A Bitter Feast(12)
Mark Cain stood with his mobile phone in his hand, staring at the ended call in shock. Nell, dead? How was that possible? He’d just seen her that afternoon. She and Bella had gone up the field with him and the dogs, Bella watching Sprig and Wally work the sheep. Nell had told him she meant to go to the pub for dinner, and she’d been excited about helping with tomorrow’s lunch at the Talbots’.
He’d told Nell he might stop in the Lamb for a drink himself, but then at teatime he’d had a text from Viv telling him not to come to the pub. What the hell had that been about? He’d meant to text her now that the dinner service would be winding down—that was a lesson he’d learned quickly, not to interrupt the chef during the meal rush. But now, with this . . . He rubbed his face, feeling the end-of-day stubble. Good thing he hadn’t poured his usual evening nightcap—he needed a clear head.
Nell . . . All Addie had said was that she’d been killed in an accident near the Bourton junction. But what the hell was Nell doing driving that way?
“Yes,” he’d told Addie, Nell had given him a key, and he was happy to help out in any way possible.
The dogs were prancing round him now, thinking it was time to go out for the last constitutional of the evening, but he whistled them to their beds by the kitchen range. “Just wait, you two monkeys. You’re going to have some company in a bit.”
Poor Bella. She was quite bonded to Nell, who adored her. Had adored her, he corrected himself. She’d a talent for the sheep, Bella, and there’d been times he’d wished he’d kept her for himself. But no one could have given a dog more love and care than Nell had done.
Well, for now, at least, Bella would come home with him. But first, he was going to stop by the pub and find out what the hell was up with Viv Holland.
From the far side of the pub car park, Ibby Azoulay saw Mark Cain pass the pub’s main door and head round through the garden towards the kitchen. A regular ninja, the gentleman farmer, thought Ibby. Plonker. If Viv thought that nobody knew what was going on with her and Cain, she was just plain stupid. “Stupid,” he muttered, liking the sound of it. “Stupid and bloody blind.”
Ibby huddled into his jacket. The body heat he’d built up in the kitchen was dissipating in the sharp night air and he was glad he hadn’t far to walk. But he stood in the shadows a moment longer, curious to see if Viv tossed Cain out on his ear. That was a discussion he’d like to have heard, if it had to do with Fergus O’Reilly.
Of course, if that bastard O’Reilly really was back in the picture, then he, Ibby, was well out of it. Bugger. He spat, then reached in his jacket pocket for his hidden packet of cigarettes. Stepping farther back into the passage that led from the car park to the lane behind the pub yard, he lit his first smoke of the day. He didn’t dare smoke in the room he let from Bea Abbott—he didn’t dare smoke anywhere that would leave a lingering odor on his clothes. Damn Viv and her rules. His palate was just fine, thank you very much, ciggies or no. He’d always been as good a cook as Viv. Better than Fergus, maybe . . . although there had been times in the glory days when Fergus had been pure magic in the kitchen. They’d all been a little in love with him.
And Fergus had used them for it, the son of a bitch.
Ibby took a last hard drag and threw the fag end into the hedge.
What the hell was Fergus O’Reilly doing, turning up here out of the blue? Offering Viv fame and fortune? That was rich, coming from him. He only hoped Viv had enough sense to turn it down. Because as much as Ibby groused about Viv’s rules, and this dead-end, poky village, it was a good gig and he knew it. Their food was simple but top quality, and they’d begun to earn a reputation that was well deserved. The lunch tomorrow would definitely kick things up a notch, assuming they could pull it off.
And they would. Ibby would make sure of it. He’d worked in too many shithole kitchens since their London days, and been kicked out of more than a few of them. He didn’t intend to let anything put him back there—especially bloody Fergus O’Reilly.
Chapter Four
Viv lay in the dark, watching the digital display on the clock. Four fifty-eight . . . four fifty-nine . . . When the numbers ticked over to five, she reached out from under the duvet and punched the alarm off. There was no point in staying in bed worrying when she could be up and making a start on the morning.
Had she slept at all? She’d drifted in and out of anxious dreams, dogged by a fear of being unprepared and by a vague sense of menace. Twice she’d got up to check on Grace, only to find her sleeping peacefully, her old stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest as if she were a toddler.
They’d argued when Viv had come in from the pub last night. Grace had been sullen, watching telly past her bedtime—and without her glasses, which Viv knew would give her a headache—and had refused to acknowledge her mother until Viv had snapped at her and switched off the television.
“Why did you say I couldn’t talk to Fergus?” Grace had shouted at her then, tears starting. “He was nice. He asked about school, and about my bike.”
“I’ve told you not to talk to—”
“Yeah, you’re always telling me. But he wasn’t a stranger. He knew you—”
“Just because I know him doesn’t mean he’s nice.” Viv sat beside her on the sofa, ignoring Grace’s flinch away from her. “Look, love, it’s a long story and I’ll tell you sometime, but not tonight. I just want you to be careful, okay? Not everybody is what they seem.”