Death on Daytime: A Tess Darling Mystery (The Tess Darling Mysteries) Read Free

phone, she sounded so…so…full of legs.” Tess suppressed a howl. Much as she wanted to punch someone, it didn’t deserve to be Di. Forced to recruit participants from its TV audience,
Pardon My Garden
relied heavily on the willingness of students, the unemployed and veterans of the Second World War. In fact, if it wasn’t for the wheelchair, Mrs Meakes would have looked fitter than most. Still, Tess felt guilty for what they were about to put her through. She felt even guiltier when the old woman’s gaze lit on her and turned from terror to relief. (Relief was a reaction Tess seemed to provoke in many of her punters. If pressed, she’d have attributed it to her professional and caring manner, not the desperate cleaving of one hapless soul to another. Whatever the reason, complete strangers would trust and confide in her). “We’re going to look after you, Mrs Meakes,” she promised. “Just a quick spot of filming and we’ll have you back inside with a nice cup of tea.” The old lady still looked a bit unsure.
    “Call it a stiff brandy then,” she negotiated. “And I’ll get Miller to show you what he keeps under that duffle coat.” As Mrs Meakes gave a shocked giggle – and Miller retreated under his hood – Kev issued a last warning.
    “60 secs to air, Boss.”
    “Get her into position, can you?” Picking up the wheelchair, as lightly as if it were a potted geranium, Miller placed it – and Mrs Meakes – beside Gid. Tess’ walkie talkie gave a last crackle.
    “We’re rolling,” she cried. “GIDEON, PUT DOWN THE COCKING LIP BALM.” Ducking out of shot, she counted down to air: 3 – 2–1 –
    “Welcome to another fabulous edition of
Pardon My Garden,”
trilled Gideon. “The lovely Jeenie can’t be with us today, as she’s come down with… women’s problems.” From behind camera, Tess made encouraging gestures with her fists. “But I’m sure this week’s participant has had
years
of experience with that sort of thing, haven’t you Mrs Meakes?”
    “Oh yes, dear,” she nodded obligingly.
    “Now Mrs Meakes, you’re a little old lady who can barely move. What’s that all about?” As Gideon shook his head in disbelief, Mrs Meakes’ head started to wobble. She looked around for the producer-lady. So pretty and reassuring, she reminded her of that cosy barmaid who used to top up Reg’s pint. And her hair looked just like a floor-cloth – the kind you could trust.
    “I’m so glad you’ve come to rescue my garden,” she addressed Tess. “It’s gone to seed since my Reginald died – he did so love his flowers – and of course, I’m no use to anyone.” Trailing off, Mrs Meakes cast a forlorn look at a flower-bed. She was sure there’d been some pansies there this morning.
    “Don’t worry, grandma!” Seized by her plight, Gideon careered off-script. “Your garden just needs a bit of love – why, look at the quality of the soil!” Sticking his hand in, he held a turd-like lump to camera. “
Full
of earth. We just need to pull out a few weeds like so…”
    Dropping to his knees, Gideon yanked at a clump of straggly grass sprouting from the mud – just as a sharp gust of hail knocked their Kiwi cameraman into the pond. Heart sinking, Tess shoved Miller forward to cover the shot. “I will not be beaten by grass,” Gid muttered manically. “Not
again.
” He gave one last heave. It produced a satisfying, schlurping noise. Then the tangled knot came away in his hands, bringing with it a huge, white bulb.
    A bulb the size and shape of a human head.
    Gideon’s smile sagged into a slack gape of horror. As he tumbled backwards, the head kept rising up out of the earth, as if by its own volition. A dirt-splattered forehead emerged, then a pair of aggressively plucked eyebrows and two sightless eyes, soft and pale as egg whites.
    Taken altogether, one very dead Jeenie Dempster.
    As Tess felt her legs go cold, she realised it was the first time she’d seen her presenter