Murder On The Menu

 

CHAPTER 1  

  

“This hotel is wonderful, isn’t it?” said the tall, striking Spaniard, Pablo, flashing a smile at his equally handsome – though a tad shorter – husband, Carlos, as they made their way down to breakfast.  

Their peaceful moment was shattered by a sharp, shrill female voice that cut through the air like broken glass.  

“She’s bloody well dead, I tell you!” Violent sobbing ensued.  

Like synchronised gymnasts, the Spanish couple leapt over the last two wide stairs, across the plush carpet to the area by the hotel’s reception.

Startled guests on the way to the restaurant gaped in their direction.  

“It’s okay,” called Carlos, his voice calm although his heart was hammering. “Enjoy your breakfast.”  

The source of the kerfuffle was a young woman in a green hotel logoed polo shirt whom Pablo had met the previous evening. She faced a woman wearing a tailored grey business suit with a white blouse and bleached blonde hair sprayed into the shape of a helmet. A badge declared her to be the hotel manager.  

Ever ready to be of assistance, Carlos turned to them. “Can we help?”  

The sobbing young woman spun round with a squeal, her black curls bouncing. “I…  She was…”  

The bleached blonde took a step towards Carlos. “She says she’s found one of the guests dead.” Her voice was croaky, her face pale, and her blue eyes wide.  

Pablo stepped over to the traumatised bundle of sobbing and pulled her to him, her face instantly wetting his shirt. “It is okay. We are here. You have had a shock. Crying is good for shock.” The woman continued to do what was good for shock.  

Reaching his hand to Pablo’s shoulder, Carlos looked to the Manager.

“This is Pablo. I’m Carlos. Please come and sit down.”  

While Carlos held her by the elbow and guided her to a nearby black leather sofa, Pablo helped the young woman to one opposite, soothing her until the sobbing reduced to the rhythm of a chugging tractor. The manager blinked her round eyes rapidly.  

Carlos perched on the edge of the seat and looked into her face. “Please, tell us what has happened. Then maybe we can help.”  

The overly hair-sprayed woman at last found her voice. “She…”  She waved a hand towards her colleague.  “Ruth… says she’s found one of our guests dead in their bed.”  

Carlos took one of her hands. It was cold, like the inside of his own gut, and rubbed it. “Where is this… person?”  

“Ruth, what room is she in?”  

“Nine”. Ruth pulled some tissues out from the middle of her bra and blew her nose noisily. Pablo squeezed her shoulders encouragingly, and Carlos stood.  

“I’ll go and look. You two stay here with Pablo. You’ll be okay with him.”  

Carlos strode off, breaking into a run once he turned the curve of the stairs out of sight. The door to Room 9 was wide open. With his pulse sounding in his ears, Carlos entered. He could only see the foot of the bed, but more came into view as he cautiously passed the en-suite.  

And there was Valerie, the elderly woman he had been introduced to the previous evening. She had come to the hotel to take part in Pablo’s fourday cookery course. She lay in the bed, hair white, face white, mouth and eyes gaping. Still. Lifeless.  

Carlos had to fight the urge to recoil or vomit, as his gaze was trapped by what failed to look human, flesh, but like a grotesque doll, plastic. The very air in the room was suffocating.  

Forcing his mind back to reality, Carlos became aware he was trembling. He felt cold, yet his face was flushed. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. He ran his hands over his head and closed his eyes, but he had to look. First he opened his eyes like slits, then forced the lids further apart.  

Think. What should you do?  

He was sure it was superfluous to do it, but he knew he must. He went over to Valerie and put his ear in front of her mouth and listened for breath. Nothing. Then he felt her neck for a pulse. Again, nothing.  

He knew from unfortunate past experience not to close her eyes or cover her face, or do anything to the scene, except walk out and shut the door with the latch down.  

As he reached the stairs, a couple of people were headed in the same direction. He turned to them with a smile fixed on his face. “Good morning. Enjoy your breakfast.” He walked behind them down the steps and across the level floor, although his body wanted to run.  

A couple of yards from the group on the sofas, he nodded confirmation of the death to Pablo and pulled out his phone. He called up the number for someone he had come to know well in the last year: Peter Van Niessan. The detective inspector answered after two rings. “Peter. It’s Carlos. I’m at the Wally Hill Manor Hotel. I’m afraid there’s a dead body in room nine. No blood. Dead in bed.”  

  

***  

Sometime later, when the Spaniards had been able to pass the matter over to the police, they made their way to the orangery attached to the main restaurant. Pablo, having become accustomed to strange things happening around them over the last year, was determined to carry on. He was due to start teaching a cookery course in one of the function rooms at ten.  

“We need to think about something other than Valerie now,” said Carlos. “Did you like the students you met yesterday evening? Who can you remember?”  

“Poor Valerie…” Pablo sighed. “She and the pretty young Rhana seemed to get on well.”  

“Yes, they did, and the three middle-aged men joined them, so hopefully there will be no arguments in your classes.”  

Pablo nodded and managed a tight smile. “Even the young one, Jamie, went to join them eventually.”  

“Although he must have been drunk by then, he’d spent so long at the bar.”  

Pablo chuckled. “Yes. I hope his head does not hurt too much this morning.”  

“He must be serious about his cooking. Already at university learning to be a chef and taking this course in his Easter break.”  

But Pablo continued to have difficulty keeping his mind off the unfortunate deceased  

Valerie Fleming. “She was a lovely lady. And she hadn’t lost her zest for life. Remember how she kept looking at that man?”  

“Damien? Yes, I think he spotted it. He’s no spring chicken, but Valerie would be too old for him, I’m sure. He probably preferred Rhana.”  

“Yes, she is much younger. She has big brown eyes like you, Carlos, but yours are better.”  

“Of course. What was the name of the Afro-Caribbean man?  

“Len.”  

I think he’s beginning to relax. Carlos kept up the distraction. “Then there was the widower, Ian, who misses his wife’s wonderful cooking… with the hair around the edge of his bald head. That will be me in a few years.”  

Pablo patted Carlos on the head. “It doesn’t matter what is up here on the outside. It is the mind inside that I love, and that lovely face.” He stroked the beard on Carlos’ left cheek.  

Carlos chuckled and pushed Pablo’s hand away. “Nutcase.”  

  

***  

Pablo’s first student was ushered in by Lesley Diakos, the manager who’d been dealing badly with the crisis earlier. “This is the gentleman who arrived this morning, Elliot Wensley. Mr Wensley, this is Senor Pablo Rubio, your instructor for the week.”  

“Buenos dias, Senor Rubio.”  

Pablo grinned. “Please, call me Pablo. I hope we will all become friends in this little group.”  

“Pablo. Pleased to meet you.”  

Elliot was in his fifties with the beginnings of a paunch and gingery-grey hair. He wore a brown silk scarf around his neck and tucked into his long-sleeved t-shirt, and fine brown gloves. Looking into his face, Pablo noticed his skin was dry with small red blotches.  

“Please excuse the gloves and scarf,” said Elliot. “I have terrible trouble with my skin, and they help. I’ll put latex gloves on for handling food.”  

Pablo smiled at him, then was distracted as two more people came in. One was the widowed Ian with his band of white hair, the other the younger Rhana with the brown eyes.   

Jamie, the dedicated catering student, arrived, showing no signs of a hangover. He was as tall as Pablo, but skinny with a very fair complexion and thick curly hair a shade darker than true blond.  

Two more men came in together: one Afro-Caribbean, Len, early forties, and the other a tad older, Damien. Both were quite athletic in build.  

Pablo was always interested in people and how they interacted with each other and their environment. He noticed Jamie spoke less to the others, and wondered if he was putting more concentration into his cooking or felt shy again now he was, presumably, sober again.  

Rhana wasn’t overly chatty but gave as good as she got in the banter stakes. Len and Damien talked a lot about football, while Ian and Elliot shared a passion for fishing.  

As the students finished clearing up, having put their dishes in to cook, and sat down for Pablo to impart more wisdom, Rhana Sharma asked,

“Where’s Valerie?”  

“Oh yes,” said Ian. “I hadn’t noticed. We’re one short.”  

Pablo felt a knot in his gut. “I’m afraid she was unwell in the night and won’t be joining us after all.” He couldn’t bring himself to say how unwell.  

 ***  

  

Carlos’ friends, Detective Inspector Peter Van Niessan and Sergeant Jennifer Sterling, arrived at the hotel and made their way to Room 9.  

“Good morning, Peter, Jennifer,” greeted the big pathologist beside the bed.  

“Not so good for this lady,” said Peter. “What have you found?”  

“Come and look at her nose.”  

Peter Van Niessan positioned himself for a closer look.  

“I’ll have to put her on the slab for a thorough investigation, of course, but… Can you see some tiny fibres in her nostrils?  May well match the bedding, the pillowcases.

I’m thinking she was very likely smothered.”