Black Widow

Book 9: The Beatrice Stubbs Series

by JJ Marsh

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Crime & Mystery; Crime Fiction; female sleuth; private investigator; european location; bordeaux; france

Synopsis

Beware the Female of the Species

Private Investigator Beatrice Stubbs is bored of hanging around supermarkets, trying to prove infidelity or petty fraud. She yearns for a job with excitement, adventure and some continental travel. Lesson: be careful what you wish for.

Enter one unexpected assistant, two commissions and her life spins from dull to deadly. While hunting an assassin in Budapest, gossamer traces lead to a respectable family business in France. Despite undercover infiltration of a Parisian perfumery and Bordeaux vineyard, her enquiries soon hit an impenetrable wall.

When the scale of the network emerges, Beatrice still thinks like a cop. She calls in a favour and burns her last bridge, leaving her with nowhere else to turn. Now, she and her assistant are defenceless against predators with many eyes.

The web contracts, trapping them like insects. Entangled in the enemy's lair, her back against the wall, she can only pray she has not run out of friends.

"I'm a loose end. They don't like loose ends."

See Paris and Bordeaux through the eyes of a modern-day Marple in this riveting, soft-boiled page turner.

Like all Beatrice books, Black Widow can be read standalone.

If you love Jean-Luc Bannalec, Donna Leon or Andrea Camilleri, this is for you.




Gripping, suspenseful and witty - Beatrice Stubbs and her extended family:
1. Behind Closed Doors (Switzerland)
2. Raw Material (England/Wales)
3. Tread Softly (Basque County, Spain)
4. Cold Pressed (The Greek Islands)
5. Human Rites (Germany)
6. Bad Apples (Portugal)
7. Snow Angel (England)
8. Honey Trap (Italy)
9. Black Widow (France)
10. White Night (Finland)
11. The Woman in the Frame (Mallorca)
12. All Souls' Day (Belgium)

Plus the exclusive free prequel for newsletter subscribers: Black Dogs, Yellow Butterflies (London) Click for info

Release date: November 15, 2019

Publisher: Prewett Bielmann Ltd.

Print pages: 306

Sample

Chapter 1

“Can I ask what you do for a living?” asked the eye specialist.

       Beatrice opened her mouth, closed it again and settled on the simplest response. “I’m retired.” She doubted she would ever be able to say the words ‘Private Investigator’ without getting an attack of impostor syndrome.

       “Retired from what?” he asked, tapping the results of her eye test into his desktop computer. When she didn’t respond immediately, he looked up. “I’m not being nosey, just wondering if your job involved a great deal of screen work. For a woman of your age, your eyesight is remarkably good.”

       “You just said I need glasses.”

       “You do. But many people need glasses at a much earlier stage of life. Mostly those who spend much of their time looking at computer screens. People like me.”

       Beatrice grew less defensive. “I was a detective inspector until last year. Working for the London Met, there was a lot of screen time, but just as much was spent out on the streets.”

       “Ah, that may be why your long-sight vision is so strong. You’ll only need low-strength corrective lenses for close-up work. Computers, reading and so on. Here’s a prescription. Take that to any optician and when you’ve adjusted to your specs, you’ll wonder what you ever did without them.”

       On leaving the surgery, Beatrice did not go directly to the nearest optician. Instead, she stomped around the streets of Exeter, feeling ancient, beleaguered and out of sorts. It was tempting to stuff the prescription to the bottom of her handbag and forget about it, but then how could she read all the case files, spreadsheets and financial details of her new business? There was no escaping the fact; she was getting old. She took a break for coffee and cake at Pasticciera Fiorentina to cheer herself up and to indulge her recently acquired taste for Italian pastries. After a good half an hour’s sulk, she succumbed to the inevitable and sought out an optician. At least she could choose a light frame which would not add yet more years to her face.

        

The drive home to Upton St Nicholas did not fill her with her usual eagerness. In Exeter, like London, she could potter around, eat cake, browse a bookshop, buy a bottle of wine for her and Matthew or even attend a concert without meeting most of her neighbours. In the village, everyone knew everyone and observed the smallest adjustment to behaviour.

       “Skimmed milk today? Are you and the professor on a diet?”

       “Beatrice, will you put Heather straight? Friday’s concert at the church hall was an operetta, not a musical.”

       “Hello, you two. Missed you on Sunday. Hear you went over to Crediton for a change.”

       It stifled her and she had deliberately begun to switch shops, pubs and routines simply to avoid the same faces, same comments, same dreary old habits. The exact opposite of her behaviour in London, where she clung to her connections. Adjusting to life in the country was not as simple as she’d hoped. The imminent visit of her former colleague Dawn with her partner Derek would be a blessed relief.

       Her new private detective agency, the supposed dream career, provided few real thrills. So far it was all suspected infidelity, benefit fraud and one neighbourly suspicion of vegetable sabotage. All within a fifty-mile radius. 

       Where were the ‘come to the island of Antigua urgently for the most fascinating case of your career!’ emails? The disputed will and testament case, which had already involved far too many unpaid hours of answering emails, was yet to materialise. All because the tremulous creature who ‘almost certainly’ wanted to employ her, was still dithering about sharing confidential information. How can you expect a detective to investigate without giving her all the facts? Beatrice was on the point of telling her to find someone else to spy on her relatives, but she’d been looking forward to a trip to Salzburg. The Austrians made awfully good cakes.

       She pulled onto their driveway, keeping an eye out for Huggy Bear. Their little Border terrier had become adept at finding holes in the fence and escaping the garden to go searching for rabbits. Sunlight shone through the stained glass above the front door, throwing a rainbow of colour at her feet as she plonked her shopping in the hall. The house was silent. Matthew must have taken the dog out or she would be barking and jumping up in delight at one of the family returning home. 

       Beatrice kicked off her shoes and padded into the kitchen. Empty, but crumbs on the counter and the unmistakeable scent of fried bacon suggested someone had made himself a snack. She opened the kitchen door to let in some fresh air and looked into the garden, with a certain amount of pride. To her left the shrubbery shimmered in the breeze, as colourful as Rio at Carnaval. The lawn was neatly mown and her wildflower bee garden had flourished, now humming with winged visitors in the August afternoon warmth. The stream bubbled and gurgled away, swollen with last night’s rain. On her right, the brand new winter garden, their favourite summer room. 

       Her eyes narrowed. Between two large fig plants, she could see a human arm on the rattan rug. Panic seized her. Matthew! 

       She raced through the house and into the conservatory, short breaths drying her mouth. On his back, snoring lightly, Matthew was dozing on a garden recliner. The newspaper and one arm had fallen to lie beside him and curled up on his stomach was a grey fur ball, observing her through eyes the colour of Dijon mustard. 

       Beatrice gazed at the comfortable pair enjoying an afternoon nap together. She really must stop panicking every time he dozed off. His last check-up showed his heart was in very good shape and his cholesterol at tolerable levels. So if Matthew and Dumpling were both still alive and where they should be, where was the dog? A breeze blew through the conservatory door, which was sufficiently ajar to allow a determined terrier to slip through. The house phone rang from the hallway. Neither of the old chaps moved. She returned indoors to answer the call.

       “Hello?”

       “Hello, Beatrice. This is Lisa from Hazeltree Farm. Just wanted to let you know we’ve got your dog. She wandered into the yard earlier and I thought I recognised her. Jack checked her collar and sure enough, it’s your Huggy Bear.”

       “Really? Oh thank you so much, Lisa. I’ve just got home myself. That animal is an escapologist. I’ll put some shoes on and walk over to get her.”

       “No need for that. I’m sending the girls round with a couple of jars of my homemade pickle. They’ll bring the dog back to you.”

       “You are extremely kind, thank you. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

       “No need for that. I’d just be a bit careful, you know how these boy racers tear round the lanes. She’s such a dear little thing. Give my best to Matthew and if I can have those jars back when you’re done, I’d be grateful.”

       “Will do and thank you so much.” Beatrice replaced the receiver, ashamed of her negative attitudes to village life.

        

While she awaited the return of the errant mutt, Beatrice set about preparing a ploughman’s lunch to go with Lisa’s homemade pickle. Bread and cheese were all very well, but it had to be accompanied by a decent salad. She was determined to ensure Matthew consumed his five a day, for the sake of his health. She washed some lettuce, chopped tomatoes, cucumber, celery and apple, fished out a couple of pickled onions each and arranged them around each slab of cheddar. She heated the oven and while a crusty baguette was warming, she checked her emails. She was just printing one particular query to study further when the doorbell rang. 

       Kayleigh and the other one whose name Beatrice could never remember delivered the dog and the pickle, with shy smiles. They seemed reluctant to say goodbye to Huggy Bear, so Beatrice assured them they could take her for a walk any time they liked. After they’d gone, Matthew came wandering into the kitchen, obviously awoken by the doorbell.

       “Oh, I say, a ploughman’s lunch. That looks just the ticket. I worked up quite an appetite doing the weeding this morning.”

       “Hence the bacon sandwich and the nap, I assume.”

       “Guilty as charged. Who was at the door?”

       “The girls from Hazeltree Farm bringing Huggy Bear home. From now on, you can’t leave her out in the garden unattended. You know what a Houdini she is.”

       Matthew looked down at the dog, wagging her tail at him. “Did you run off again, you naughty girl?” The dog’s ears softened into the canine equivalent of a smile and the tail wagged faster. 

       Beatrice suspected Matthew wasn’t the only one who’d had bacon for elevenses. “She always ends up at one of the farms. Full of fascinating pongs, I suppose. The problem is that means her crossing the lane at some point, which is dangerous. Do you want apple juice or water?”

       “Juice, please. The thing is, I thought she was asleep beside me. The three of us had a nice sit down with the paper and I must have nodded off. I apologise for not keeping an eye on her and I’ll be sure to close the door next time. How was your trip to Exeter?”

       Beatrice washed her hands and they sat at the kitchen table to eat. “I have excellent long-range vision for a woman my age, but I now need reading glasses. Bon appétit.”

       “Bon appétit. Personally, I think it’s remarkable you haven’t needed them before. I had my first pair in my twenties. All that poring over textbooks as an earnest youth took its toll. Though I wasn’t asking about the optician. How did the client take your report? Was he satisfied?”

       Beatrice watched him as he added salad dressing. Healthy vegetables would be a great deal less healthy if slathered with an oily sauce. He seemed to sense her gaze and limited himself to a modest drizzle.

       “I wouldn’t say satisfied, exactly. He accepted my findings and is prepared to pay me for my work. Yet he is still convinced his wife is deceiving him, no matter how many assurances I gave the man. These infidelity cases are an awful bore, you know. Not just the lurking around, watching people go about their daily business, but the unhealthy green-eyed monster that drives decent folk to suspect their loved ones. It’s all very depressing.”

       “I imagine it would be. This pickle is excellent. Very fruity. Well, you don’t have to do those jobs if you don’t want to. You’re your own boss. Choose the fun ones and pass on the rest.”

       Beatrice seized her moment. “There is something rather more interesting on offer, in fact. Have a look at this.” She reached behind her for a print-out and passed it to him.

        

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Mandate

 

Dear Beatrice

I hope you are well. I don’t know if you remember me, the junior chef at Ecco in Napoli? My sister Chantal and I have left the restaurant now and opened our own business. Not in the restaurant trade, but as app developers for the tourism industry. 

Earlier this year, you solved the problem of the spy in Ecco’s kitchen. Everyone was very happy you helped us and reunited the Colacino family. Sadly, our joy did not last long. My uncle Gennaio was killed in Hungary a few months later. 

That is the reason for writing to you. The police in Budapest are not pursuing the case of my uncle’s murder. Their opinion is that he got into a fight and lost. Chantal and I are convinced his death was connected to the people behind the copycat restaurants. We owe Gennaio. We want to know how and why he died.

Chantal and I would like to ask you to investigate. We are doing well and can pay your fees and expenses. Could you go to Budapest and see if you can find anything the police missed? Just to be clear, if you do find something, we would insist the police must re-open this case. We are not looking for something like personal vengeance.

I look forward to hearing from you and send you warm regards from Naples. 

Bruno & Chantal

        

Matthew’s eyes roamed over the page as he absently ate some bread. Beatrice waited till he had finished reading before looking at him expectantly.

       “More interesting, indeed, but a bit of a leap from stalking unfaithful spouses. This sounds like a rather dangerous assignment. One which is more than likely to stir up a hornet’s nest.”

       “Yes, and with very little to go on, I’d feel bad about taking these young people’s money. If the police aren’t bothered, I really don’t see why I’d be any more effective. But still ....”

       Matthew watched her, biting into a pickled onion. 

       She focused on trying to articulate her feelings. “The thing is, this was someone I knew. When I was with the Met, there were so many bodies, so much death, I became not exactly inured to it, but I tried not to take it to heart. This is personal. I actually liked Gennaio Colacino.” Her mind took her back to a café in Naples, sitting opposite the big man as he tore open a packet of sugar. She could almost smell his aftershave and feel his rough whiskers as he kissed her on both cheeks. She pictured him in his bright red Ferrari, tooting his horn in farewell.

       “Not only that, it’s a loose end,” Beatrice continued. “I solved the Naples case and found the spy in the kitchen. After the police arrests, we assumed they were the people pulling strings. Case closed. But what if we only cut down the weeds and left the roots intact? Or only routed half the rats’ nest so they could regroup and attack the deserter later?”

       “Can we limit our metaphors to one theme at a time? Horticultural, zoological or military? I would say your hypothesis merely reinforces my point. If you only caught the foot soldiers, there is a far more powerful general steering the troops. That would be a job for an opposing army, not a single veteran without heavy artillery. Do you really want to engage with such people?”

       Dumpling sashayed into the kitchen, sat at Matthew’s feet and emitted a silent miaow. The signs were clear. A detective’s powers of deduction could be honed at home as well as at work.

       “Look me in the eye, Matthew Bailey, and tell me you have not been feeding these animals from the table.”

       Matthew busied himself with a forkful of salad. “There may have been one or two scraps which fell to the floor. By the way, what’s the plan for the weekend and our visitors? Given Derek’s model railway enthusiasm, I wondered if I might invite him along to the Railway Centre at Tiverton. Take my grandson along too and get him out from under Tanya’s feet. The summer holidays can drag on a bit for working mums. The other advantage would be that you and Dawn have a few hours to chat.”

       “That is a marvellous idea. Derek and Luke would enjoy that enormously and I’d appreciate some quality time to catch up on all the gossip from the Met. But that deflection, deft as it was, does not address my question. Do we encourage bad habits and begging from our animals, or do we separate human and animal food, thereby giving ourselves peace at the dinner table?”

       Matthew dabbed up the remaining pickle with the crust of his baguette. “Point taken. Lax behaviour on my part. Won’t happen again. Do you know, Lisa’s pickle is head and shoulders above any other I’ve eaten. I hope she enters it in the village show. Now then, what about this case?”

       Beatrice thought about it, watching butterflies flitter across the garden. It was a frightening prospect to go after some sort of criminal syndicate who would coerce, bully, threaten, kidnap and even kill. “At this stage, I’ll just ask for more information.”

       Matthew shook his head. “I think we all know what that means. Thank you very much for lunch. I’m off to research the Railway Centre and ask Tanya if I can borrow my grandson.”