Free Murder On The Menu: A Romantic Comedy Culinary Cozy Mystery (A Celebrity Mystery) by Zanna Mackenzie Page B

is angry a celebrity is backing the campaign and so they arranged for him to be killed off? Seriously? Jack, this is rural Cumbria, not the Mafia hotbed of Sicily.”
    “And yet a man is still dead. A man who wanted everyone to know about his involvement in this campaign.” He waves the flyer in front of me. “A man who made himself the figurehead of said campaign. Stabbed in his own kitchen.”
    I gulp and nod. “So you think Armand is dead because of my attempts to save a village store?” Guilt settles heavily on my shoulders, weighing me down.
    “It’s a possibility.”
    He must spot the look of sheer panic in my eyes, because he immediately adds an appendage to his previous comment. “But probably not. I’m sure there are plenty of other reasons for somebody to kill Armand. He wasn’t exactly well liked. I reckon we’ll come across a fair few suspects along the way and a variety of reasons why somebody wanted Armand out of the picture.”
    I’m not convinced, but I am grateful for his attempt to ease my troubled mind, if only a little.
    “Now, I need you to tell me what the procedures are each night at the Veggies regarding locking up. At least we know he was definitely killed here, in the kitchen.”
    I frown. “At least?”
    “Yeah. Sometimes people are moved. You know by how much blood there is at the spot where the victim is discovered but here, well, there was loads of…”
    I raise a hand to stop him. “Don’t say it, please!”
    He, in turn, raises a questioning eyebrow. “Squeamish, huh? OK, I won’t go into the details.”
    “How do you even know the details?” I ask, moving to rest my hands on the nearest bit of stainless steel work surface for support, feeling a touch light-headed. 
    Jack immediately grabs my hands to prevent my planned supportive lean. “Fingerprints,” he says again.
    Is it my imagination or does he hold on to my fingers for longer than strictly necessary? He slowly uncurls his fingers from mine and I push my thoughts away from his touch and back to our investigation.
    “Haven’t they done all of that anyway? You know, dusted for fingerprints? I thought the crime scene had been checked over, cleaned and cleared.”
    “Yeah,” he nods. “But in my experience, you can never be too careful.”
    I don’t want to ask what his experience is. In these circumstances I’m thinking ignorance is probably best. “OK. You haven’t answered my question though, about how you know Armand was definitely…” I struggle to say the word.
    “Killed here?” Jack helpfully supplies.
    I nod.
    He taps the side of his nose in the universal ‘that’s my business’ gesture. “Let’s just say I have my sources and leave it at that.”
    “So, what do you want to know again? You were saying you need me to tell you about night time locking up procedures here?”
    “Please.”
    “Well, as soon as the last customers have left the premises, we lock and bolt the front door.”
    “Lock with a key and then slide across a bolt as well?” Jack checks.
    “Yes. Then we do any clearing up that needs sorting. Glasses back to the bar. Any coffee cups and plates to the kitchen. We don’t hoover up or anything like that. The cleaners do that the following morning.”
    Jack nods thoughtfully. “And the toilets? I’m assuming they’re dealt with by the cleaners the next morning too?”
    “That’s right.” I tilt my head to one side questioningly. “Why?”
    “If you were the last person to leave here at around midnight and Armand was killed around that time, then somebody else got into the premises and was waiting for you to leave so that Armand was all alone. That person could have been a customer in the bar, and he could have gone off to the toilets and hidden in there until after closing time.”
    My hands fly to my mouth as I realise a killer could have been lurking in the toilets when I was bustling about doing my usual closing-up duties that night. “I could have served the