Common Murder

“Get you,” muttered Deborah. They studied the menus and settled for Avocado Rubyfruits. (Slices of ripe avocado interleaved with slices of succulent Sharon fruit, garnished with watercress, bathed in a raspberry vinaigrette) followed by Butter Beanfeast. (Butter beans braised with organically grown onions, green peppers and chives, smothered in a rich cheese sauce, topped with a gratinee of stoneground wholemeal breadcrumbs and traditional farm cheddar cheese) with choose-your-own salads from a wide range of the homely and the exotic colorfully displayed on a long narrow table at the rear of the room. To drink, Lindsay selected a bottle of gooseberry champagne.

“My God,” Deborah exploded quietly when Meg departed with the order, “I hadn’t realized how far pretentiousness had penetrated the world of healthy eating. This is so over the top, Lin. Are there really enough right-on vegetarian women around to make this place a going concern?”

“Don’t be too ready to slag it off. The food is actually terrific. Just relax and enjoy it,” Lindsay pleaded.

Deborah shook her head in affectionate acceptance and sat back in her chair. “Now tell me,” she demanded, “since you hang out so much in this bijou dinette, how come you don’t have the same intimate relationship with Ros Crabtree that you have with Meg?”

“It’s very simple. Meg runs around serving at table. Meg answers the phone when you book. Meg stands and natters over your coffee. Ros, on the other hand, must be grafting away in the kitchen five nights a week. She’s too busy cooking to socialize, even with people she knows. And by the end of the evening, I’d guess she’s too exhausted to be bothered making polite social chit-chat with the customers. It’s hard work cooking for vegetarians. There’s so much more preparation in Butter Beanfeast than in Steak au Poivre.”

Before Deborah could reply, their avocados appeared. Deborah tried her food suspiciously, then her face lit up. “Hey, this is really good,” she exclaimed.

When Meg returned to clear their plates and serve the champagne, Lindsay made her move.

“That was terrific, Meg. Listen, we’d like to have a word with Ros. Not right now, obviously, but when she’s through in the kitchen. Do you think that’ll be okay?”

Meg looked surprised. “I suppose so. But… what’s it all about, Lindsay? Oh, wait a minute… you’re a reporter, aren’t you?” Her voice had developed a hostile edge. “It’s about her father, isn’t it?”

“It’s not what you think,” Deborah protested. “She’s not some cheap hack out to do a hatchet job on you and Ros. You know her, for God’s sake, she’s one of us.”

“So what is it all about then?” The anger in her voice transmitted itself to nearby tables, where a few faces looked up and studied them curiously.

Deborah took a deep breath. “I’m their number one suspect. I’ve already had one night in the police cells, and I don’t fancy another. Lindsay’s trying her damnedest to get me off the hook and that means discovering the real killer. I’d have thought you and Ros would be interested in finding out who killed her father.”

“Him? The only reason I’d want to know who killed him is so that I could shake them by the hand. Look, I’m not too impressed with what you’ve got to say for yourselves, but I will go ask Ros if she’ll talk to you.” She marched off and returned a few minutes later with their main courses, which she placed meticulously before them without a word.

They ate in virtual silence, their enjoyment dulled. Meg silently removed their plates and took their order for biscuits, cheese, and coffee.

By half past ten and the third cup of coffee, Lindsay was beginning to despair of any further communication from the kitchen. The tension had dried up conversation between her and Deborah. The evening she’d been looking forward to had somehow become awkward and difficult. Then, a tall, broad woman emerged from the kitchen and exchanged a few words with Meg, who nodded in their direction. The woman crossed the room towards them. She was bulky, but she looked strong and sturdy rather than flabby. Her hair was short and curly, her face pink from the heat of the kitchen. Like her brother, Ros Crabtree strongly resembled their father. She wore a pair of chef’s trousers and a navy blue polo shirt. In her hand was a brandy bowl with a large slug of spirit sobbing up the sides of the glass.

She pulled a chair up and said without preamble, “So this is the sleuth. The famous Cordelia Brown’s girlfriend. Accompanied, unless I am mistaken, by the brutal peace woman who goes around beating up helpless men.” She smiled generously. “Enjoy your dinner?”

“As always,” Lindsay answered, stung by being defined as an adjunct to Cordelia.

“But tonight you came for more than three courses and a bottle of country wine.”

“We hoped you would help us,” Deborah stated baldly. “Lindsay’s trying to clear my name. I’m afraid that if there isn’t an arrest soon, I’ll be charged, just so they can be seen to be achieving something.”