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Amazon
Wendy Soliman
Category:
Mystery/Suspense
Publisher: Bookbaby
ISBN-10: 9781483556628
Pages: 221
Copyright: July 7, 2015
Price: $1.99 (eBook)
Reality TV. How far would you go to win?
Investigative journalist, Alexi Ellis, moves from her high-powered job on a London Sunday paper to live in Lambourn—a sleepy village in the heart of British horseracing country. As an investor in her friends’ ailing boutique hotel she seizes on the chance to have a fly-on-the-wall televised cookery contest filmed there.
Disaster strikes when the sexy, provocative contestant, guaranteed to keep viewers’ temperatures at boiling point, is murdered on set; stabbed through a silicone implant with a chef’s knife. Everyone involved with the contest is suspect but the police home in on the hotel’s glamorous chef, Marcel Gasquet.
Tyler Maddox, ex-Metropolitan Police Detective turned private eye, is working on another case in the area. When he finds ties between his investigation and Alexi’s, he teams up for the second time with the attractive reporter, looking for answers. Delving deeper into the contestants’ backgrounds, they all have compelling reasons to want Juliette dead, but the police seem convinced Marcel is their man.
Excerpt
Chapter One
“Why is it so damned cold?” Alexi stamped her UGG-booted feet on the frosty ground and thrust her hands deeper into the pockets of her sheepskin jacket. “It never got this arctic in London.”
“Stop being such a baby,” Cheryl chided. “It’s only November. Give it a few weeks and then you’ll really have something to complain about.”
It gets worse than this?” Alexi shuddered at the prospect.
“It only seems warmer in London because of all that pollution.”
“Can’t beat an unhealthy dose of carbon monoxide to keep the mercury above freezing.” Alexi caught Cheryl’s elbow to prevent her from slipping on a patch of ice. “Point proven, I believe.”
“Go on, admit it, you like it here.” She nodded towards Alexi’s cat. “He certainly does.”
“Only because there’s more wildlife for him to terrorise.”
“Given some of the sights I saw the last time I was in London, I’d have to disagree.”
Alexi’s breath clouded in front of her face when she chuckled. “I guess you have a point.”
Marvin, Alexi’s cat, trotted ahead of the two friends while Cheryl’s little terrier Toby danced ecstatically around his feline friend.
“You’d think they hadn’t seen each other for weeks rather than a couple of days,” Cheryl said with an indulgent smile.
Marvin was twice Toby’s size and weight, his paw prints in the frost double the size of the dog’s. Alexi had been a reporter on the trail of a story that only the derelicts sleeping rough beneath Waterloo arches could help her to break. Marvin, a wild feral cat who also resided beneath the arches, had taken a liking to Alexi and allowed her to adopt him. They’d been a double act ever since.
“You okay?” Alexi slowed her pace when she noticed that Cheryl had to scurry to keep up with her. “You should have stayed inside with your little bundle of joy.”
Cheryl grinned at this reference to her two-month-old daughter. “What, and deprive Drew of an excuse to pamper her?”
“Since when did he need an excuse?”
Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Very true.”
Alexi laughed, thinking of Cheryl’s larger than life husband and his total absorption with Verity. As a first time father, he was duty bound to be terrified of dropping her, or somehow screwing things up. And yet Drew had yet to put a foot wrong as he dealt with her needs like a seasoned professional.
“That baby is definitely going to be a daddy’s girl,” Alexi predicted.
“Don’t I just know it!” Cheryl grinned. “He even has me…”
“Oh no!” Alexi dropped Cheryl’s arm and raced ahead. “Marvin, stop that at once!”
The film crew guy Marvin had decided to amuse himself by terrorising had dropped his equipment—probably something expensive and irreplaceable—and legged it for the nearest door. At the sound of Alexi’s voice, Marvin gave up pursuing him and morphed into a sleek grey and white striped purring picture of innocence as he twined himself around Alexi’s legs.
“Bad boy! You know better than that.”
“What the fuck is that thing?” the crew member asked from behind the safety of a closed door. “Looks like something out of Africa! Doesn’t he…well, frighten the horses?”
“Sorry about that. He’s actually quite harmless,” Alexi said, crossing her fingers behind her back. “And, despite what you might have heard, he’s not a white tiger. He just looks like one and thinks he ought to live up to the rep.”
“Yeah well.” The guy poked his head cautiously around the door and eyed Marvin dubiously, trying to look as though he hadn’t just let a cat freak him out. “If he’s harmless I’ll put a tenner on the outside in the one-thirty at Kempton Park.”
Alexi rolled her eyes. This was a horseracing town and everyone talked the talk. The guy retrieved his equipment, uttered a few more expletives and disappeared inside the improvised studio. With Marvin under control again, Alexi returned to Cheryl.
“Don’t be too hard on him,” Cheryl said, tears of laughter pouring down her face. “It’s been a while since he exerted his authority.”
“He’ll be the death of me yet.”
“He’s only amusing himself. He’s like a teenager who gets bored and acts up to get attention.”
“I can see I’ll have to keep him clear of this lot.”
“No need.” Cheryl flapped a hand. “I’ll tell them to man up. This is the country. Who could possibly be afraid of a sweet little pussy cat.” Cheryl dropped a hand to stroke Marvin’s large head. He pushed against her hand and purred like the innocent he most decidedly was not.
“Brat!” Alexi said, failing to keep the affection out of her voice.
Alexi cast a critical eye over the building that the film guy had just taken refuge in, still astonished at the speed with which so many changes had taken place in seven short months. Hopgood House was situated in Lambourn, the valley of the racehorse. It was a boutique hotel owned by Cheryl and Drew. Alexi and Cheryl had been friends since their university days. Cheryl married Drew almost as soon as she graduated with a degree in hotel management while Alexi headed for a career in journalism. The career that she had put every waking hour into excelling at had come to a spectacular end in the spring when her paper, the Sunday Sentinel, downsized—make that dumbed down—and as a serious investigative journalist she was a casualty of the cutbacks.
She and Marvin came down to Lambourn so she could lick her wounds and decide where to go from there, only to become involved in a missing persons case. A friend of Cheryl’s had disappeared. It later transpired that she had been murdered by a local trainer—a man who many around these parts considered to be on a par with God. Alexi broke the case with the help of a rather attractive local P.I., Tyler Maddox.
Alexi had subsequently received a hefty advance from one of the few remaining print publishing houses to write a book about the case. She had taken a cottage in Lambourn and settled into village life, a very quiet location in which to get the book written and decide where to go next. A city girl by nature, she was surprised how easily she had slotted into the whole country scene, and by how readily the locals had accepted her. Given that she’d unmasked one of their own as a murderer, she’d half thought that she would be ostracised.
Cheryl and Drew’s hotel had been failing when Alexi arrived. The building they were looking at now—built from aged brick to match the rest of the lovely old Georgian house—had been an ugly extension of prefabricated buildings to house the grooms working at the yard of the disgraced trainer. At Alexi’s suggestion, they turned it into a proper extension with conference facilities and more accommodation. She went into partnership with Cheryl and Drew and financed the extension. Drew used his influence to push planning consent through and the structure had been completed less than a month previously.
“I can’t wait until spring to see how all the little courtyards and landscaping look,” Cheryl said. “It was clever of you to suggest that Fay did the designs.”
“It gave her a purpose,” Alexi replied, referring to the mother of the murder victim, who now lived in her daughter’s cottage locally.
“Come on, let’s go inside. I’m dying to see how it all works. Not you,” Alexi said, holding up at hand to Marvin, who meowed indignantly. “You’ve already blotted your copybook. And no nipping at anyone’s ankles, okay?” Marvin peered up at Alexi through piercing blue eyes. “We won’t be long.”
There had been a big rush and a lot of bribery involved in getting the extension finished so quickly. Following the murder investigation, the hotel’s business picked up dramatically for a while. All the ghouls wanting to say they’d seen the scene of the crime, Drew figured, taking advantage of their…well, ghoulishness by upping his prices. Alexi took the opportunity to promote the conference facilities, intending to use them for journalism and writing retreats, weddings and just about anything else they could charge top dollar for.
What she didn’t make allowance for was her old boss and former lover, Patrick Vaughan, Political Editor on The Sentinel, coming up trumps. Desperate to get Alexi back, he wasn’t taking no for an answer. She agreed to write the odd freelance article for the paper, but made sure she offered pieces to the competition as well. She had a point to make. Patrick kept offering her more and more enticing deals if she’d return to The Sentinel, to London and to his bed.
Alexi wasn’t going anywhere.
The Sentinel was owned by a mogul who also had interests in a big cable television channel: one that was giving serious competition to the national stations. The channel was filming fly-on-the-wall cookery programmes from five different locations in the country—one per weekday night from each location for six weeks. The regional winners would cook-off against one another for the star prize. Patrick heard that one location had problems with the Health and Safety people, knew of the extension to Hopgood House and sold Alexi on the idea; if the building could be completed on time. Anything was possible, with the incentive of six whole weeks of near full occupancy to spur a hotelier on. Alexi didn’t like the idea of being indebted to Patrick but knew he would be doing it as much for the kudos it would earn him with the boss—pulling the series out of the mire—as to curry favour with her. Patrick always had his eye on the bigger picture.
Much as she hated to admit it, Patrick had been right to suggest Cheryl’s hotel, and more especially her temperamental chef Marcel, to star in the production. The hotel was situated in one of the most picturesque villages in the country, where racehorses outnumbered people. The house itself, furnished with lovingly preserved antiques, made a beautiful backdrop. As for Marcel, he could give Gordon Ramsey a run for his money when it came to effing and blinding, except he did it with a French accent that somehow made the profanities sound more exotic. His moodiness and dark good looks made him a natural for the small screen. The camera loved him and he played up to it like the prima donna that he was.
“Do you think they’ve done their homework on Marcel?” Cheryl asked. “I mean, he looks, sounds and acts French but you and I both know his roots are in the East End of London and he’s actually a bona fide cockney.”
“Not sure.” Alexi took a moment to consider the question. “I don’t think he’s ever actually claimed to be French, just that he grew up in France and trained there, which is true. Everyone just assumes—”
“And he doesn’t put them right.”
“Well, in fairness, competition in his sphere is brutal. Anything to gain an edge.”
“I suppose.”
Cheryl opened the door to the reception area and wiped her feet. Alexi followed suit, knowing it was a waste of time and that their pristine new wood floors would soon be filthy from all the comings and goings. Alexi thought about the obscene amount of money they were being paid to allow the facilities to be abused by the film crew and figured it was a small price to pay.
“The four contestants should be here soon,” Alexi said, nodding to the harried producer who was conducting a conversation on his mobile and talking to a man in a suit at the same time. “I can’t wait to see what masochistic types would be willing to have every aspect of their lives under scrutiny twenty-four seven for the next six weeks.”
“They do it on Big Brother.”
“Yes, but none of our lot will be voted off. They are committed to staying the course, being bullied by our pseudo-French chef and living with cameras everywhere except in the bathrooms.” Alexi shrugged. “I guess you’ve really got to want to make it as a chef to put up with having no privacy.”
“Think of our bank balance,” Cheryl said, grinning. “And be grateful that we don’t have to appear on camera.”
“Oh, trust me, I am!”
The friends entered a small reception room where, in front of the television cameras, the contestants would be introduced to Marcel for the first time. Alexi and Cheryl took chairs out of range of the cameras. Alexi nodded to the guy Marvin had terrorised and again apologised.
“No sweat,” he replied, sticking out a hand. “I’m Guy Salter, sound engineer.”
“Alexi Ellis, co-owner.” She shook his hand. “And Cheryl Hopgood, the real owner.”
“Welcome to our little piece of paradise,” Cheryl said, taking her turn to shake his hand.
“Did I miss it?” Drew came dashing in carrying Verity across his body in a hooded, thickly-quilted pink papoose. She was sleeping peacefully. “Real men aren’t afraid to wear pink,” he added, grinning when he saw Alexi’s shocked look.
“How does he do that?” Cheryl demanded to know, cooing over her sleeping child. “She’s never this quiet for me.”
“It’s a gift,” Drew replied, kissing the end of his wife’s nose. “Well, actually, I sing to her. Works every time.”
Cheryl gaped at him. “You couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
He grinned. “Verity makes allowances.”
“She would have to.”
“No, the show hasn’t started yet,” Alexi said, answering Drew’s original question.
“No sign of Tyler then,” Drew said. “I thought he might show his face.”
Alexi shrugged, unprepared to say she’d hoped the same thing. She hadn’t seen much of him since they’d tied up Natalie Parker’s murder. Not that there was any reason why she should have. There had been a spark between them when they first met, but it had failed to ignite. They’d been out to dinner a few times during the ensuing months; nothing more. Perhaps Alexi had misread the signs or someone else had a prior claim on Tyler. The possessiveness of his attractive business partner sprang to mind. Probably just as well, she thought. Since getting her fingers burned with Patrick, she wasn’t ready to play the love game again quite yet, even if Tyler did tick all the right boxes.
“Last time I spoke to him a few weeks back he was tied up on some big investigation in Newbury,” Alexi replied.
“Ah, shame.”
“Hey, gorgeous.”
“What are you doing here?” Alexi demanded to know, when Patrick stole up to one side of her, slid an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek.
“Don’t you mean, thank you for organising all this and making the hotel a fortune?”
“No, I mean what are you doing here? You run a paper, not a TV show.”
“Thought I might write a piece on the meet-and-greet stuff myself.”
Alexi sent him a disbelieving look. That was junior reporter stuff. “How the mighty have fallen,” she said. “Anyway, I’m surprised you got past Marvin.”
“Ah, I tricked him.”
Alexi shook his arm from her waist and shook a finger at him. “If you hurt my cat then you’re a dead man, Vaughan.”
“Here we go,” Drew said.
The producer, Evan Southgate, climbed onto the stage and introduced Marcel to the programme’s host, a man by the name of Paul Dakin. He sported a fake tan, heavily lacquered, bouffanted hair and dazzling white dental implants. Alexi had already had the dubious pleasure of meeting him and disliked him on sight. His plastic charm didn’t impress her any more than the smile that failed to reach his eyes. Paul Dakin was his own number one fan—no question. She actually yawned when he spoke almost entirely about himself for ten minutes and then failed to interest her in writing a piece on him for The Sentinel.
Alexi smiled as Marcel hammed it up for the cameras, banging on about how passionate he was about all things in life, food being just one of them.
“He’ll get all the ladies tuning in, even the ones who hate cooking,” Cheryl whispered. “The camera really does love him and the French accent is the perfect touch. I can see why the producers were so keen to have him. Good job you had the sense to tie him into a contract with us, otherwise…”
“Here come the contestants,” Alexi said, sitting forward, keen to see what they were like. Details had been closely guarded and all she knew was that there were two men and two women.
A hush fell over the audience. It was made up of an assortment of crew, suits from Far Reach— the production company Patrick was so keen to make an impression upon—and an array of local big-wigs, including the mayor.
“Fucking hell!” Drew breathed as the first victim, a lady by the name of Juliette Hammond, tottered onto the stage in four-inch heels and a skirt that could have doubled as a belt, leaving precious little to the imagination. She was hotter than the temperatures generated in Marcel’s kitchen and she knew it. There was an audible gasp of appreciation from the entire male audience. Alexi could understand why the men had all sat up and taken notice. The woman was short, stacked and feminine to her well-manicured fingertips. She had a waterfall of long blonde hair artfully cascading over one shoulder and suspiciously green eyes. Odds on she was wearing coloured contacts. Oh hell, even Alexi was starting to think like a bookie.
Alexi forgave Ms. Hammond the heavy-handed makeup which was probably necessary for appearing before the cameras. Did that mean the contestants would have to wear makeup all the time, even when they weren’t ‘performing’? So much for being caught in their downtime looking natural. Juliette’s figure was slender yet curvy and everything about her screamed sex appeal. Even Marcel seemed momentarily speechless which, in Alexi’s experience, was unheard of.
“Wonder if she can cook,” Cheryl murmured.
“Who gives a shit,” one of the crew replied.
Greta Reid was Juliette’s polar opposite; tall, overweight and totally unremarkable. The two male contestants, John Shelton and Anton Heston were different species as well. Anton had the caramel-coloured skin of a West Indian, with a fine head of dreadlocks and laidback attitude to go with it. John was short, balding and on the ugly side of forty. They each did their spiel for the camera, talking about their backgrounds in the catering trade, their love of all things to do with food and what it would mean to them if they won this leg of the competition.
“Heaven help the winner,” Drew muttered, aware that he or she was guaranteed a year in Marcel’s kitchen, if they could take his temper for that long, learning the trade under his not-so-tender tutelage. The winner of the entire competition would get a big cash reward and an opportunity to feature in a regular TV cooking show.
When asked by Dakin what he thought of the competitors, Marcel gave them a contemptuous look, including a preening Juliette in his disdain, and said he would reserve judgement until he found out if any of them could actually cook. If Juliette expected the preferential treatment her looks probably guaranteed her with men then Alexi reckoned she was in for a disappointment. In her experience, good looking, charismatic people like Marcel didn’t need the competition. Time would tell.
Paul reminded them that from now on they would all be on camera. Everything they said and did would be recorded for posterity…or, more precisely, the edification of the viewing public. With those words ringing in their ears the producer called ‘cut’ to the live segment. The contestants didn’t seem too sure what to do with themselves after that. They milled around, drinking champagne, making small talk, looking apprehensive.
“The gloss is already wearing off,” Drew muttered.
“Don’t say that,” Cheryl replied. “I’ll throttle Marcel if he screws this up for us by being too…well, Marcelish.”
“He needs this opportunity as much as they do,” Alexi said, hoping she was right about that.
Alexi’s party left them to it and returned to the main part of the hotel. Marvin and Toby materialised and escorted them back.
“At least that lot will be confined there for the duration,” Drew said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the annex, “and we can keep our distance.”
Alexi suspected things wouldn’t be quite that straightforward but didn’t disillusion Drew. With four such diverse contestants, living and working at close quarters, there were bound to be fireworks. That, of course, was what the television station was counting on to boost their ratings.
“Who gets to jump Juliette’s bones?” Patrick asked. “Anyone running a book?”
“You won’t get odds on that,” Drew replied. “Marcel decides who wins so she’ll have him in her sights.”
“Actually, I think she’ll go for Paul,” Alexi said musingly. “As presenter he has more influence with the Far Reach Productions. Or Evan, the actual producer, of course. There again, perhaps we’re doing her a disservice and she really is here to prove herself as a cook. The skirt and heels might have been the station’s way of vamping up interest.”
“And my baby might sleep through the night,” Cheryl replied, rolling her eyes.
“Will you let me buy you lunch?” Patrick asked Alexi in a quiet aside.
Alexi hesitated. “Why?” she asked.
“We need to talk a bit about your upcoming feature on incest,” he reminded her.
Alexi nodded. The idea for the feature came about due to the Natalie Parker case. It transpired that Natalie had been abused by her adoptive father. Not strictly a case of incest, it had still ultimately led to her murder and inspired Alexi to delve more deeply into the whole minefield of parental abuse. The article, she thought, was one of her finest pieces and Patrick agreed with her. The paper’s lawyers, though, had reservations. When didn’t they?
“It would be a business lunch then and you can put it on your generous expense account?”
“Sure it’s business,” he replied, looking smug.
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