Pumpkins and Peril (Peridale Cafe Cozy Mystery Book 29) by Agatha Frost

Author:Agatha Frost [Frost, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pink Tree Publishing LTD
Published: 2023-10-30T16:00:00+00:00

Jessie sat huddled in her coat at her desk in the newspaper office, fingers frozen and stiff as she typed up interview questions for James Jacobson. The space heater sputtered in the corner, barely taking the edge off the bone-chilling air. In an hour, she’d be thawing out in the warmth of Richie’s with Dante; but for now, she was shivering in her puffer jacket.

Nearby, Veronica rifled through a stack of papers while munching on steaming, vinegar-soaked chips wrapped in newspaper. The tempting aroma of hot grease and salt made Jessie’s empty stomach growl.

“Want some?” Veronica asked. “Can’t let good chips go cold.”

Jessie grabbed a few piping-hot chips as her eyes drifted to the dartboard Veronica had put up, sporting the blurry photo of James and Greg on the doorstep of Wellington Heights.

With expert aim, Veronica flung a dart, hitting the bullseye square between the men’s faces. “When do you think he last saw sunlight?”

Jessie leaned in for a closer look at the haggard, unshaven man she couldn’t believe had been a clean-shaven, camera-ready, shiny-faced politician—always ready for a photo opportunity—only a month ago.

“Maybe it’s part of an upcoming rebrand?” Jessie suggested. “He’s done with politics and ready to open a microbrewery with a passion for IPAs.”

“If only,” Veronica replied. She held out the darts to Jessie. “Have a go if you fancy. It might make you feel better before the big interview.”

“I don’t think I’m that psychotic yet. Give me a couple more years. How did you get so good, anyway?”

“The staff room at the college had a board. Passed the time and stopped the other tutors from boring me to sleep,” Veronica fired another dart, barely looking, yet still hitting the bullseye. “They all thought I’d wind up some spinster recluse obsessed with Shakespeare and five cats.”

“How wrong they were,” Jessie said, half under her breath. “You don’t have the cats.”

Jessie clicked through the pages of James’ personal website, skimming over the details of his many successes. Wellington Heights was just one of the lavish properties he had acquired over the years. He owned manors, estates, and mansions up and down the country. His party trick seemed to be buying impossibly expensive buildings and dividing them into luxury flats to quadruple their value. It was hard to believe this was the same lad who came from such humble beginnings in Fern Moore.

She paused on the ‘Early Years’ section, which featured a photo of James as a young boy. He sat on a swing set in the small metal playground that used to be in the centre of the Fern Moore courtyard, back when the equipment was still shiny and new. The boy’s clothes were too tight on his pudgy frame. Behind him stood a pencil-thin woman in a long leather jacket; one hand pushed the swing while the other held a lit cigarette. Neither of them looked happy in the captured moment.

Jessie stared at the image, transported back to her own childhood—hopping around families, homes, schools, towns, then doorways, bridges, industrial estates.

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