Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend Read online

  Gerry laughed. “That’s not possible, and you know it.”

  “He’ll still have it all wrapped up by lunchtime tomorrow.”

  Her sidekick shrugged easily. “Want me to have a word with him when he and his people get here?”

  Melanie did not answer right away. She considered what she knew about Joe Murray. Eventually, she said, “No. I don’t think so. I think it would be better if I spoke to him.”

  “Persuade him with your charms?” Gerry asked.

  She stared him firmly in the eye. “I don’t know a lot about him, Gerry, but I do know that he’s more likely to be impressed by my stocking tops than yours.”

  ***

  “What do I have to do to get you to switch off and just enjoy the weekend, Joe?” Brenda Jump asked. “Show you my stocking tops?”

  “All I said was in this weather we should have stayed at the Lazy Luncheonette,” Joe Murray protested.

  December 30th had dawned with heavy rain oppressing the town of Sanford, and suppressing the fortunes of the Lazy Luncheonette.

  The week between Christmas and New Year was always poor. The dray men from the Sanford Brewery called as usual, and there were the occasional passing lorry drivers to feed, but the factories of Doncaster Road Industrial Estate were mostly closed. Ingleton Engineering, whose daily sandwich order provided a large slice of the takings, was also closed, and of course, the kids were still off school, so the income from their purchases of cans and snacks was also missing. The shoppers of the Sanford Retail Park, behind the Lazy Luncheonette, would usually call in, but the persistent cold and rain of the last few days, had kept them away too.

  All in all, it was a good time to be going away for the weekend.

  Sanford 3rd Age Club outings always began from the same place; the car park of the Miner’s Arms, the club’s putative home, and normally, Joe could be found standing on the car park, ticking off the names of the members as they arrived, but with the rain threatening to wash away the ink on his printed sheet, he chose, instead, to wait just inside the bus close to the driver’s seat. Keith Lowry, the long-suffering driver usually appointed to their excursions, had to be outside, anyway, to stow the members’ luggage.

  “I don’t see any reason why we should both get wet,” Joe had told his closest companions, Brenda and Sheila Riley. “Keith has no choice so I’ll pinch his seat until we’re all here.”

  Sheila and Brenda had agreed, but Joe’s constant stream of complaints, mostly about the weather, had begun to grate on them, and his mention of the Lazy Luncheonette, the workman’s café which he owned and where the two women worked for him, was the last straw.

  “I don’t wanna hear another word about the Lazy Luncheonette until Tuesday morning,” Brenda warned him.

  With the time coming up to 9:30, there were still a few people to come, and Keith, like Joe, was not slow to complain. Standing on the platform by the coach’s open door, shaking the rain from the hood of his company issued cagoule, he said, “We should be rocking and rolling by now. The boss’ll play hell if I’m late back this afternoon.”

  “You’re not staying in Lincoln with us, Keith?” Sheila asked.

  He shook his head. “The old man won’t wear it. You’ve no excursions planned. You’re staying at the Twin Spires for this silly bloody murder mystery thing, and he reckons there’s no point me being there, idling about for the weekend. Besides, there’s a match at Elland Road tomorrow, and I get in for nowt.”

  “How come?” Joe asked as a taxi pulled onto the car park.

  “I’m ferrying the Sanford branch of the Leeds United Supporters Club to the game and back,” Keith told him. “I always get a free ticket.”

  “Instead of a whip round?” Joe pressed.

  “As well as a whip round,” Keith returned and stepped out into the rain again as Captain Les Tanner and his lady love, Sylvia Goodson climbed out of the taxi.

  Joe ticked the new arrivals off his list when they climbed on the bus a few moments later. “Morning, Sylvia, morning, Les. You’re late.”

  “The weather, Murray,” Tanner reported. “Especially bad this morning or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “Couldn’t see for the rain,” Joe quipped. “Still, as long as you weren’t at it until the early hours explaining the Allies push through the Ardennes.”

  Tanner glared. “Were you born obnoxious, Murray, or have you had training?”

  “It comes quite naturally when I’m dealing with you, Les.”

  Les followed Sylvia along the bus to their seats, and Keith, having stowed their luggage, came back to the platform. “Who’s still to come?”

  Joe checked his crib sheet. “Raving Mavis. She’ll have been on the sauce last night and overslept.”

  “On some bloke’s nightshirt,” Brenda said, taking her usual seat next to Sheila. The two women always occupied the front left hand seat, and Joe took the jump seat, in front of them, to the left of the driver. “How long will it take to Lincoln, Keith?”

  “Normally, an hour and a half, tops,” the driver replied. “But it’s Friday, the day before New Year’s Eve, and in this lot…” he held out a hand to the rain. “Anybody’s guess.”

  From midway down the bus, George Robson, a gardener with Sanford Borough Council, and one of the longest-serving members of the Sanford 3rd Age Club, shouted, “Hey up, Joe, we’re taking bets on you solving this murder mystery before anyone else. Ten to one that you’ll crack it tonight, eight to one on tomorrow night and even money that you’ll be the first to solve it on Sunday afternoon.”

  His announcement was greeted with laughter from the seventy or so bodies on the coach.

  Joe took the jibes in good part. “Save your money, George. If I crack it tonight, I ain’t gonna tell you. I’ll come to a private agreement with the organisers and that bottle of shampoo and the hotel vouchers will be all mine.”

  It had been expensive, Joe ruminated while they waited for Mavis Barker to arrive. Accomplus hotels were never cheap, but the combination of New Year’s Eve and a murder mystery as entertainment, had hiked the price to the extent that many of their members had cried off. Joe, Sheila and Brenda, the management trio of the club, could not.

  “And we don’t even get a discount for all the admin we do,” Joe had complained to his two friends.

  “We’re a social club, Joe,” Sheila had reminded him. “You do it from the goodness of your heart.”

  Brenda had laughed. “He keeps all his goodness in his wallet. Although, I have heard rumours that his Y-fronts –”

  Joe had cut her off at that point. Brenda’s merry widowhood was almost as legendary as Joe’s parsimony.

  If pushed, he had to admit that he enjoyed the club outings, and he was particularly looking forward to this one: a great weekend away with a murder mystery to tax his intellect.

  Another taxi pulled into the car park. Mavis Barker climbed out, dragging her small suitcase behind her, waddling hurriedly to the coach. With a muttered grumble, Keith climbed off again to stow her luggage, and Joe ticked off her name.

  When Keith climbed back onto the bus and took the wheel, Joe lowered the jump seat in front of his companions, and sat down.

  “Is that it?” Keith asked. “Can we get rolling?”

  “Burn it,” Joe invited.

  The coach rolled off the car park, onto Doncaster Road, turning right, away from Sanford and towards the motorway. Half a mile on, they passed the Lazy Luncheonette where Lee, Joe’s nephew and head cook, and his wife Cheryl, were idling away the interim between the morning rush and the lunchtime crowd.

  “Not that there’ll be a lunchtime crowd,” Joe muttered.

  Five minutes later, when the bus turned east on the M62, making for the A1, safe from sudden turns or swerves, Joe stood, turned and reached for the PA microphone above Sheila’s head. Switching it on, tapping the head to ensure it worked, he began his announcement.

  “Okay, folks, and good morning. Keith reckons we’re about an hour an
d a half from Lincoln but it may take longer. It depends on traffic conditions and the weather. So we’ll likely be checking into the Twin Spires hotel by lunchtime. Now don’t forget, this is a Murder Mystery Weekend. There’ll be a lot going on in the hotel. That doesn’t mean you have to stick to the Twin Spires. You’re free to do as you please, and all the clues will be there for you to look over when you get back from your expeditions.”

  “Expeditions, Joe?” Alec Staines called out. “Are you climbing the west tower of the Minster or something?”

  “No, I’m climbing the walls. But anyone would when dealing with you lot.” Joe paused a moment to let the subdued laughter fade. “Can I also remind you that the hotel evenings are themed, and the theme tonight is the early fifties? Apparently, the murder mystery is set in the fifties, so we’re all supposed to be in part.”

  “Got a zoot suit have you, Joe?” George Robson shouted from the rear of the bus.

  “They were 1940s, you idiot,” Joe retorted. “And, no I haven’t got a zoot suit. I have drapes, drains and bike chain. Mess with me and the Sanford Teds will sort you out. All right everyone. I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy the journey.” He glanced through the windows. “Or as much of the journey as you can see through this lot.”

  He handed the microphone back to Sheila, sat down and half turned in his seat so he could speak with his companions.

  “You’re very good at that kind of announcement, Joe,” Sheila congratulated him.

  “You should do it professionally,” Brenda agreed. “I’ve heard they need a new caller at the bingo hall.”

  Joe frowned. “Are you well insured, Brenda? Cos one of these days, you’re gonna need it.” He clapped his hands together like a market trader about to offer the deal of the century. “Right, so this murder mystery thing doesn’t start until dinner this evening. What do you want to do with the afternoon?”

  “I’d like to take a tour round the cathedral,” Sheila said, “but that will wait until tomorrow.”

  “There’s a smashing shopping mall by the river,” Brenda assured them.

  Joe grinned. “Lincoln has a river? Great. I can drop you in there, Brenda, and solve all my troubles.”

  She smiled. “Your trouble is repression, Joe. Give me your wallet, let me get at your Y-fronts and I’ll solve your problems in less than an hour.”

  Chapter Two

  The Scampton Room was named after RAF Scampton, the airfield, six miles north of the city, from where Guy Gibson had led 617 Squadron on their daring Dambusters raid in 1943. The walls of the room were decked with wartime photographs from the bomber base, pride of place going to a large oil on canvas of a Lancaster in flight, the bulbous projection of Barnes-Wallis’ bouncing bomb hanging from its underbelly.

  Joe stepped into the place, nodding to George Robson, Owen Frickley, and a few other club members, and made his way to the bar.

  They had arrived at 11:15, and Joe had promised to meet Brenda and Sheila in the bar before setting off to Lincoln centre for a little Friday afternoon shopping.

  A functional rather than aesthetically pleasing building, the modern façade of the four-storey, Twin Spires Hotel looked out directly on the twin towers of Lincoln Cathedral, just a few hundred yards away.

  “That must be where the hotel gets its name,” Mavis Barker had commented as Joe helped her off the bus.

  “I would never have thought of that, Mavis,” Joe replied.

  An older wing was attached to the east end of the hotel. Built of redbrick, housing the 617 Restaurant, its windows were smaller, the rooms more compact but no less luxurious. Pleasant gardens lay out front and along the side of the main block, with picnic tables dotted around the lawns.

  “Not gonna get much use out of them,” Joe muttered as he entered through twin, automatic glass doors.

  After the usual chaos of signing in seventy people, he took his single, small suitcase to room 404, washed, changed his shirt and, carrying his topcoat, made his way down to the Scampton Room to meet with the women. He was not surprised to learn they were not there.

  “I spend half my life waiting for women,” he muttered as he leaned on the bar and signalled for service.

  “Lock you away for that, you know,” said the tall, portly man next to him.

  Joe ordered a glass of lager, before responding. “Talking to yourself you mean? My old man used to say it was the only way to get sensible answers.” He held out his hand. “Joe Murray. Chair of the Sanford 3rd Age Club.”

  “Reggie Grimshaw. Managing Director, Grimshaw Kitchens. Sheffield.” He shook Joe’s offered hand. “You’ll have heard of us. Grimshaw Kitchens: the dream of every housewife.” Reggie nodded to a small clutch of people by the windows. “That’s my lot, there. Two sales managers, the two top salespeople, and my missus, Wendy. That’s her with the blonde hair. And those salesmen and women are the best in the business. If they called on your good lady, you’d have a Grimshaw Kitchen fitted before Easter.”

  “Very unlikely,” Joe said, his natural resistance to salespeople coming to the fore. He paid for his drink and took a sip.

  Reggie laughed. “You don’t know how persuasive they can be.”

  “They’d have to persuade my missus to come back from Tenerife, first,” Joe countered, and looked further around the room.

  In the corner, by the podium, was another clutch of about ten people, even split between the sexes. A black-haired, middle-aged woman, sat on the fringe of the group, was eyeing him with undisguised curiosity.

  “Are they not with you?” Joe asked.

  “No,” replied Reggie. “They’re the turn; the act. You know. The entertainment.”

  “Ah. The murder mystery weekenders, huh?” He placed his glass on the bar. “So, Reggie, what brings you and your salespeople here? Conference, is it?”

  Reggie laughed. “My eye. It’s a New Year treat, me ducks. Four times a year I take the managers and the top salespeople from my teams, and treat them to a weekend away. I don’t organise it. The sales managers take it in turns. It’s a reward for hard graft, but you look like a man who understands that.”

  “When it comes to the stick and the carrot, I use both,” Joe admitted. “I beat my staff with the stick and feed the carrots to my customers.” He grinned. “I run a café on Doncaster Road in Sanford.”

  Reggie frowned. “I thought you were chairman of some club.”

  “The Sanford 3rd Age Club. I’m also their resident DJ, but that’s recreation. Like everyone else, I have a living to earn. I’m too young to retire, too old for an affair, and the state the country’s in, I can’t afford a nervous breakdown.”

  Wendy Grimshaw left her table and came towards them.

  “Looks like you’re wanted.” Joe picked up his glass. “Nice talking to you, Reggie. See you around over the weekend.”

  He crossed the room, pausing at a table on which was a stack of glossy leaflets, spelling out the timetable for the weekend. Joe took one, and found a seat close to the entrance.

  Haliwell’s Heroes declared the leaflet; the front showed a photograph of ten people seated at a dinner table with a large map on an easel to one side. Joe could not see the dark-haired woman who had been studying him, and for a moment he wondered if Reggie Grimshaw had got it wrong.

  A shadow fell over the table. “Excuse me. It’s Mr Murray, isn’t it?”

  Engrossed in the leaflet, Joe was surprised to hear his name. He had never stayed at this hotel, and he knew instantly it wasn’t one of his members. They would have called him Joe.

  He found the dark-haired woman hovering over him. Around 50 years of age, perhaps slightly younger, Joe found her instantly attractive, slender, smartly dressed in a loose-fitting blouse and dark trousers, her black hair was tied back in a ponytail, her slim face and lively eyes highlighted by a pair of black-framed spectacles perched on her nose.

  “I’m Melanie Markham. I’m the producer and director of Haliwell’s Heroes.”

  It took Joe a moment
to realise what she was talking about and only then because he still had the leaflet in his hand. “Oh. The murder mystery thing?” He put down the leaflet and waved at the chair opposite and she sat down. “So what can I do for you, Mrs Markham?”

  “Ms Markham,” she stressed, “and most people call me Melanie.”

  Joe nodded. “All right, Melanie. What can I do for you?”

  “A lot,” she said, leaving him all at sea.

  There was a lot which a fine looking woman like Melanie Markham could do for him, but he was not stupid enough to imagine that she was hinting at his prowess as a lover.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your reputation precedes you, Mr Murray.”

  “Please call me Joe.” He laughed. “It is my name and it’s a lot more polite than some of the things people call me.”

  Melanie returned a wan smile. “Very well, Joe. Even in this neck of the woods, the name Joe Murray, coupled with Sanford, means something. You’re one of the smartest private detectives in the North and Midlands.”

  In an effort to display some modesty, Joe said, “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “No?”

  “The country, maybe, but not the North and Midlands.” He grinned to show he was only joking.

  Melanie returned his smile. “Very funny.”

  “All right, Melanie, so I have a reputation as a private detective. I’ll tell you now, I don’t take cases on, as such. In other words, I wouldn’t agree to investigate the outcome of your Aunt Jemima’s will, but if you need help I’ll see what I can do.”

  “No, no. It’s nothing like that. I’m not sure how to, er…”

  While she trailed off, Joe took a sip of lager, giving her time to get her thoughts together. When she still did not speak, he put her out of her misery.

  “Where I come from, Melanie, we don’t stop to worry about how people will react to what we have to say. We just say it. Why don’t you do that now? I promise I won’t be offended.”