Mistletoe Mystery

Mistletoe Mystery

Copyright © Sally Quilford 2011

Cover © Candybox Images | Dreamstime.com

Originally published in My Weekly Pocket Novels and by
Linford Romance Library

***

Mistletoe Mystery

Chapter One

In a few minutes the supermodel, Lucy Crystal would drink her
coffee and then choke to death on the arsenic. Meanwhile she smiled benignly
and chatted to the guests, telling them her life story. Philly Sanderson could
not help noticing that Lucy embellished a little.

The sound of thunder and lightning filled the dimly lit
room, whilst a warm fire crackled in the hearth. The atmosphere at Bedlington
Hall was just right for a murder.

Philly smiled with satisfaction and glanced at the other
diners, who were busy looking at each other with deep interest, whilst finishing
off their drinks. Things were going well so far. No one had guessed, which was
good at this stage of the plot. The first time some know-it-all had turned up
and ruined everything by guessing immediately what was going to happen.
Luckily, Philly had talked her way out of it and changed the plans at the last
minute, but it had taken a lot of doing in the time she had available to her.

Lucy’s husband, a young vicar called Reg, sat opposite her.
He was rather portly, with a red face.  It had been an unlikely marriage,
but everyone agreed it was a happy one. Further down the table, nearer to
Philly, was the handsome African American, Brent Michaels, who was rumoured to
be Lucy’s ex-lover.

Then there was Philly. Only she was not Philly tonight. Her
name was Cassandra. Lucy had shown no signs of recognising her, which was good.
After all, it had been a long time since Lucy and Cassandra were at school
together. They had been the best of friends, until Lucy stole Cassandra’s
boyfriend at the school prom.

Lucy lifted the cup to her lips, and as she did so, she gave
Philly a strange look, almost as if she recognised her in that moment.

“No, it can’t be…” Lucy whispered. She drank her coffee.
Suddenly her face contorted and she started to splutter. “Poison,” she croaked.
“I’ve been…” Her cup shattered on the parquet flooring, and Lucy slumped
forward in her seat, her pretty face landing in what was left of her raspberry
Pavlova.

“Oh my God, she’s dead!” said Reg the vicar, running to his
wife’s side.

“Golly gee, who could have done such a thing?” said Brent
Michaels.

“Oh, this is very exciting,” said Mrs Bennett, one of the
other guests. “Isn’t it, Frank?” She nudged her husband who sat next to her.

“It’s alright I suppose. I thought there’d be more blood.”
He looked like a man who had been cheated out of a special treat. “What do we
do now then?”

“I suppose we get our notebooks out and start sleuthing,”
said Mrs. Bennett, practically slapping her lips together.

***

“Well if you ask me,” said Mr. Graham, an elderly man in his
seventies, “it can’t have been the husband. When they served the coffee, he’d
popped off to the little boy’s room.”

He sat around a small table in the drawing room with Mr and
Mrs Bennett, as one of three teams racing to find out the identity of the
murderer.

“Yes, but he might have slipped something in as he walked
past,” said Mrs Bennett. “I think it was the ex-lover, Brett Michaels.” Her
voice rose dramatically. “Consumed by jealousy and thwarted in love, he decided
that if he could not have her, no one else could. He’s very handsome. Just like
that nice Will Smith.” She sighed happily.

“Yes, but every time he went near to her, he sneezed,” said
Frank Bennett. “He was allergic to her perfume. So we’d have known if he
touched her coffee, because he’d have had to lean over her.”

“But he might have taken an anti-wotsamine,” said Mrs.
Bennett.

“I’m not happy with this murder,” said Mr. Graham. “It’s all
a bit … I don’t know … dull.”

“I said there should be more blood,” said Frank.

“And there are hardly any suspect,” said Mr. Graham. “Who
have we got? That woman Cassandra … mind you, I don’t like the look of her. Too
pretty. They’re the ones you’ve got to watch. Then there’s the husband, Reg.
What sort of name is that for a thirty-year-old vicar in this day and age? Then
the ex-boyfriend, Brent Michaels. That’s only three suspects.”

“There’s the maid who let us in,” said Mrs. Bennett. “I
haven’t seen her since. Certainly not in the dining room.”

“Nah,” said Frank Bennett. “She was played by the same one
who’s playing Cassandra. I recognised her pretty blue eyes.”

A woman from one of the other tables called across, “I just
said there’s not enough suspects. There should be at least half a dozen. Or a
full dozen. Like Murder on the Orient Express.”

Philly listened from behind the door with a sinking feeling.
Things were not going well for the second murder mystery weekend at Bedlington
Hall.

“I said we needed more actors,” said Meg, who only half an
hour earlier had thrilled everyone as Lucy the supermodel, choking to death on
her coffee. If Mr. Bennett were being picky, he might have suggested she was a
bit short for a supermodel. However, she was taller than Philly and more
slender, hence the part falling to her.

“I can’t afford more actors, Meg. If you, Puck and Tony
weren’t doing it for free, I wouldn’t be able to do this at all. I was hoping
I’d make enough each time to add more. Plus … Oh, let’s be honest, I’m not very
good at writing them, am I? Mr. Bennett’s right. A thirty-year-old vicar called
Reg just doesn’t sound plausible nowadays. They’re all called Blake or Brandon
or something equally snazzy.”

“Something will work out,” said Puck. He had dropped his
American accent. Whilst his real name was Mark Jenson he had been known as Puck
since he was five years old. Even his equity card listed him as Puck Jenson.
“So the script isn’t perfect, but we can work on that. I don’t think I should
say ‘golly gee’ next time. That’s a bit nineteen-fifties, don’t you think? Like
‘Hey, golly gee, let’s put the show on right here, in the barn.’”

“I’ll be living in a barn if this doesn’t work out,” said
Philly, glumly. “And not one of those nice converted ones either. I’ll have to
tell the pigs to move over.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t do better,” said Puck.

“Oh no, you did great.” Philly patted them both on the arm.
“So did Tony. Where is our portly vicar by the way?”

“Gone to take his fat suit off for a bit,” said Meg. “He
said he was melting in it.”

“Poor Tony,” said Philly. “He really didn’t have to go to
all that trouble.”

“You know Tony,” said Puck. “Doesn’t matter if he’s playing
a jam donut in an advert or a portly vicar at a murder mystery weekend. He
always likes to get into character.”

“Oh, they’re all coming out,” said Meg, who had kept one eye
on the drawing room door. “I’d better go, considering I’m supposed to be dead.”

***

Three days later the guests had gone home, leaving Philly,
Meg and Puck to clean up. Tony had left in the morning, having received a call
from his agent offering him a spot in an annoying advert for car insurance.

“I can’t believe he’s the most successful amongst us,” said
Puck. “He never paid attention in drama school. Next thing you know he’ll be
playing English bad guys in American movies, whilst we’ll be lucky if we get to
be the back end of a pantomime horse.”

“I think that’s what Tony’s agent said he was playing 
in the ad,” said Philly, wiping the dishes. “Look, thanks for helping me this
weekend. I really couldn’t have done it without you. I promise that as soon as
I’m making a profit on this place, I’ll pay you decent wages.”

“Hey, you feed us and let us sleep in a warm, dry bed,” said
Meg, putting her arm around Philly’s shoulders. “That’s payment enough.
Especially since Puck’s mum threw us out because we couldn’t find jobs.”

“I’ve had an idea for the next murder mystery weekend if you
can bear it,” said Philly. She hesitated when she saw her friends’ pained
expressions. “Not that you have to do it. It’s just that … well, you know that
there are always adverts for Turkey and Tinsel weekends in the papers. They
usually do them in early December.”

“Ye-es,” said Meg.

“Well what about a Mistletoe and Mystery weekend? We could
write something with a Christmas theme. Maybe one of you could choke on the
Christmas pudding or something.”

“I usually do when Meg makes it,” said Puck. Meg slapped him
playfully with the dishcloth. “Oy, behave or you’ll be putting your own ready
meals in the microwave from now on, boyo.”

“I love it when you get all angry and Welsh,” said Puck,
grinning.

“Never mind,” said Philly, putting down the tea towel. “I
think I’m going to go and have a look in some of the rooms on the top floor. I
haven’t really had chance since we moved in. I’m thinking there may be some
nice furniture up there.”

“Hey, Philly,” said Puck. “You know we’ve got your back,
right? Whatever you want to do at Christmas, we’re in.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without friends like you,” she
said, smiling. “I promise that if this doesn’t work, I’ll think about selling
the place.”

“You promised your godmother you wouldn’t,” said Meg.

“I know, but I can’t think of any other way to keep it.
Unless I turn to crime, and I’d be useless at that.”

Philly left Meg and Puck chatting in the kitchen whilst she
went around the house checking everything was back to normal. The good thing
about paying guests was that they tended to take all their mess with them.
Nevertheless, the house still took ages to clean up.

Her godmother, Robyn Sanderson had died the year before, leaving
Bedlington Hall in Midchester solely to Philly. Philly’s father had been
Robyn’s second cousin and lawyer, helping to deal with problems on the
Bedlington estate.

As Meg had reminded Philly, her godmother had promised her
on her deathbed never to sell Bedlington Hall.

“I have given everything to that house,” Robyn had said. “It
has been a demanding mistress. I’m leaving it to you, because I know you love
it as much as I do. Don’t sell it, Philly. No matter what you have to do, you
must keep the house in the family.”

Philly, whose parents had died when she was little, had been
raised by her godmother, at least for part of the time. Philly went to boarding
school, and only saw her godmother in the holidays. Then when she left school
and went to drama school, their lives had diverged even more. Every visit to
Bedlington Hall had been magical. It was a house of various designs, part
Tudor, Gothic, and part Baroque, with each different part added by a new owner,
creating a labyrinth of rooms. For a short time, in the late nineteen forties
and fifties, it had been a girl’s boarding school. During the Second World War,
the army had requisitioned it and turned it into a military hospital for
recuperating soldiers. However, it had always been in the Sanderson family.

It had cost her godmother a fortune to install central
heating and new bathrooms when she took the Hall back in the nineteen-sixties,
yet even they were old and tired by the time Philly took charge of the house.
The central heating banged loudly during the night, and due to the costs, it
was not possible to heat every room. It might have added to the atmosphere
during the murder mystery weekends, but it did not always make living in the
house very comfortable, especially with winter coming on.

Philly had taken out a business loan to update some of the
bedrooms and add en suite bathrooms for guests. Then she had been stung by many
other costs associated with health and safety for anyone leasing rooms to the
public. The loan was all gone, and she had barely broken even on the latest
mystery weekend, due to so few people turning up.  She had a small annuity
left to her by her parents, but it was not enough to live on. It had merely
helped keep a roof over her head before she was left Bedlington Hall. The
annuity barely covered the upkeep of a large, hungry house, which devoured
ten-pound notes at an alarming rate.

Philly was not afraid of hard work. Normally she
supplemented her income and her ‘resting’ periods of acting by working as a
waitress or cleaner. She had even worked in a factory, making boxes.
Unfortunately the village of Midchester had only one restaurant, which was
fully staffed. She had checked the newsagents’ window for a card offering a
cleaning post but to no avail, and there was no local industry to speak of.
Midchester was the sort of place where people living in London had weekend
cottages and the local youngsters had to move elsewhere because they could not
afford to live in the village.

She was realistic enough to understand that even getting a
full time job would not keep Bedlington Hall maintained. Unless she ever did
get that big break in Hollywood, and that was unlikely to happen when she could
not even afford the airfare to go over and meet film directors.

The main attic was locked and she had not yet found the key
to it. That would be her next job, she decided. She had put it off, due to
being busy with arranging the murder mystery weekends. She had taken a bunch of
keys from the drawer in the kitchen, praying that one of them would fit. She
rattled them as she walked along the passage, humming Mama Morton’s song from
Chicago
.

“It’ll be the last key I try,” she murmured to herself after
the first ten did not fit the lock. It was actually the last but one key on the
ring. Philly breathed a sigh of relief when she felt the lock give.

The attic covered the entire top floor of the house, and was
full to the brim with old furniture, suitcases, trunks, pictures and other
debris from the house below. A dormer window allowed very little light, and the
ancient light bulb did not cast much more illumination.