Murder in the Cake: Cozy Murder Mystery (Harley Hill Mysteries Book 4) (5 page)

“Drink up, ladies,” I said. “We’re going out.”
 

“Where are we going?” Cordi asked. “Is it anywhere nice, should I change?” She tamped her big, bouncy curls. She was wearing a pearl necklace and earrings, and a teal cashmere cardigan over a figure-hugging cream dress with matching cream heels. She already looked better dressed in her casual daywear than I’d ever looked in my life.

“We’re going to the records office.”

“Oh,” she said. “I recall the basement is full of cobwebs. I’ll get a scarf.”

“You can borrow my beanie,” Chloe offered.

Cordi smiled weakly. “No, thank you, dear. Red, purple, brown, and green stripes just wouldn’t go with this outfit, but thanks for the offer.”

As Cordi had quite rightly remembered, the records office was in the basement of the town hall.
 

Now, you might think the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea—where Notting Hill was situated—would have a pretty flash town hall. In which case you would be
totes wrongu,
as the bright young things might say. It was an ugly, redbrick, 1970s carbuncle of a building.

Luckily, you didn’t need a prior appointment to delve into the records. They’d passed some bill or other that gave punters access to certain records.
 

We were looking for pretty superficial stuff, like if a Henry Renholm paid tax in the borough, not how much. We’d have to make a formal request to the Inland Revenue for that and would probably be turned down.
 

I was looking for general ephemera, random stuff. It was like throwing a handful of darts at a dartboard whilst wearing a blindfold, but usually, something stuck.

Once we had signed in and crossed our hearts and hope to die promised that we were not going to compromise Queen and Country, they let us in.
 

Well, okay, it didn’t go down
quite
like that. We just had to fill in a handful of long, tedious forms, in triplicate, but it felt like it.

After that we were escorted to the archives deep underground, where angels probably would fear to tread, especially if they weren’t fond of the smell of mildew. The lift wasn’t working, the lights were dim and flickering, and I am sure I heard the sound of rats scampering around.

“Did you hear that?” I hiss-whispered when I heard claws scraping against concrete for the third time.

“Hear what, dear?” Cordi asked. She’d added a light raincoat in teal and a teal-and-cream headscarf to her ensemble.

“That scratching sound.”

“I didn’t hear it,” Chloe said, though I noted she had her beanie pulled down over her ears and her hoodie on over the top of that. A plane could have landed on the building and she wouldn’t have heard it.
 

“It’s funny,” Cordi said, “but do you see the wall over there?” She pointed to a rough-hewn section of wall with a fancy carved column supporting it. “The basement is built over an old Roman ruin. They think it was a temple or something, because they found burials down here. Whatever it was, it gives me the creeps.”

“And now, thanks to your story, it also gives me the creeps,” I said, not the slightest bit grateful for Cordi’s impromptu history lesson.

Eventually, after wandering through the stacks, we found the files dated to roughly when we thought Chloe’s dad was in the area. The three of us got down to some serious finding business, courtesy of the ancient technology of the microfiche. After about an hour and a half of searching records mostly to do with restaurants, pubs, and cafés in the borough, one of my random darts scored a hit.
 

“Bingo,” I said. “A Henry Renholm who had been a sous-chef at
La Grasa de Cerdo
—a chic boho restaurant in Soho—bought his own café bistro in Notting Hill.”
 

Cordi and Chloe gathered round my machine.

“Do you think he’s our guy?” asked Cordi.

“My dad?” Chloe enquired.

“Honestly? I don’t know,” I said. “But what are the chances of there being two chefs called Henry Renholm working in this part of town?”

Cordi nodded. “A good point, my dear.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was pretty pleased with what I’d discovered. “Of course, there’s only one way to be sure he’s Chloe’s dad.”

“A field trip!” Cordi beamed. “How splendid. Now let’s get out of here, my skin’s crawling. Did you see that cockroach? It’s the size of a horse.”

“No, and I don’t want to either.”
 

I quickly jotted down the address and totally freaked out when the lights dimmed to almost total darkness before blazing back to life. Clearly, I had got soft since my days on the streets.

The three of us almost ran from the basement, all the time I felt sure I could feel eyes watching me from the darkness behind us. Probably the horse-sized cockroach, or was it a cockroach-sized horse? I didn’t hang around to find out.

***

Traffic was as terrible as usual in London, but Cordi was a native and fearlessly navigated around buses, taxis, cyclists and delivery vans with skill in her beat-up Mercedes.
 

Her driving scared the life out of me, but she got us where we needed to be. After the white-knuckle ride, we pulled up near to the address of the café.

“We passed this earlier,” I said as we turned the corner onto a quiet section of Portobello Road and saw Café H.

“Oh my,” Chloe said. “We were this close and we didn’t know.”
 

She rushed over and tried the door. I paused a moment to take in the building and its surroundings. I wouldn’t say I was casing the joint
as such
, let’s just say, old habits die hard.
 

It was painted a fashionable grey and had white and grey blinds with a smart sign in metal lettering and a shiny black door. As I got closer, I could see that the sign hanging on the door said
Closed
.
 

Despite this, Chloe was still trying the handle.
 

Cordi was peeking through the window. “It looks very closed, I’m afraid, Chloe dear,” Cordi said.

“I don’t believe it.” Chloe stopped trying the door and sat on the step, clearly dejected.

“You lot must really want a cup of tea,” said a woman who was standing in the doorway of the clothes shop next door to the café.

I went over to her while Chloe and Cordi continued to observe inside for signs of life. “It’s actually the cake we’re after,” I said to the woman.

“They do make some nice cakes—too nice, in fact. My waistline is spreading like a slab of margarine in the sunshine!” She laughed.

“We’re actually trying to find Henry, the owner. Have you seen him around today?”

“Henry, huh?” She smiled and flicked a hank of blonde hair over her shoulder. “Well, I can’t blame you, he’s quite the charmer, after all.”
 

She gave me an ‘If you know what I mean?’ look.
 

“Is he indeed?” I gave her an encouraging smile. “Do go on.” If this was our man, it would be useful to find out as much as I could about him and build a picture.

“Oh, yes.” She folded her arms, leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “All the lady shop owners round here go to Henry’s for tea and cakes. Pity he’s got a girlfriend now.”

“Has he?”
 

“Well, I’m not a hundred percent sure,” the blonde said, “but I’ve seen a woman go in late at night, so you know, I’m putting two and two together.”

I nodded. “Any idea when he’ll be open? The notice on the door says he should be open now.”

“He is normally, but I think he’s gone away for a few days.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Not seen him for, gosh…” She scratched her head. I didn’t think people really did that when they were thinking. Who knew? “About three days now. It’s been quite a pain, actually, all the delivery people knocking on the door, then coming round to me, asking if they can leave boxes of food. I mean, look.” She gestured to her shop full of lovely designer T-shirts and Babygros. “I mean, does it look like I have the facilities to store food?”

“No, quite,” I said.
 

Just then a potential customer wandered into her shop.

“Oh, got to go,” she said, following the woman into the shop. “Good luck with Henry!”

“Well?” Chloe said, removing her face from the window and looking at me expectantly. Cordi raised an eyebrow in a silent question.
 

I filled the other two in on what she’d told me. I didn’t mention that he might have a girlfriend because the woman who the shopkeeper saw could have been anyone.
 

“I’ve made a note of his phone number and his email address,” Cordi said, waving her little black notebook triumphantly.
 

“Put your ear to the door, Chloe,” I said as I got out my cell phone and tried the phone number.
 

“I can hear a phone ringing somewhere inside,” Chloe said.

Eventually it went to the answering machine:
‘Café H is closed right now, but if you’d care to leave your name and telephone number, Henry will get back to you as soon as possible.’

I left my name, but I didn’t mention the Silvers and Hill Finding Agency or Chloe. Personal matters were better discussed face to face, which reminded me of my own long-lost parents, who were waiting to meet me in America. I pushed the thought aside, filing it in the ‘too difficult to deal with right now’ box in a shady corner of my brain.

“Come on, ladies,” I said. “Let’s head for home and discuss our next move.”

When we got back, I sent an email to the address Cordi had taken down. I explained that I was trying to find Henry Renholm and could he get back to me as soon as was convenient.
 

“Do you think it will do any good?” Cordi asked while she absently stroked Monty, who was sitting on the desk, slowly ‘paffing’ a pencil towards the edge of the table.

“Hopefully he’ll check his mail wherever he’s gone and get back to me.”

“That’s a good lead, don’t you think so, Chloe?”
 

“Hmm. Yeah.” Though she was trying to put a brave face on it, I could see she was disappointed. We were so close now. I could understand how frustrated she must be.

I gave her a friendly shoulder squeeze. Monty finally knocked the pencil on the floor, slow blinked at me, and
meeped
as if to say, ‘What? I’m doing science.’ I was about to give Chloe a pep talk when Michael popped his head around the door. He looked worried.

“Can I have a word with you in private, Harley?”

“Sure,” I said.

I followed him down the corridor to his room, leaving Chloe to show Cordi the delights of online shopping. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

He shuffled and ran a hand over his close-cropped head. “Mum called me while you were out. She said…” He looked uneasy.

“Go on.” A knot tightened in my gut.

“Since we couldn’t go see them, they’ve decided to come here.”

I was stunned. “When?” was all I could manage to say. My mind whirled. The mix of emotions completely rocked me. Was I happy, scared, excited, angry or just plain old confused? I didn’t know.

“Next week.”

“Next week! I… I’m not, I can’t…” I shook my head. I was trembling. Where was Cole when I needed him?

Michael reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Sure, yes, of course,” I lied. It felt like the walls were closing in on me. “I… It’s just a shock.”

“Is there anything I can do?” His concern was touching.

“No. I mean thanks, but no. I need to go for a walk, clear my head, and sort my thoughts out. Can you tell the others where I’ve gone?”

“Sure. Do you want any company?”

“No. I’ll be fine,” I said as I made my way down the stairs to the front door. I had to get out; it felt stuffy in there. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
 

I grabbed my leather jacket and super-long scarf and ran out of the house and into the cold evening, trying to calm the storm in my head.

Chapter Six

Evening was drawing a veil over London when I left the house and ran until I couldn’t run any more.
 

The avenues, streets and back alleyways went by in a blur.
 

Eventually I stopped running and put my back to a wall as the sodium yellow streetlights brightened the gloomy evening. When I caught my breath, I thrust my hands into my pockets and started to walk.

I felt guilty because underneath it all I think I realised that I hadn’t bailed on going to America just for Chloe.
 

Now that they were coming over, I knew that part of the reason I’d missed the flight was because I was scared. And boy, did I hate to admit this, even to myself.
 

I’d gone toe-to-toe with crazy murderers and gangland thugs, but I was scared of meeting my own parents.
 

Tears stung my eyes. I scrubbed them away with the back of my hand.
Great,
I thought.
I feel crap and now I’m going to look crap.
I stopped, wiped my nose, and looked up.
 

Somehow my mindless run, followed by an equally mindless amble had brought me back to Café H.
The nice tee-shirt shop was closed, the shutters down and locked.

The café was lit by a streetlight but was otherwise in darkness.
 

To the side of the café, between it and another shop, was a gated entryway. I pretended I was on my phone while I checked it out. It was a double gate with a side door, both of which were locked.
 

There were spikes on the top of the gate, but this was a good thing as far as someone like me was concerned. A pair of nice old gateposts stood either side of the modern gate.
 

I looked around. The street was really quiet, not a soul around in this time between the daytime city closing down and the night-time city waking up. I took a run up, grabbed the top of the left-hand gatepost, put my foot against it, and propelled myself up onto the post.
 

My adrenaline was pumping now and I found it easy to climb over the gate while avoiding the spikes. I dropped down on the other side and got out my trusty lock picks that I carried everywhere out of habit