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    A Creative Crime
    A Creative Crime
    A Creative Crime
    Ebook280 pages3 hours

    A Creative Crime

    By Cecilia Peartree

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    About this ebook

    This is the twelfth novel in the Pitkirtly Mystery series, set in a small town in West Fife - quite close to Culross but definitely not as picturesque.
    Christopher is aghast when Mr Miller from the Council tells him he has to host an event called 'Pitkirtly Creates', but he consoles himself with the fact that a local family's lawyer has just cluttered up his office with more boxes of archive material.
    Jock McLean has family trouble, and Amaryllis takes up a new job as a bar-maid, but neither of these things prevent them from getting involved in the latest police investigation in town.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCecilia Peartree
    Release dateSep 30, 2016
    ISBN9781370359486
    A Creative Crime
    Author

    Cecilia Peartree

    Cecilia Peartree is the pen name of a writer from Edinburgh. She has dabbled in various genres so far, including science fiction and humour, but she keeps returning to a series of 'cosy' mysteries set in a small town in Fife.The first full length novel in the series, 'Crime in the Community', and the fifth 'Frozen in Crime are 'perma-free' on all outlets.The Quest series is set in the different Britain of the 1950s. The sixth novel in this series, 'Quest for a Father' was published in March 2017..As befits a cosy mystery writer, Cecilia Peartree lives in the leafy suburbs with her cats.

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      Book preview

      A Creative Crime - Cecilia Peartree

      A Creative Crime

      Cecilia Peartree

      Copyright Cecilia Peartree 2016

      Smashwords edition

      All rights reserved

      Cover image: Ian Ogilvy Morrison

      CONTENTS

      Chapter 1 A Vibrant Project

      Chapter 2 Maisie Sue Takes Offence

      Chapter 3 Jock’s Toast

      Chapter 4 El Presidente Reserves a Slot

      Chapter 5 Where There's a Will

      Chapter 6 Literary Pretensions

      Chapter 7 Jock’s Confrontation

      Chapter 8 The Day After the Massive Tantrum

      Chapter 9 Polishing up Old Skills

      Chapter 10 The Birds Have Flown

      Chapter 11 On the Trail

      Chapter 12 Conspiracy Theories

      Chapter 13 Amaryllis Stays Out of Trouble

      Chapter 14 Jock’s Vigil

      Chapter 15 The Middle of the Night

      Chapter 16 The Last to Know

      Chapter 17 The Weakest Link

      Chapter 18 Meaningful

      Chapter 19 Time Machine

      Chapter 20 The Pub Revisited

      Chapter 21 At the Police Station

      Chapter 22 El Presidente Sends Help

      Chapter 23 Going Round in Circles

      Chapter 24 A Practising Poet

      Chapter 25 On the Doorstep

      Chapter 26 Pandora’s Box

      Chapter 27 Family Corner

      Chapter 28 Creativity Runs Riot

      Chapter 29 Secrets at the Newsagent’s

      Chapter 30 Kyle Gets Over-excited

      Chapter 31 Crocodiles

      Chapter 32 A First Time for Everything

      Chapter 33 Rainstorm

      Chapter 34 The Lost Poet

      Chapter 35 The Craft Fair to end Craft Fairs

      The End

      Chapter 1 A Vibrant Project

      ‘It’s going to be vibrant,’ said the man from West Fife Council. ‘And multi-cultural. And... creative,’ he added, evidently running out of words.

      ‘Yes,’ said Christopher, to fill the gap. He hadn’t been paying very close attention, but even he might have guessed that a festival entitled ‘Pitkirtly Creates’ had better be creative, otherwise it was nothing.

      ‘... and of course we can’t exactly compete with the Edinburgh Festival,’ said Mr Miller with an apparently forced laugh, ‘but we can offer people who make the effort to visit Pitkirtly a feast of culture.’

      ‘Um,’ said Christopher. He wasn’t entirely happy with Mr Miller’s use of the word ‘feast’. He hadn’t forgotten the healthy eating fiasco. ‘Do you think it will bring in many visitors?’

      ‘There’s definitely potential for a high footfall,’ said Mr Miller, pacing up and down. ‘Should be good for local businesses. I’ve arranged for that coffee kiosk along the front to re-open to sell ice-cream and soft drinks.’

      Christopher hoped the man’s own footfall wouldn’t wear a hole in the office carpet. He sat back in his chair and waited for the next pronouncement.

      ‘Are there any local authors? I’ve kept a slot for them later in the week.’

      Christopher blinked. ‘Authors?’

      ‘You know – writers. People who write books. There must be some, in a place like this.’

      ‘Um,’ said Christopher again. He tried to think whether he had ever come across any writers. But how could you tell by looking at people? Would they have ink-stained fingers or were modern writers more likely to have rounded shoulders and gnarled fingers from sitting hunched over their computers typing for too long at a time? He thought back to the occasions when he had written anything. He had never embarked on a novel, but he had contributed a few articles to archivists’ professional publications in the days when he worked in that line. He knew he couldn’t claim to be a writer, though.

      ‘I’m relying on you to come up with writers for at least one presentation and the workshop sessions,’ said Mr Miller.

      ‘So, let me get this clear,’ said Christopher. ‘Is this just to be a writing festival, or will there be people who create other things?’

      ‘Writing – literature – poetry – drama – maybe music,’ said Mr Miller. ‘We don’t want any of the hand-knitted stuff. Toy dinosaurs, baby’s jackets, that kind of thing.’ His face twisted in distaste. ‘And none of those hand-made cards either. That’s all for amateurs. If we can’t be professional about it, there’s no point. We’d be a laughing-stock.’

      ‘There are quite a few knitters in the town,’ Christopher pointed out. ‘Maybe we could let them have stalls somewhere?’

      ‘Stalls? A craft fair or something?’ said Mr Miller, sounding as horrified as if Christopher had suggested pole-dancing in the car park. ‘Oh, no. We’ve set our sights higher than that.... What do you think this place is all about? Or would you rather we’d turned it into a recycling centre after all?’

      ‘No, of course not!’ said Christopher hurriedly. ‘I was just wondering whether people would be interested in literature and drama. It isn’t the kind of thing people talk about much.’

      Mr Miller came to a standstill and rocked back on his heels, fixing Christopher with a hard stare. ‘Well, maybe you and your staff should spend more time on culture and less on crime.’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ said Christopher. ‘I’ll put out some feelers.’

      ‘I want to see some activity on Pitkirtly Conversations by the end of the week,’ said Mr Miller, ‘otherwise I’ll know you’re not throwing yourself into this with the enthusiasm we expect from a West Fife Council employee. It’ll all be kicking off next month – don’t forget.’

      With these ominous words he flung a piece of paper on Christopher’s desk, strode out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

      Pitkirtly Conversations? Even by Mr Miller’s own not all that high standards, the man wasn’t making any sense.

      Christopher picked up the piece of paper. It was headed ‘Pitkirtly Creates – draft programme’, and had a picture of a scroll of paper and a quill pen at the top. He shoved it into the drawer of his desk. It caught in the top and got a bit crumpled as he did so, but he just left it.

      He decided the only reasonable course of action was to retreat into his comfort zone and hope the problem would go away. He opened the file that lay on his desk. He already knew it contained the correspondence, consisting of three letters, exchanged between him and the heirs of a local family who wanted to deposit their papers with the Cultural Centre. He was, as usual, slightly sceptical about whether the Murray Hutchison papers were of general interest or not. He re-read the first letter they had sent. It promised a collection of family and local history that would open up new vistas for researchers who were interested in the early history of Pitkirtly. He still hadn’t established what they meant by ‘early’. As far as he knew the town had barely even existed before the Industrial Revolution, except as a loose grouping of small farms and a row of fishermen’s cottages.

      He sighed, and closed the file again. As far as he knew, the only person who would be interested in it was Jemima, and he couldn’t in all conscience clutter up the shelves in the research room with stuff that was only of use to her.

      Almost as if he had conjured her up, the door opened and Jemima appeared.

      ‘What was that man doing here?’

      She came in before he had the chance to reply, Dave trailing behind as usual. They both pulled up chairs and sat down.

      ‘Who, Mr Miller?’ said Christopher.

      ‘He isn’t still wanting to make the place into a recycling centre, is he?’ asked Jemima anxiously.

      ‘No, not this time.’

      Christopher glanced from one to the other. Obviously they wouldn’t leave without an answer. He wasn’t very good at lying – or at resisting their interrogation techniques. He must remember to ask Amaryllis for some tips about that.

      ‘He’s organised a kind of festival,’ he said at last reluctantly. ‘I’ll be putting up a poster about it soon, I expect.’

      ‘Not one of those healthy eating things again,’ said Dave with a groan.

      ‘It’s a kind of literary thing,’ said Christopher. ‘With drama and music, maybe. It’s called Pitkirtly Creates.’

      Jemima frowned. ‘Literary? What does he mean by that? And where do the drama and music fit in? Is it one of those things with people singing folk songs and reciting poems that don’t rhyme in smoky pubs?’

      Christopher shuddered. ‘I certainly hope not.’

      ‘It won’t be smoky, anyway,’ Dave reassured her. ‘Charlie would throw them out.’

      ‘It isn’t that kind of thing anyway,’ said Christopher. ‘It’s more cultural than that. It’s going to be vibrant as well.’

      The three of them would probably have sat staring at each other in a depressed silence for the rest of the day if the door, which Dave had closed behind him, hadn’t suddenly swung open again.

      ‘What’s all this about?’ Amaryllis demanded, bursting into the office. ‘I nearly bumped into Mr Miller in the car park. What was he doing here?’

      ‘Well, he isn’t going to turn the place into a recycling centre,’ said Christopher. ‘Yet.’

      ‘Well, what is it then?’

      ‘It was about a literary festival,’ said Christopher gloomily. ‘He’s going to give me a poster to put up. In the window.’

      ‘I never look at posters,’ said Amaryllis loftily.

      ‘Well, maybe you should!’ snapped Christopher.

      ‘But everything worth knowing about is on Pitkirtly Conversations now,’ Jemima put in. ‘If it hasn’t been argued about there, it isn’t happening.... Would you like me to start a thread?’

      ‘If I had any idea what you meant, then yes, all right,’ said Christopher. ‘By the way, do you know any local writers? He’s left a slot free for them. And workshops or something. It’s all going to be in the programme.’

      Jemima and Dave exchanged glances.

      ‘Where can we see the programme?’ demanded Amaryllis. ‘Is it online somewhere?’

      Christopher frowned. He had been trying to resist – single-handed, it seemed – the tendency to live life online, never interacting with the real world. Maybe it was because he was afraid he would find it more congenial than his normal life.

      He opened his desk drawer and retrieved the crumpled up programme.

      ‘Here’s his draft.’ He flung it across the desk in Amaryllis’s direction. His three visitors clustered round it.

      ‘Who are all those people?’ said Jemima.

      ‘And why didn’t Charlie tell us?’ said Amaryllis. ‘The pub’s due to be taken over by poets. There’ll be people with beards.’

      ‘Local writers?’ said Jemima. ‘What kind of writers? What does he mean by literary?’

      ‘Well, strictly speaking,’ said Christopher, ‘I suppose literature means anything written down. Only he did mention drama and music as well. I’m not sure how it all fits together.’

      ‘Would literature include non-fiction?’ said Jemima.

      ‘Or thrillers?’ said Dave.

      ‘I expect so,’ said Christopher. He couldn’t work out what, if anything, to deduce from the expressions on their faces. It was either suppressed excitement, or possibly some sort of communal digestive upset. ‘There wouldn’t be any knitting or craft, though. He thinks that’s amateurish.’

      ‘We’d better go and get on,’ said Jemima, getting to her feet and forcing Dave to do the same with a commanding look.

      They had gone before he recalled that he had planned to ask Jemima if she might be interested in the Murray Hutchison papers. He stared at the office door, puzzled about why they had left so abruptly.

      Amaryllis sat down in one of the chairs they had vacated.

      ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a small memoir on fifty different ways to take out an armed pursuer?’

      ‘Have you written one?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      ‘He wants it to be vibrant,’ said Christopher. ‘And multi-cultural.’

      ‘Fair enough,’ said Amaryllis. ‘If you want to attract funding, you have to use the right buzz-words.’

      ‘I don’t want to attract funding,’ said Christopher. ‘Or visitors from outside.... I mean, who’s going to want to come to Pitkirtly just for... I don’t even know what it’s for.’

      ‘Sounds like fun to me,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Although it won’t be quite the same without one of these stuffed animal fights.’

      He gave her a suspicious look. It was impossible to tell whether she was being sarcastic or not.

      ‘Anyway,’ he said, heaving another sigh. ‘Multi-cultural. Is there anybody who lives around here who wasn’t born within a few miles of Pitkirtly?’

      ‘There’s the Sangpo family,’ said Amaryllis. He stared at her blankly. She elaborated. ‘Don’t you remember? They’re from Tibet. Of course, they didn’t use that name until they came here. The paperwork doesn’t work without last names. We found them wheelie-bin diving and I took them back to the flat and we all played Spy Chase? Then their parents turned up at last.’

      ‘Goodness,’ said Christopher. ‘I’d forgotten about them. Are they still here?’

      ‘Of course they are – you’ve just stopped noticing them because they’ve blended in. But we could still rope them in to do something ethnic.’

      ‘Ah, that’s an idea.’ Christopher considered this for a moment, and then added, ‘I suppose I could try and get Marina and Faisal to come over. I’m not sure they see themselves as multi-cultural though. Marina does Scottish country dancing and Faisal’s learning the bagpipes. And I think they’ve had to learn a bit of Gaelic at school.’

      ‘The Tibetans have too,’ said Amaryllis, ‘for all the good it’ll do them.’

      ‘I don’t suppose you were born in Scotland either,’ said Christopher, although he had always secretly thought there was a chance that Amaryllis had been constructed in some sort of spy factory in Cheltenham.’

      ‘My father was a native of Pitkirtly!’ she said indignantly. ‘It was just that he was on an – assignment – overseas when I was born.’

      ‘Don’t tell me he was a spy too!’

      ‘All right, I won’t... Do you want me to sign up the Tibetans, then?’ Amaryllis stood up to leave.

      ‘I’ll have to think about this a bit more... Then again, Mr Miller said something about seeing activity by the end of the week.... What’s Pitkirtly Conversations?’

      ‘Oh,’ said Amaryllis, beginning to back away. Her hands came up almost as if she wanted to cross herself, but if so she resisted the impulse. ‘You don’t want to have anything to do with that.’

      ‘Don’t I?’

      ‘Ask Jemima. It isn’t my thing at all... Are you going down to the Queen of Scots later on?’

      He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Might do.’

      ‘I’ll see you round there, then.’

      She left, not quite as briskly as Jemima and Dave. What had been behind their sudden exit? He would probably find out when he least expected it, thought Christopher with resignation.

      Chapter 2 Maisie Sue Takes Offence

      ‘I don’t see why we can’t have a craft stall,’ said Jan stubbornly. ‘We’ve had a few craft fairs before, and it’s been fine.’

      ‘Except for the fights,’ said Charlie Smith, shaking his head. He hadn’t actually been present at the fights, but he had heard plenty about them from people who were there. Or who had heard about them from somebody else who might have been there.

      ‘Those weren’t real fights,’ said Jan, plonking down glasses on the bar with a decisive clatter. ‘The one where wee Jackie Whitmore threw the seahorse was just a bit of fun. And the other one was when we stopped that woman from wrecking the Christmas market.’

      ‘Yes, you stopped her by wrecking the market yourselves,’ commented Jock McLean, who was waiting patiently for his pint.

      Jan glared at him. ‘Well, nobody else did anything to stop her.’

      ‘It’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it?’ said Charlie. He was fond of Jan, there was no doubt about that, but on the other hand, she had a way of going on about trivial things that he found a bit wearing. He supposed most women had that tendency to a certain degree. Jock McLean must have experience there, since he had been divorced for some time. Maybe they should have a quiet chat about it some time. He had a sudden idea for diverting the conversation. ‘How’s your son doing, Jock? Seen him lately?’

      ‘Not really,’ said Jock gloomily. ‘He’s always busy.’

      ‘Does he still live in Kirkintilloch? Or was it Lennoxtown?’

      ‘Milngavie,’ said Jock.

      ‘You’ve got a grandson, haven’t you?’ Charlie persisted. He saw Jan flounce off across the room. It was beyond him to know if he had offended her by changing the subject.

      ‘Yes,’ said Jock. ‘Any chance of that pint before a week on Tuesday?’

      ‘Sorry – I got distracted.’ Charlie served up the pint of Old Pictish Brew. Jock took it, but stayed where he was.

      ‘It isn’t just me,’ said Jan, returning with another clutch of empty glasses. ‘Maisie Sue feels the same.’

      Of course she did. Jan and Maisie Sue had more or less moved as one since going into business together in the old café near the foot of the High Street. That was another reason Charlie was starting to find women trying.

      ‘By the way,’ said Jan, arms folded, ‘I don’t know if I’ll have time to help you out any more for a while, Charlie. There’s too much to do in the shop. We’ve got a lot busier since we joined up with the café.’

      ‘That’s a shame,’ said Charlie. He wondered if this meant the end of their relationship, such as it was. He wasn’t well versed in the relevant terminology, but if pressed he might have described what was between them as a romantic friendship. He wasn’t even sure if any such thing existed anyway. So be it. Whatever.

      ‘It’s nothing personal,’ she added, making him even more confused.

      ‘Yes,’ he said. Or maybe ‘no’ would have been a better answer.

      Jemima, Dave and Amaryllis came in, dripping wet and laughing their heads off.

      ‘Raining outside, is it?’ said Charlie.

      ‘No – we just went for a dip in the sea on the way here,’ said Amaryllis, and they all laughed again. As a publican Charlie had grown accustomed to putting up with people laughing at nothing, but those three hadn’t even been drinking. Unless Jemima and Dave had set up an illegal still in their back porch, something that wouldn’t have surprised him that much.

      Jan fussed over their wet coats, and even offered to fetch them a towel, but they brushed off her offers of assistance.

      ‘I may be old but I won’t melt in a wee bit of rain,’ said Jemima.

      ‘Have a seat anyway,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll bring your drinks over. Is it just the usual?’

      In the end Jan carried the drinks over. He suspected that was because she wanted a word with Jemima or Amaryllis. He saw her gesturing back towards the bar as she chatted. Probably telling them how unsympathetic he had been over the craft fair.

      ‘Women, eh?’ said Jock, seeing the direction of his gaze.

      Christopher was the next to come in, but by some miracle he had remained dry.

      ‘Rain off again?’ said Charlie.

      ‘I just missed it,’ said Christopher.

      He turned towards the table where his friends were sitting, but Jan interposed herself between him and his destination.

      ‘About this craft fair,’ she said.

      ‘What craft fair?’ said Christopher, looking uneasy.

      ‘The one we’re not allowed to have,’ said Jan. ‘Maisie Sue’s very upset about it.’

      ‘Leave it, Jan,’ said Charlie. He hadn’t intended to speak, but the words just came out on their own.

      ‘Oh, fine!’ said Jan. ‘I’ll just leave this place, then, will I? And don’t expect me to come back again – ever!’

      She put her nose in the air and marched out. Christopher, Jock and Charlie all watched her go.

      ‘Was that my fault?’ said Christopher, looking as mystified as Charlie felt.

      ‘Not really,’ said Charlie, wiping drops of beer off the bar with his hand to avoid looking at either of the others. ‘She and Maisie Sue have just got bees in their bonnets about it.’

      ‘Spoiling for a fight,’ added Jock, slurping his drink.

      ‘The usual, Christopher?’ asked Charlie.

      ‘I suppose it’s because of Pitkirtly Creates,’ said Christopher. ‘It wasn’t my decision, though. It was the Council... How did everybody find out about it, anyway? I thought nobody had seen the poster.’

      ‘The grapevine,’ said Charlie, shaking his head. ‘It’s a mystery to me.’

      ‘Maybe it was Pitkirtly Conversations,’ suggested Jock.

      ‘Does

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