The Deadly Pub Quiz (Abigail Summers Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

Book summary

In the small village of Becklesfield, ghostly sleuth Abigail Summers and her Deadly Detective Agency face new challenges as they investigate the poisoning at a pub quiz and the arrest of psychic medium Hayley Moon. With suspense, humor, and a touch of the paranormal, they unravel the mystery in "The Deadly Pub Quiz."

Excerpt from The Deadly Pub Quiz (Abigail Summers Cozy Mysteries Book 2)

“I really can’t remember the last time Mrs Bream missed church, can you, Mrs Hobbs?” asked a tall, thin elderly lady.

A short, plump elderly lady answered her. “No, Mrs Dawkins, I cannot. It would be awful if something has happened. The service just wasn’t the same without her.”

“I know, Mrs Hobbs. It was marvellous,” and they both giggled.

“I’d be so upset, I’d have to drown my sorrows in champagne,” she chuckled. “And she did the flowers so beautifully this week.” They both looked at the large display on a wooden pedestal, to the right of the altar. “Dahlias, roses and lilies, straight from her garden.”

Mrs Dawkins tutted. “Mind you, I thought everyone knew that yellow roses are unlucky.”

“My mother always said, ‘A lily and a yellow rose, out the window good luck goes’. You would have thought her coven would have told her that,” which set them off again until they remembered where they were.

“I’m sure she’s fine. The devil takes care of his own.”

“I expect you’re right. Maybe her broomstick broke down,” whispered Mrs Hobbs, giggling.

“Perhaps the vicar will let someone else do the flowers for a change. I swear he lets her get away with murder.” Shirley Dawkins had been trying to have her turn since the last Harvest Festival.

They left the wooden pews and went up the aisle to the back of the church, where they added their hymn books to the pile. They joined the queue at the door to thank the young Reverend Pete Stevens for his excellent service, even though Shirley Dawkins’ aching bones were telling her it was a bit on the long side.

Mrs Hobbs pushed in front of her friend. “We were just saying, Reverend, that it’s most unusual for Mrs Bream to miss church. We’re both rather worried. Do you think she’s alright?”

“I’m sure she’s fine. She looked very well yesterday when she did the flower arrangements. She said something about expecting company when she left, so maybe they stayed over. Mary will be seeing her for the WI meeting at the vicarage tomorrow, but to put your minds at ease, I’ll pop over later to check on her. After my dinner, though. We’re having roast beef and Yorkshire pudding at one, and Mary will shoot me if I’m late.”

“I’m very grateful, thank you. We would be so upset if anything had happened to our dear friend,” said Mrs Hobbs, as she walked away so the vicar did not see the wicked look in her eye and the smile on her face.

This left it to Mrs Dawkins to add, “And thank you for the wonderful service, Vicar.”

So it was that on Sunday afternoon, after a huge plate of roast beef and all the trimmings, followed by rhubarb crumble and custard, Pete Stevens and his wife, Mary, reluctantly walked up the path to Dora Bream’s large, imposing house on the edge of the village green. Mary looked at the immaculate front garden and wondered why the vicarage’s garden always had more weeds than actual flowers, whereas there was not one on show at Dora’s. Pete pressed the doorbell as his wife frowned. “I suppose she is alright. It isn’t like her to miss a chance to gossip.”

“Sshh. She’s not deaf.”

“You can say that again. She makes out she is, you know, but if someone dropped a pin on the other side of the road, she’d hear it well enough. I happened to mention to Mrs Fish that someone had broken into the Major’s, and she piped up from the other end of the church, wanting to know who did what when? Not that we knew anything ourselves, we had just seen the police there. Anyway, no one’s in. Let’s go home, darling, and snuggle on the sofa and let our dinner go down.”

“Good idea. But we’d better check round the back in case she’s fallen in the garden or something.” They followed the path round to the large landscaped garden, calling out for Dora as they went. The curtains were open so they knew she wasn’t still in bed. They tapped on the French window and, when nothing was heard, they tried the brass handle and walked in.

“Dora, are you home? It’s Pete and Mary. We were worried when you didn’t come to church today.” There was no sign of anyone being there until they reached the chintz-covered sofa, where Mary forgot for a second that she was the vicar’s wife and screamed out two very rude words. From behind it, protruded a pair of stockinged legs with red, fur-lined slippers. They had found the missing Dora.

Detective Chief Inspector Johnson was miserable at the best of times, but today was Sunday, and he had been on his third pint at the Red Lion in Gorebridge when his sergeant, Dave Mills, had phoned him. He nearly drove to Becklesfield himself but decided to get a lift with him. Just be his luck if he got caught drinking and driving. Mills still had to wait outside for half an hour while his boss finished his pint and had a whisky chaser.

“Can’t even have a day off on a Sunday now. Not exactly a 999 call, is it?” asked the grumpy inspector. “Some old biddy, I heard.”

“If you mean an elderly woman, yes, you’re right, Sir. But I think you’ll find it was worth an emergency call. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Pension book missing, is it?” scoffed Johnson.

“Not quite, Sir. A Mrs Dora Bream was found by the local vicar and his wife, strangled to death with a silk scarf.”

The members of The Deadly Detective Agency in Becklesfield were taking a much-needed day off. After the success of ‘The Case of the Hospital Homicides’, as Abigail called it, they had been run off their feet. Not that their success had been advertised in The Chiltern Weekly. That would have been rather difficult as the said agency was a group of dearly departeds, of which Abigail Summers was the self-appointed leader. Not only because she had a brilliant mind for solving puzzles, but mainly because she was bossy and liked to be in charge. There was another member who was very much alive - Abigail’s friend, Hayley, a psychic who, luckily for them, happened to be married to a policeman named Tom.

When thirty-nine year-old Abigail had first died and found out that she had been murdered, she asked for help from a group of also-deads, who hung out in the local library. At that time, they were led by Terry Styles, a handsome, but grumpy, middle-aged man. He loved and hated Abigail in equal measure, although love was edging in front as time went by. Her blue eyes, beguiling smile, and sense of humour helped. It had been her idea to start the agency, after they solved her murder. She wanted to name it after herself, but they already thought she was big-headed enough, after solving the case before the police did, so they all settled for The Deadly Detective Agency.

As it was a Sunday, and it was closed to the public, they were lazing about in their local haunt, the Becklesfield Public Library in the High Street. There was Suzie, a young black girl, and her guardian in the afterlife, Lillian Yin, who was still dressed in her nurse’s uniform. The mother of the group was amiable, eighty-two-year-old, wannabe sleuth, Betty, who was having the time of her life since being dead.

Abigail felt fed up and was pacing up and down. The detective agency was the most exciting thing that she had done. She had been a dressmaker who ran her own sewing business for all her working life and was beginning to wish she had joined the police when she’d had her chance. Although she would have wanted to go straight into CID, of course. She loved a good mystery or, better still, a good murder.

“For goodness’ sake, sit down,” said Terry. “It is rest in peace, you know. We said we would have a crime-free day today. In fact, it was your idea to not investigate on a Sunday.”

“I don’t think so. Oh yeah, it was me. But that was because we closed two major cases last week.” They had worked out that a jealous husband had killed a tennis professional in 1938 at Chiltern Hall, and their other success was rounding up a kidnapping gang and releasing the hostage. But rather than it being a drug cartel from nearby Gorebridge, it had been a group of nine and ten-year-olds from the village, and the victim was a garden gnome. The miscreants were brought to justice and given a one-week suspended grounding. But a win was a win, thought Abigail, so it seemed like a good idea at the time to give themselves a day off.

“But now I’m bored stiff. Sorry, another unintended pun. We need a good old-fashioned murder. Failing that, I say we all go for a walk on Chittering Downs. It’s a perfect summer’s day.”

“I’d love that,” said Suzie. “Come on, Lillian. Can Tiggy come?”

“Of course,” said Abigail. Tiggy was a ginger cat that had found Abigail and led her to her kitten that she had given birth to in the graveyard before she had died. Luckily for the tiny bundle of fur, Abigail had managed to get her friend and fellow agent, psychic medium Hayley, to rescue the near-dead kitten and nurse it back to health.

They couldn’t have solved the mysteries or murders without the help of Hayley Moon, which was her professional name. She was married to Police Constable Tom Bennett, the bane of DCI Johnson’s life. He could never work out how he was always in the right place or time to solve the cases. Tom

had even impressed the Chief Constable, and so he vowed to bring the young policeman down and find out where he was getting his information from if it killed him. There was a rumour going around that a psychic was helping him and the force, but he didn’t believe in that rubbish.