Fiona Leitch - A Nosey Parker Cozy Mystery

‘Our caterer let us down and the wedding’s next weekend,’ he said.

Next weekend? Holy—

‘I was just saying to Jodie’ – he turned to his fiancée, indicating me with a wave of his hand –‘I was just saying, it’s serentipidy—’

‘Serendipity,’ she corrected, smiling at him condescendingly. Hmm. ‘So – Jodie, was it? – what are your credentials? How many weddings have you done? We’ve got a very upmarket venue – Parkview Manor Hotel, do you know it? – and lots of guests coming from all over the country.’

I opened my mouth to confess that I hadn’t actually done any weddings but if they were this close to their wedding day, good luck finding someone else as willing (or as desperate for the money) as me. But Tony beat me to it.

‘Her credentials are, she’s an old friend and ex-copper, and you don’t get better references than that,’ he said. Cheryl pursed her lips but didn’t argue, aware that if she didn’t want to end up feeding her upmarket guests pasty and chips in the very downmarket Kings Arms in Market Square, she didn’t have much choice. I smiled.

‘I’ll do it for whatever the last caterer was going to do it for, if you throw in the sofa.’

So that was how I found myself, six days later, standing outside the imposing entrance to Parkview Manor Hotel. It was early evening, the day before The Wedding of the Century™; many of the guests were staying overnight and Tony had (against Cheryl’s wishes, I thought) invited me to join their welcome drinks. I tugged down my dress; I’d put weight on since leaving the force, and even more since doing my catering course, and my going-out clothes, which I didn’t get the chance to wear much, were all starting to get a little snug. My shoes were already pinching my toes. They were hardly Jimmy Choos but they were the only ones in my wardrobe that weren’t made by Nike or Dr Martens. I comforted myself with the thought that I’d be in the kitchen tomorrow and back in my eminently more sensible jeans and trainers, took a deep breath, and entered.

The hotel foyer was very plush and wouldn’t have looked out of place in London, rather than in the Cornish countryside. Marble covered every conceivable surface and I got the feeling that if I stood there gawping for too long I’d get marble-ised as well. There were lush, exotic ferns and birds-of-paradise dotted all over the place, and the plant-killer in me (I have brown thumbs) immediately suspected they were plastic. I surreptitiously stroked a leaf as I passed (thereby condemning the poor unsuspecting fern to an early grave); they were real and all very well cared for.

I vaguely recognised the woman behind the reception desk. Although I hadn’t lived in Penstowan for almost twenty years, I’d grown up and gone to school here, and seventy-five per cent of the inhabitants were either old classmates, siblings of classmates, or parents of them. She smiled and inclined her head slightly towards the sign that said, ‘Penhaligon and Laity Wedding Party’, with a photo of the happy couple and an arrow pointing towards a function room. It was forebodingly quiet, with very little in the way of music or chatter floating into the foyer.

Inside the function room, there were a few guests standing at the bar chatting, with Tony holding court. He was clearly very excited about his upcoming big day, chattering away with a boyish enthusiasm that was quite endearing. It was still fairly early so presumably this wasn’t it; Cheryl had said they had guests coming from all over the country so maybe they just hadn’t arrived yet.

‘Nosey!’ called Tony. Now that was less endearing. I really needed to have a word with him about using my childhood nickname. I plastered on a smile and tottered over, grimacing at the blister that was already threatening a little toe.

But I never reached Tony and his chums because everyone’s attention was suddenly drawn to the doorway of the function room. The double doors had been thrown open and Cheryl stood there, smiling beatifically at the assembled guests. She was dressed to the nines in a fitted cocktail dress of deep scarlet silk, while her hair had been seriously coiffured and hair-sprayed to within an inch of its life. She was still rocking that 80s kind of vibe, but there was no denying that she did it well. My cheap chain-store dress and ugly shoes felt even more uncomfortable under her gaze and I could not wait to go home and put my pyjamas on.

She paused for a moment longer, milking her dramatic entrance, then opened her mouth to speak.

Her words were lost as she suddenly disappeared from view, bulldozed and tossed to one side by a screeching harpy in a khaki boiler suit.

For a split second nobody moved; we were all wondering what the hell had just happened. And then came the sound of bitch-slapping from the foyer.

I yanked off my stupid uncomfortable shoes and ran outside to see Cheryl lying on the ground, her hands thrust upwards and attempting to choke the madwoman sitting astride her – a madwoman who was still managing to wheeze threats at her.

‘Mel?’ Tony arrived seconds after me, and stood staring in astonishment.

‘Is that really Mel?’ I said, amazed. I hadn’t seen Tony’s ex-wife for years, and the last time I had she’d possessed a head of wonderful red curly hair. The harpy’s hair was bleached blonde and cut very short and spiky.

‘You can’t marry him!’ the harpy screeched. ‘You don’t love him! I won’t let you ruin his life!’

‘ You already did that, you cow!’ snarled Cheryl, who was having trouble breathing under Mel’s not inconsiderable frame. I had to admit she had a point.

This was entertaining but getting out of hand. No one else was going to stop it – they were all still too gobsmacked – so I waded in. I’ve had the training, after all.

‘All right, ladies, that’s enough,’ I said, as I tried to prise Cheryl’s fingers away from Mel’s throat. When that didn’t work – she had a strong grip for someone with such well-manicured hands – I chopped her hard on the inside of the elbow with the side of my hand, making her yelp and let go. Then I dragged Mel to her feet and positioned myself between the two women.

I glared at Tony and the crowd (who were mostly male) gawping at us.

‘It’s all right, lads, don’t bloody help or anything, will you,’ I said, rolling my eyes. Tony shook himself and helped Cheryl to her feet.

‘She can’t marry him!’ cried Mel, straining to get to the furious and not-so-blushing bride-to-be again. I shook her and made her look at me.

‘Mel,’ I said. ‘Mel! Calm down. Do you remember me? Jodie?’

She looked at me and slowly recognition dawned. ‘Aren’t you the one who went off and joined the police? What are you doing here?’ A look of relief washed over her. ‘Are you investigating them? Are you—’

‘Just calm down,’ I said. ‘I’m going to let go of you so we can talk properly, okay? I don’t want a repeat of whatever that was.’

‘I want the police here RIGHT NOW!’ shouted Cheryl. She was understandably shaken, but I couldn’t help feeling she was almost enjoying being the centre of attention, or help noticing that her lacquered hair had barely moved under the onslaught. She must’ve sprayed it with liquid Kevlar.

Tony looked at me helplessly. I seem to have that effect on men; at some point in our relationship they always look at me helplessly. I sighed.

‘Let’s not be hasty, Cheryl,’ I said. She glared at me but I carried on before she could start shouting at me. I don’t normally take an instant dislike to people but I really could not warm to her. ‘It’s the night before your wedding, all your guests will be arriving tonight, and you’re meant to be having a party. Do you really want to spend the evening at the police station? It’ll take hours for them to take statements. Your whole night will be ruined.’