The Fete of Death Page 4

  "Who'd want to live here, in all honesty? I certainly wouldn't!" snapped Tara. Although, the state she was in, none of the villagers would have wanted her to live there, millionaire or not.

  "It's not just about money. There's far too many horses in this village, all going to the toilet on the pavements, holding up traffic and turning our footpaths into muddy trenches. I'm on a mission to get rid of as many as I can," she picked an imaginary piece of fluff off her tweed jacket and flicked it into the wind.

  "I'll stop you from taking my field, see if I don't. Today's the last time you'll set your heeled feet on my field, I can promise you that!"

  Samantha Inkler yawned distractedly and started to sashay her way back to the cake tent, like a cat that got the cream, but the effect was ruined by a small terrier called ‘Misfit’ from the pet tent, when he escaped from its child handler and peed on her heeled wellies. She scolded the child till he cried. Even the usually feisty little dog whimpered.

  The St John's ambulance duly arrived, but Tara managed to stop them from taking the body out of the caravan. They weren’t happy about it and said they had to follow orders or they'd never get to attend a Council event again. They had to have’ real’ people at real events to try out their techniques on, they’d explained. Dummies were okay, but nothing beats a real screaming, bleeding person they told her, which had worried her because it’s not the kind of thing you’d expect a first aider to say.

  The Mayor, Peter Laymon, was helped up onto the stage by a gaggle of giggling brownies. He was a rotund man with a moon-like face and a stomach that told the tale of eating too many pies for too many years. Luckily, he had a loud voice, so he was able to make himself heard without the need for a microphone, which was good news, because the St John's ambulance people after some persuading, had left the microphone wire entwined round Adam Pinder's throat. They’d tried to remove the microphone from his mouth, but it was wedged in too tightly, so they'd left it. Tara had told them to not touch the body at all, but they said they had to try CPR. However, they found they couldn’t manage it with the microphone being where it was.

  "Everybody, please stay calm. It appears that our event singer had an unfortunate accident with his microphone, but the St John's ambulance people are attending to him as we speak, so he's in good hands."

  Everyone was calm. That was the creepiest thing of all, thought Tara, not that a killer was more than likely mingling amongst them. The Tarndale villagers were the strangest people Tara had ever met.

  "He's dead!" snapped Tara, not believing what she was hearing off the village's Mayor of all people. "You can't pretend someone's alive just so the cake judging can still go ahead!"

  The Mayor ignored her heckling. "The err...judging of the cakes and pies is going to start shortly, so if you have entries, please make your way over to the cake tent. I'm sure you'll all agree, there have been some...interesting looking entries today and I'm sure the judges are looking forward to tasting them all. Good luck everyone!"

  Well I wouldn't be looking forward to tasting most of the entries, they look like indigestion on a plate, thought Tara

  The twins were walking back towards the tent with a swaying Susan Smythe, between them. They’d found her near the catering van and she’d obviously taken a tumble in the mud.

  "How’s she doing?"

  "She's had a couple of nasty shocks today."

  "Looks like she's had a few drinks too. Is she drunk?" asked Tara.

  "I can hear you! So what if I am drunk? So what? You'd be drunk if you'd just found out your boyfriend had been having an affair."

  "Adam Pinder was?"

  Tara thought about the note. Maybe the person who wrote that was the woman he was having the affair with? Susan Smythe seemed more upset about the affair than she was about finding the body. The note had been written on pink notepaper and the red hearts which was a sure sign that a woman had written it.

  "Yes! Well, he was having an affair. He said he finished it last night.”

  "I see. I'm very sorry you had to find him like that."

  "Someone had to, I suppose."

  They sat her on a white plastic chair inside the cake tent where she wept quietly with her knees up to her chest, clutching her black suede boots which were splattered in mud.

  "Well, next time, I'll listen to Melanie Grinter," sighed Tara. Nithercott seemed like the other side of the world away, not just a couple of miles. It felt like she had been in the wretched village of Tarndale for weeks, not hours and she didn't dare think how long it had been since her last cup of decent coffee.

  "Melanie Grinter's going to be beside herself when we get back. She said there'd be death, and there has been! In fact, everything she saw in our tea leaves has come true. It's uncanny that is," said Sally.

  "I never expected a murder, right under our noses!" said Molly, clutching her topaz necklace. “Melanie didn’t say there’d be a murder, she just said she saw a death. It’s a shock, I never expected it to actually happen.”

  "I didn't, either. You know, I kept walking past Adam’s caravan on my way for the coffees and on my way back again too. I saw a brownie hand him a note when he was sat on the edge of the stage. We'll have to find that brownie and ask who gave the note to her. At least then we'd know who wrote it," said Tara, biting her lip.

  "I bet it was that Simon Salter. You said they nearly came to blows," said Sally, wide-eyed.

  "Yes, and he did say he'd put him out of his misery once and for all if he sang again. He didn't sing again, thankfully, but the weapon was his microphone and the note seems more likely to have been written by a woman going off the paper it was written on. Can you honestly see him using pink notepaper?" asked Tara.

  No, but it could be a false clue, a set-up to put us off the scent," said Sally."

  "It could have been the woman he'd been having the affair with, 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,' "said Molly dramatically.

  "It could just as easily have been Susan Smythe. She slapped him across the face when she rowed with him earlier. She's obviously got a bit of a temper on her. And - she seems more upset about the affair than the fact he's been murdered. She also found the body and whoever finds the body is always the first suspect," said Tara."

  "It could also have been Samantha Inkler," said Mavis Poole, sliding between the twins.

  "What makes you say that?" asked Tara, frowning.

  "I saw her follow him into his caravan, shouting about getting the environmental health onto him," smiled Mavis Poole, coldly.

  "I heard that too. I didn't see her go into the caravan though.”

  "Hey! Where's our muffins gone?" asked Sally, pointing to their empty plate which only had a few crumbs on it.

  "The judges must have liked them," laughed Tara. “They’ve scoffed the lot and they haven’t even started the judging yet.”

  "No, no, no! You don't understand! They can't have eaten them."

  "I thought that was the idea?" asked Tara, baffled. She really was having a surreal day.

  "Only one of them! Not all of them!" Sally put her hand to her mouth and whimpered.

  "This is very bad! I suggest we leave - now!" said Molly, grabbing Tara's arm and attempting to drag her to the exit.

  "We can't leave now, the judges are here, look."

  The judges were Samantha Inkler and Linda Phelps. (Who you could tell was a nervous wreck, from being tied to Samantha Inkler and her frequent outbursts with various people all morning). Linda Phelps had almost bone-white blonde hair, cut into a bob and cobalt blue eyes. She was dressed in a floaty ankle length dress with a plum cardigan. The wind was having great fun, whipping her dress up and she was having quite a time of it, trying to stop herself repeating the Marilyn Monroe look in front of so many people.

  "We have to leave as soon as we can before..."

  "Before?"

  "Before something bad happens!"

  "Something bad has happened! Things don’t get much worse than a murder. Anyway, we
can't leave, my car's still stuck in the mud in that field."

  The judges started making their way down the line of seemingly endless array of cakes and muffins, reluctantly tasting each exhibit, watched like a hawk by those who'd made them. The bakers were concentrating so much; they even opened their own mouths when the judges put their cakes in their mouths to taste them.

  They frowned at the twin’s empty plate, then carried on down the line. The twins covered their eyes with their hands, shaking their heads.

  The judges reached the pies.

  Tara's nails dug into her palms as they tasted her blackberry pie. They seemed to like it, which was a relief. Next on the table, was Mavis Poole's blackcurrant pie. Mavis watched them slyly, one thin grey eyebrow raised.

  "I'm sorry, is this pie blackcurrant?" asked Linda Phelps, her Welsh voice quivering.

  "It is," said Mavis Poole, smiling.

  "I'm allergic to blackcurrant, you know that, Mavis. I'm afraid I can't taste it," she said, fighting back tears.

  Samantha Inkler snorted.

  "More for me then! I happen to be quite partial to a blackcurrant pie and it's delicious," she said, tucking into great big spoonfuls, watched fearfully by Linda Phelps.

  “I might as well have your share, seeing as you can't have any. You don't know what you're missing - it's to die for!"

  "I can't help having an allergy," said Linda Phelps, twisting handfuls of her dress in her damp palms.

  After tasting the rest of the pies, the judges huddled together to discuss the winners. It was quite tense as the judges were having a heated discussion about Mavis's blackcurrant pie. Samantha Inkler said it was easily the winner. Linda Phelps was saying in a much quieter voice, that as she couldn't taste it, she couldn't possibly offer an opinion, so really the entry should be void.

  Annabel Thompson and Cheryl Trellan were stood at the back of the tent. Cheryl Trellan was looking as drunk as Susan Smythe had, who was still sat snoring in the chair they’d sat her in some time ago.

  "We need to find who ate our muffins," said Sally.

  "How will you know whose eaten them? They've eaten the evidence," said Tara.

  "We'll know," said Molly.

  Tara caught something in the tone of her voice that sent her radar for trouble off the scale.

  "How will you know? Ladies, you'd best come clean because I've had a very bad day and I've got no caffeine in my system whatsoever, which means I won't be able to keep my tongue-in-check."

  "Well look, it will be okay...if they only ate one muffin. The judges would have only eaten one, or less, and that would have been enough...to...feel the effects of the herbs...but not...get overdosed. The judges would have felt quite cheerful with just the one, but if whoever stole the muffins ate the lot, I'm afraid, they're in for a bad time of it," said Molly, looking sheepish.

  "Herbs? It's drugs isn't it?"

  "Well...technically, they're plants...we grow them ourselves you know," said Sally, stammering.

  "I don't want to know. The least I know the better. My car now smells of the stuff. Oh my God, you've turned me into a drug smuggler. I brought the cakes here. They'll blame me for everything. No one's going to believe two sweet little old ladies could have anything to do with drugs. Except Professor Rummage, he warned me about you two. Well that's it, if we manage to get out of this wretched place, I'm never taking you two anywhere, ever again,"

  "We didn't mean any harm, we just have a mischievous streak, that all. And, Professor Rummage is happy enough when he comes for his muffins every week because they help his arthritis."

  Tara put her hand over her mouth.

  "So thanks to you two, Nithercott is rife with drugged pensioners, is it? And you...what? Decided to branch out and try your luck in Tarndale? You know, this must all be a terrible dream. I'm sure I'm going to wake up from the whole sorry spectacle..."

  A sudden crash behind her stopped Tara, mid-sentence.

  Samantha Inkler had collapsed into the cake benches and knocked them over. She wasn't breathing and there was strange foam bubbling out from her red lipstick coated lips.

  "She didn't have our muffins! It wasn't our muffins!" shrieked Sally, jumping up and down.

  Tara ignored her hysterics and ran over to the body of Samantha Inkler. She smelled bitter almonds on her breath.

  "St John's ambulances are here!" someone shouted, but there was nothing any first aider could do for her, she was dead before she’d even hit the ground.

  Linda Phelps looked ready to faint or keel over with a heart attack and join her.

  "She's been poisoned. I think it was arsenic," said Tara, wishing she hadn't entered the competition now, as the police would no doubt want to question her for hours till they had eliminated her pie from the murder investigation.

  "Poison? Then I'll have been poisoned too!" wailed Linda Phelps.

  Everyone looked at the hyperventilating Linda Phelps, clutching her stomach, waiting for the inevitable swoon of death to occur.

  Then Cheryl Trellan collapsed.

  The first aiders ran to them, not knowing of any first aid techniques that could be implemented with a poison victim. In training, they were always told that if in doubt and a bandage wasn’t an option, put them into the recovery position. But, there was no chance of Samantha Inkler ever recovering.

  "Hang on! Cheryl Trellan didn't eat any of the cakes or pies, It must be...airborne!" Shouted a panic stricken villager, running for the exit.

  One by one, people in the tent started rolling their eyes, hyperventilating and fainting, clutching their stomachs. Even the St John's ambulance volunteers swooned because there's only so many people in a confined space you can witness collapse before you join in yourself.

  "What's going on? Has everyone been poisoned?" asked Tara, she didn't understand how things had got so bad, so quickly. How? "It's a tent! There's no air filtering system or heating system, It's just a bloody tent! What's going on?"

  "It's the jam incident all over again!" spluttered an elderly woman, pulling a man out of the way of the exit so she could get through first.

  Tara watched in amazement as people trampled over unconscious bodies to get out of the cake tent.

  Actions speak louder than words and it didn't take long for everyone outside the cake tent to get caught up in the events. Death, they believed, was among them, striking people down at will. It was after all, a cursed field.

  The twins and Tara stood open mouthed as people keeled over like dominoes all over the field. The tireless brownies made a gallant attempt to drag the fallen into lines of some order. It was more like a battlefield than a village fete.

  Tara spotted the brownie who'd handed Adam Pinder the note.

  "Hey! Who gave you the note you gave to Adam Pinder?"

  The brownie frowned at Tara as if it was the most bizarre question anyone had asked her in her entire life.

  "No one gave it to me. I saw it stuck to the caravan door. I read it, and thought I'd give it to him in case it blew off in the wind. I thought it might be important," she said, scratching her freckled nose.

  "Thanks, you've been a big help."

  Not really, thought Tara. She still didn't know who had written the note.

  The heavens opened.

  Thankfully, it revived the villagers from their mass hysteria attack, and they started to run or crawl for cover. Most of them chose the beer tent as the cake tent had at least one corpse in it, to the best of their knowledge.

  Tara looked round at the twins.

  "Why weren't you affected?"

  "We knew who'd eaten our muffins!"

  "Who? Linda Phelps?"

  "No! Cheryl Trellan!"

  "How did you work that out?"

  "Because she's the only one hallucinating," Sally said, pointing at Cheryl Trellan, shadow boxing the wind.

  "What drugs did you put into those muffins?"

  "Cannabis, infused with magic mushrooms."

  "Oh my God! She's going to be vic
tim number three! I'll be an accessory to murder! I'm going to jail, it's a fact!"

  "It won't kill her...at least I don't think it will. She was sick earlier, so most of it won't be in her system now. We thought she was just drunk before."

  "I did too. Well, what a day, two dead bodies, stolen muffins, drugs, mass hysteria and now a storm. I'm in desperate need of several very strong coffees."

  "A nice cup of tea would go down well."

  "I don't know how we're going to get back home, do you? asked Sally, pulling her sodden cardigan over her chest.

  "We've got to wait for the police to get here. They'll want to take statements off everyone here. I doubt anyone's leaving Tarndale tonight.

  "Susan Smythe's left already," said Molly, pointing at the empty chair.

  "She's probably in the caravan making a nice cup of tea," said Sally in a faraway voice.

  Tara walked over to the pie laden table, deep in thought.

  "That's not my pie," Tara said, pointing at a pie.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Someone's swapped it! I know my crimping when I see it - and that's not it. That's it, that one over there with Mavis Poole's name tag on it."

  "Are you sure? They all look alike to me."

  "'Course I'm sure! She's trying to frame me for Samantha Inkler's murder!"

  Chapter Five

  "You did have a set-to with Samantha Inkler over Adam Pinder's body being moved didn't you? And...she knocked your coffee all down you. With some people, that's enough to kill someone over," said the ever smirking Mavis Poole, who had heard every word that Tara had said.

  "I'm not even from this village, I don't have a motive. Whilst we're at it, why did you enter a blackcurrant pie when you knew one of the judges was allergic to blackcurrants?" asked Tara, as she pointed her finger at the unflinching Mavis Poole.

  "I forgot she had an allergy," she shrugged.

  "Where's your pie?"

  "It's there...somewhere."

  "Where? I can't see any blackcurrant pies in this tent!"

  "Maybe the same person who stole their muffins ran off with my pie too? I don't blame them. After all, Samantha Inkler was raving about how good it was."