Merry Murders Everyone Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by David W Robinson

  Cover Photography by Adobe Stock © DiViArts

  Design by soqoqo

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Dark Edition, darkstroke, Crooked Cat Books 2019

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  The Author

  David Robinson is a Yorkshireman now living in Manchester. Driven by a huge, cynical sense of humour, he’s been a writer for over thirty years having begun with magazine articles before moving on to novels and TV scripts.

  He has little to do with his life other than write, as a consequence of which his output is prodigious. Thankfully most of it is never seen by the great reading public of the world.

  He has worked closely with Crooked Cat Books and darkstroke since 2012, when The Filey Connection, the very first Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, was published.

  Describing himself as the Doyen of Domestic Disasters he can be found blogging at www.dwrob.com and he appears frequently on video (written, produced and starring himself) dispensing his mocking humour at www.youtube.com/user/Dwrob96/videos

  The STAC Mystery series:

  The Filey Connection

  The I-Spy Murders

  A Halloween Homicide

  A Murder for Christmas

  Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend

  My Deadly Valentine

  The Chocolate Egg Murders

  The Summer Wedding Murder

  Costa del Murder

  Christmas Crackers

  Death in Distribution

  A Killing in the Family

  A Theatrical Murder

  Trial by Fire

  Peril in Palmanova

  The Squire’s Lodge Murders

  Murder at the Treasure Hunt

  A Cornish Killing

  Merry Murders Everyone

  Merry Murders Everyone

  A Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery (#19)

  Chapter One

  “I have fifty… I’m looking for fifty-five… fifty-five I’m looking for…”

  For Terry Bailey, half the fun of property auctions was watching the twists and turns of Archie Hepple’s rubbery features, most noticeable when the bids were not flooding in. Archie was about sixty years old, and had inherited the auction house from his father about twenty years back, a time when there was a surfeit of goods for auction. These days, a town like Sanford did not enjoy much in the way of antiques or other high-value items, and most of Archie’s business was repossessions or lost property auctions, and especially real property; houses, shops, small factories, the kind of property that was not lost.

  Archie put on a pained expression. “I’ll take three. So I’m looking for fifty-three. Come on, you builders. Fifty-three for a piece of prime prop like this. Do I have fifty-three?”

  “The only time I’ve seen a face like that is when my business partner hasn’t hit the smallest room for three days,” Terry whispered to the man alongside him.

  “Are you bidding, Mr Bailey?” Archie demanded.

  “No. Sorry, Arch’. I was just saying—”

  Archie had lost interest already. “I’ll take two. Come on. I’m asking for fifty-two. You know it’s worth it and you know that somewhere along the line one of you will bottle out and make the next bid. Come on give me fifty-two.”

  The auction room was barely half-full, and most of the bidders were like Terry and his partner, Denny Dixon: pros. Builders and small-time developers who wanted the terraced house at number seventeen Kimbolton Terrace, but were not willing to pay over the odds for it.

  Stood to one side of her father and looking in Terry’s direction, was Ros Hepple. Ros and Tel had been in a half-hearted relationship long enough for him to know that the promises she was making with her baby blue eyes often came with conditions, such as: ‘I will honour my promise if you can see your way clear to making the next bid.’

  It was tempting, but unfortunately, she (and Tel) were up against the reaction of Denny Dixon to Tel making the next bid. Denny was not only Tel’s business partner but also his brother-in-law, and a self-confessed expert on auctions. Before they arrived at the auction room, he made it clear that they would not enter the bidding until it got fifty-eight/fifty-nine, by which time most of the suckers would be cleared out.

  But Archie was struggling to find any further bidders, and there was the danger that this house would go for an even fifty thousand, and to an undeserving amateur at that.

  Tel was in a quandary. Who was he most keen to please? His brother-in-law or his part time girlfriend? Ros could be fierce when she didn’t get her own way, and although Denny would snap and snarl, he was easier to handle, if only because Tel was bigger than him and he was married to Tel’s sister… mainly because he was married to Tel’s sister.

  Consequently, when Archie hit the desperation line and declared, “I’m going up in ones. I have fifty, I’m looking for fifty-one,” Tel gave Ros the nod, and she nudged Archie who aimed the stem of his gavel and said, “I have fifty-one. Thank you, Terry Bailey. I’m on fifty-one, who’ll give me fifty-two?”

  At the mention of Tel’s full name, Denny looked up into his eyes, but in contrast to Ros, his partner’s gaze was not overflowing with the milk of human kindness; more the blood and venom of murderous intent.

  “I thought I told you—”

  As he spoke, Denny jabbed his index finger into Tel’s chest, and Archie took full advantage of the gesture.

  “I have fifty-two with Mr Dennis Dixon.”

  Denny dropped his hands to his side, faced the podium, and glared murder at Archie. “That wasn’t a bid, Mr Hepple.”

  “Your normal method of bidding, Mr Dixon, is to raise your index finger.”

  “Yes, but not to jab it in Tel’s rib cage.”

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to know the difference,” Archie observed with a smirk which told everyone in the room that he knew the difference all right. Before Denny could object further, the auctioneer opened the bidding to the rest of the room. “I have fifty-two. Do I hear fifty-three?”

  He received an instant bid from Ian Parsloe, one of Tel and Denny’s great rivals. “I have fifty-three… fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven… The bid is against you, Messrs Dixon and Bailey. Do I hear fifty-eight? I’m selling once at fifty-seven. I’ll take a half. Second time at fifty-seven. Come on, all you builders, this is a snip. You’ll double your money in a month. I’ll take fifty-seven, five. Selling for the third and final time at fifty-seven.”

  Archie was about to bring the gavel down when Denny reluctantly raised his finger, and another round of bidding began.

  According to Tel’s calculations, he and his brother-in-law had had more aggravation from Parsloe than any other small building contractor in Sanford, and Tel was well aware that it would needle Denny if Parsloe were to win the bid, and Archie always loved it when Denny and Parsloe slugged it out toe to toe.

  Prior to the auction, Dennis insisted they didn’t want to pay any more than £65,000, but Parsloe was unwilling to let go and Archie revelled in the prospect of his two percent commission.

  Tel was strongly tempted to intervene and counterbid, but he knew better. He had worke
d with Denny long enough to know when to keep his mouth shut, otherwise they could end up bidding against each other.

  As the price moved on to sixty-six, a fresh bid came in from the rear of the room. It was from a woman, but she was so small that neither Tel, Denny, nor Parsloe could see her. Parsloe countered with a tentative bid of sixty-six and a half, and the woman’s paddle showed above the crowd, adding five hundred pounds to the price. After a few more bids, Parsloe had had enough. Denny hedged for a moment under Archie Hepple’s greedy eye, but decided that the property was simply not worth it and shook his head. Hepple finally brought the gavel down on £71,500.

  “Sold to paddle number seventy-eight.”

  Parsloe pointed a threatening finger at Denny, and over the general hum of conversation, warned, “I’ll beat you yet, Dixon.”

  Irritated at having been beaten by a third-party, Denny retorted, “Any time you think you’re big enough.” The comment was lost in the background noise, and Parsloe turned away, skulking out of the auction room.

  Denny turned his irritation on his partner. “I blame you for that, Tel. I’ve told you before, leave the bidding to me.”

  “Yeah well it wasn’t me who outbid you and pimple brain Parsloe, was it?”

  “No, but if you hadn’t started bidding when you did, we might have got it before she started. It’s your fault.”

  “You always say that, Denny. It doesn’t matter what goes wrong, it’s always my fault. You even blamed me when that pilot took us to Fuerteventura.”

  “Yes well—”

  “It wasn’t my fault that Lanzarote airport was shut.”

  “Who booked the holiday?” Denny demanded.

  “Me. But—”

  “There you are then. Come on. Let’s see if we can get this mystery bidder to sell to us for a small profit.”

  While Archie began pitching the next property, promising prospective buyers, developers, and demolition teams that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the two men made their way to the back room of the auction house, where Archie’s wife, Frankie, a woman never seen in the auction room during a sale, would be sorting out the paperwork with the new owner of seventeen Kimbolton Terrace.

  Archie and Frankie always worked this way. It saved clogging up the sale room with people who had already bought, and really wanted to pick up their keys and get away to their new investments, rather than hang about until the end of the auction which could be anything up to two or three hours hence. Once the gavel came down on any lot, the buyer retired to the back room where Frankie would have the paperwork ready for processing, and the keys for handing over.

  A busty, flame-haired temptress in her late fifties, Denny had long ago decided that in her younger days, she would have been a spectacularly good looking woman, and Tel agreed but with some reservations.

  “Not my type at all. Not keen on redheads. Too bad-tempered.”

  The comment was odd because Tel, like his sister, was red-haired and had the legendary temper to match.

  “And she must have been round the block a time or two,” Tel went on. “I meanersay, Ros don’t look a bit like her, so who was the father?”

  “She’s not Ros’s real mother, you dipstick. Ros was from Archie’s first wife. Her what left him.”

  “Oh. Right. So who did she leave him for?”

  “An estate agent.”

  “Ah. He must be Ros’ dad then.”

  Denny’s malleable features queried his partner’s intelligence. “You’re the one dating Ros. You should know all this.”

  “We don’t have time to talk about families.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t.”

  On entering the back room, they were absolutely astonished to learn that the buyer was none other than Vanessa Dixon, née Bailey, Denny’s wife and Tel’s older sister.

  The Bailey family had lived next door to the Dixons for over forty years, as a result of which the firstborn to each family, Vanessa and Denny were all but brought up together. Tel came along two years later, and from there he and Denny became best friends, even though Denny left school before his then girlfriend’s, now wife’s, younger brother. Tel always insisted that the main reason behind Denny’s chumminess was that, even though Tel was younger, he was always bigger and tougher and Denny had an unhappy habit of getting into trouble at school.

  Not only at school…

  And yet for all the times the younger Bailey had saved his hide, he still had more feelings for the sister than his business partner, and eventually, they decided to get married. According to Denny, they had a strong marriage built on a solid foundation of love, trust, and mutual respect, and if you pushed her on the subject, Vanessa would agree with him, although privately she had been known to say that Denny was the best kind of husband – one who did as he was told.

  On seeing his wife ready to sign the contracts, Denny’s face dropped. “Aw, Van, don’t tell me you’ve just bought Kimbotlton.”

  His wife swept a stray red hair out of her eyes, scribbled her signature on the contract, and demanded. “Where else?”

  “You were bidding against me and Tel.”

  “I didn’t know that, did I? I’m too small to see past all those big builders.” She dropped the pen on the contract and turned one the two men. “You told me that you wanted to stop Parsloe at all costs, and I thought he was doing the bidding.”

  “He dropped out at sixty nine and a half,” Tel reported.

  “And I called it a day when you hit seventy one and half,” Denny complained. “And thanks to you, we’ve just pay six grand over the top for it.”

  It was not the wisest thing he could have said, as the gleam in his wife’s eyes told him he would be sleeping on the settee for the next few nights.

  “Un fait accompli,” Frankie said in perfect French augmented with a broad grin.

  “A fate worse than death if you ask me,” Denny grumbled.

  Tel elected to keep his distance from the argument, and stood back as an interested spectator.

  “Those properties are selling for upwards of a hundred and twenty,” Vanessa insisted. “You’ll still pull a good pre-tax profit on it.”

  Denny pulled a face. “You haven’t seen the amount of work that needs doing.”

  “Then you’d better get on with it, hadn’t you?”

  Now the worry lines creased Tel’s forehead. “What about Joe Murray?” He took his sister’s puzzled looked as a cue and went on, “We’re a bit behind on Tandy Street, and you know what Joe’s like.”

  Denny agreed. “He’s the size of a wet dishcloth.”

  “And he has a bite like a Rottweiler with haemorrhoids,” Tel retorted.

  Denny was more confident. “Leave Joe Murray to me. I’ll square it with him.”

  Chapter Two

  “Again?”

  Having just heard the news that Sheila Riley was unwell for what had to be the sixth time since her return from honeymoon, Joe Murray’s irritable features twisted into a veneer of anguish-cum-disbelief-cum-rage, and Brenda Jump could only respond with a shrug of her winsome shoulders, and only then when she had hung her coat in a locker at the rear of the kitchen.

  Joe, stood by the open rear door, puffed on his cigarette, and vented his spleen. “How many times is this, now? She’s been like it ever since she came back from Cape Verde.”

  Brenda switched on the kettle and prepared herself a beaker of tea. “She can’t help it, Joe, and she can’t work while she’s like that. The last thing any café needs is a member of staff with tummy trouble, especially if it’s contagious.”

  Joe’s giant nephew, Lee, sneezed almost on cue, bringing a further round of remonstration from his uncle.

  Lee wiped his runny nose. “If you have to sneeze, lad, get out here. Don’t be spreading your germs all over the bacon.” He took another bad-tempered drag on his cigarette, and flicked it out into the dark, December morning. “I’d better phone your Cheryl.”

  “Want me to do it, Uncle Joe? Onl
y she’s not well either, but I can get that mate of hers, Pauline, to come in.”

  Joe nodded and came away from the rear door, closing it to keep out the cold of an icy, rainy morning. While Lee was busy on the telephone, Joe manned the grill and hotplate, where the bacon, sausage, and other breakfast items were cooking in preparation for the morning rush.

  A check on the time revealed that it was a little after half past six, and so far, The Lazy Luncheonette had seen just one customer, a passing trucker, who stopped to collect breakfast on a bun, which he took back out to his truck, and drove away.

  For as long as Joe could remember (getting on for half a century) the café had opened at six, and the first hour was concerned largely with preparation. Chaos would follow. The draymen of Sanford Brewery would begin to turn up from seven fifteen onwards, and they would fill the dining area. At eight o’clock, one of the apprentices from Broadbent Autos, a large car repair works across the dual carriageway from the café, would arrive with their orders, Ingleton Engineering, would phone their order through just before nine o’clock, after which the clerical staff of the offices above and around the café would appear, all of them crying for a feed or at the very least, a cup of coffee to go, and it would be ten o’clock before things settled down. Even then, the impasse would be short lived. With just seven days to Christmas, Sanford Retail Park, a large shopping complex to the rear of the café, was at its busiest, and many of the shoppers walked across to The Lazy Luncheonette, preferring the freshly cooked food to the often-tasteless and expensive varieties from the outlets inside the mall.

  As the proprietor, Joe never claimed that Christmas was the busiest time of year. It would be an exaggeration. The Lazy Luncheonette’s trade was consistent. As a sop to the Yuletide season, he carried extra stock in the shape of mince pies, Christmas cake, individual trifles, and such, but unlike the town centre shops, the number of customers did not vary more than a couple of percentage points.