Murder in the Cake: Cozy Murder Mystery (Harley Hill Mysteries Book 4) (2 page)

Like I said, I’m not superstitious, but Monty was a good puss to have around when you had a tough case to crack.

I looked around the kitchen, at the plants on the windowsill, the teapot in the cosy, the pretty rose wallpaper, my brother, my best friend, our beloved pets.
 

This was what life was all about.
 

“Here,” Cordi said. “Harley?” She was waving a handful of letters at me.
 

“Oh, sorry, Cordi,” I said. “I was miles away.” I took the letters. By now, my fingers were actually going numb, never mind the paper cuts!
 

Cordi sighed, shoving an errant curl away from her immaculately made-up face. She never looked less than perfect, always class. “I really don’t think we’re going to get through all of these before we go away. Gosh, I feel so bad. Some of them could be really urgent and I hate the idea that we might lose work. I just don’t know what to do.”

Just then, the kitchen door swung open, and the smell of cinnamon buns wafted in, which could only mean one thing.

“Maggie!” I said and spun round on my seat.
 

“Morning all,” she said brightly. She shoved aside some of the papers and put a white tub on the table. It smelled divine. She raised a quizzical eyebrow as she surveyed the piles of letters strewn across the table and shook her head. “I think you girls should seriously considerer employing some more staff, don’t you?” Even though she phrased it like a question, it didn’t sound like one.
 

It sounded more of an order, but Cordi wasn’t so easily cowed.
 

“As you well know, it isn’t that easy.” Cordi said, eyeing her aunt with almost the same kind of steely gaze with which Maggie was eyeing her. “You remember what a disaster it was when I hired those other people, don’t you?”

“That’s because they were awful people, entirely the wrong sort,” said Aunt Maggie in a way that would brook no argument. I kept my head down and hid behind a letter. Cordi took a deep breath but didn’t say anything. She knew better than to argue with her aunt.
 

Maggie rolled up the sleeves of her pink cardigan and dived into the pile of letters. Despite her age, she had more vitality and zest for life than anyone I’d ever met.
 

I edged closer to the box of pastries, my rumbling stomach letting me know in no uncertain terms that it preferred cake to salad. I had to agree.
 

As I reached for the box, Maggie slapped my hand away with a wad of letters.
 

“Those are for the trip to the airport with a few extra for the flight. I can’t have you girls at the mercy of that muck the airlines call ‘food’.”

“Thank you, Auntie, that’s very kind of you,” Cordi said. “Urgh. Not another one,” she said, waving a letter. “‘Can you find the treasure of the dread Pirate Smith? I will split the loot with you 60/40 (to me). I have included a map. Thank you. Yours blah, blah.’” She sighed. “You’d think they’d be able to find that themselves if they had a map.”

Since the TV interview we’d had a lot of those kinds of crank enquiries. We even had one asking us if we could find Lord Lucan. He was a nobleman called John Bingham, the 7
^th
Earl of Lucan, who had mysteriously disappeared back in the 1970s after allegedly having his children’s nanny murdered by a hit man. Not the kind of guy I’d really want to track down, truth be told. It’s funny how in Britain, when something goes missing people often refer to it as doing a ‘Lord Lucan’, either that or a ‘Shergar’, which was a fantastic racehorse that was kidnapped years ago and never seen again. They had become part of popular culture that I find kind of interesting.
 

“At least you didn’t have to read this one,” said Michael as he screwed up a letter and chucked it in ‘file 13’ (or the trash can as it’s also called).
 

“What was it?” Aunt Maggie demanded. I think she quite intimidated Michael, which I’m sure she intended.
 

My brother blushed, swallowing nervously as Maggie glared at him.
 

“It’s not really a topic of conversation to discuss at the table, if you get my meaning. Although I will just say there are some quite rude and quite imaginative people out there.” Michael smiled weakly.

“I see. Very well, Michael, we’ll let that sleeping dog lie.”

“Oh, they weren’t asking if we could find a dog.” Michael made an ‘ick’ face. “Nothing so innocent. I don’t even think it’s physically possible to—”

“Alright!” said Maggie as bossy as a schoolmarm. “Let’s draw a curtain over that one, shall we? I trust they weren’t asking if we could find a pair of curtains?”
 

Cordi snorted a laugh that woke Max. He raised his shaggy head and yawned, showing off an impressive set of gnashers before settling back down to sleep. Monty’s ears twitched, but that was it. He wasn’t the kind of cat that scared easy.

“So,” Aunt Maggie said, “what are you going to do about hiring some help?” I hadn’t known her for long, but I knew that she was like a dog with a bone when she got something in her head. She wasn’t going to let this one go until we caved.
 

“I… er…” I said, and looked at Cordi.

Cordi shrugged and looked at me and then looked at the letter she was holding. It was like a game of ‘look tennis’ and the ball was back in my court.
 

“I guess we hire a secretary to help us deal with the serious requests?” I suggested, hoping Maggie would approve. “If only to write and tell them we’re going away for a short while, but we’ll get back to them when we return… maybe?”

“Oh, yes, that’s a great idea,” said Cordi brightly. She clicked her fingers. “In fact, I know a good temp agency. We can hire someone through them to sort through all these and make a priority list for us, for when we get back.” She sat back and smiled triumphantly, but with a touch of relief thrown in. I nodded vigorously.
 

“It’s a good
idea
,” said Maggie. “But never mind this agency.
I
know just the person for the job.”
 

Cordi groaned. “Auntie, we’ve been through this before. Harley and I need to run the business our way now. You retired, remember?”

“Of course I remember. I’m not in my dotage yet, young lady. But you can’t entrust such delicate business as finding to just anyone, especially not someone from a
temp agency
, as you call it. Perish the thought.” She managed to squeeze a lot of contempt into how she said the word temp. I was impressed and reminded myself once again to never get on Maggie’s bad side.

“You are such a snob, Aunt Maggie,” said Cordi. I was quietly proud of her for standing up to the old lady.

“You’re absolutely right and a good job too. Someone has to have standards in this dissolute day and age, and it might as well be me.
 

She picked up her enormous handbag and began to rifle through the very many contents. “Now, I have a friend at the Women’s Institute who used to be a PA to a very highly respected Member of Parliament. She—Dotty Weatherbridge—would be perfect for this. She has a wonderful way with words and lovely handwriting.”

Cordi opened her mouth to object. Michael shook his head in warning.
 

Even though my brother had only been staying with us for a short while, he learned quickly that you didn’t gainsay a Maggie with a mission. Not only was she formidably stubborn, but she also made the best cakes. I mean, who in their right mind would want to cut the supply line to the best chocolate fudge cake in the western hemisphere?
 

“Good grief,” said Cordi, throwing up her hands in mock surrender. “Let’s try Dotty, then, shall we?”

“She must be good if she was a PA to a Member of Parliament,” I added, trying to smooth things over.

“Let’s hope so,” Cordi said. “Auntie, would you mind chatting with your friend, see if she is happy to handle all this while we’re away?”

“Of course, dear.” Maggie beamed a smile. “Right, then, let’s sort the wheat from the chaff and give Dotty a head start on sorting through the genuine cases. Michael, be a dear and put the kettle on, would you? And do hurry up, dear. We don’t have all day; you’ve got a trip to organise.”

Michael opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it and went to put the kettle on. We’d already packed everything anyway, which was one less thing to worry about; making sure the alarm went off and hearing it was my biggest worry. The flight was early the next morning and I didn’t want us to have to rush to the airport through London traffic. As the three of them got busy sorting the letters, I grabbed a sack of recycling and took it to the bin outside.
 

A chill wind made me shiver as it blew along the narrow street and rustled the leaves on the trees. A piece of paper from the sack took flight. It didn’t get far, the wind changed direction and the paper caught against next door’s wrought-iron railings. I went over to retrieve it. People were really fussy round here. I had to smile.

To think a poor orphan like me, someone who had lived rough and on her wits, would end up living in such a swanky part of town.
 

This was Notting Hill. It was like living in a movie set.
 

Any minute now I could imagine Julia Roberts or that cute Hugh Grant turning onto the street like a scene out of the film that made this place famous.
 

And I was living here. It’s a crazy world for sure.

The seasons were on the turn and we were heading into autumn, or fall as our American cousins call it. Quite appropriately, as it turns out.
 

I watched some big russet chestnut leaves helicopter to the ground as a stream of late-season tourists wandered down the road, stopping now and then to take photographs of the grand Victorian townhouses with their brass door knockers and original sash windows.
 

I kind of hoped they wouldn’t take photographs of Cordi’s place. It was my home and our office, but it could really do with a serious sprucing up.
 

Cordi was a sweetheart, but she was not a domestic goddess. Neither was she wealthy enough to have a cleaner. The house had been left to her in a will, but just paying the bills was tough, Never mind all the upkeep a place like this costs in one of the most expensive cities in the world.
 

I hoped that some of these new cases generated by the interview would pan out, just so Cordi could spend some money on her home and worry less about making ends meet.
 

She was so darn nice, she deserved a break, and I was determined to help in any way I could. She’d helped me when I needed it, it was the least I could do.
 

I finished stuffing the discarded mail into the recycling bin and turned quickly while watching the tourists pointing at a particularly elegant-looking front door. I was so distracted that I almost collided with someone who must have walked over when I was busy trying to get all the paper in the overfilled bin.
 

“Oh!” I exclaimed. I bunched my fist, ready to sock whomever it was. Old habits and all that. When I saw it was a young girl, I immediately stepped back and smoothed my T-shirt.

“Excuse me,” the girl said nervously. “Are you Harley Hill?”

She held a knitted beanie hat in her hands. Her face was half hidden behind a long fringe of dark hair. She was wearing tatty jeans and a pair of tennis shoes that looked as if they had been chewed by a dog. I felt sorry for her straightaway.

“I am,” I said. I was taken aback by how much she reminded me of me, back when I’d lived on the streets. My heart went out to her. “Are you alright, ducks?” I said, feeling all motherly.

She mumbled something and then pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her tatty, denim jacket pocket.
 

I waited patiently while she decided what to do. Poor thing. Eventually she thrust the scrap of paper into my hand.
 

I took a look at it. It had a phone number written on it. I noticed that whoever wrote it, probably the girl, had nice neat handwriting.

“I’m Chloe,” she said boldly, before retreating back into her shell. I waited but nothing more was forthcoming.
 

“Listen, I’m sorry,” I said, as kindly as I could. “I’m not sure I understand. Are you in trouble?”

She stared down at her feet. “I was just hoping for some help…” She took a deep breath. I need to find my father. I left home a few years ago, you see. There was an argument with my mother.” She wrung the beanie in her hands. “I… I never knew my father, and now.” She looked up at me, her eyes full of tears. “He’s all I have left.”

You’d have to be made of stone not to feel for the girl. And I knew from first-hand experience what she was going through. It really was like looking at a younger me. But, oh! She couldn’t have come at a worse time.
 

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said. “I understand what you’re going through.”

“I know.” She looked at me through the fringe of dark hair. “I saw your interview on telly and heard about your background, as well as how you and your partner are experts at finding lost things and lost people.”

I wanted to correct her, tell her that those cases were just flukes and that most of the people we’d found were dead or murderers, but I could see she was in pain, and I am not the kind of person to kick someone when they’re down. “Is this your number?” I asked.
 

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got a pay-as-you go cell phone… Social services lady gave it to me.” She smiled shyly. “Can you help me, Miss Hill? I can pay you by instalments. I’ve saved some money.”

I opened my mouth, about to let her down gently, but she rushed on, a note of desperation in her voice. “The last I heard was that my dad had relocated to Notting Hill about ten years ago—when I was seven. I’m sure you’d be able to find him, easy. You and your partner seem so smart.”

Kill me now, I thought. How the heck was I going to tell her that I couldn’t help her because I was about to go look for my long-lost parents? Oh, the irony. It was like a knife in the gut.