just hadn’t arrived yet.

‘Nosey!’ called Tony. Now that was less endearing. I really needed to have a word with him about using my childhood nickname. I plastered on a smile and tottered over, grimacing at the blister that was already threatening a little toe.

But I never reached Tony and his chums because everyone’s attention was suddenly drawn to the doorway of the function room. The double doors had been thrown open and Cheryl stood there, smiling beatifically at the assembled guests. She was dressed to the nines in a fitted cocktail dress of deep scarlet silk, while her hair had been seriously coiffured and hair-sprayed to within an inch of its life. She was still rocking that 80s kind of vibe, but there was no denying that she did it well. My cheap chain-store dress and ugly shoes felt even more uncomfortable under her gaze and I could not wait to go home and put my pyjamas on.

She paused for a moment longer, milking her dramatic entrance, then opened her mouth to speak.

Her words were lost as she suddenly disappeared from view, bulldozed and tossed to one side by a screeching harpy in a khaki boiler suit.