Page 21 of Honey Mead Murder

Bertrand lunged forward. He grabbed Murphy by his shirt and tried to shove him into the wall behind him. “I didn’t kill my sodding brother.”

“I haven’t accused you of anything.” Murphy caught Bertrand by the wrists and pried his hands off his shirt. He shoved the man away from him. “You may be taller, but I’ve a feeling I’m a good deal stronger. You’ve seen me at the Highland Games every year. Calm yourself down. What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.” Bertrand shook his head. He seemed to finally calm himself down enough to think more clearly. “Your…”

“Careful.” Murphy rarely lost his temper, but he’d brook no insult to Teagan or anyone he cared about.

“Teagan. Works with you here? My girl goes to her aunt’s place. She said they were all poking and prodding around about Ronnie’s murder. They kept asking about the money.” Bertrand clenched his fists at his side. He started forward only to stop when he caught the look in Murphy’s eye. “You’re trying to throw suspicion off yourself. Police dragged you off the night of the murder. Bet you’re just looking to say I did it.”

“If not you, then who wanted your brother dead?”

“Despite what the rumour mill thinks, I control my own sodding inheritance. My brother was a self-righteous twit, but I wasn’t going to off him for money.” Bertrand appeared to be expending a great deal of effort into controlling his temper. “His wife’s a cold fish. Not even in the grave, and she’s already emptied the house of his things. I drove by to find all of it being loaded into the back of a lorry.”

Well, shite.

TWELVE

GEORGE

“Grief affects everyone differently, but it’s a wee bit soon to be throwing out all his effects.” George had come over with Bumble not long after Bertrand had finally taken off. He’d brought over a mutton curry shepherd’s pie, a combination of two family recipes. They’d taken it up to Murphy’s flat above the brewery. “She tossed all of it?”

“On a lorry for a trip to the tip.”

“Think we could get a look at it? Maybe there’s a reason she wanted it out of the house so quickly.” George found it incredibly suspicious. “I wonder if the police know she’s potentially gotten rid of some evidence.”

“Exactly how much true crime are you watching when you can’t sleep?” Murphy took a bite of the shepherd’s pie. “More delicious than the last time. What’s the secret?”

“Ancient family secrets. A little Indian, a little Scottish. All blended together in my favourite dish.” George had taken recipes from his grandmothers on both sides and combined them. He waved his fork around, sending mashed potato flying. “You know everyone in the village. What about someone who might get us access to Ronald’s rubbish?”

“I don’t know everyone, but I might have someone I can call.” Murphy sighed when George smirked at him. “Sarah’s going to kill both of us.”

“Aren’t the police supposed to avoid killing innocent civilians?” George finished up his meal. He set the plate to the side and pulled out the notebook Margo had given him. “Are we crossing Bertrand off the list of suspects?”

“Darren and Natalia are our only proof that Ronald controlled his inheritance.” Murphy pointed out. “What if they were speaking at the crime scene on purpose? Hoping the police or someone else would overhear?”

“A misdirection? ‘We certainly didn’t kill anyone, so let’s talk loudly about someone who had a motive at the crime scene.’” George thought about what they’d witnessed outside of the coffee shop. “What if the entire argument was staged?”

“Natalia’s not a good enough actress to pull it off—and she’s always had a temper.” Murphy finished his last bite of food. He set his plate on top of George’s, carrying both across the room to his kitchenette. “You’ve a fair point. They made a spectacle of themselves in a place they’d be certain of an audience.”

“Both times.” George found it hard to believe people would put so much effort into building a lie. “Could they really be capable of such duplicity?”

“To set up a smokescreen for a murder? People have done weirder things to avoid justice.” Murphy began washing up the plates. He put the leftovers into his fridge, much to George’s amusement. “I suppose the question is how do we prove anything at all?”

“We don’t. The police do.”

“Weren’t you the one who wanted to solve this?”

“Solve? Yes. Prove? Not sure we can do that.” George flipped through the pages of his notebook. He glanced over at Bumble, who pawed to get down. Once on the floor, he immediately made his way over to the little bed Murphy had set up in the corner by the window. “We need to talk to Ella.”

“She is not going to talk to me. Not when she’s swearing up and down I killed her husband.” Murphy finished up with the dishes. He dried his hands off and tossed the towel to one side. “Might see if Teagan or Margo has any ideas. It can’t be either of us. We’re going to trigger a reaction.”

“Maybe we want to trigger a reaction from her. If she killed her husband or knows who did, it might be the only way to see the truth.” George jotted down what they’d learned from Bertrand and what they suspected. “He could be lying.”

“They could all be lying.”

“Wouldn’t an inheritance like the Donelsons’ have required a solicitor? Maybe Evan’s heard something.” George knew because of attorney-client privilege the actual person who handled the will and trusts would never speak to them. “I doubt he represented them, so maybe he’s heard rumours.”

“Attorney-client privilege.”

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