A Body in the Village Hall by Dee MacDonald (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

Seventeen

In spite of Woody’s warnings Kate was determined to know more about the remaining suspects, Sandra Miller in particular given that she had been outside smoking at the exact time of Fenella’s murder. Kate decided she desperately needed to learn something more specific about both Sandra and Dickie Payne in the absence of any leads.

‘Angie,’ she said, ‘how do you fancy afternoon tea tomorrow at The Atlantic Hotel? It’s supposed to be very nice.’

‘And very expensive,’ said Angie. ‘So what’s brought this on? You’re not an afternoon tea sort of person.’

‘Well, now we’re living down here I might become one. And I just thought it might be nice for us to go out somewhere together other than The Greedy Gull.’

Angie digested this for a minute. ‘It wouldn’t be anything to do with the fact that Sandra Miller’s on that silly list of yours, would it?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! She probably won’t even be there,’ Kate said dismissively but silently praying that she would be. How else was she to meet this woman again without any pub quizzes in the offing?

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Angie.

The Atlantic Hotel, in Higher Tinworthy, was a large granite Victorian building in its own grounds, and one of several similar imposing properties in the area. Inside had been decorated in pale, ice-creamy colours, with a lot of soft, thick carpeting underfoot.

The main lounge – where tea was served – was enormous, with a row of windows looking out over the countryside towards the coast. The walls were painted a pale yellow, the carpet was a soft blue and the curtains were patterned in pink, blue and cream. A fire blazed in the white-painted fireplace at the far end. It was a pastel paradise of sweet-pea colours that Kate never for one moment would have associated with Sandra Miller. And the place was completely empty.

Kate sat down on a pink chair, and Angie sat on a blue one, to await the arrival of the tea on the white table. The young waitress arrived with an enormous plate of assorted dainty sandwiches and a cake stand groaning with scones and cakes, all accompanied by pretty dishes of butter, jams and clotted cream.

‘My God,’ said Angie, ‘we certainly won’t want any dinner tonight.’

‘How come we’re the only customers?’ Kate asked the waitress.

‘The guests are all out on a bus tour,’ said the waitress. ‘And Marianne’s – down by the beach – do afternoon tea at half the price.’

‘Have you worked here long?’ Kate asked.

‘About a year,’ the girl replied.

‘What’s Mrs Miller like to work for?’ Kate asked casually.

‘All right.’

‘Is she a good boss? Fair?’ Kate persisted, ignoring Angie’s kick under the table.

‘Yeah, she’s OK.’ The waitress hovered uncertainly.

‘I hear she’s got quite a temper,’ Kate went on, ‘even violent at times. I imagine you have to tread carefully?’

The girl cleared her throat. ‘Will that be all?’

‘Is Mrs Miller around?’ Kate asked.

The waitress hesitated. ‘I think she’s working in the kitchen.’

‘Do tell her Kate and Angie are here. I’m sure she’ll remember us from a recent pub quiz and we’d love to have a chat.’

‘What are you playing at?’ Angie asked, picking up a smoked salmon sandwich as the door closed behind the waitress. ‘I don’t know why you’re doing this; you know what a bad-tempered old boot she is.’

Two minutes later the door opened again and in walked a frowning Sandra Miller, wearing a large plastic apron and bright pink gloves. Latex free, Kate thought approvingly, recognising the brand. Sandra tugged at the halter and waist straps of the apron, which snapped with a loud crack, then angrily balled it up into her right hand. She then peeled off that glove so it completely encased the apron, passed it all to her left hand and pulled the left glove over it, making a neat little package. Kate had done the same things herself a thousand times when she’d been doing dressings on the ward.

‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Oh, Sandra,’ Kate said, dabbing her mouth daintily with a large pink napkin, and realising she hadn’t thought of anything sensible to say, ‘I just wanted to compliment you on the beautiful décor. So pretty.’

Angie choked on a crumb and had to quickly gulp some tea.

‘Some overpaid so-called interior designer came a few years back and we were stupid enough to give her free rein,’ said Sandra. ‘I think it’s bloody awful.’

‘It’s very restful,’ Kate said, ‘and I’m sure your guests love it.’

Sandra shrugged. ‘So why did you really want to see me?’

Kate swallowed the remains of her cucumber sandwich hastily. ‘Well, just to say hello.’

‘Hello then,’ said Sandra, looking from one to the other. ‘Nice to see you. Now, why were you asking young Sharon all those questions about me?’ She stared hard at Kate.

‘Oh, we were just interested in you and your hotel,’ Kate said.

‘Why would you be interested in me?’ Sandra continued glaring at her.

‘Kate was wondering if you knew about Billy what’s-his-name confessing to the murders,’ Angie piped up.

Sandra’s eyes narrowed. ‘Everyone for miles around knows that the bastard’s been arrested.’ She turned her attention back to Kate. ‘And rumour has it that you’re very pally with Maureen Grey.’

‘Only because I like her and feel sorry for her,’ Kate replied, wondering where this conversation was leading.

‘She’s the wife of a killer who very likely helped him to do the killing,’ Sandra said. ‘You should be pickier about the company you keep.’

‘I’m not altogether convinced that Billy Grey is the killer,’ Kate said, feeling annoyed and thinking she might as well throw the cat in among the pigeons.

‘He’s confessed, for God’s sake!’ Sandra exclaimed.

‘I’m still not convinced he did it,’ Kate said.

‘So who do you think did it then?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kate admitted.

‘I was a suspect,’ Sandra said, ‘so is that why you’re here?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Kate didn’t like the way Sandra was continuing to glare at her.

‘It’s not at all ridiculous. I’m still not allowed to