A Sprinkle of Sabotage Read online

  A Sprinkle of Sabotage

  A Nosey Parker Cozy Mystery

  Fiona Leitch

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

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  Copyright © Fiona Leitch 2021

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  Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

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  Fiona Leitch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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  A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

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  Source ISBN: 9780008436605

  Ebook Edition © March 2021 ISBN: 9780008436599

  Version: 2021-03-01

  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 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Jodie’s tried and tested recipes #3

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you for reading…

  You will also love…

  About the Author

  Also by Fiona Leitch

  One More Chapter...

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  ‘I’m ready for my close up, Mr DeMille.’

  Daisy and I were in the kitchen eating breakfast but turned round at the sound of Mum’s voice.

  ‘What the—’ I spluttered, almost choking on my tea. Daisy’s mouth dropped open and a piece of half-chewed toast fell out. Germaine, our Pomeranian fur baby who had been lurking under the table hoping for scraps, took advantage of the distraction and gobbled it up.

  My seventy-year-old mum stood in the doorway, clad in a floor-length black gown covered in sequins, several of which were barely hanging on by a thread. She had a bright-pink pashmina around her shoulders and lipstick that matched it. Long diamanté drops dangled from each ear, earrings that I recognised from my own stash of costume jewellery that hadn’t been worn for years. I thought she’d probably been going for a neatly coiffured up-do with her hair, but it looked like a magpie had made a nest on the top of her head, shoved in a cheap stolen tiara, and then squirted it with a liberal application of hair spray to stop it moving.

  Daisy recovered her senses before I did. ‘That’s a … a bold look, Nana,’ she said, with a diplomacy that belied her tender years. Mum beamed at her and I swallowed hard; I couldn’t let her leave the house looking like this. It was 8.30 on a Saturday morning in sleepy Cornwall and she resembled a woman of geriatric easy virtue.

  ‘You look very… That dress is… It’s quite…’ I was lost for words, which doesn’t happen very often. When you’re a copper – which I had been, in a previous life – you come across all kinds of bizarre scenarios where what you say can be the difference between defusing the situation peacefully or making it all kick off. However, none of those previous cases had involved my mum. I fell back on a line that was the last resort of bewildered police officers the world over. ‘So what’s going on here, then?’

  Mum attempted a look of affronted dignity, but just ended up looking constipated. ‘It’s the casting today, isn’t it?’ she said, in a voice that clearly suggested I should know what she was talking about. But I didn’t.

  ‘What casting? What are you going on about?’

  She tutted as if you really couldn’t get the domestic staff these days and extracted a leaflet from the gold lamé evening bag she was clutching. I took it from her and read it aloud for Daisy’s benefit.

  ‘‘Ever wanted to be in a movie? Now’s your chance! Extras wanted for period drama filming in October at Polvarrow House, Penstowan Cross. Good rates of pay. Casting session Saturday 27th September from 10 a.m.’’ I looked at Mum. ‘So this is why you’re dressed up like Audrey Hepburn coming down from a bad acid trip, is it? This is why you got me to take you home yesterday, to pick your outfit up?’ Mum had her own house, but she more or less lived with us now that we’d moved back to Penstowan, enjoying the idea of independence without any of that tedious having-to-clean-your-own-bathroom business.

  ‘I was going more for a Downton Abbey look,’ said Mum reproachfully. ‘The film people popped in to the coffee morning on Wednesday.’ The local church held an OAPs’ coffee morning every week, which was a hotbed of gossip, scandal, and discussion about, I dunno, surgical stockings, heartburn tablets, and funeral insurance. What else would they have to talk about? ‘They asked us to put the word out as they'll need a lot of extras. I told them my daughter would bring me along.’

  ‘Would have been a good idea to tell me that,’ I grumbled, but I didn’t really mind. I didn’t have anything much planned for the day.

  Daisy turned to look at me, excitement in her eyes, and I knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth.

  ‘Yes, you can come too,’ I said, ‘although I can’t promise they’ll need anyone of your age.’ I turned the leaflet over in my hand; there were more details about the movie on the back. ‘It says here it’s a period fantasy drama – whatever that means – with a top-notch cast including—’ I sucked in my breath and looked at Daisy with wide eyes. ‘Zack Smith!’

  Daisy looked like she would fall off her chair. ‘Zack Smith? Oh my God, you’re joking! He’s amazing.’

  ‘Who the heck’s Zack Smith?’ asked Mum, hobbling further into the room and slipping off her high-heeled but wide-fitting shoes.

  ‘You remember that thing we watched the other night, with the soldier who got involved with MI6 and they had him hanging from the London Eye with his shirt off?’ Daisy blushed slightly. She would be thirteen in a couple of weeks and I’d known it was only a matter of time before she discovered boys, but it appeared to be happening already.

  ‘The fat bloke with long hair?’ Mum screwed up her face, trying to remember.

  ‘No, Nana,’ said Daisy impatiently. ‘You’re thinking of the wrong film. The one where they chase him through the underground and then trap him on the London Eye, and then he jumps into the river and escapes. The young black guy with the six-pack.’

  ‘I never quite w
orked out how he ended up without his shirt on,’ I said. ‘Apart from the fact it showed off his abs, which obviously made quite an impression on you.’

  ‘No!’ Daisy protested hotly. ‘So what if it did, anyway? I bet you fancied David Hasselhoff or someone cheesy like that when you were my age.’

  ‘The Hoff? How old do you think I am?’ I asked, offended. ‘It was Mr Darcy…’

  ‘Yeah, you do know he’s a fictional character, right?’ Daisy looked at me as if I were some kind of weirdo. Which was probably fair enough.

  ‘They did it on the telly,’ I explained. ‘Colin Firth coming out of the lake with a wet shirt on was a very special moment in my formative teenage years.’

  ‘Ooh now, that Colin,’ said Mum. ‘He’s a lovely-looking fella. I wouldn’t mind sharing my electric blanket with him.’

  ‘Mum!’ I said, exasperated.

  She laughed. ‘You can’t tell me you’d rather curl up in bed with a good book than with Mr Darcy himself! I’d even get a trick hip fitted for him.’

  ‘Honestly, you’re— What do you mean, a trick hip?’ The minute the words left my mouth I regretted it; I did not want to know what a trick hip was, not coming from my own mother.

  ‘You know Margery? Married to Alf the butcher? The one with the facial hair?’ I nodded. Poor Margery did indeed have an unfortunate amount of chin fluff, far more than her pasty-looking husband. ‘She had a new hip done a couple of years ago but it never healed right. She told me it pops out of the socket when they…’ She gave me a meaningful look and a nod.

  Daisy and I looked at each other, aghast.

  ‘I feel nauseous,’ said Daisy, laying down the piece of toast in her hand with a pained expression. ‘I may never eat again.’

  ‘Always a good idea to keep the man in your life happy,’ said Mum. ‘How do you think she got her new dishwasher?’

  I hadn’t been to Penstowan Cross for years. It was one of those nothing places you only went to if you lived there. It was basically a remote country crossroads, on the four corners of which sat a church, a rundown pub, an even more rundown garage (one petrol pump for cars, one for tractors), and a handful of houses. It was a toss-up whether the pub or the church attracted more visitors, but neither did as much business as the garage, and all three had seen better days. None of the four roads that made up the cross led anywhere particularly interesting, apart from (or maybe including) the one that led back to Penstowan itself. And of course the one that took you to Polvarrow House.

  I piled everyone, including the dog, into the car and we set off.

  ‘Margery and Alf,’ began Mum. Daisy and I shuddered at the thought of the gymnastics Margery had apparently done to get her new dishwasher. ‘They live out this way now, on the new estate.’

  ‘What new estate?’ I asked. The crossroads lay up ahead.

  ‘The new owners of Polvarrow sold off some of their land, didn’t they?’

  ‘I dunno, did they?’ Mum seemed to forget sometimes that I’d been away for the best part of twenty years, and the ins and outs of life in her little bit of Cornwall didn’t tend to make it onto the London evening news.

  ‘Yeah, they’ve proper brought the area up,’ said Mum. She wasn’t kidding.

  The pub had had a massive makeover. The paintwork was fresh, tables were dotted about cheerfully on the grass verge out the front, and I could see round the side that the beer garden was looking, well, like a beer garden, rather than a Cold War-era No Man’s Land. Hanging baskets decorated the front of the building, still full of flowers despite it being very much autumn. The old garage had been taken over, rebranded with in-your-face corporate signage, more pumps (with higher prices), and an on-site supermarket. And despite the fact that you can’t really give a church a makeover as such, it still managed to look brighter and more welcoming; a place to gather and give thanks, rather than to confess terrible sins and get a dose of hellfire.

  I turned the car towards Polvarrow House. I’d only been to the house once before, when my ex-husband Richard, a.k.a ‘that cheating swine’, and I were planning our wedding. I’d had these big ideas of having the reception at a country house, and on a trip down to visit my parents (on my own, as usual) I’d heard that the owners were thinking of making it a wedding venue to help with the costs of running the house. I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone – to be honest, I was torn between having the big dress and the fancy wedding, and just going off somewhere hot and getting married on the beach (in the end we did neither) – and I’d taken myself off for an afternoon to have a look around.

  It had been awful. The house had looked decent enough(ish) from the outside, although the grounds were slightly wilder than I had expected, with none of the neatly clipped box hedges or striped lawns that I’d imagined; but once inside, the full extent of the disrepair and neglect the building had fallen into became all too apparent. Instead of the beautiful period decor I’d been hoping for, handprinted wall coverings, plaster mouldings, and gilding, there was woodchip wall paper – that weird embossed paper that you put up and then paint over. It had been painted over in a kind of stale-tobacco yellow; or maybe it hadn’t been painted over and it was down to generations of heavy smokers. The furniture was a bizarre mismatch of old antique pieces, most of which needed re-upholstering, and flatpack stuff from Ikea. There was a strange, musty, and unpleasant smell emanating from somewhere, and the thought of inviting my guests to sit down and eat something that had been prepared in that mould-ridden cesspit of a kitchen made my insides go all squirmy. No thanks. I had quickly made my excuses and left, but not without seeing the look of utter helplessness and despair on the owners’ faces. I felt sorry for them, lumbered with this monstrous house, but not that sorry. I hoped the new people had worked their magic on their own home as much as they had on the village.

  We drove past the entrance to the new estate, which was all grass-verged cul-de-sacs, internal garages, and identical boxy but neat detached houses, then turned into the long driveway towards Polvarrow House. The wrought-iron gates stood open, painted glossy black with a curly PV motif picked out in gold; there was no sign of the rust that had blighted them on my previous visit.

  We headed along an avenue of elm trees, their leaves beginning to colour into that almost lime-green that would turn to yellow then bronze as autumn established itself more fully on the landscape. To the right, a narrow strip of neatly trimmed grass was bordered by huge shrubs – ancient rhododendrons and azaleas by the look of it, although I’m hardly a horticultural expert and they are just about the only plants I can ever recognise. Beyond them lay the back gardens of the new houses, bordered by black iron railings.

  The avenue curved left, away from the housing estate, and we were greeted with our first view of Polvarrow House itself, looking rather more salubrious than when I’d last been there. There were box topiary balls in big stone planters lining the driveway, and the ornate carved fountain that had been cracked and covered in green moss the last time I’d seen it was now shooting plumes of water into the air that landed with a gentle plashing sound in the pool below.

  ‘Wow,’ said Daisy, and I had to agree.

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t mean the house,’ she said, and then I saw what she was looking at.

  It looked like Hollywood – or the behind-the-scenes part of it, anyway – had come to Cornwall. There was a whole village of tents, motorhomes, and trucks parked on the gravel at the side of the house. There didn’t seem to be any filming going on, but it was still a hive of activity – movie people with clipboards walking around looking important, talking into mobile phones, and gesticulating wildly. I pulled up next to a friendly-looking older man who was just about the only person standing still, and wound down the window. He bent down to speak before I could say anything.

  ‘Hello! Are you here for the casting?’ he said. All three of us nodded. ‘Lovely! Just follow the drive round to the back and park up, then follow the signs.’
He stepped back with a smile, and indicated where to go.

  We drove around to the back of the house. The car park was rammed, and I recognised a few cars. We parked up and got out of the car. I had managed to persuade Mum to change into something a little less eccentric, tempting her with the promise of a visit to the local garden centre afterwards. She always enjoyed pottering around and looking at the plants, even though she had brown fingers like I did and rarely bought anything. They also have a particularly good café there, and I had learnt long ago that my mum would do pretty much anything for a toasted teacake and a nice cuppa.

  We followed the signs for ‘Casting’ back round to the front of the house and towards a big marquee tent. The friendly man we’d spoken to earlier stood outside and smiled as he saw us.

  ‘You found somewhere to park? Marvellous!’ he said enthusiastically.

  ‘Are you the director?’ asked Daisy. He laughed.

  ‘Oh, good Lord no,’ he said. ‘I’m nothing to do with all this. I’m David Morgan, the owner of Polvarrow.’

  ‘You own this place?’ I said. ‘It’s beautiful. I came here once, years ago when the last owner was still here, and it was in a right state.’