Ellie Quicke finds you can choose your friends but not your family. Poppy’s wealthy father hadn’t liked the look of the men whom his twin daughters intended to marry, and had set them up in the Magpie fashion boutique to ensure they would be able to support themselves; at the same time ensuring that the girls made a will in one another’s favour. The business prospered and expanded until, many years later, skeletons start to come out of the closet. Bodies too… And Ellie’s enquiries uncover a hornet’s nest of greed and malice combined with tragic secrets. "Ellie is a worthy successor to Agatha Christie's Jane Marple" ― Publishers Weekly Veronica Heley is actively involved in her local church and community affairs. She lives in Ealing, West London. Veronica is the creator of the ever-popular Ellie Quicke mysteries, as well as the Abbot Agency series. For more information, or to sign up for the author’s monthly newsletter, please go to: www.veronicaheley.com Murder in Style An Ellie Quicke Mystery By Veronica Heley Severn House Publishers Limited Copyright © 2016 Veronica Heley All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-7278-8630-9 CHAPTER 1 Thursday morning Ellie's daughter was after money – again. 'Mother, it's the opportunity of a lifetime! I heard about it purely by chance, but we have to act quickly. I know you will want to support me —' Ellie didn't know anything of the kind. What she did know was that when her difficult, demanding daughter rang it was either to ask for money, or to babysit young Evan. This time it was money. 'Sorry, Diana. Got to dash. You caught me just as I was leaving.' 'But Mother, this can't wait! Time is of the essence, and —' Ellie looked at her watch. 'Diana, I'm on my way to the dentist. Ring me later?' Diana started to object but Ellie crashed the phone down. Now, had she got her keys and did she need a jacket? It had looked like a nice morning, but ... The phone rang again. Almost, she let it ring. But didn't. 'Ellie, do you have a minute?' A tense, breathless voice. 'Not really.' It was her good friend from the police. 'Lesley? What's wrong?' 'Will you be in this afternoon, about three? There's someone I want you to meet.' Controlled panic in her voice? 'Is it serious?' Ellie glanced at the clock. 'I might. But —' 'Yes, it's murder. At least, I think it is. But then ... Got to go. Speak later!' Down went the phone and out of the door went Ellie, wondering how to juggle the errands she'd meant to run after she'd visited the dentist, who might be running late but – on the other hand – might be on time. It was only a routine appointment, and she didn't think anything needed to be done, but after that there was a whole lot of stuff she had to attend to: take a library book back, collect the dry cleaning, pop into the clock shop to see if that nice man could look at her watch which was losing time and ... Where had she put her shopping list? She hadn't left it on the kitchen table, had she? Today of all days! The doorbell rang. Three o'clock on the dot. Ellie shucked off her gardening gloves, slipped out of her clogs and managed to ease her feet into her brogues on her way through the hall to the front door. It was a fine afternoon, if breezy, and she'd stolen a few minutes away to tie up some dahlias which the wind had torn away from their stakes. She glanced at the clock. Very soon she ought to be in the kitchen, starting supper. Ellie and her husband didn't have people over for a meal very often and she wanted to do it properly. They did have a lodger in the flat upstairs who cooked for them occasionally, but this was not one of her nights, and Ellie was responsible for putting food on the table. She'd allowed herself enough time to prepare a steak and kidney pudding and set the table in the dining room ... if all went well. Bother Lesley! Didn't she know better than to inflict visitors on Ellie at short notice? 'Mrs Quicke? We're not intruding, I hope?' A sixtyish couple, prosperous, silver haired, well padded and half out of their minds with worry. They weren't too sure of their welcome, either. 'I'm Ellie Quicke. Do come in.' Ellie was also sixtyish, prosperous, silver haired and well padded. She understood these people. He would be a self-made businessman. A glance at the car parked in her drive confirmed that he wasn't short of a bob or two. His wife – presumably they'd been married a long time; they had that air of presenting a united front – was well groomed and expensively upholstered, but some trick of the light caused Ellie to imagine her in a comfortable wrap-around pinny, with her hair in a bun. A farmer's wife, perhaps? The man held out his hand. A gold ring flashed. 'Cordover, Gerald. Builders. The wife, Marika. Good of you to see us at such short notice.' No smile. He was too worried for social niceties. Mrs Cordover – Marika – said, 'We appreciate it.' A slight sibilance? English was, perhaps, not her first language? Polish? Ellie said, 'Ma