The Guestbook at Willow Cottage. Holly Martin

rest until she is lying in the ground.

      Claudette Montana? Really? Please kill me off, not her.

      I am not killing you off. I’ve told you before, Annie Butterworth just isn’t sexy enough to be in one of my books. Annie Butterworth sounds like an old granny with fluffy slippers and someone who wears cardigans no matter how hot it is. Why do you think I changed my name to Oliver Black? Oliver Butterworth would be smoking a pipe and sucking on his Werther’s Originals, he certainly wouldn’t be the number one crime writer in Britain, nay the world.

      You think a lot of yourself don’t you? And yes, I’m well aware I’m not sexy enough for you.

      Are we still talking about the book here? Let’s not go down that weird road again. Besides you were in my last book, you obviously didn’t look hard enough.

      I was not, I would have noticed that.

      Try the very front of the book.

       What’s this? The Great Oliver Black having writer’s block? Surely not.

       Sophia Lorenzo. Cleaner.

      Oh Annie. Please tell me, with all your money, why you still haven’t got yourself a decent cleaner yet? Why do you still have this old bag hanging around like a bad smell?

       Oliver Butterworth, don’t think you are too old to be put over my knee. Sophia

      Oh Aunty Sophia, are you still mad that I killed you off in Behind Closed Doors.

       I was more bothered that you made me into a prostitute.

      High class escort actually, I couldn’t resist. Besides Sophia Lorenzo is a much sexier sounding name than Annie Butterworth.

      You dedicated your last book to me!! How did I miss that? I can’t believe you did that. That’s… Thank you.

      Oh don’t get all soppy on me. Jeez if I knew it was going to get this reaction I would have dedicated it to my local Chinese take-out, who kept me fed through the duration of the book.

      And Sophia, it wasn’t so much writer’s block, more murderer’s block. I had made the character of Claudette so clever, underhanded and cunning that she wouldn’t fall for the plots and ploys of Maxwell Hunt. I also needed to make sure the reader would feel sympathetic towards him, they had to want Claudette dead almost as much as he did.

      Tuesday:

      It is technically Tuesday. 3.27 Tuesday morning to be precise. But Claudette has been killed. I feel like singing ‘ding, dong the witch is dead’. I have cracked open a bottle of Whin Hill Cider to celebrate but may sneak next door and top up my celebrations with some of Annie’s amazing trifle.

      Note to self: When breaking into your sister-in-law’s place either go blindfolded or call out to make sure she is decent first. I don’t know who was more shocked when I walked in to find her stark naked tucking into the trifle. Admittedly we’re experiencing one of the hottest springs since before dinosaurs roamed the earth but still, one should wear a robe when wandering about downstairs.

      Why should I wear a robe in my own house? Normally my guests don’t just take it upon themselves to wander into my house and help themselves to my food. That’s not part of the service. Besides you have seen me naked before.

      Yes. You’ve put on weight since the last time.

      Oh my god! Thanks very much!

      Annie! You know very well that I meant that as a good thing. You were a bag of bones the last time I saw you. I’m so glad you’re eating properly again now.

      Nag, nag, nag.

      I’m just saying, what I saw in the light of the fridge for those brief seconds was damned sexy.

      Sexy enough to be in one of your books?

      No.

      If you won’t kill me off how about making me into a murderer instead?

      Annie Butterworth, blonde hair, blue eyes, face like an angel, cast as an evil murderer, who would believe it?

      Wednesday:

      My sister-in-law has gone mad. Maybe the grief of my brother dying has finally got to her and it’s pushed her over the edge. She tried to kill me three times yesterday.

      The first time she leapt out of a cupboard with an axe. Scared the bloody crap out of me, but only because she was screaming like a banshee. When I turned around and saw Annie brandishing an axe in her little flowered blouse and denim shorts with those stupid oversized sandals she loves so much I burst out laughing, hardly the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.

      The second time a quiche appeared in my kitchen with a packet of rat poison next to it. The quiche tasted amazing, Annie always could cook.

      I had to give her points for trying on the third attempt. I woke to find her straddling me, dressed head to toe in a black leather cat suit, her hair slicked back, her eyes lined with black and a knife pressed to my throat. I must admit she did look mean, but I was too busy trying not to be turned on to be scared of her. Quite frankly if she had killed me then I would have gone with a huge grin on my face.

      Annie, I know you just don’t have it in you to be a killer. I’ve seen you stop the car for a frog to cross the road. You didn’t even have the guts to use a real knife, you had a spoon handle pressed to my throat.

      I didn’t want to hurt you. I could be believable as a killer, just you wait and see.

      Thursday:

      Annie may be a better killer than I thought. Last night I nearly died laughing.

      She had made a dummy by stuffing old clothes with newspapers, a head out of an old melon and fastened it all together to look like a body then wrapped it in a black bin bag. Just as it was starting to turn dark she went out to her front garden, and in full view of the rest of the village, dug a hole to bury the body. She obviously wanted to raise suspicions and prove that people would think she was capable of such a thing.

      She was in luck. David Lambeth, the local constabulary, was driving past and he stopped when he saw her digging. I think she nearly did a little victory dance that he would ask her what she was doing and to explain the body shaped bag on her front lawn. But without a word, David went to the shed, grabbed another spade and helped her to dig the hole only stopping once to clarify how deep she wanted it. I laughed so much I think I ruptured something inside.

      Even when I told him I wanted the hole six feet deep he didn’t bat an eyelid. I did relent in the end and told him I’d finish the hole the next day. He’s coming round later to help me finish it off.

      Friday:

      I’m being kicked out today. Apparently a paying guest is more important than family.

      You can stay in my spare room, you know that. I promise not to jump you.

      I’d prefer to keep the boundaries a bit stricter, after last time.

      Prude.

      I’ll be back for the grand re-opening of The Painted Plate. Take Care Annie, Sophia, take care of her.

       I will. Don’t stay away so long next time. Sophia x

      **********

      14th - 17th March

      Mrs Applecroft.

       FRIDAY:

       THE LAST TIME I WAS HERE MRS BUTTERWORTH WAS GRIEVING THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND. THE PLACE WAS A MESS.

       I