A Cake To Die For
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About this ebook
The summer should be a time when Detective Inspector Mike Malone can sit in the sunshine with his extended family, watching the gentle game of cricket while enjoying the occasional slice of cake. However, when a young wife ends up dead, it appears that the cakes on offer at the cricket match do more than add a few extra pounds.
In this latest mystery, Mike has to find out why, for some ladies, baking a nice cake can be the quickest way to a sticky end.
Milly Reynolds
As you may have already guessed, Milly Reynolds is not my real name. Like my 'hero' Detective Inspector Mike Malone, I also hide my real identity. Having 'retired' from my job, I was a full-time teacher in a secondary school, I decided to pursue my dream of becoming a writer. So why Mike Malone? I love all things detective and wanted to create my own series. However, I decided not to go for the deep, dark thriller - I could never compete with the masters of that genre, like Jo Nesbo whose books I adore? Therefore I came to the decision that the Mike Malone series would be off-beat. I like to think that there is humour in my books; I don't want to scare people, I want to make them chuckle - there is not enough laughter in the world at the moment. As the series has progressed, I have become very attached to Mike; he is the comfortable pair of slippers that I put on at night. My husband has also become attached to Fi and I am under strict instructions not to let anything happen to her - yet. Living in Lincolnshire, I love the flat, endless landscapes and want these to be seen in my books alongside places that I know and love. Mike Malone has moved from the city to Lincolnshire and has fallen in love with the place; me, I was born here and can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be. However, although Mike was my first creation, he is not the only one. I have also created Jack Sallt, another Detective Inspector. Jack is grittier than Mike and there is not the humour in his stories that there is in the Mike Malone stories. I wanted to write a more 'grown-up' detective story. When time allows this will be developed into a series as well. With two male detectives under my wing, I also decided that it was time for the girls to take centre stage and 'Scorpion's Tale', my first novel featuring Liv Harris, a character in the Jack Sallt novels, was published in 2013. I am hoping that Liv will make another appearance at some point in the future. Not content with crime, I have also wandered into the realms of romance; my first stand-alone novel 'The Unseen Sky' was published August 2011. I'm lucky, I enjoy writing and find it just as relaxing to sit and create as it is to read, although sometimes a good book can get in the way of my writing. I read on average 50/60 books a year and always keep my blog updated with reviews. Anyway, I hope you like my novels. I have fun coming up with ideas for Mike -...
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A Cake To Die For - Milly Reynolds
Prologue
The wind tugged at her hair, throwing it across her eyes and into her mouth, but Jacqui didn't mind. Not this time. She was too excited. Even though, for her, the Second World War was something she had only read about in books, Jacqui had always been enchanted by the Lancaster Bomber. She didn't know why. Maybe it was because her uncle had flown them during the war; maybe it was because she had grown up on a diet of Battle of Britain films; maybe it was because that for her and Paul, Woodhall Spa, the home of the Dambusters, was their bolt-hole from the rat race. Whatever it was, Jacqui only had to hear the sound of a Merlin engine and she would drop everything to run into the garden to watch the magnificent, majestic monument to British engineering glide effortlessly over the garden.
Although the three planes were now only dots on the distant horizon, Jacqui's spirit was still soaring with them. She couldn't believe that her hunch that the two Lancasters and the Vulcan Bomber would fly over Frampton Marsh on their way to Norfolk had been correct. Even more incredible was the fact that she had been the only person on the sea-bank to witness this historic event. It had been a flypast just for her. She just hoped that the video that she had taken on her phone to show Paul had come out ok and that she just hadn't taken pictures of random clouds. What a day to leave her glasses at home!
Jacqui had decided not to tell Paul about her plan to drive to Frampton and walk out onto the sea-bank; she knew that he always worried about her driving, about her doing anything really. So, if she had announced over breakfast that morning what she was going to do, he would have tried to dissuade her. It was better for him not to know.
Turning away from the sea-bank, Jacqui started to retrace her steps and do a bit of bird-watching on the way back. There should be a few waders about and she had read on the website that a spoonbill had been spotted. Maybe she would be lucky and be able to tell Paul about that as well. It had taken her nearly half an hour to walk out to the bank, so, even with a bit of bird-watching, she should be back at the car by two-thirty and home by three. Plenty of time to prepare a special meal for Paul.
With the binoculars focused on the scrapes, Jacqui hadn't really noticed the figure approaching her. It was only when she heard her name spoken that she lowered the glasses.
Oh, hi,
Jacqui shouted into the wind. I didn't know that you were a bird-watcher.
I'm not.
1
David was busy chewing my fingers, his blue eyes gazing up at me in what I hoped was adoration. At four months, Alan and Cat's son was the most perfect baby in the world. I was absolutely besotted with him and whenever the little family dropped by, I made the most of every single minute. Fi had given me a strict telling off a month or so ago because I had got into the habit of calling in to see Cat and the baby every night after work. Fi had sat me down and gently explained that as new parents, maybe Cat and Alan would appreciate a little breathing space. She was right of course. It was just that I was so excited by the new addition, I didn't want to miss a minute. Such was my obsession with the baby that it had never occurred to me that Alan and Cat might want to spend their evenings with the baby, rather than the baby and me. Bless them, they had been too worried about hurting my feelings to say anything and, as usual, Fi had been on hand to spot the problem and rectify it – as any good GP should. As I watched David, not only did I notice a slight reddening of his cheeks and an expression of concentration in his eyes but at the same time I experienced the strange sensation of a wave rippling over my knee. Within seconds, an unusual aroma assaulted my nostrils, alerting me of a dangerous situation.
He’s all yours, Alan.
I held David out at arm’s length and returned him to his father before taking my seat once again.
Isn’t it about time that you started changing nappies, Mike?
he smiled, holding his son close to him. What’s going to happen if Cat and I want a weekend away? Are we going to come home and find two days of poop in David's nappy?
No! Fi will change him.
Fi will not!
I turned around at the sound of Fi’s voice. Alan’s right. It’s about time you started sharing the responsibility.
Fi was standing in the lounge doorway with Cat at her side. Alan, who was holding a very smelly David, was standing on the opposite side of the lounge. I was trapped!
I can’t possibly change a dirty nappy in the lounge.
It was my only hope, the final fragile straw that I could cling onto.
Of course you can’t,
Fi grinned. That wouldn’t be right at all. We’ll all go with you up to the baby’s room.
She and Cat parted so that I could pass between them. From my seat, I searched their faces, looking for that one small speck of mercy that I could manipulate to my advantage. There was nothing. Mercy didn’t exist, despite what Portia had said. My time had finally come.
Slowly, knowing that resistance was futile, I got to my feet and, with Alan following me, I started my journey to the nursery. Silence was all around me, even David seemed to be caught up in the drama of the situation. Therefore, when my phone suddenly rang out, it wasn’t just me that jumped. We all did, especially David who was reduced to tears by the shock of the sudden noise.
Malone.
It’s Grayson, Sir. Alex Catchpole has reported his wife missing.
How long has she been gone?
He’s not sure, he last saw her this morning. He’s concerned because her car is not there and his tea isn’t on the table.
She’s not even been missing twenty-four hours, Grayson,
I sighed. Still, considering Alex Catchpole’s standing in the town, I’ll go and have a word with him.
Putting my phone back into my pocket, I painted an expression of pure regret upon my face.
You might have escaped this time, Mike Malone,
Fi announced ominously, her arms folded across her body in a gesture of determination, but the opportunity will arise again. We will wait.
I kissed her on the nose and made a hasty exit.
The imposing cream brick building at the end of the cul-de-sac which towered above all of the other houses in the street both figuratively and literally, summed up Alex Catchpole perfectly. As leader of the town council, he was a man full of his own self-importance. A man of the people he certainly was not. Whenever Alex Catchpole made a decision, the only beneficiary was always Alex Catchpole; whenever Alex Catchpole’s name appeared in the paper, it was always in a report to portray Alex Catchpole in the best light possible, to polish his halo, to expand his legend. However, as my grandmother always used to tell me, 'you can’t polish a turd, Simon,' and that was, in my opinion, exactly what Alex Catchpole was. A slimy turd that attracted everything putrid to him, no matter how much spin he tried to glamour the public with. I pressed the glittering golden bell beside the highly polished oak door and waited.
About time, too.
Alex Catchpole had flung the door open and was now glaring at me through his very expensive designer horn-rimmed spectacles.
Mr Catchpole.
I offered him my hand, but he rejected it.
You’d better come in, Malone. I’m not in the habit of discussing my affairs on a doorstep.
I followed him into the the house, aware of my shoes echoing on the polished wood floor. If I had been in any other home, I would have offered to remove my shoes; Alex Catchpole did not deserve that courtesy. Walking behind him towards the kitchen – well, he was hardly going to invite me into the lounge, was he? – I watched his annoyance about the situation bouncing off him. His wife going missing was not the issue, it was that by being absent, she was throwing suspicion on him. This would affect the way that the public perceived him. Either she had left him, which I fully expected to be the real reason for her disappearance, and he would be portrayed as a man who was unable to keep a wife satisfied, or – God forbid – something had happened to her and he would be cast in the role of grieving husband. In Alex Catchpole’s world this would be unthinkable, he would appear weak, after all, tears were for losers.
The kitchen was immaculate; gleaming marble surfaces and polished white units. As I sat down at the kitchen island and removed my trusty notebook from my pocket, I did, uncharitably, wonder if this kitchen had ever been cooked in, or whether it was for display only.
When did you realise that your wife was missing, Mr Catchpole?
Alex Catchpole was standing on the opposite side of the room, his arms folded across his body, reminding me of a petulant schoolboy, albeit a petulant schoolboy wearing what I assumed was an Armani suit – or if not Armani, some other expensive designer label.
"She wasn’t here when I got home and she hadn’t left me a message