Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery) by Zanna Mackenzie Page B
Authors: Zanna Mackenzie
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rural idyll to the place but thanks to recent events that’s gone, replaced by a heavy air of apprehension.
I find a parking space right outside and climb out of Daisy, remembering at the last moment to grab my empty shopping bags. The store is set back slightly from the road, its black tarmac forecourt dark from a recent shower. Bags of logs and kindling are stacked off to one side, and tucked beneath the store’s green and white striped canopy are a row of boxes on a wooden table. Each one contains a collection of enticing fruit and vegetables.
When I step inside, Brenda’s busy serving a customer, so I pick up a basket and wander around the traditional metal shelving displays, enjoying the mouth-watering smells of cheese, breads and cakes and sorting out my groceries. Brenda has generously arranged some small squares of a new cake on a tray for customers to try and I gratefully slip a gooey chocolate piece into my mouth. My aunt used to bake cakes for Brenda and George to sell in the store. Nowadays most of the baked goods come from a woman over in Derwentbeck, a place nearby which is too big to be a village but too small to be called a town. As I snaffle another square of the yummy cake, I go about filling my basket and idly listen to the chatter of the other customers. Of course, the topic of conversation with everyone is Armand’s murder. I loiter near the shelves of freshly baked bread and listen as two women I don’t recognise chatter away.
“I’m not surprised somebody took a knife to him,” the older of the two says, clutching a packet of chocolate biscuits to her chest as though they’re protective armour. “Never could keep his hands to himself. My daughter had more than one run in with him, let me tell you.”
Her daughter? Who is this woman’s daughter? Is it one of the girls at the restaurant I confided in about Armand’s behaviour?
“Poor poppet,” the woman with a blond ponytail replies, her face full of concern. “He took advantage in more ways than one. He knew those girls were short on job opportunities around here so he must have thought there was a good chance they’d say nothing. He thought he was God’s gift, all because he’d been on the TV and won that reality show, what was it called again?”
“Culinary Cook Off,” Biscuit Woman replies.
“Yes, that’s the one. Just because he’s been on there, he thinks he’s some kind of celebrity and all the women want him.” Ponytail Woman lowers her voice and leans in close, meaning I have to stay stock still and hold my breath to be able to hear her next words. “Makes me wonder if he hadn’t pushed his luck too far and one of the girls decided she’d had enough and grabbed a knife and went for him.”
Biscuit Woman looks horrified. “I hope you’re not suggesting that my…”
“NO! Of course not. Your girl would never do anything like that,” the other woman gasps.
Why can’t one of them just mention the daughter’s name, for goodness sake? I’m desperate to know who Biscuit Woman is the mother of. Clearly offended, Biscuit Woman now stalks off and the two of them go about their food shopping in opposite directions. This place isn’t just the only decent shop for miles around, it’s also a place for people to meet, the focal point of several village communities that all nestle at the foot of the fells in this part of the county.
“Hello, my dear.” I turn to see Brenda standing next to me now that she’s finished serving at the counter. Her face is full of concern. “How are you feeling? I don’t know what I was thinking; you’ve all of this dreadful business with Armand going on, and I’m asking you to revamp flyers. So selfish of me, but, well, George and I, we’re terrified at the prospect of losing the store, and the campaign was doing so well with Armand’s celebrity support and now...”
I put a hand on her arm to stop her anxious rambling. “It’s fine, Brenda, really. I was glad of something
I find a parking space right outside and climb out of Daisy, remembering at the last moment to grab my empty shopping bags. The store is set back slightly from the road, its black tarmac forecourt dark from a recent shower. Bags of logs and kindling are stacked off to one side, and tucked beneath the store’s green and white striped canopy are a row of boxes on a wooden table. Each one contains a collection of enticing fruit and vegetables.
When I step inside, Brenda’s busy serving a customer, so I pick up a basket and wander around the traditional metal shelving displays, enjoying the mouth-watering smells of cheese, breads and cakes and sorting out my groceries. Brenda has generously arranged some small squares of a new cake on a tray for customers to try and I gratefully slip a gooey chocolate piece into my mouth. My aunt used to bake cakes for Brenda and George to sell in the store. Nowadays most of the baked goods come from a woman over in Derwentbeck, a place nearby which is too big to be a village but too small to be called a town. As I snaffle another square of the yummy cake, I go about filling my basket and idly listen to the chatter of the other customers. Of course, the topic of conversation with everyone is Armand’s murder. I loiter near the shelves of freshly baked bread and listen as two women I don’t recognise chatter away.
“I’m not surprised somebody took a knife to him,” the older of the two says, clutching a packet of chocolate biscuits to her chest as though they’re protective armour. “Never could keep his hands to himself. My daughter had more than one run in with him, let me tell you.”
Her daughter? Who is this woman’s daughter? Is it one of the girls at the restaurant I confided in about Armand’s behaviour?
“Poor poppet,” the woman with a blond ponytail replies, her face full of concern. “He took advantage in more ways than one. He knew those girls were short on job opportunities around here so he must have thought there was a good chance they’d say nothing. He thought he was God’s gift, all because he’d been on the TV and won that reality show, what was it called again?”
“Culinary Cook Off,” Biscuit Woman replies.
“Yes, that’s the one. Just because he’s been on there, he thinks he’s some kind of celebrity and all the women want him.” Ponytail Woman lowers her voice and leans in close, meaning I have to stay stock still and hold my breath to be able to hear her next words. “Makes me wonder if he hadn’t pushed his luck too far and one of the girls decided she’d had enough and grabbed a knife and went for him.”
Biscuit Woman looks horrified. “I hope you’re not suggesting that my…”
“NO! Of course not. Your girl would never do anything like that,” the other woman gasps.
Why can’t one of them just mention the daughter’s name, for goodness sake? I’m desperate to know who Biscuit Woman is the mother of. Clearly offended, Biscuit Woman now stalks off and the two of them go about their food shopping in opposite directions. This place isn’t just the only decent shop for miles around, it’s also a place for people to meet, the focal point of several village communities that all nestle at the foot of the fells in this part of the county.
“Hello, my dear.” I turn to see Brenda standing next to me now that she’s finished serving at the counter. Her face is full of concern. “How are you feeling? I don’t know what I was thinking; you’ve all of this dreadful business with Armand going on, and I’m asking you to revamp flyers. So selfish of me, but, well, George and I, we’re terrified at the prospect of losing the store, and the campaign was doing so well with Armand’s celebrity support and now...”
I put a hand on her arm to stop her anxious rambling. “It’s fine, Brenda, really. I was glad of something
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