Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) (7 page)

Safe at home, she grabbed a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge, filled a tall glass and took a satisfying gulp. As she drained the glass, and tilted the bottle again, ready for a top up, she caught sight of the clock. Mandy would be back soon, unless she’d changed her mind and found somewhere else to live, or returned home. Drinking wouldn’t help. She’d better cook dinner, instead.

She screwed the top back on the wine bottle, replaced it in the fridge and rifled through, looking for food. She had plenty of vegetables and some chicken. A stir fry, maybe? Something sharp and satisfying, with lovely noodles to warm the stomach.

Libby chopped and tasted, blending soy sauce with chili. She crushed garlic, relishing the sharp scent and the bite on her tongue, her spirits rising.

The door crashed open. Mandy appeared, soaked to the skin, tattooed arms full of flowers. “These are for you.” The girl blushed crimson, to the roots of the unnaturally black hair, plopped the flowers on the kitchen table, dropped a box of chocolates beside them, and walked out. “For being kind.” Libby heard the glue of tears in Mandy’s voice as she disappeared upstairs.

Libby wiped her own, suddenly damp eyes, ran cold water into a vase and cut the ends off the flower stems. She went to the foot of the stairs and shouted. “Thanks. I love Alstroemeria.” She kept her voice matter-of-fact. “They last for ages.”

Back in the kitchen, she turned on the radio, humming as she worked. A door closed upstairs and Mandy reappeared in dry clothes, wearing a sheepish grin. Libby longed to take a cloth to the girl’s chalky face. Somewhere, under several inches of white make-up and lines of black kohl, hid a pretty face.

Libby reopened the wine, took out a clean glass and filled it, offering it to her new lodger. Mandy barely glanced at it, before taking a long swig. Libby winced. Now wasn’t the moment to pontificate about wine-drinking, but it hurt to see good wine glugged like orange squash. Mandy said, “I heard about Joe Ramshore at the Hall.”

“News really does travel fast, here, doesn’t it?”

Mandy laughed. “You said it. Anyway, don’t take any notice of him. He’s a fool. By the way, I told Mum officially I’ve left home, and you know what? She said, ‘Good for you.’”

“I’m sure she’s glad. She worries about you. I know I―” Libby stopped. Mandy had enough problems without hearing a sob story about Libby’s marriage. “Mothers worry about their children.”

“Hmm. Maybe. Anyway, I told her to come over here if things get worse.”

Libby swallowed. “Oh. Good idea.”

“Don’t worry, she won’t come. At least, I don’t think so…”

Every scrap of dinner eaten, they lounged around in the sitting room, eating chocolate and watching television. Libby fiddled with kindling and fire-lighters until a blaze started in the fire. She rested twigs and bigger shards of wood on top in an elaborate cone shape. “First fire of the year. Bet it goes out.”

The smell of apple wood scented the room. Libby breathed in, tension leaving her shoulders as she curled her feet up on the sofa. Fuzzy lay across Mandy’s lap and purred loudly. “She never sits with me,” Libby said. “She likes you.”

Mandy dipped her head, cheeks reddening. “Libby, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Ask away.”

“You said you’re going to open a patisserie.”

Libby groaned. “That’s the idea, or a chocolate shop. Sometimes it seems a very long way away. Don’t tell Frank, he’ll think I’m setting up in opposition to the bakery. I haven’t decided yet. I’ve got a course coming up, about the business side.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not my favourite thing. Still, I don’t want to be bankrupt in my first week. Then, I need to get more experience, and I’ve got to finish writing this book. So, we’re looking at months, if not years, before I get there.”

“Well, when you do, I wondered―”

The phone rang. Libby, wishing she’d taken it off the hook, made a ‘sorry’ face at Mandy and answered. “It’s me. In Los Angeles.”

“Max. You’re kidding. Really?”

“Really. I thought you’d want a progress report.”

“Report away.” She had things to say to Max when he got back, but they could wait.

He talked fast. “I saw Susie’s husband, Mickey. He’s a jerk.”

“As we thought.”

“Quite. Well, he said, and I quote, he was sorry Susie was dead, but he hadn’t seen her for years and he’s far too busy with a new family to come to the funeral. He doesn’t know what Susie was doing here, and by the way, he wants to know if the will’s been read yet. I suppose he’s hoping to be in it.”

“Is there a will?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Susie never mentioned one.”

“What about the rest of the band? Did you track them down?”

“Mickey’s assistant gave me addresses.” Libby heard a smile in his voice. “Nice girl.” He’d have taken her out to dinner and pumped her for information. “Guy the violinist and James the keyboard player left years ago and went back to England. The addresses may be out of date, but it’s a start. I asked her if she knew about Susie’s solicitor, but she didn’t. Said Susie left all the business to Mickey. I’m heading back.”

“Back to Somerset? Not going to enjoy Los Angeles a while longer?”

He snorted. “Alone in a hotel? Not my idea of fun. How are things?”

She paused. She wouldn’t tell him about Joe’s verbal attack just now. Libby didn’t want to get involved in family jealousies. “Fine.”

“Good. What about Mrs Thomson? ”

“She showed me photos.”

The silence dragged on. “Photos?”

“Of Annie Rose. Didn’t Mickey mention her?”

“Who’s Annie Rose?”

He didn’t know?
“Mickey and Susie had a little girl who died when she was seven.” The sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone told Libby it was news to Max. “Susie sent cards, and photos of her daughter to Mrs Thomson. Mickey didn’t think to mention her?”

“I’m speechless. Look, I’ll be home late on Saturday. Let’s meet on Sunday: lunch at the Lighthouse Inn.”

“You’ll be jet-lagged.”

“I’ve got through it before. A glass of pinot noir does the trick.”

Used to jet-setting around the world, then. Libby felt suddenly small and naïve. An afternoon in the local National Trust House, playing at dressing up, while Max flew half way around the world, probably club class. Bet he’d been everywhere. “Libby?”

“Yes?”

“Thought we’d been cut off.”

“I was thinking. Can’t you get back to Mickey and ask him about the little girl?”

“Tell you what. Email over a copy of the little girl’s photo for me to show him and I’ll try.”

Libby bit the inside of her cheek. She hadn’t thought to ask for the photo, but she wasn’t about to admit it. She’d have to nip back to Mrs Thomas’s bungalow. She sighed. The car was in Jenkins’ garage. “I’m in the middle of something, I’ll send it this evening.”

“OK. Mickey won’t go to bed at 9 o’clock, I bet. He’ll be out on the town with his trophy wife. The secretary will tell where he goes: I’m meeting her again at one of the bars here.”

Of course you are. She couldn’t resist you, could she? A nineteen-year-old.

“By the way. None of my business, but what exactly are you in the middle of?”

The cheek of the man. “Mandy’s here. You know, from the bakery? She’s come to-to…”

“To get away from her Dad?”

“Something like that.”

“OK. Good idea. He’s a menace. Send the photo as
soon as you can, Libby. See you on Sunday.”

Mandy appeared in the hall. Libby grabbed her keys. “I’m popping out for a minute.”

“Can I come?”

Libby couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. “We’ll have to walk.”

Breaking and Entering

“Mrs Thomson?” Libby rapped on the door. The light was on in the house, and she could hear the TV. Mrs Thomson must have turned the sound up. Libby banged again, harder, and pressed the bell, keeping her thumb on the buzzer, but no one came.

Mandy spoke from behind Libby’s shoulder. “I’ll go round the back.” She disappeared. Libby kept up the banging and ringing, but no one came. Where was Bear? He should be barking his head off, by now.

Maybe Mrs Thomson had gone away. She might be visiting a friend, or a sister. “Libby. Get help.” Mandy was back, panting. “I think she’s had a fall.”

Libby dialled 999, hand shaking. Not again. “Fire, police or ambulance?”

“Ambulance. Police. Both.” Heart pounding, Libby followed Mandy to the back of the house, and peered through the kitchen window. The room gave nothing away: clean, neat and tidy as before; plates stacked on the draining board; tea towels folded over the sink to dry. Mandy grabbed Libby’s arm and pointed. The door to the hall stood ajar, and through the gap, Libby caught a flash of green. She groaned. Mrs Thomson’s slippers.

The door was locked. Libby shook it, but it held fast. She stood back, struggling to stay calm and sum up the problem. A pane of glass ran down the middle of the door. Libby gripped her phone in both hands and smashed it hard, into the panel. Broken shards clattered to the kitchen floor. She elbowed jagged fragments inwards, pulled the sleeve of her jacket down round her wrist, and slipped her arm through the door. The tips of her fingers touched the key. Grunting, she forced her shoulder further in, more splinters tinkling to the ground, until she could grab the key between thumb and finger and turn it in the lock.

Praying Mrs Thomson hadn’t shot the bolt across as well, Libby leaned on the handle. The door swung open. She crunched across glass, and pushed open the inner door. The old lady lay at the foot of the stairs, the back of her head angled against the wall. Mandy whispered. “It looks as though her neck’s broken.”

Another body.
A wave of nausea struck Libby. She swallowed it down. No time for that. She felt Mrs Thomson’s neck for a pulse, and fingered her wrist, horribly aware she’d done exactly the same for Susie. “I think she’s dead.”

Mandy’s hand clamped to her mouth, muffling her voice. “She must have fallen down the stairs.” She tugged Libby’s elbow. “Can’t we do anything? Shouldn’t we put a blanket over her?”

“It’s too late for that.” A news programme still blared through the house. Libby’s head pounded. She strode to the sitting room, found the remote control and switched off the TV. Silence fell. A cup of tea, half finished, sat in its saucer on the table. Mrs Thomson had been alone, with no one nearby to help when she fell. How long had she lain in the hall?

The house was quiet: too quiet. What was wrong?
Bear.
Where was the dog? Why hadn’t he barked when his mistress fell? A cold hand tugged at Libby’s chest. She stepped with care around Mrs Thomson and set off up the stairs. “Where are you going?” Mandy squeaked.

“The dog’s missing.” Libby went through the house, opening one door after another. “Bear, where are you? Come on out, it’s me.”

Mandy sat on the stairs, transfixed by Mrs Thomson’s body. “Maybe he’s outside?”

Before Libby could search the garden, horns blared, lights flashed and the emergency services arrived in force. Joe Ramshore was first. “Mrs Forest. What are you doing here?”

Mandy said. “We found Mrs Thomson.”

“Did you?” He frowned at Libby, eyes narrowed, suspicious. The ambulance crew whispered in his ear. “Another body,” he said. “And once again, you’re on the spot.” He took Libby’s arm. “Might I ask what you were doing here?”

The wooden chair at the police station, designed for utility rather than comfort, made Libby’s back ache. She stared ahead at uninviting walls, bare of pictures, or notices, painted dull grey. Mandy sat next to her at the plain wooden table, swirling cold, undrinkable tea inside a paper cup. Detective Sergeant Ramshore tilted his chair back, until only two legs touched the floor, waiting blank-faced for an explanation. “We went to the house to look at a photo. Mrs Thomson showed it to me earlier when I walked the dog for her.”

His expression didn’t change. “You were looking after Bear?”

“Max―your father―he’s away.”

Joe’s eyes were cold. He raised one eyebrow in disbelief. “And he asked you to take over the dog walking?”

Libby held his glance. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “So, you came back here in the evening, to visit an old woman? Didn’t you realise you’d frighten her at this time of night? It looks like she tried to get to the door, wearing her ragged old slippers, and tripped on the stairs.”

“What?” Furious, Libby leaned forward. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”

“Have you got a better idea?”

“The dog’s missing. Maybe she was going out to look for him?”

Joe crossed an ankle over the other leg, tapping his cup with a long finger. “We’d know more about that if you hadn’t broken in, making such a mess of the back door, wouldn’t we?”

“We had to get in.” Libby was indignant. “What if she’d still been alive?”

“OK.” He uncrossed his legs. “Fair enough, I suppose. Anyway, I’m afraid the poor old soul’s gone. She must have been almost ninety, and she lived all on her own. Something like this was bound to happen, one day.”

“You think it’s an accident, then?”