Murder Most Fowl

Book 0: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Female Sleuths; Thrillers

Synopsis

It is almost Christmas, and pantomime rehearsals are well under way. Once again, local butcher Bob is playing the dame, but the whole production is put under threat when someone sabotages his business. Libby Sarjeant recruits Fran Wolfe to help find the culprit and restore the Steeple Martin pantomime.

Release date: December 21, 2017

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 61

Sample

Libby Sarjeant scowled round the auditorium of the Oast Theatre.

‘Where IS Bob? Does anyone know?’

‘Probably couldn’t get away from the shop,’ said a muffled voice from backstage.

‘At this time of night?’ Libby looked at her watch.

‘It is nearly Christmas, Lib.’ Peter Parker wandered across the stage with an armful of material.

‘And nearly panto time,’ snapped Libby.

Peter turned and widened his eyes at her. ‘Come, come, old trout! You can’t start moaning at people who have to work at other things, can you? Bob’s a butcher – he’s bound to have extra business just now.’

‘Oh, I suppose so.’ Libby heaved a huge sigh and sank down on the edge of the stage. ‘I wish we could afford to pay everybody.’

‘Even if we could,’ said Peter, coming over to sit beside her, ‘Bob would still have Christmas orders to fill. People would soon lose confidence in him if he stopped providing them with their flash birds and joints of beef.’

‘I know. Hetty relies on him for her beautiful bronze bird each year.’ Libby looked across at her partner, Ben Wilde. ‘I was just saying how your mum relies on Bob for her turkey.’

Ben removed a nail from his mouth. ‘And her ham. Not to mention our joint every week.’

‘There you are, then,’ said Peter, climbing elegantly to his feet and holding a hand out to help Libby, less elegantly, to hers.

Libby’s phone began to warble in her pocket.

‘Speak of the devil,’ she muttered. ‘Hello, Bob?’

‘Libby – I’m really sorry, but my turkeys have been stolen.’

‘Eh?’ Libby frowned. ‘Your turkeys?’

Bob sounded as though he was doing his best not to burst into tears. ‘Ours – all my special orders. All the Norfolk Bronzes.’

‘I thought they weren’t ready yet,’ said Libby, still perplexed.

‘They’ve been stolen from the farmer!’ wailed Bob.

Libby shook her head at Ben and Peter, who were watching her, looking as puzzled as she felt.

‘So I’m talking to the police. And then I’ve got to try and source some more – although that’ll probably be impossible.’

‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘So you won’t be here…’

‘I can’t! I’ll try and let you know tomorrow.’

And the line went dead.

‘His turkeys have been stolen,’ she told the others.

‘Oh, no!’ Both Ben and Peter looked horrified.

‘From the farmer, he said. I thought they weren’t ready yet? And why is it such a problem?’

‘You know how much those turkeys are, don’t you?’ said Peter.

‘Expensive?’ hazarded Libby.

‘Upwards of £70,’ said Ben. ‘And Bob’s are specially ordered. Mum has a ten-kilo bird.’

‘And that’s £70?’ gasped Libby.

Peter laughed. ‘Oh, no! That’s about £120.’

‘What?’ Libby almost screeched.

‘So if Bob has ten customers who’ve all ordered specific sizes, you’re talking a lot of money.’

‘But he can get more, can’t he?’

Ben and Peter exchanged amused glances.

‘You don’t know much about rearing turkeys, do you, dear heart?’ said Peter. ‘Explain to her, Ben.’

‘The butcher – or the customer themselves – will order a specific size. The breeder will take delivery of his poults – that’s baby turkeys – back in the summer, and bring them on. They’re monitored very carefully for weight, so that by the time they’re slaughtered they will all be exactly the right sizes. The large farmers who supply supermarkets have to have hundreds of the same size, but it’s tricky doing an estimate on that scale. What Bob does is take orders very early to pass on to his breeder, and then he’s got exactly the right number. He has a number of more run-of-the-mill turkeys for customers who don’t want to pay that sort of money, but these are special.’

‘I can see that.’ Libby sat down on the edge of the stage again. ‘I didn’t realise it was so scientific and precise. So he can’t order exactly the right sizes from anywhere else?’

Peter shook his head. ‘It’s too late.’

‘So we won’t get our turkey this year?’

‘We’ll have to have one of the also-rans,’ said Ben.

‘He said he’s going to try and source some more, but he’s talking to the police at the moment.’ Libby sighed. ‘I’m really sorry for him, but…’

‘He won’t let it interfere,’ said Peter. ‘Now come on. We can do something without him, can’t we? Ben or I can read in for him.’

After rehearsal, Libby rang Bob.

‘Any news?’

Bob sighed heavily. ‘Reported to the police and the NRCN, but -’

‘What’s the NRCN?’

‘National Rural Crime Network. Ben knows all about it.’

‘I expect he does. He knew all about raising turkeys. So did Pete.’

‘Farming family,’ said Bob. ‘Rural crime’s such a problem these days.’

‘Oh,’ said Libby, feeling ra. . .