A Bitter Feast(70)
“Surprised to see me, then?” He didn’t smile.
“How did you—”
“Know where to find you? I rang Doug. I was worried about you. Apparently, I needn’t have been.”
“Doug? But why did he—” A movement made Melody realize that her mother was still standing right behind her. Stepping back, she said, “Oh, Mum. This is Andy. Andy, this is my mother, Addie Talbot.”
Andy held out a hand to Addie. “Andy Monahan. Melody’s friend.” There was a definite emphasis on the friend. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
Addie shook his hand warmly, then studied him with a slightly puzzled expression. “Don’t I know you from somewhere? Oh.” Her face cleared. “I’ve seen you on the television—was it Breakfast? You and your partner, the adorable girl who sings and plays the bass. Poppy.”
“Yes. Poppy Jones.”
“You’re the guitarist. I think the two of you are so talented.”
Melody glanced at her mother in shock. What was she doing, gushing like a smitten teenager? Not that Andy looked the rock star today. His usually tousled blond hair was neatly combed. He wore a quite smart navy blazer over a blue button-down shirt, and jeans with his bespoke brown leather boots—those, one of his few concessions to his recent celebrity.
“Remember, darling?” Addie turned to Melody. “I told you how much I liked that song?” She hummed a bit of Andy and Poppy’s hit from last summer—perfectly in key. Melody could have sunk through the earth. “Why didn’t you say you two were friends?”
“I— It just never came up—”
“Well, in any case, do come in,” Addie said before Melody could dig herself in any deeper. “We were just about to have lunch. You must join us, Andy.”
“I’m very sorry, Lady Adelaide, but I can’t stay. I’ve just come to have a word with Melody. It won’t take long.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gemma, Bella, Kincaid, and Booth repaired to the farthest table in the garden. It had grown so warm that it felt more like balmy summer than late September. Bees zoomed among the splash of red roses still blooming on the nearby stone wall and visited the small pot of lavender on their table, coming perilously close to Gemma’s egg mayo and watercress sandwich.
The pub car park was now full, and most of the other tables in the garden were occupied with Sunday lunch diners making the most of the weather. Viv had insisted that they take something to eat from the kitchen, and Gemma had had to admit that her bite of breakfast had long since worn off. She’d promised Viv that she’d help out in the pub wherever needed—the least she could do was bus tables—but not until she’d had a chance to make certain that she, Kincaid, and Booth were all up to speed. And not until they’d finished their lunches. Booth had ordered the ploughman’s, Kincaid the roast chicken sandwich, but she noticed he didn’t manage to eat more than a few bites.
When she and Booth, at least, were mopping up crumbs, she said, “I’ve been thinking, trying to work out what might have happened here on Friday night. Fergus O’Reilly apparently walked out of the bar without his coat or mobile. We assume he’d just stepped out and meant to come back, right? But why did he go outside? He didn’t smoke, did he?”
“Nothing indicates that he did,” agreed Booth. “Maybe it was too warm in the bar and he just needed some air.”
“Or maybe he needed to cool off for another reason—the argument in the kitchen,” said Gemma. “Jack Doyle told me that O’Reilly was slagging off Viv’s food the entire evening. Then he barged into the kitchen and he and Viv had a shouting match. Did anyone you interviewed say exactly what it was about?”
Booth gazed into the distance, then said, “The two cooks said that she told him to get out of her kitchen, that he had no right to be there. Viv Holland just agreed with them.”
“So.” Shooing a wasp away from her glass, Gemma took a cautious sip of her lemonade before going on. “If O’Reilly was sniping at her food and sending it back, I’d guess he was already angry with her. Why? Because she turned down the job he offered her? That seems a pretty extreme reaction.”
“Famous chef, offering her a plum job, and she doesn’t want it,” mused Booth. “Maybe his ego was wounded. He was never exactly a self-effacing bloke.”
“Formerly famous chef,” put in Kincaid. “According to what Doug Cullen found this morning.” He repeated what they had learned from Doug’s research.
“Well, if he wasn’t doing well, it must have really smarted to be turned down.” Booth ate his last potato crisp and eyed Kincaid’s plate.
“Maybe.” Gemma mulled this over. “But you know what bothers me about this? The mobile. Who leaves their phone behind these days when they step outside for a breath of air?”
“Who leaves their mobile in their coat pocket to begin with?” countered Booth. “Instead of keeping it in hand or on the table?”
“True. Although the reception is iffy here. But, I’ve been thinking. What if Fergus left his coat and his mobile not because he was angry, but because he wasn’t feeling well? We know he must have died very shortly after he left the pub.” She took out her own mobile, checked the bars, and pulled up a Wikipedia page. Scanning the page, she said, “Listen to this. Symptoms of digitalis poisoning include vomiting, loss of appetite—that could be why Fergus kept sending Viv’s food back—blurred vision, and confusion. We’ve never come up with any explanation for what Fergus O’Reilly was doing in Nell Greene’s car, or any connection between them.