right-on vegetarian women around to make this place a going concern?”
“Don’t be too ready to slag it off. The food is actually terrific. Just relax and enjoy it,” Lindsay pleaded.
Deborah shook her head in affectionate acceptance and sat back in her chair. “Now tell me,” she demanded, “since you hang out so much in this bijou dinette, how come you don’t have the same intimate relationship with Ros Crabtree that you have with Meg?”
“It’s very simple. Meg runs around serving at table. Meg answers the phone when you book. Meg stands and natters over your coffee. Ros, on the other hand, must be grafting away in the kitchen five nights a week. She’s too busy cooking to socialize, even with people she knows. And by the end of the evening, I’d guess she’s too exhausted to be bothered making polite social chit-chat with the customers. It’s hard work cooking for vegetarians. There’s so much more preparation in Butter Beanfeast than in Steak au Poivre.”
Before Deborah could reply, their avocados appeared. Deborah tried her food suspiciously, then her face lit up. “Hey, this is really good,” she exclaimed.
When Meg returned to clear their plates and serve the champagne, Lindsay made her move.
“That was terrific, Meg. Listen, we’d like to have a word with Ros. Not right now, obviously, but when she’s through in the kitchen. Do you think that’ll be okay?”
Meg looked surprised. “I suppose so. But… what’s it all about, Lindsay? Oh, wait a minute… you’re a reporter, aren’t you?” Her voice had developed a hostile edge. “It’s about her father, isn’t it?”
“It’s not what you think,” Deborah protested. “She’s not some cheap hack out to do a hatchet job on you and Ros. You know her, for God’s sake, she’s one of us.”
“So what is it all about then?” The anger in her voice transmitted itself to nearby tables, where a few faces looked up and studied them curiously.
Deborah took a deep breath. “I’m their number one suspect. I’ve already had one night in the police cells, and I don’t fancy another. Lindsay’s trying her damnedest to get me off the hook and that means discovering the real killer. I’d have thought you and Ros would be interested in finding out who killed her father.”
“Him? The only reason I’d want to know who killed him is so that I could shake them by the hand. Look, I’m not too impressed with what you’ve got to say for yourselves, but I will go ask Ros if she’ll talk to you.” She marched off and returned a few minutes later with their main courses, which she placed meticulously before them without a word.
They ate in virtual silence, their enjoyment dulled. Meg silently removed their plates and took their order for biscuits, cheese, and coffee.
By half past ten and the third cup of coffee, Lindsay was beginning to despair of any further communication from the kitchen. The tension had dried up conversation between her and Deborah. The evening she’d been looking forward to had somehow become awkward and difficult. Then, a tall, broad woman emerged from the kitchen and exchanged a few words with Meg, who nodded in their direction. The woman crossed the room towards them. She was bulky, but she looked strong and sturdy rather than flabby. Her hair was short and curly, her face pink from the heat of the kitchen. Like her brother, Ros Crabtree strongly resembled their father. She wore a pair of chef’s trousers and a navy blue polo shirt. In her hand was a brandy bowl with a large slug of spirit sobbing up the sides of the glass.
She pulled a chair up and said without preamble, “So this is the sleuth. The famous Cordelia Brown’s girlfriend. Accompanied, unless I am mistaken, by the brutal peace woman who goes around beating up helpless men.” She smiled generously. “Enjoy your dinner?”
“As always,” Lindsay answered, stung by being defined as an adjunct to Cordelia.
“But tonight you came for more than three courses and a bottle of country wine.”
“We hoped you would help us,” Deborah stated baldly. “Lindsay’s trying to clear my name. I’m afraid that if there isn’t an arrest soon, I’ll be charged, just so they can be seen to be achieving something.”
“We also thought you would have an interest in seeing your father’s killer arrested,” Lindsay added.
Ros laughed. “Look, I have no feelings about my father one way or the other. I neither loved him nor hated him, but I’m sorry about the way he died. I was glad to be out of his house but frankly, the notion of getting some atavistic revenge on the person who killed him leaves me unmoved. You’re wasting your time here.”
Lindsay shrugged, “So if it matters that little to you, why not talk to me, answer my questions? It could make a lot of difference to Debs.”
“I can’t think of anything I could tell you that would be of the slightest use. But I suppose I owe something to the woman who cost my father his precious dignity and a broken nose. Oh, the hell with it, ask what you want. If I feel like answering, I will.” She swallowed a generous mouthful of brandy, seemingly relaxed.
“I’ll ask the obvious question first. Where were you on Sunday night between ten p.m. and midnight?” Lindsay asked.
“Oh dear, oh dear, we have been reading all the snobbery with violence detective novels, haven’t we?” The mockery in Ros’s voice was still good-natured, but it was obvious that the veneer was wearing thin. “I was here on Sunday night. We have a flat above the restaurant. I think I was reading till about eleven. Then I went to bed, and I was woken up just after midnight when my mother phoned to tell me about my father’s death.”
“I suppose Meg can back you up?”
“As it happens, no. Meg was on her way back from Southampton. She’d been visiting her parents. She didn’t get home till about half past midnight. So I don’t have much of an alibi, do I? No one phoned till mother. I phoned no one. You’ll just have to take my word for it.” She grinned broadly.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go down to Brownlow as soon as you heard the news. I mean, with your mother to comfort and all that…?” Lindsay sounded off-hand.
“Acting nonchalant cuts no ice with me, darling. I can spot the heavy questions without you signposting them. Why didn’t I dash off home to Mummy? For one thing, I have a business to run. On Mondays, I go to the market and see what’s looking good. On that basis, I plan the special dishes for the week. We also do all the book-keeping and paperwork on Mondays. I simply couldn’t just vanish for the day. It’ll be hard enough fitting the funeral in. That’s not as callous as it sounds. My father cared about this business too. But more importantly than all of that, I’m not at all sure I’d be the person to comfort my mother.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m not the weepy, sentimental sort. I’m far too bloody brisk to be much of a shoulder to cry on. I’m afraid I’d be more inclined to tell her to pull herself together than to provide tea and sympathy.”
“So, it’s nothing to do with her attitudes to you being a lesbian? Oh, but of course, they didn’t know, did they? Or so Carlton Stanhope reckons. Mind you, I always figure that parents know a lot more than they let on,” said Lindsay, her eyes on a distant corner of the room.
“You’ve talked to Carl?” Suddenly Ros had become guarded.
“He sends his best wishes. He’s seeing Alexandra Phillips these days, you know,” Lindsay replied.
“How nice for him. She used to be a lovely girl when I knew her. I hope she treats him better than I did. Poor Carl,” she said ruefully. “But to go back to what he said to you. He was right, as far as he was aware. They really didn’t know. I’d kept it well under wraps. Let me explain the history. After I’d decided my career lay in the catering trade, my father was always keen that I should set up in business on my own when I’d done the training and got the experience. Meg and I did a proper business plan based on the costings for this place, and I presented it to him as a good investment. He lent me twenty thousand pounds at a nominal rate of interest so we could get the project off the ground. He’d never have done that much if he’d even suspected. I suppose my cover was never blown because I’d spent so much time studying and working away from home, and when I was home, there were always old friends like Carl around to provide protective coloring. It was really funny when we launched Rubyfruits-we had to have two opening nights. One with lots of straight friends that we could invite the parents to and another with the real clientele.”
Lindsay lit a cigarette. “It sounds like you had a lot to be grateful to him for?”
Ros shrugged. “In some ways. But we were never really close. He was always at arms’ length, somehow. With all of us. As if his real life happened somewhere else. The office, I suppose. Or one of his causes.” The edge of bitterness in her voice was apparent even to Ros herself. She softened her tone and added, “But I guess I owe this place to him. I’m sorry he’s dead.”
“Then he didn’t carry out his threat to take his money back?” Lindsay’s casual words dropped into a sudden well of silence. Ros’s face wouldn’t have looked out of place on Easter Island.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she declared. “No idea at all.”
