Organized Murder: The Verity Long Mysteries, #2

Organized Murder

The Verity Long Mysteries, Volume 2

Lynda Wilcox

Published by Lynda Wilcox, 2012.

Organized Murder

by

Lynda Wilcox

Organized Murder © 2012 by Lynda Wilcox. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or parts thereof, in any form.

All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements:

Cover design by Katie Stewart: www.magicowldesign.com

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When Verity Long’s crime-writer boss sends her to meet somebody, she finds the body in question dead inside St. Isidore’s church. Curious about the victim and determined to hunt down the killer, Verity becomes involved with a waspish group of thespians, and all the murky muck-raking of small-town gossip.

The search is complicated by the return of a ghost from her past, threatening Verity's burgeoning romance with DI Jerry Farish. With a killer closing in on her and a spate of major burglaries and bank robberies keeping the detective busy, Verity must decide whether to live up to her name — or follow her heart.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 1

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Late again, Verity? said my boss, Kathleen Davenport, as I raced into the office on Thursday morning.

Yes, sorry. I —

That's the third time this week.

She didn't look up from her desk, apparently engrossed in the sheet of paper in her hand.

I know, I'm —

It's just not good enough. You'll have to go.

She slammed the paper onto the desk and began pounding away at her keyboard.

Damn. As if the day hadn't started badly enough what with getting up late, putting my foot in a tin of paint and being held up by an accident on the Bellhurst Road roundabout, now I'd been sacked from my job. Yes, it was the third time in as many days that I hadn't rolled in until nearly ten o'clock but there were extenuating circumstances and I’d already explained them to KD. I dumped my bag on the chair and headed for the coffee percolator. She might at least let me get some caffeine inside me before giving me the push. And with barely a month before Christmas, too. I had to hand it to her. Kathleen Davenport had an immaculate sense of timing.

I'm sorry. I'll clear my desk then, shall I?

What?

She ran a hand through her dyed black fringe, flicking it off her forehead with scarlet painted fingernails.

Unless you want me to go immediately.

Of course I don't want you to go immediately. You'll have to go tonight.

Pushing her chair away from the desk, she tottered on ridiculously high heels to the coffee table in the middle of the conservatory whose semi-circular glass wall formed one end of the office.

Fine, I said.

I turned to my keyboard, not trusting myself to say more. I was too close to tears. I enjoyed my job as personal assistant and researcher to a novelist; the work was varied and interesting and KD, as she preferred to be called, was a kind and generous boss. Only a few months ago she had bought me a brand new car when mine had been written off after a maniac ran me off the road. Mind you, she had been acting a little strangely for the past two weeks. Distant and often pre-occupied, she'd done little or no writing and nothing at all on her latest Agnes Merryweather story. Maybe she was giving up writing and no longer needed me. Her fans would be disappointed, I knew. The books were hugely popular, always at the top of the best-seller lists and they'd made KD a millionaire several times over. Which was all well and good, but while she might no longer need to work, I certainly did. I'd moved into a new flat only last weekend and had to find the rent money from somewhere.

Verity!

KD's strident voice cut across my thoughts.

You haven't heard a word I said, have you? What on earth's wrong with you?

She'd just given me the bloody sack! What the hell did the stupid woman think was wrong with me?

Sorry, what?

I was giving you directions to Bellhurst.

What for? I know where Bellhurst is.

She gave me a queer look.

And the church? She arched one carefully plucked eyebrow.

What church?

Just as I thought. You weren't listening. Look, I need you to go and see a man on my behalf. He'll be at St. Isidore's church hall tonight. You can report back to me in the morning.

In the morning? I said, not understanding.

Yes. What's wrong with that?

Because you've just sacked me and told me to go tonight, I shouted. I won't be here in the morning.

Sacked you? It was her turn to sound vacant. Don't be ridiculous. I've done nothing of the sort. Are you all right?

She came and stood beside me, putting a hand out to lift my chin and scrutinise my face.

Hmm. You do look a bit peaky. Are you finding time to eat properly? Come into the kitchen. It's nearly lunch time, anyway.

I'm all right.

Do as you're told. She smiled to take the harshness from the order. I can't have my employees going sick because they don't get enough to eat.

I'm hardly likely to do that, I laughed, as I hauled my slim size 12 from the chair and followed her through to the kitchen.

While KD popped crusty rolls into the microwave and fetched pâté and cheese from the fridge, I set the table. My boss does not agree with snacking and insists on sitting down to eat even the lightest lunch.

So, what's this about going to see a bloke in Bellhurst?

Oh, I suspect he's very much not a bloke, Verity. His name is Ernest Rutland, MBE, and he's written to me more than once asking me to open the Bellhurst Christmas Market.

Ah. The price of fame.

She grimaced but nodded. It was not an aspect of being famous that KD enjoyed. She hated public appearances of any sort and only tolerated book signings as a necessary evil.

It sounds like it might be quite fun. The Christmas Market, I mean.

She scooped the warm rolls out of the oven and onto a plate before she answered.

Perhaps. I've decided to do it, anyway. They are holding it for three evenings before Christmas. I've been invited to switch on the Christmas tree lights and declare the market open at six o'clock on the 21st December and then attend a carol concert in the church on the 23rd.

OK, but can't you just write back and say you accept. Why do you need me to see him?

KD spread butter on a roll before answering.

I could and I will but this Ernest Rutland comes across as a very arrogant chap who seems to think he's doing me a favour by badgering me to attend.

Badgering?

Yes. And the wretched man had the nerve to call me a celebrity. She shuddered.

And I'm going because... I gently steered KD back to the point.

She cut a hunk of cheese and deftly speared it with the end of the knife while she thought about it.

You will explain that you are my secretary...no, scratch that. You are my personal assistant and oversee all my arrangements.

OK. I chewed on my roll, wondering what more she wanted.

Find out exactly what he expects me to do, Verity. I need to know I'm not going to be standing for hours in some freezing back street in the middle of Bellhurst.

I nodded, refraining from pointing out that you don't get back streets in the middle of anywhere, let alone the genteel town of Bellhurst.

All right. I'll look after your interests.

You don't mind going, do you?

To be honest, I did. I'd been looking forward to a long, lazy bath and a pampering session before getting an early night. Going all the way out to Bellhurst would put the kibosh on that. Still, she was my employer and it had never been a nine to five job.

Well, anything that takes me away from decorating the bedroom is welcome. I said. I'm fed up with the smell of paint.

Ah, yes. I'd forgotten you were doing up the flat. Is that why you've been coming in late?

I stared at her. I'd told her on Monday that I'd bought all the materials and intended to make a start on brightening up the place, getting rid of the deep sombre colours a previous occupant had inflicted on me. What was wrong? KD wasn't usually so inattentive.

Yes. I've taken on more than I can handle, I think. It was gone two o'clock last night before I finished.

KD shook her head.

No wonder you look so tired. Why didn't you say, Verity? I'd have asked Chris, my decorator chappie, to do it for you.

Resisting the urge to point out that I had, I shrugged.

I'll get it finished over the weekend.

I cleared the table and washed the few pots while KD dried them.

Did you tell me where the church hall is in Bellhurst? I asked when we were back in the office.

She gave me the directions.

Thanks for going, Verity. And don't let that man browbeat you. I'm relying on you.

To do what? Her dirty work? I sighed inwardly. Well, no change there, then.

* * *

St. Isidore's Church Hall was a pre-fabricated metal framed building with plasterboard sides twenty yards away from the church. Erected in the 1960s, it was now crumbling, dingy and well past its sell-by date. Paint peeled away from the lower half of one of the double doors, while the other held a cracked window which someone had attempted to repair with a cross of masking tape. The clip that held the guttering to the drainpipe had cracked and the pipe leaned away from the wall at a sharp angle while the gutter, cast adrift from its plastic anchor, was free to drip its contents on the muddy ground below, watering the ground elder and cleavers that clung to the walls in dark green curtains. Beyond this entrance lay a wide vestibule with a row of coat hooks sprouting from one wall opposite a notice board covered in posters advertising forthcoming craft fairs, bingo evenings and bring-and-buy sales — all the social highlights of a busy parish. A second set of doors opened into the main hall and, even before I'd opened the door, I could hear the sound of raised voices from within. Never one to pass up the opportunity to earwig a good row, I slipped quietly into the hall unseen by the group clustered on and in front of the stage at the far end.

Oh, come on, Peter. If you'd bothered to learn your lines instead of sloping off to the pub to chat up Katherine...

If you'd written half-way decent lines in the first place, said the person addressed as Peter, a florid faced man in a suit as loud as his voice, we might all have stood a better chance of learning them. Instead of having to spout this crap you've given us.

That's hardly fair, Peter. Flanders has done a good job with the writing, the woman furthest down stage put in.

Stay out of it, Julia. I can fight my own battles, thank you, and I don't need lessons in writing from a has-been sportsman who's nothing more than a sex-crazed inebriate.

Why, you...

Golly! What have I stumbled on here, I wondered as Peter took a swing at the other man, nearly falling off the stage in the process. Julia caught hold of the sleeve of his check jacket and hauled him back just as the man called Flanders smacked him across the face with a rolled up pile of paper. In the resulting hullabaloo I counted nine people, three men and four women on the stage while on the floor another man looked up at them. On the piano stool in the corner sat the fifth man, his legs crossed, lazily swinging a boat shoe from his right foot, watching the scene on the stage with a mocking smile.

Stop it both of you. Stop it at once. The seated woman rapped on the boards with her walking stick. You are behaving like children. Besides, we have a visitor.

Damn! I'd been spotted. And just when it was getting interesting. I walked hesitantly forward, closer to the group.

Hello. I'm looking for Ernie Rutland.

That would be Ernest Rutland, MBE, would it? asked the red faced Peter, regaining his swaggering manner.

If you've come for the auditions you're a week late. We've already cast. Sorry.

The woman in her late forties didn't sound at all repentant as she sneered down at me from the stage.

Besides, you're a bit old for an ingénue.

Steady on, Liz. That's uncalled for. The man on the floor of the hall piped up for the first time. Take five, everybody and then we'll try that scene again.

He turned and walked towards me, hand outstretched.

Welcome to the mayhem that is the Bellhurst Players' annual pantomime, he said with a wry smile. I'm Philip Ashton, the director.

Verity Long, I said, shaking his hand.

Sorry about that, Philip. The man called Flanders appeared at his elbow. I shouldn't let him get to me.

No, you shouldn't. It didn't help with him arriving late tonight. Besides, what we need is a prompt.

Both men turned to look at me.

Sorry to be so rude. I'm Flanders Rye. The playwright, you know.

I didn't, but smiled politely. He was certainly trying to fit the stereotype, with his velvet jacket and flowing cravat. I couldn't decide whether he saw himself as Oscar Wilde or Dorian Gray.

This is Verity Long. Philip Ashton introduced me.

Pleased to meet you, Miss Long.

Without asking, the playwright took my hand and raised it to his lips.

Truly it is serendipitous that you have arrived in our hour of need, he said. A gift from the gods! Won't you take pity on us, dear Miss Long, and become our prompt mistress.

There was a wicked gleam in his eye as he said the last word and I laughed despite myself.

But I only came here to speak to Mr Rutland.

Yes, where is Ernie? He should be here by now.

The woman I'd heard addressed as Julia joined our little group and stood, proprietorially, next to Philip Ashton. I wasn't surprised to hear him say,

This is my wife, Julia.

Hello, I said, before addressing her husband. I am sorry I've interrupted your rehearsal. I'm on an errand for my boss who told me that Mr Rutland would be here.

Your boss? said Flanders.

Yes, Kathleen Davenport. She —

Kathleen Davenport? asked Julia, in a loud voice that instantly attracted everyone else in the room. You work for Kathleen Davenport?

Yes. I'd just said so. I was beginning to lose my temper with the Bellhurst Players, most of whom were now clustered around me. I just wanted to find my quarry, deliver KD's message and go.

Do you mean the writer? asked a woman who hadn't been introduced. The one who writes those silly crime novels?

She had a waspish, pinched face with thin lips. There and then I decided I didn't like her, whoever she was. Silly crime novels indeed. I felt tempted to tell her how much KD earned from them every year and how much fan mail she received — I know, I open it — but I held my tongue.

It's odd that Ernie isn't here, said Philip, getting us back on track. He usually opens up for us at seven o'clock.

The Dyers aren't here yet, either. Somebody chimed in.

I was the first one here, said the man who had sat at the piano. The doors were open at seven.

Yes, I'd opened up as usual, said Philip, then gone back to my car for something.

I saw him in the George and Dragon at lunch time, said Flanders Rye. He did say he was meeting someone at the church but expected to be here by half past seven.

I looked at my watch, ten to eight already, and wondered why the playwright had only thought to mention it now.

He may still be there, I said. Is that the church across the way?

St. Isidore's, yes.

He's probably gone to look at his wretched organ, said Liz.

There were guffaws of laughter and I hoped my smile went unnoticed.

Come on, Verity. I'll show you where to go.

Flanders Rye took me by the elbow and led me towards the door. Behind us I heard Philip Ashton calling the troops to order.

All right, everybody. Let's start again. Act 1, Scene 2, if you please.

Outside the hall, the playwright pointed to the looming bulk of the church, a faint light glowing through its long slim windows.

About twenty yards or so towards that streetlight you'll find an opening in the wall. Beyond it there's a path to the main door of the church.

Thank you.

You're welcome. When you find Ernie, tell him he's wanted over in the hall, would you?

Of course.

And please do think about coming and joining us. We really do need a prompt, he said, smiling, and contrary to what you've seen tonight, we aren't a bad bunch.

I had no intention whatsoever of going back to that dreadful group of wannabe luvvies.

I'll think about it.

We rehearse every Monday and Thursday, here in the hall. I hope to see you next Monday.

I shrugged. We'll see.

I turned up my coat collar and set out for the church.

* * *

I found the gap in the wall easily enough and edged my way between the rough stones, the long unmown grass wrapping around my ankles. Ahead of me the dim shimmer of light cast by the lamp above the hall door beckoned me on along the path that snaked through the churchyard. At either side headstones leaned, giving me a drunken guard of honour on my route towards St. Isidore's. The church door yielded to my touch and swung away with an eldritch creak reminiscent of a Hammer horror film. Expecting a crack of thunder and a jagged flash of lightning at any moment, I laughed at my lurid imagination while suppressing a sudden shiver of fear. Telling myself not to be so daft I stepped inside, fully expecting to see Mr Rutland. The darkness came as something of a surprise. Why weren't there any lights on? Surely there had been lights inside earlier. I’d seen them from outside the hall. Who had switched them off? I waited for my eyes to adapt to the darkness, slowly beginning to make out the interior, the table and offertory box on my right, the shapes of the pews and the altar high in the chancel. Long narrow windows to the left and right of the nave seemed designed to keep the place shrouded in Stygian blackness and my steps down the aisle, when I could see enough to make them, were slow and careful for fear I should bump into something or trip over in the gloom.

Hello? Mr Rutland? Are you there?

A faint noise from the direction of the choir was the only answer. The interior of the church was as cold as the charity doled out by the Victorians who built it and I gritted my teeth to stop them chattering, plunging my hands into my pockets and lifting my shoulders in a vain attempt to keep my ears warm.

Hello? Anyone here?

My voice rang out loudly and then came back at me, echoing off the walls and the stone pillars either side of the nave. Hearing a creak, I spun round, thinking someone had entered behind me but no one stood outlined in the faint glow filtering through the open door. Beginning to feel thoroughly spooked, I was all set to give up my quest and go home when the creak came again.

Hello? Mr Rutland?

A strange shape flashed in front of the altar, gone in a second, as I hurried towards it. What was the man playing at? If this was his idea of a joke I didn't find it at all funny. I would report this complete waste of time to KD in the morning and advise her — whether she wanted my advice or not — not to bother with the man. She hadn't sounded keen on his idea of opening the Christmas market, and I certainly wasn’t keen on the idea of trying to find him, now, in this freezing cold and decidedly spooky church. Where was the wretched man?