The Marmalade Murders

Book 9: A Penny Brannigan Mystery

by Elizabeth J. Duncan

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Female Sleuths; Mystery; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

The Marmalade Murders is the ninth book in Elizabeth J. Duncan's award-winning mystery series, celebrated for its small-town charm and picturesque Welsh setting and starring amateur sleuth Penny Brannigan.

The competition is friendly and just a little fierce at the annual Llanelen agricultural show as town and country folk gather for the outdoor judging of farm animals and indoor judging of cakes, pies, pastries, chutneys, jams and jellies, along with vegetables, fruit and flowers. But this year, there’s a new show category: murder.

Local artist, Spa owner, and amateur sleuth Penny Brannigan agrees to help with the intake of the domestic arts entries and to judge the children’s pet competition on show day. When the president of the Welsh Women's Guild isn’t on hand to see her granddaughter and pet pug win a prize, the family becomes concerned. When a carrot cake entered in the competition goes missing, something is clearly amiss.

A black Labrador Retriever belonging to the agricultural show’s president discovers the body of the missing woman under the baked goods table. A newcomer to town, a transgender woman, is suspected, but amateur sleuth Penny Brannigan believes her to be innocent. She sets out to find the real killer, but when a second body is discovered days later, the case is thrown into confusion, and Penny knows it’s up to her to figure out what happened—and why.

Release date: April 24, 2018

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 288

Sample

One


For three days it rained. Not the soft, gentle kind that’s really more of a fine mist, but the hard, lashing kind that can turn a halfhearted trickle of a waterfall into a gushing torrent in minutes, and bring normally calm rivers to the brink of overflowing their banks with a sudden and terrifying ferocity.

And then, to the great relief of the organizing committee and exhibitors of the annual agricultural show, the rain stopped. On Wednesday morning, the late-August sun rose out of the mist, pale and hesitant at first, but then confidently resumed its rightful position, as if its absence had been merely a temporary inconvenience.

And on that sun-drenched Wednesday morning, Penny Brannigan gave Harrison, her handsome grey cat, a good-bye pat, locked the front door of her cottage on the edge of the North Wales market town of Llanelen, and set off on her walk to work.

She moved in a brisk, purposeful fashion, taking strong, confident steps. Her red hair, expertly trimmed into a well-shaped, blunt bob, lifted gently from the sides of her face as a light breeze ruffled it. Raising her eyes skyward, without slowing down, she marvelled at how the heavy pewter sky of yesterday had magically transformed into a brilliant, benign blue. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with fresh, pure air, rinsed clean by the recent rain.

Her walk to work at the Llanelen Spa, which she co-owned with her friend and business partner Victoria Hopkirk, took her past open fields bordered by grey stone walls. And because of the freshly fallen rain, the grassy fields, here in the valley and on up into the hills, were an especially deep, bright shade of green. Vivid, even. Haydn Williams, a local farmer, had once explained to her that the striking green effect had to do with the plants’ roots being able to absorb more nitrogen from the soil after a heavy rain.

* * *

Normally, the fields near Penny’s home were dotted with grazing sheep, but today, the sheep were gone, replaced by several sturdy, mud-spattered four-wheel-drive farm vehicles. Men and women, close enough to be easily seen, but not close enough to speak to, tramped across the fields in groups of twos and threes, seemingly deep in conversation, occasionally pointing at the ground or opening their arms in broad, expansive gestures.

Penny recognized Haydn Williams, pacing in measured strides with a sturdy woman wearing a puffy green vest and a plaid skirt that just skimmed the tops of her dark green waterproof boots. When they were almost at the top of the field, they stopped, conferred, and the woman remained where she was as Haydn began walking slowly backward, a yellow tape measure unspooling between them.

Penny left them to their work, and without trying to acknowledge him, she continued on her way.

After a few minutes of pleasant walking along the bank of the River Conwy, she reached the graceful three-arched seventeenth-century stone bridge that represented the town. Its image was reproduced on postcards, mugs, tea towels, and countless other promotional items.

The river, glittering in the morning sun and swollen from the recent rain, had reached the high-tide mark, and Penny admired its fast-flowing energy as she waited for a gap in the traffic that would allow her to cross the two-lane road. A few cars speeding past in both directions and one lorry later, she darted across, then lifted the latch on the black wrought-iron gate that separated the path that led to the Spa from the pavement. The gate’s hinges squeaked a mild protest as she swung it open, reminding her once again that they really must get that seen to.

“Morning, Penny.” Receptionist Rhian Philips smiled from behind her desk as Penny opened the door. “Mrs. Lloyd’s waiting to see you, if you can spare her a few minutes.”

“Mrs. Lloyd? But she’s not due until tomorrow, surely. Or has she changed her appointment? Maybe something’s come up.” Mrs. Lloyd was a regular customer with a standing appointment for a manicure every other Thursday, so her hands would look their best as she dealt the cards or played the dummy’s hand at the over-sixties social club bridge night.

“No, not an appointment.” Rhian lowered her voice, although there was no one else in the reception area to overhear. “She said it was a private matter.”

“Oh, I see. Well, where is she? In the manicure studio?”

“No, she’s waiting for you in the quiet room.”

“Oh, right. Well, thanks. I’d better see what she wants.”

The aptly named quiet room was a small space down the corridor, perfect for private conversations or a reflective moment alone. Decorated in soothing neutral colours of cream and taupe, it featured two comfortable chairs upholstered in chocolate brown faux suede arranged to face each other, a selection of smart women’s magazines, and on a small shelf mounted under a watercolour of the Spa, painted by Penny herself, a grouping of unscented LED candles that flickered convincingly, providing atmosphere without the fire hazard. Mrs. Lloyd, sipping a latte from a tall glass, glanced at the door as Penny entered, and placed the magazine she had been browsing on the low table between the two chairs. A well-upholstered woman in her late sixties, Mrs. Lloyd wore her hair in soft grey curls that framed a round, relatively unlined face. She was blessed with a smooth English rose–type complexion that had aged well, thanks to a robust skin-care regime that involved lashings of cold cream at night and generous applications of moisturizer in the morning.

“Oh, there you are. Good,” she said, folding her hands in her lap and leaning forward as Penny lowered herself into the chair opposite her. “Now, I know you’ve got a busy day ahead of you, so I’ll come right to the point. I’m here to ask for your help. We’re that desperate; you’re our last hope. I can’t think of anyone else to ask.”

Penny groaned inwardly. She had a sinking feeling that Mrs. Lloyd, who was terribly keen on community involvement, was about to ask her to do something she wouldn’t want to do. Thoughts on how she could graciously say no without causing offence raced through her mind.

“When you say, ‘we,’ who’s ‘we’?” Penny asked with a cautious smile, hoping she was managing to hide her reluctance. “And why are you so desperate that I’m your last resort?”

“I’m just about to explain. It’s the agricultural show, see. We need your help with something. Well, two things, if I’m honest, but let’s take it one at a time.”

“Oh, the agricultural show. Yes, I saw lots of activity in the fields when I walked by a few minutes ago. There seemed to be a lot of discussion going on. Haydn Williams and a woman I didn’t recognize were pacing and measuring. Trying to work out where something should go, it looked like. A tent or pens for the animals, perhaps.”

“Could be,” agreed Mrs. Lloyd. “The grounds will be very soft and soggy. All that rain over the last few days has caused the organizing committee a lot of concern, I can tell you. Rain or shine, the show must go on. Trouble is, if it rains again, we’re in trouble. I don’t know if you remember, but a few years ago we had that atrocious weather on the day—high winds, and the rain was bucketing down. So no one came to the show except the folks with entries, and it was all a complete and utter disaster because we made no money from footfall through the gate. Normally, this is one of the biggest rural shows in the area. Hundreds of people turn out in good weather. The fields are full of parked cars. But not that year. And we still had to cover all the show expenses, which depleted our reserve funds, and we’ve only just now built them back up to where they should be. You wouldn’t believe how expensive it is to put on a show like that. That marquee costs six thousand pounds to rent, for one day. One day!”

“That seems like an awful lot of money for a marquee rental.”

“Well, it’s more like three days, what with setting up and taking down, and the thing is massive, and I suppose the fee includes all that, but certainly it doesn’t come cheap. Still, there has to be one.”

“Maybe that’s what Haydn was doing—measuring up for the marquee. Are we talking about the big white marquee where the judging takes place?”

“That’s the one. Well, some of the judging takes place there. The flowers and cakes and jams and such like. The animals stay outside in the fields where they belong. But the marquee also serves as the refreshment tent. But what am I like? I’ve gone way off topic. I came here to ask you to help out at the show.”

Penny squirmed in her chair and, bracing for something she didn’t want to hear, asked, “So how can I help? I haven’t been to the agricultural show in years, and I don’t know the first thing about sheep or cattle, so I’m not sure I’m the best person to be asking.”

“Well, hear me out,” replied Mrs. Lloyd. “First, the lady who used to do the judging of the children’s pets is unfortunately no longer available, so I thought of you.”

“Me? I didn’t even know there is a children’s pet competition. What do I know about judging children’s pets?”

“You’ve got a cat, haven’t you?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“There you are, then!” said Mrs. Lloyd triumphantly. “Good enough.”

“Oh, that’s how desperate you are, is it?”

“You might say that.”

“And how, exactly, do I judge the children’s pets?”

“You find something nice to say about each animal. The one with the most spots, or the softest coat, or the waggiest tail, or the prettiest ears … something like that. You can make it up as you go along. Just make sure every child leaves with a prize. There’ll be only about a dozen or so, all under ten.”

“I suppose I could do that, although I don’t know if I’m all that good with children. But the person who used to do the judging, is she ill?”

“No, not ill. Not anymore. She’s, well, she’s dead, actually.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

“It’s all right; it was natural causes. Nothing suspicious about her death, and no need for you to feel you have to get involved.”

Penny ignored the allusion to her amateur sleuthing activities and, after a respectful pause, steered the conversation back to the purpose of Mrs. Lloyd’s visit. “You mentioned you wanted to ask me about two things. What was the second thing you were hoping I might be able to help with?”

“Oh, that. It’s quite simple. We’re short of volunteers for the home-crafts intake on the Friday night, and I hoped that since you live close by, you’d be willing to give us a hand with that. And Victoria, too, if you wouldn’t mind asking her. It’s really a job for two people. You’ll be given the names of registered entrants and all you have to do is check people off when they arrive with their cakes or jam or carrots, or whatever, and put their entries on the table, so everything’s all logged in and ready to be judged first thing in the morning.”

“That’s all? Just log in the competition entries?” Mrs. Lloyd nodded. “Well, that sounds simple enough. I could probably manage that, and I’ll ask Victoria if she’s available to help. If she’s free, I’m sure she will.”

“So you’ll do it? Wonderful. I knew we could count on you. You should be on-site by four thirty for a briefing. Entries open at five o’clock.”

Relieved that Mrs. Lloyd’s requests hadn’t been nearly as bad as she’d feared, Penny relaxed a little.

“Mrs. Lloyd, how is it that you’re involved in the agricultural show? You’re not a farmer, and I’ve never known you to be particularly interested in country pursuits.” Until her retirement a few years earlier, Mrs. Lloyd had been the town’s postmistress. From her vantage point behind the wooden counter in the post office located on the town square, Mrs. Lloyd had taken a keen interest in the town’s comings and goings for decades. She liked to think that nothing much got past her then, or now, come to that.

“No, I’m not all that interested in country pursuits. But my late husband, Arthur, was the town’s greengrocer, and he sold all the produce from the farms. Almost everything was local then and available only in season. Oh, you still had oranges from Spain and bananas from wherever, but most of what he sold, especially in summer, was grown on farms right here in the valley. The strawberries back then were delicious. Plump and juicy. Not like the tasteless imported kind you get today. Anyway, Arthur served on the organizing committee of the agricultural show for years, and when he passed away, the other members asked if I would fill his seat. And I said yes. And I’m still doing it. I consider it an honour. One does what one can.” She got to her feet. “I’m glad you agreed to help out, Penny. It’s always good to give back to the community, even if it’s just in a small way. Especially when you’re a newcomer.”

“Mrs. Lloyd, I’ve lived here for almost thirty years!”

Now in her early fifties, Penny had discovered the town as a young Canadian backpacking tourist in her twenties and stayed on for an extra night or two, which turned into a week, and then a month, until all these years later, she was still here and had made a good life for herself among the warm, welcoming Welsh people. She’d made friends, started a business, and, except for her accent, had assimilated so completely that she was indistinguishable from anyone born and bred in the town.

“A relative newcomer, then,” Mrs. Lloyd said with a teasing smile as she gathered up her handbag. “Well, I’m glad you’ve agreed to join us. Just go straight to the tent on Friday and ask for Joyce Devlin. She’s the president of the show committee and she’ll show you what to do. Oh, and as volunteers, you and Victoria would be most welcome to attend our gala awards banquet. Everybody’s too tired on the Saturday night of the show, and besides, the farmers have got their animals to get home and see to, so the dinner’s held a week later at the hotel. The main prizes, like Best in Show, are awarded then, although most are given out on show day. Everybody’ll be at the gala. The tickets are reasonably priced, and you pay for your own drinks.”


Copyright © 2018 by Elizabeth J. Duncan