Joker in the Pack (Romantic Suspense, Completed, Watty Winner)

Chapter 12

The next day, someone bid six hundred pounds on Eleanor's TV and picked it up two hours later, leaving me with a handful of crisp twenty-pound notes. I celebrated by taking the bus into town and buying silicone sealant to fix the leaky edges around the bath. My life was just one big party.

A party with no food, because in the evening, I put my freshly made lasagne into the oven and it refused to turn on. Wonderful. Did anything else want to go wrong?

I shoved the lasagne dish into the freezer and pulled on my coat. With the money I'd made, I could just about afford to risk my taste buds at The Cock and Bull again and wash anything dodgy down with a glass of Prosecco.

I'd expected the place to be quiet like last time, but the car park was full and cars overflowed out onto the grass verge, and even outside, I could hear music and the low hum of voices. A chalk sign outside the door gave the game away—I'd forgotten it was Wednesday. I perked up a little. Hadn't Warren said the food was at its best during the weekly curry night?

"How does this work?" I asked a passing waitress who was balancing more plates than a circus performer.

"Pay a tenner at the bar, then grab a plate and help yourself to as much as you want."

"Where's the food?"

She jerked her head towards an archway on the far side of the room. "Through there."

The space looked packed, but I spotted an empty stool at the bar and decided to stop there for a drink first. I'd been on my feet most of the day.

"What can I get you?" Jean asked.

"Lime soda, please. I can't believe how busy it is tonight."

"People come from miles around. The chef used to work in Brick Lane, and his Indian dishes are to die for."

Brick Lane? How I missed London's premier destination for a curry. That explained the crowd, although I wasn't sure I wanted to follow in Aunt Ellie's footsteps and pop my clogs in Upper Foxford.

"Settling in, are you?" the man next to me asked, and I stifled a groan as I recognised Floyd from the supermarket.

At least I'd made the effort to use his shop so he couldn't moan, although on the last two occasions, I'd been served by a teenage girl more interested in her phone than the customers.

"I'm gradually getting the place sorted out, but it's slow going."

His animal-like chuckle would have scared small children. "Aye, I heard about the mess. Planning a bonfire, are you?"

"I wasn't, but now you mention it..."

"Thought that was why you had what's left of a couch dumped in your garden."

"I put it out there because I found out Aunt Ellie died on it."

"I heard that rumour too." He turned to bellow across the room. "Oi, Graham. Is that true?"

A red-faced man made his way over to us, clutching a pint like it was a life preserver in a turbulent sea. His gait rolled from side to side as if he were on board an invisible ship.

"What was that you said, Floyd?"

"Is it true old Eleanor Rigby died on her couch?" Before Graham could answer, Floyd explained, "Graham's our local policeman. Mrs. Rigby caused him no end of paperwork—isn't that right?"

"I'm not supposed to talk about that." Graham tapped the side of his nose. "Official police business."

"But this is Mrs. Rigby's niece, Olivia. It's only right that she should know what happened to her aunt."