Jonathon regarded him intently. “Can I ask you something? Seeing as Abi is already doing so many shifts, why don’t you make this a more permanent arrangement? You could make her the pub manager, giving her more and more shifts as we get closer to the wedding. Because if you’re serious about traveling with me….”
Mike sat in the chair facing him. “I’ve been thinking about that too. If I go down that route, I might have to open the pub for more hours. Twelve till four, and six till closing is fine when there’s only me to consider. But if I open from eleven until closing, that might improve the financial side of things.” He smiled. “I should explain. The only time you make any real money with a pub or a bar is when you sell it. Until that point, whatever you make pays the bills. Employing Abi for a few shifts here and there has been okay, but if she’s permanent, the salary I’d pay her would be income I’d lose.”
“Then why the plan about opening more hours?”
“I want to increase the pub’s profitability before I put it on the market.”
Jonathon stilled. “Then you are going to sell it.”
Mike shrugged. “I’m certainly considering it. I want to spend time with my husband, and then with our kids.”
Jonathon chuckled. “Oh, so we’re definitely having more than one? Better make sure Ruth knows.” Something Mike had said struck home. “You know I have no money issues, right? What my grandfather left me is plenty for both of us, for the rest of our lives.” Jonathon paused for a moment. “I’ve never been one to lie around all day being one of the idle rich. That is anathema to me. The photography allows me to do what I love, what I’m good at, and earn a living. The Vietnam trip would be my chance to get one more book out before our little family increases in size. When I asked if you would sell the pub, I wasn’t suggesting for a second that you become a stay-at-home husband. It would be wrong of me.” He reached across the table for Mike’s hand. “I want to spend as much time as possible with you too.”
Mike lifted his hand and kissed the knuckles. “We’re both playing this by ear. Everything will work out, sweetheart. The key thing is, we’re meant to be together. And we’re going to be.” His eyes twinkled. “Now call that PA.”
Jonathon laughed as Mike released his hand. “Fine. I’ll call her—as soon as someone gives me her name and number. Because I’m not going to get far without those.”
Mike got out his phone, shaking his head. “Seriously rethinking this whole wedding idea. Not sure I want to be married to such a smartarse.” He tapped the screen. “There. She’s called Sharon Weston, and now you have her contact details.”
Jonathon batted his eyelashes. “Thank you, sweetheart. Love you too.” He opened the text and clicked on Sharon’s number. He had to smile when Mike placed his notepad within easy reach, then left a pen on top of it before vacating the kitchen.
He thinks of everything.
“You’ve reached the voicemail for Sharon Weston. I’m sorry I can’t answer your call right now, but please leave your name and number after the beep, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“My name is Jonathon de Mountford, and I recently helped host the Merrychurch Literary Festival. I’d be grateful if you’d call me. My fiancé and I have been looking into Teresa Malvain’s death, and—”
A click interrupted him in full flow. “Mr. de Mountford? This is Sharon Weston. I thought you might be getting in touch with me, although I had no idea you were an investigator of some sort.”
Jonathon coughed. “That’s because, technically, I’m not. My fiancé, however, is an ex-police officer, and we’re helping the local police with their inquiries.” Which was true—Gorland wasn’t local.
Using the word fiancé sent a wave of pleasure through him. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that.
“Isn’t that what they say about people who’ve been taken in for questioning? Helping police with their inquiries?”
In an instant he realized she was right. “Oh God. No. We’re not suspects. We’re just… helping them investigate, shall we say.”
“Oh, I see. Well, as you can imagine, this has been a hell of a shock. It still doesn’t seem real.”
“I would have contacted you earlier, but we didn’t know you existed until yesterday,” Jonathon told her. “Mike—that’s my fiancé—owns the pub where Teresa was staying, and we were wondering about a parcel she received.” He told her about the book with the highlighted phrase. “Has she ever received anything like that before?”
“God, yes. There have been three or four anonymous letters too, and all the same—hinting at something she’d done in her past. Secrets she’s been keeping.”
“Did Teresa have any idea who was sending them?”
There was a pause. “If she did, she certainly didn’t share it with me. The only reason I know about them is that I was with her one morning when she received one in the mail. When she didn’t appear surprised, I asked her about it, and she showed me the others. I wanted her to contact the police, but she wouldn’t.” Another pause. “You know what? I think she had a good idea who was sending them. Like I said, she didn’t name anyone—it’s just a gut feeling.”
“Did she have a diary of some sort?” There hadn’t been one in her belongings.
Sharon laughed. “That notebook of hers. She wrote down everything in there.”
“I know that’s where she wrote notes for her next book. Could you share anything about that?”
“Feel free to look in the notebook. It’s all in there. And it’s not like she can complain about it, right?”
“But that’s the problem. Her notebook is missing.”
“Seriously? You mean, someone took it? Because I can’t for one minute imagine her losing it. Was that after she died, because I think she’d have kicked up one hell of a fuss when that happened? That was her precious, truly.”
“It was seen with her before the allergic reaction, but not since.”
“But it’s all still on the cloud.”
It took a minute for the full import of her words to sink in. “She uploaded everything onto the cloud?”
“She didn’t bother typing it all out and uploading. Teresa was way too lazy for that. But she did take photos of every page in her notebook before uploading them. That way, if she ever lost it, she still had the notes.”
Jonathon’s heartbeat raced. “Can I get copies of those photos?”
Another longer pause. “You said you’re helping the police with their inquiries. Into what, exactly? Why would they be investigating death by anaphylactic shock?”
He sighed. “Because we have reason to believe she was murdered. Someone placed peanut oil in her coffee.”
He couldn’t miss Sharon’s gasp. “Oh shit. Sorry, that just slipped out. So that’s why you asked about the book and whether she’d received anything else. You think the killer might have sent them.”
“It’s a possibility we have to consider.”