Curtain Call at the Seaview Hotel

Book 2: A Helen Dexter Cosy Crime Mystery

by Glenda Young

Genres: Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

The second in the page-turning cosy crime series from Glenda Young, this unputdownable whodunnit is perfect for fans of Julia Chapman's Dales Detective Agency, Richard Osman's The Thursday Murder Club, Betty Rowlands and Helen Cox.

'I loved this warm, humorous and involving whodunnit with its host of engaging characters and atmospheric Scarborough setting' Clare Chase on Murder at the Seaview Hotel

In the charming Yorkshire seaside town of Scarborough, the stage is set for murder . . .

When a troupe of actors arrive in Scarborough to perform a murder mystery play and book into the Seaview Hotel, it's only a matter of time before amateur sleuth Helen Dexter and her trusty greyhound Suki are playing the roles of detectives once again.

Don't miss Helen and Suki's first cosy crime caper in Murder at the Seaview Hotel!

Love Glenda Young's cosy crime? Don't miss her acclaimed Ryhope-set sagas, Belle of the Back Streets, The Tuppenny Child, Pearl of Pit Lane, The Girl with the Scarlet Ribbon, The Paper Mill Girl and The Miner's Lass.

(P) 2022 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: May 12, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 336

Sample

Helen Dexter, landlady of the Seaview Hotel in Scarborough, gazed from her lounge window. She took in the pretty view of the North Bay beach, where the sea sparkled under a blue sky. It was early September, and the day was warm with late-summer heat. She pushed her bobbed brown hair behind her ears.

‘Come on, you can’t sit gawping out of the window all day. You’ve got guests arriving this morning,’ she said out loud.

‘What’s that, love?’ a voice replied from the hallway. It was Jean, the Seaview’s award-winning cook. When Helen and her late husband Tom had bought the hotel, they’d inherited Jean as part of the fixtures and fittings. She was a no-nonsense Yorkshire woman in her early sixties, a dynamo of a woman with short blonde hair and oversized glasses. She was short and dumpy, but woe betide anyone who called her that as Jean described herself as cuddly.

‘I’m just talking to myself again,’ Helen called back. ‘Don’t they say that’s the first sign of madness?’

Jean bustled into the lounge, where Helen was sitting on the window seat. ‘It’s when you start answering yourself that you need to worry,’ she replied.

Helen swung around to face her. ‘I’ve been talking to myself a lot since Tom died, you know. I talk to Suki all the time, but she’s not much of a conversationalist.’

‘Well, that’s greyhounds for you,’ Jean smirked. ‘Anyway, you’ve always got me. Any time you want to chat, or need a shoulder to cry on, I’m here. And you can talk to Jimmy, too.’

Helen turned her head from Jean’s enquiring gaze and looked out of the window again. ‘Jimmy’s still away, working on the cruise ship with his troupe of Elvis impersonators.’

‘Yes, but he’s coming back next week, isn’t he? You must be looking forward to seeing him again and picking up where you left off. He’s a good man, Jimmy Brown; you seem well suited.’

Helen picked up a cushion, plumped it and placed it back down. She wasn’t ready to talk about Jimmy. He was the first man she’d had feelings for since her beloved Tom had passed away after thirty years of marriage. It felt like she was betraying Tom’s memory, and she was struggling with the emotions that raised. However, Jean wasn’t ready to let the subject drop.

‘I don’t understand why you didn’t join Jimmy on the cruise when he asked you. It would have done you the world of good to get away.’

‘How could I have left? I had the Seaview to run,’ Helen said, more sharply than intended. She smiled an apology at Jean. ‘You know how hard I’ve worked getting the place decorated and updated over the summer; there was no way I could have gone away. Anyway, I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay and cherish my memories of Tom.’

Jean held her hands up in surrender. ‘I’m just saying you could have done with some time out, that’s all. It’s been almost a year since Tom passed; it’s high time you were moving on. You could do a lot worse than getting to know Jimmy better.’

‘Sorry, Jean. I guess I’m feeling on edge this morning because of the new guests coming in,’ Helen replied, happy to change the subject. She’d deal with her feelings for Jimmy when she saw him again. Right now, she had too many other things on her mind. ‘They sound an odd bunch, this lot arriving today,’ she went on. ‘They’ve booked the whole place for a solid two weeks.’

‘An odd bunch? In what way?’

Helen laid her arm along the top of the window seat. Jean sat opposite, straightening beer mats on a tabletop and turning them right way up. Helen appreciated her attention to detail.

‘They’re a theatrical group. They’ve booked eight rooms, though only seven people are coming to stay. They said they need one room to keep props and costumes in.’

Jean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘You didn’t tell me they were actors.’

Helen shrugged. ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested. They’re rehearsing a play that’s going on at the Modernist Theatre on the seafront in two weeks’ time.’

‘Really? I’m sure I read in the Scarborough Times that the Modernist was in danger of closing down.’

‘Well, the play our guests are putting on is the last chance to save it, so there’s a lot riding on it. If the play’s a success, sells enough seats and the audience returns, my friend Taylor says it’ll be saved.’

‘How is Taylor? I haven’t seen him in ages,’ Jean said.

An image of Taylor Caffery, theatre manager, came to Helen’s mind. He was in his late forties, a jovial, rotund man with slicked-back black hair that Helen suspected was dyed. He liked to wear a grey pinstripe suit with two-tone brogues and styled his look on gangster films from the black-and-white era. He was a well-known, well-liked, flamboyant character about town who contributed to the arts page for the local newspaper, the Scarborough Times.

‘Is he still living on the Esplanade with his mangy old cat?’ Jean asked.

‘Mr Phipps? That poor cat must be on its last legs by now, but as far as I know, it’s still alive. Anyway, if the play’s a success, it means Taylor will have enough money to carry out repairs and keep the Modernist open for another season. That will give him time to apply for grants to pay for repairs to keep it going long-term.’

‘And if the play fails?’

‘Then the theatre closes down. Poor Taylor will be out of work and the Modernist faces the bulldozers. He told me he’s already been approached by a chain hotel who’re after the land, as it’s such a prime spot on the seafront. Actually, he was the one who recommended the Seaview to the cast; that’s why they’re staying here. They were supposed to go into theatre digs, but there’s a problem with mice in the kitchen and they’ve had to close until it’s sorted. All being well, the actors will move there two weeks today, on the morning the play opens.’

‘Mice in the kitchen?’ Jean wrinkled her nose in disgust.

‘Anyway,’ Helen carried on, ‘they can’t rehearse at the Modernist until the leaking roof’s fixed, and that’s why they’re rehearsing here.’

‘Here in the lounge?’ Jean frowned, looking around.

‘And the dining room and hall; I expect they’ll use as much free space as they can. When the booking came in, it was a posh woman who made it, said she was personal assistant to Mr Richard Dawley, Esquire. I mean, who calls themselves Esquire these days? She referred to the actors as “creative artistes” and warned they could be temperamental. Creative types might have fragile egos, I guess.’

‘And only seven are coming, you say?’

‘Yes, only seven breakfasts for you to cook for the next two weeks, so your workload should be nice and light.’ Helen bit her lip, remembering something else she had to tell Jean. ‘Oh, but there’s something you should know . . .’ She paused before delivering the news she knew Jean wouldn’t like. ‘One of them is vegan.’

‘Vegan?’ Jean sucked air through her teeth. In all the years she’d worked at the Seaview, her full English breakfasts were consistently highly praised in reviews. They were renowned for their quality and quantity, and had even won the hotel an award for best breakfast on the Yorkshire coast. Jean took her work seriously. The range of items she cooked was limited, admittedly, but they were always cooked very well. Helen had recently, and very gently, encouraged her to add porridge and grilled kippers to her repertoire. After an initial resistance, Jean was now adept at cooking both, although she still swore under her breath when kippers were requested. However, there was something far worse for her to contend with than kippers. What she couldn’t understand were guests who didn’t eat meat. She’d been raised on meat and two veg, and if it was good enough for her, why wasn’t it good enough for the Seaview’s guests?

She took a deep breath, laid her hands on the table and gave Helen’s breakfast bombshell some thought.

‘Vegan, eh? Well, I’m sure I could give them an extra slice of toast with beans and eggs.’

‘No eggs,’ Helen said quickly.

Jean looked like she’d been slapped. ‘No eggs?’

Helen shook her head. ‘Vegans don’t eat meat, eggs or any dairy products.’

‘Then what on earth will I give them?’ Jean cried.

‘There’s a box of vegan sausages in the freezer; you can grill a couple of those with beans and toast.’

Jean blanched. ‘Vegan sausages? They’re an abomination, that’s what they are.’

‘And that’s not all,’ Helen continued. ‘Another of the guests is on a special low-fat diet. I’ve bought plenty of soy milk and skimmed milk, plus yoghurts, low fat.’

Jean threw her hands in the air in desperation. ‘Low fat? Why does anyone want low-fat food when they’re on holiday? They’re here to enjoy themselves.’

‘This lot will be working, Jean, they’re not coming on holiday. Besides, we’ve always made a point of catering to guests’ special requests. It’s part of our requirements as a three-star hotel. And when we get our four stars, it’ll be even more important.’

‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, love,’ Jean said sagely. ‘I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.’

Helen furrowed her brow. ‘What makes you think we won’t get upgraded? I’ve followed the rules for accreditation to the letter. In fact, I almost went cross-eyed double-checking them. All we need now is for the hotel inspector to pay us a visit and give us their official report. I might even be able to start charging more for the rooms when . . .’

‘If,’ Jean chipped in.

‘. . . when we get the extra star.’

Jean slapped her hand against her forehead. ‘Oh, now you’ve mentioned the inspector, I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘What is it?’

‘You know my friend Gloria, who cleans at the Royal Hotel? Well, she heard on the grapevine that the inspectors have started doing their rounds on the coast. Apparently, the one who inspected the Royal was a woman called Jane Jones, who booked in for one night to give the place a once-over before she completed her report.’

Helen was shocked to hear this. ‘Gloria told you the inspector’s name? But they’re supposed to be anonymous.’

‘There’s not much gets past hoteliers around here, you should know that by now,’ Jean said. ‘When there’s news as big as an inspector at large, you can bet that word passes on.’

Helen thought about this for a moment. ‘Miriam next door at the Vista del Mar usually lets me know about such things. You know what she’s like, always up on the latest hoteliers’ gossip, but she’s never said a word about this. Are you sure Gloria got it right?’

Before Jean could reply, Helen’s phone rang.

‘Oh, the number’s withheld,’ she said, before swiping the screen and announcing herself. However, there was no reply. ‘Hello?’ she repeated. ‘Seaview Hotel? Can I help you?’

There was a beat of dead air before a woman’s voice broke the silence. ‘Stay away from him.’ The line went dead.

Helen glared at the phone, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

‘Who was it?’ Jean asked.

She was about to reply when her attention was caught by a white minibus pulling up outside. Along the middle of the bus the two masks of tragedy and comedy were painted, with the words Dawley’s Theatre Group.

‘Jean, they’re here,’ she said.

Jean bustled out of the room. ‘Then I’ll go downstairs to put the kettle on for our coffee while you check them in.’

Helen stood, watching the minibus doors open and those inside tumble out. She counted only six people, not seven as Taylor had promised: four women and two men. Two of the women looked around Jean’s age, ladies of a certain vintage who carried themselves with grace and style. They were both smartly dressed, one clad head to toe in black – a long leather coat, well-cut trousers and boots – the other wearing a three-quarter white coat with a pale blue pashmina thrown over her shoulder. The pair walked across the road to take in the stunning view of the beach, but Helen noticed they kept well apart.

The rest of the group appeared to be much younger. The man who’d been driving stood on the pavement stretching his arms and back. He was tall and lean, with dark hair. Good-looking too, Helen noticed, with a dark beard and moustache. The second man, younger than the driver, was tall and skinny, dressed in an unflattering beige anorak, and seemed unsure what to do. He hovered by the minibus as the two younger women – one wearing a red cap over short brown hair, the other with long blonde hair – both pulled their phones from their handbags. Helen glanced at her own phone, wondering who had called, before quickly dismissing it as a wrong number.

The Seaview’s doorbell rang and she stood, pushed her shoulders back and made her way to the hallway. She quickly checked her reflection in the mirror on the wall.

‘Not looking bad, Mrs Dexter,’ she said out loud, slipping her phone into her jeans pocket. She put a welcoming smile on her face and pulled the door open to greet her theatrical guests.

‘Welcome to the Seaview, come in,’ Helen said, holding the green door open. In front of her was the minibus driver. He was tall, distinguished-looking, with piercing blue eyes and dark eyebrows to match his thick, lustrous hair. A pair of faded blue jeans covered his long, muscled legs. He wore black leather loafers, a white shirt under a black jacket and a beaming smile.

‘I’m Chester Ford, playwright, director, lead actor. How do you do?’ he said. His deep, husky voice fitted the look of him perfectly. He extended a hand to Helen. In his other he held an old-fashioned black cigarette holder that was more than a foot long. Helen was relieved to see it was empty, as the last thing she wanted was to have cross words with her new guest when he’d only just arrived.

She smiled warmly and shook his hand. Chester swung around and extended his cigarette holder towards the five people behind him.

‘And this is my little troupe of merry men and women who’ve joined Dawley’s Theatre Group for my special Scarborough play.’

Helen stepped back from the door to allow him to enter. As the rest of the group arrived at the door with their luggage, Chester introduced each one. It was clear to Helen from the way he confidently took the lead that he liked to be in charge. The young, skinny man wearing the beige anorak and a worried expression stepped into the hallway first. Chester pointed at him with his cigarette holder.

‘This is Paul McNally, who looks after our behind-the-scenes work. Props, lighting, you name it, Paul does it. We’d be lost without him. He’s the glue that keeps us together.’

‘You don’t act?’ Helen asked.

Paul lifted his gaze from the carpet and looked at her briefly, then shook his head and shuffled awkwardly past Chester.

Next was one of the two elegantly dressed older ladies Helen had spied from the window. She had stylishly cropped grey hair, and although her face was lined with age, she looked relaxed and carefree. She reminded Helen of the women in holiday adverts for cruises for the over-sixties.

‘You might recognise Audrey Monroe, she’s a theatrical star,’ Chester said proudly, waving his cigarette holder. Helen scanned the woman’s soft features but was unable to connect her to anything she’d seen.

‘Oh Chester, stop teasing,’ Audrey said. Her voice was soft and serene. She leaned towards Helen. ‘Yes, I was big once, but that was decades ago, another lifetime really, probably before you were born. I’ve devoted my whole life to treading the boards.’

She glided along the hallway to stand beside Paul as Chester waved in the next person. A young, attractive woman dressed in a bright red jumpsuit and yellow ankle boots bounded into the hallway. Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders. She grasped Helen’s hand and shook it heartily.

‘Kate Barnes,’ she said, before Chester could announce her. ‘I’m an actress, singer and model, and training to become a children’s TV presenter.’

Helen admired her energy. ‘Nice to meet you.’

Chester tutted loudly. ‘Kate, dear, you should know better than to call yourself an actress. You’re an actor, darling. An actor. You’re not in some provincial am-dram group now. Dawley’s Theatre Group is a professional outfit.’

Kate shimmied along the hall to join Audrey and Paul.

‘Next we have the lovely Liza,’ Chester said, waving his cigarette holder in circles. The young woman in the red cap stepped through the door. There was something about her that looked familiar to Helen, but she couldn’t quite place it at first. It was when Liza spoke that she made the obvious connection. Her voice was soft and calm, her features relaxed and serene. Her red cap sat atop short brown hair that feathered around her delicate features.

‘I’m Audrey’s daughter,’ she explained.

‘Of course! The resemblance is startling,’ Helen said, turning from Liza to Audrey.

Liza whipped off her cap and bowed. ‘Liza Carter, actor and costume lady. That’s Liza with a zee.’ She strode along the hallway to stand next to her mum, and Audrey laid her arm around Liza’s shoulders.

Chester cleared his throat, then, with a regal wave, he gestured with his cigarette holder once more. This time it flew dangerously close to Helen’s right eye, and she determined to have a quiet word with him later.

‘And last but by no means least, it’s our leading lady and star of the show, the one and only Miss Carmen Delray.’

Helen peered out of the door to see the woman dressed all in black. She clocked her expensive-looking boots and long trench coat. The coat had shoulder pads that made her look more physically robust than she was. She wore a black beret atop a mass of black curls that fell to her shoulders. In fact, she had so much hair that Helen thought it must be a wig, for surely no one her age would boast such a luxuriant mane? She had never seen such an extraordinary-looking woman before. Carmen was wearing heavy make-up, and was undeniably attractive. She was of average height, but whippet thin, and she reminded Helen of an ageing American TV star from a soap opera she was struggling to name. She was incredibly glamorous, and if it hadn’t been for the lines on her face, which no amount of make-up could ever hide, along with the shadows under her eyes showing a life well lived, Helen would have pegged her for a lot younger than she really was. A pair of smoky eyes flashed at her and a perfect scarlet smile beamed from Carmen’s lips.

As Chester offered his hand to help her into the hallway, she pulled her arm sharply away. ‘I don’t want your help,’ she hissed.

Helen felt a twinge of embarrassment at being caught in their crossfire. Chester stepped back and stroked his moustache with his free hand while Carmen stayed where she was, looking around.

‘Is this really the best place you could book us into, Chester?’

Helen’s jaw dropped in shock. She’d never felt so affronted. ‘Now look here—’ she began, but her words were cut off by Chester, who laid his hand on her arm while pointing his cigarette holder at Carmen.

‘I’m sure Carmen didn’t mean what she said. She’s just overtired from the journey,’ he said apologetically.

‘And she’s in one of her moods,’ Kate added quickly.

Helen took a moment to pull herself together. She shrugged Chester’s hand from her arm, then smiled sweetly at Carmen. ‘I’ll have you know, the Seaview is a quality hotel, Mrs Delray,’ she said firmly. ‘Taylor Caffery wouldn’t have recommended it to you if he didn’t approve.’

Carmen grimaced. ‘I’ll be the judge of what I think is quality,’ she replied archly. ‘Oh, and it’s not Mrs. I’m not married.’

‘I’m surprised she can keep up with whether she’s single or married, with all the men in her life,’ Kate sniggered behind Helen’s back.

Helen counted to five in her head, calming herself down, then looked around at the guests. ‘Well, as we’re going to be sharing the Seaview for the next two weeks, the least I can do is make sure I know everyone’s name from the off.’ She nodded to the lady with the blue pashmina, kind eyes and serene face. ‘You’re Audrey Monroe, right?’ She turned to the younger woman, the double of Audrey. ‘Liza Carter, Audrey’s daughter.’ The red jumpsuit and yellow boots couldn’t be missed. ‘Kate Barnes,’ she went on. ‘Chester Ford,’ nodding to the man with the moustache and beard.

‘At your service, at all times,’ Chester replied, twirling his cigarette holder, an affectation which Helen was already finding annoying.

‘Peter?’ Helen said, looking at the boy in the beige anorak.

He shuffled from foot to foot but didn’t look up. ‘Paul,’ he said softly. ‘Paul McNally.’

‘Ah, sorry, Paul, yes.’ Finally she turned to the woman in the leather coat. ‘And Carmen Delray, of course.’

She didn’t think she’d forget Carmen’s name. The woman was one of the most unusual who’d ever stayed at the Seaview. She was old, yes, but there was an energy about her, and she certainly knew how to make an impression. She’d walked into the hotel with her head held high, even while criticising the place. Despite Carmen’s sharp words about the Seaview, Helen was intrigued by her. It looked as if she was going to be a force to be reckoned with, and Helen knew she’d need to be on her mettle whenever she was around. Helen shook her head, pulled herself together, then led everyone to the lounge, where she handed out room keys.

‘Now then, which one of you requested the vegan breakfast?’ she asked.

Kate’s hand shot up.

‘I’ve had a word with the cook,’ Helen said, although she kept quiet about the words Jean had replied with. ‘Is there another person to come? Taylor Caffery told me there would be seven of you checking in, but only six have arrived.’

‘Ah yes, about that,’ Chester said. He tapped his cigarette holder noisily on the bar. Helen gently placed her hand on his to deaden the noise. Despite his debonair appearance, she was beginning to find Chester Ford and his cigarette holder irritating, what with him constantly tapping and twirling the thing.

‘This is a non-smoking hotel, Mr Ford,’ she said calmly, removing her hand.

‘What? This little thing?’ Chester laughed, raising the holder. ‘Oh, I don’t smoke it, I poke it.’

‘You do what?’ Helen said sharply. As well as being irritating, she wondered if he was now having a joke at her expense.

‘I poke things with it. See, I used to smoke,’ Chester explained, ‘and when I gave up, I found that I was so used to having this darling little thing between my fingers that I carry it now just to have something to do with my hands.’

A burst of sarcastic laughter rang out. Helen turned, surprised to discover the outburst coming from Carmen. She waited a moment, expecting an explanation, but none came her way. There were a few seconds of embarrassed silence before, professional to the end, she plastered her smile on and turned back to Chester.

‘So, is there someone else coming?’

‘Yes, another of our troupe will be arriving later. Lee Cooper.’

‘Worse luck,’ Kate muttered, just loud enough for Helen to hear.

As the actors made their way to their rooms, Helen noticed Chester and Carmen hanging back in the lounge, whispering. A black suitcase stood on the hallway floor.

‘Is this yours, Carmen? Let me carry it up to your room,’ she called.

‘Let me, I’ll take it up for her,’ Chester replied.

Carmen glared at him. ‘There’s nothing you can do for me any more,’ she hissed. ‘You and I are over. You knew we were finished when I signed up with Dawley’s for this tour of your stinking play.’

Chester noisily tapped his cigarette holder on the bar. It sounded to Helen as if a machine gun was going off in the lounge. ‘This stinking play, as you call it, is my murder mystery masterpiece, Midnight with Maude.’

Carmen crossed her arms. ‘Your masterpiece? How dare you!’

‘Carmen, we’ve been through this already. We’ve talked about it and agreed not to mention it again.’

‘You mean you paid me to shut up about it.’

‘Can’t we try to be civil at least?’ Chester pleaded.

Helen lugged the suitcase from the hallway, leaving the two of them arguing. By the time she returned, Chester was outside, pulling a suitcase from the minibus. Carmen was holding a small round mirror in one hand, a scarlet lipstick in the other. Helen watched as she puckered up.

‘Are you all right? Need anything?’ she asked.

Carmen snapped the mirror shut, flung it in her bag with the lipstick, then smacked her scarlet lips together. ‘Oh, I’m more than all right,’ she said, sounding bitter. ‘But I doubt very much there’s anything either you or your dump of a hotel can offer me, whether I need it or not.’

‘Now just a minute!’ Helen said angrily, but Carmen stood, flicked her leather coat behind her and stormed out of the lounge. Helen let her go, relieved to get the woman out of her sight. She turned to the framed photograph of Tom behind the bar.

‘Well, what do you make of this lot?’ she said.

Her eye was caught by something next to the photo that made her smile. It was a plastic figurine of Elvis Presley, a tiny, fun ornament, no bigger than three inches high. Jimmy and his troupe of Elvis impersonators had presented it to her when they’d stayed at the Seaview earlier that year. They’d called it her good luck charm.

‘Well, Elvis, here’s to the next two weeks with this acting group. They’re quite a bunch of characters. I think I’m going to need some of your luck.’ She pressed his plastic head, and his hips shimmied from side to side.

Just then, her phone rang. She picked it up, glanced at the screen and saw that it was another withheld number. She swiped the phone into life, wondering who it was this time.

‘Good morning, Seaview Hotel,’ she said cheerfully. H. . .