The summer wedding murde.., p.1
The Summer Wedding Murder, page 1
part #8 of Sanford Third Age Club Mystery Series
Copyright © 2019 by David W Robinson
Cover Photography by Adobe Stock © DiViArts
Design by soqoqo
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
Second Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2019
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The Author
David Robinson is a Yorkshireman now living in Manchester. Driven by a huge, cynical sense of humour, he’s been a writer for over thirty years having begun with magazine articles before moving on to novels and TV scripts.
He has little to do with his life other than write, as a consequence of which his output is prodigious. Thankfully most of it is never seen by the great reading public of the world.
He has worked closely with Crooked Cat Books since 2012, when The Filey Connection, the very first Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery, was published.
Describing himself as the Doyen of Domestic Disasters he can be found blogging at www.dwrob.com and he appears frequently on video (written, produced and starring himself) dispensing his mocking humour at www.youtube.com/user/Dwrob96/videos.
The STAC Mystery series:
The Filey Connection
The I-Spy Murders
A Halloween Homicide
A Murder for Christmas
Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend
My Deadly Valentine
The Chocolate Egg Murders
The Summer Wedding Murder
Costa del Murder
Christmas Crackers
Death in Distribution
A Killing in the Family
A Theatrical Murder
Trial by Fire
Peril in Palmanova
The Squire’s Lodge Murders
Murder at the Treasure Hunt
A Cornish Killing
The Summer Wedding Murder
A Sanford 3rd Age Club Mystery (#8)
Chapter One
Joe Murray shook his head sadly. “Fifty years and more this café has stood here. And in all that time, it’s never been shut on a weekday or a Saturday. Over half a century, and apart from Sundays, that door has never been shut.” He nodded beyond the queue of customers, to the entrance of the Lazy Luncheonette.
“It was closed for your mother’s funeral,” Len, the drayman on the other side of the counter pointed out.
Joe pushed a beaker of tea to him, and took his money. “One full English, one beaker of tea, that’s six fifty to you.” He rang up the money, dropped the ten pound note in the till, and handed over the change. “There you go, Len. And, by the way, you’re wrong. It was only shut for half a day when me old queen was buried. The service wasn’t until two in the afternoon, and I was open until dinner time. It was the same when the old man died.”
Half past seven on a Thursday morning, and the Lazy Luncheonette was packed with the drivers and mates from the Sanford Brewery. Outside, the sun shone on gridlocked, rush hour traffic, and the heat of a glorious June morning compounded the frustration of drivers in a reluctant hurry to get to work. And while they sat, they feasted envious eyes on the free-flowing traffic coming away from the town on this side of the dual carriageway.
No one could ever accuse Joe of inaccuracy. Whether as Alf’s Café, Joe’s Café or The Lazy Luncheonette, the place had stood in the centre of Britannia Parade (a cutting off the side of Doncaster Road) since the end of World War Two, its doors always open. In the days of the pit and foundry, it had catered for the lorry drivers trundling to and fro. With the passing of the old economy, it turned its attention to the mechanics and apprentices from the engineering factories on the other side of the dual carriageway, and the shoppers from Sanford Retail Park at the rear. The draymen of Sanford Brewery, who supplied the town’s pubs and clubs, had long been the most faithful supporters of the place in all its incarnations.
Inside the café, notwithstanding the early hour, the heat had reached levels which were almost intolerable, and Joe had positioned three free-standing fans in the dining area, while Brenda Jump had commandeered a fourth for the kitchen.
“I have the door open,” she had told Joe, “but there’s no breeze and it’s hot as hell in here.”
The draymen were usually distinguished by their pale green uniforms, but the weather called for T-shirts, and some of them, including Len and his mate, Barry, had abandoned their trousers for shorts. Joe envied them. Food hygiene regulations meant he had to be properly dressed at all times, and the risk of scalds and burns from hot appliances in the kitchen and around the counter area, effectively excluded the wearing of shorts.
While handing over Len’s change, he scanned the dining area, packed with customers, mainly draymen, with a few passing lorry drivers, and one or two employees of the factories opposite.
A table of draymen had one of his casebooks open as they ate. Joe vented his irritation on them. “Hey, you lot. Don’t get brown sauce and fried tomatoes over that book or I’ll bill you for reprinting.”
“Just checking what you were up to in Weston-super-Mare, Joe,” one of them called back.
“The case of The Chocolate Egg Killer,” said another and the table dissolved into laughter.
The waiting queue shuffled forward as Len, laughing at the chocolate egg joke, wandered away, and his mate, Barry, stepped up to the counter. “Same again, Joe,” he ordered.
“One full English and mug of tea.” Joe made out the note, passed it through the hatch to the kitchen and poured the tea.
“What about when Lee got married?” Barry asked. “You musta shut down then.”
“He got married at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon,” Joe replied, “and it was business as normal for the morning.” Again he pushed the tea across the counter, and took the money. “But tomorrow, it’s not business as normal. I wouldn’t care, but it’s not as if Wes Staines is family.”
Barry frowned. “Wes Staines? Alec’s lad? You’re off to his wedding? I thought he lived somewhere up in the Lake District.”
“He does. Windermere. We have to travel all that way to see the silly sod sign his life away.”
Barry chuckled. “It’s not compulsory, is it?”
Sheila Riley danced out of the kitchen carrying four meals. “Yes it is. And that’s why old misery guts has to shut up shop tomorrow, and we won’t open again until Monday morning.”
Barry picked up his tea. “I thought your Lee looked after the place when you’re away.”
Lee, the genial giant of the Lazy Luncheonette kitchen, appeared in the doorway, his chef’s hat tipped at an odd angle. “Wes is a mate of mine, Barry. I got an invite. Uncle Joe is only going cos Alec Staines wanted him there.”
Barry laughed again. “Why, is he expecting a murder?”
Joe frowned. “No. He’s lending me an alibi for the case of the murdered drayman. Now push off so I can serve your pals.”
Ever since the wedding invitations first went out in April, and he realised the implications for the Lazy Luncheonette, Joe had sought ways and means of getting round the problem, right down to flatly refusing to attend.
“Alec is one of your oldest friends, Joe,” Sheila had reminded him, “and he and Julia are stalwarts of the 3rd Age Club. You can’t let them down.”
Joe had switched his attention to the more malleable Lee. A huge young man, a former prop forward for the Sanford Bulls rugby league team, an excellent cook and the closest Joe had to family, he had never been blessed with the sharpest mind. Joe had been well on the way to persuading Lee that he would not enjoy a couple of days in the Lake District when Cheryl, Lee’s wife, stepped in.
“Wes played for the Sanford Bulls, too, Uncle Joe. Him and Lee were good mates. He has to be there, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, trying to talk him out of it just for the sake of the café.”
With this in mind, Joe handed Barry his change, and said, “It’s not the café I’m bothered about. It’s you lads. You’ve been coming here for years. You expect us to be open. What will you do for breakfast on Friday and Saturday?”
Barry looked glumly at his change. “Go to Sid’s Caff on the by-pass. Maybe I’ll get more mileage outta me tenner there.”
“Yeah. And you’ll be able to spend your extra money on dental work. I’m told his sausages are like concrete.” Joe dismissed Barry and concentrated on the next customer, another drayman. “Whaddya want?”
“That’s why we all come here, Joe. No one can beat you when it comes to social niceties like saying ‘good morning’.”
“If you don’t like it here sod off to Sid’s Caff and suffer his sausages.”
Scurrying back to the kitchen, laden with dirty plates, cups and cutlery, Sheila said, “I’m surprised you could get all those esses out without losing your dentures.”
***
Joe could be found at table five, the one nearest the counter, no later than 10.30am every morning.
“I’ve been a fixture in this place so long there’s nothing you can tell me about it that I don’t already know, includi
Under normal circumstances, he would pass the time with the cryptic crossword in the Daily Express, but the prospect of Windermere and the comparative horror of the Lazy Luncheonette closing for two days, preoccupied him as he carried a beaker of tea to the table and took his seat with Sheila and Brenda, basking in the cool breeze of a free-standing fan.
“The wedding isn’t until two o’clock tomorrow,” he announced. “Suppose we opened, dealt with the breakfast crowd, shut the doors at, say, half past ten, then legged it over to Windermere. We could be there in plenty of time.”
Sheila tutted. “The wedding is at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, and we have been invited to attend the ceremony, not just the reception and evening disco.”
Joe sighed. “I don’t want to set a precedent.”
Brenda, who had only just returned from delivering the sandwich order to Ingleton Engineering, tutted. “It’s time a precedent was set. You’re not getting any younger, Joe, and it’s high time you learned to shut down for the odd day or two. Relax a little.”
“I get plenya relaxation. Lee takes over when I’m not here. It’s just that this time—”
Sheila interrupted. “If you’re that desperate to have the place opened, how about those people Cheryl brings in when we’re away? Her mother, and that friend of hers, Pauline.”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t mind Mary, Cheryl’s ma, and Pauline helping out, but Cheryl is with us this time and I won’t leave the job to her mother and her friend. I don’t trust them.”
“With the café or the money?”
Joe scowled at Brenda. “Either. Both.”
“I’ve told Ingleton’s we’re shut for the day, Broadbent’s and the other factories over the road know about it, the high priced eateries on the Retail Park are cheering because they’ll pick up the slack, and the draymen are all aware of it. The only person who isn’t dealing with it is you.”
The accusation stung Joe into retaliation. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to shut down?” He gestured at the ceiling with both hands. “The taxes, gas, water and electricity bills don’t take a day off. The chillers and freezers keep going while we’re not here, the insurance doesn’t drop for shutting down, and I still have you people to pay. And as I keep saying, we don’t know how much permanent trade we’ll drive away. The draymen might be laughing at having to go to Sid’s Caff on the by-pass, but some of ’em might find Sid Snetterton preferable to Joe Murray.”
Brenda shook her head. “Can’t see it. They get a much better class of insult here.”
“Gar.” Joe dismissed her with a growl.
“Changing the subject slightly,” Brenda went on, “if you’re taking us in your car, you need to get it valeted.”
Joe’s face registered blatant shock. “What?”
“Joe, that car is hanging. Inside and out. When the hell did you last clean it? The Queen’s Jubilee?”
“Silver Jubilee, I reckon,” Sheila tittered.
“It goes just as fast with the muck on it,” Joe protested.
Sheila waded in on Brenda’s side. “Probably, but you’re going to be wearing your best suit, and we’ll be in our Sunday best.”
“We spent a lot of money on our outfits, Joe, and you even had your suit cleaned,” Brenda reminded him.
“You won’t be travelling in them,” Joe argued. “We’re leaving early. We’ll be at the hotel in Windermere in plenty of time to change before we go onto the church.”
“Manor House.”
“Pardon me?”
“They’re getting married at The Lakeside Manor House, not in church,” Brenda reiterated.
“Oh, well in that case, we’ll have tons of time. We’re staying at the same place. Just make sure you wrap your clobber up well, and—”
“Clean the car, Joe, or Brenda and I will travel in mine,” Sheila warned him. “That heap of yours has things living in it.”
Joe conceded defeat. “I’ll do it when I’ve had this cup of tea.”
The doorbell chimed and Alec Staines entered.
Any other working day would find Alec dressed in his white, painter’s overalls, but to their surprise, he was wearing a pair of denim shorts and a scruffy T-shirt bearing the legend ‘The King Lives Forever’ over a stylised image of Elvis Presley.
Joe moved quickly behind the counter and poured Alec a beaker of tea. “Where are you working today? Glastonbury?”
“Not working, Joe,” Alec said, sitting alongside Brenda. “On our way to Windermere this afternoon. Gotta be there in plenty of time for the big do.”
“Formal dress, Alec?” Sheila asked.
“Top hat and tails. Morning suit. Grey. Complete with cravat. Wes and his girl went for it, and Julia insisted. Cost me a bleeding fortune, and I felt a right prat when I tried it on at the hire shop.”
Placing the beaker in front of Alec, Joe sat with Sheila. “So what you doing here? Slumming?”
“Just checking you’re all in the frame and ready to go.”
“Everything is just about organised,” Brenda replied, “except for his lordship. He’s worrying about lost trade.”
“You’ll get it back, Joe.”
“The draymen are on about going to Sid’s Caff, tomorrow and Saturday.”
Alec laughed. “In that case, you’ll definitely get it back. No disrespect to Sid Snetterton, but I wouldn’t wash your feet in his tea, never mind my own. Anyway, you’ve got Lee to…” Alec trailed off. “Oh. Course. Lee and Cheryl are going to Windermere, aren’t they?”
At the mention of his name, Lee appeared in the kitchen doorway and grinned. “Looking forward to it, Mr Staines. Me and Wes go way back. School, and then the Sanford Bulls. He were a mean full back, your Wes.”
Alec thanked him with a fond smile, then addressed Joe’s concerns. “If it’s difficult, Joe, I can always make excuses for you. Turning up is not compulsory, you know, but you’ve known Wes all his life.”
Joe was about to seize upon Alec’s offer, but Sheila beat him to it.
“It’s not difficult, Alec, and Joe doesn’t want to miss Wes’s wedding. Do you Joe?”
Alec laughed again. “When did you lose your voice, Joe?”
“The day I took these two on.” Joe fished into his pocket and came out with a half-smoked cigarette. “Come on. Let’s step outside for a cough and spit.”
After the movement of air created by the fan, the still, raw heat of the pavement hit them like a hammer blow. Joe felt the sweat breaking on his brow the moment he stepped out.
“You’re driving over tomorrow, Joe?” Alec asked as they walked through the door.
“Leaving about half past six in the morning. According to Google maps, it’ll take about two hours. We figure we’ll be the other side of Manchester before the morning rush really picks up, and even stopping for breakfast, we’ll be there for about nine. That gives us time to check in and change.” Leaning against the window, he lit his cigarette stub and immediately began to cough violently.
“What the hell are you smoking, Joe?” Alec demanded.
“It’s the heat,” Joe said, his eyes watering as he struggled to get his breath. “I’ll be fine in a minute.” He leaned forward and gulped in a lungful of air.
“You’ll be all right next week, then,” Alec said. “The forecast says it’s going to break on Sunday or Monday. Our Wes picked the perfect time to get spliced.”
Straightening up, better in control of his breathing, Joe asked, “What’s up with your Wes, anyway? Getting married on a Friday. I question the sanity of anyone actually getting married these days, but to do it on a Friday…”
He trailed off and waited for an answer.
Alec, too, lit a cigarette. “You’re a cynical old sod, you are. Just cos it didn’t work out between you and Alison.”
“It’s not just because of that.”
“There’s nowt wrong with marriage, Joe. Look at me and Julia. We’ve been wed near thirty-five years and I couldn’t want for a better wife.”
“I reserve the right to disagree,” Joe declared. “On the grounds that Alison buggered off and left me. Anyway, I’m not arguing about your marriage… or anyone else’s come to that, I’m asking why he’s getting married on a Friday.”
