“Okaaay,” she says slowly. “I don’t even want to ask how you know that.”
“Trust me, we’ll find her in Clapham,” I say confidently.
“Fine.” Maddie grabs her own phone just as mine rings. “I’ll call Poison Control and let the officers upstairs know what’s going on, then we can head out.”
I nod as I answer my phone, frowning in concern when I realise who is calling me. “Tristan, is everything alright?”
“I’m fine, nothing’s wrong. I’m actually feeling loads better and I wanted to see you,” he says, and I relax a little. I’ve been a bit on edge ever since he ended up in the hospital.
“I miss you too,” I tell him softly, ignoring the fact that Sam, the nosy git, is listening to every word with interest.
“Where are you right now?” Tristan asks.
“Just about to head out to Clapham Community Centre,” I tell him, trying not to give too many of the details away.
“What? Why?” he answers and I can hear the worry in his voice. “We haven’t exactly had the best of luck there.”
“I know, but long story short, we know who is responsible for Delores Abernathy’s murder.”
“WHAT? WHO?” he bursts out.
“Tris, I’m sorry I can’t talk right now,” I tell him as Maddie walks back in the room. “We’re on our way to arrest her. I’ll call you later.”
Hanging up the phone, I turn to Maddie.
“I’ve told the others no one is to go down into the cellar until Poison Control has cleared it, then we’ll get forensics in to clear out everything else.”
“Good.” I turn to Sam. “You tagging along?”
“Are you kidding?” He grins. “I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”
“You have a very strange idea of fun,” I mutter as we head out of the house and towards the car.
Next stop, the Clapham Senior Ladies Social Circle and Jam Tart Society’s annual Jam Tart Society Social.
21
Isee Danny the minute I jump out of the Uber with Dusty and Mrs Abernathy appearing beside me. He’s already striding purposefully to the door of the community centre with a grim and determined look on his face, flanked by Maddie and another guy with black hair and a trench coat that I don’t recognise.
I hurry after them as they enter the building, but they're already inside by the time I reach the door. Pushing it open, I step inside and see banners strung up which announce The Jam Tart Society Social.
“Oh god, here we go again.” Dusty rolls her eyes. “For the love of god, Tris, don’t touch anything, don’t eat anything, and definitely don’t drink anything.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice,” I mutter. I cast a quick look in the direction of the toilets where I’d seen the reaper and shiver involuntarily.
Pushing open the door into the main room, I skid to a halt as the wall of noise hits me. The Jam Tart Social is obviously a big hit because it looks like the whole community has turned out. It’s even more packed than Bingo Bonanza.
Once again, all the tables and chairs are set out and covered with cake stands and pots of tea. Up on the stage sits a long table packed with various pies and tarts. The bingo caller from the other day is also on the stage, standing in front of a microphone. Hopefully, this time he’s learned how to use it correctly without attempting to perforate our eardrums. He’s wearing a brightly coloured, garishly patterned tracksuit, and a sliver of his ample paunch peeks out from the bottom of his t-shirt. His only concession to formality is a bow tie which seems to be decorated with slices of pie.
Lined up alongside him are Phyllis who is waving to the crowd, Birdie who looks like she’s just tasted something sour, and Maeve who stands at the front, beaming widely as she’s handed a first place rosette. She pins it neatly to her cardigan, then lifts her tart and smiles as someone takes a photograph.
From the corner of my eye I can see Danny and Maddie at the side of the room. They are flanked by two uniformed officers who’ve arrived without my notice, or maybe they were already waiting there for Danny to arrive. Either way, I’m not the only one who’s noticed their presence.
Maeve’s eyes lock on them, narrowing calculatingly as they inch closer to the stage. The guy on the microphone says something, but I’m not listening to him or the applause that follows. My interested gaze is too busy tracking the person I assume, judging by Danny’s laser-focused and insanely hot I’m about to arrest you vibe, is the one responsible for Mrs Abernathy’s death.
It seems Maeve may have come to the same realisation because suddenly she launches her prize-winning tart in their direction. Turning sharply, she shoves the guy with the microphone out of the way and hurries past him, toward the steps that lead off the stage and down into the community hall full of people.
Caught off guard, the poor guy on stage loses his balance, windmilling his arms uselessly as he falls backwards onto the long table, which collapses at one end and ends up acting like a catapult. Dozens of pies and tarts are fired into the air and, for a moment, time seems to slow as they arc gracefully toward the crowd. People look up in astonishment, mouths falling open, then suddenly there’s a loud screeching sound as chairs are shoved hastily aside and everyone scrambles to get out of the way.
