Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 1-3 - Frances Evesham - Страница 18

The afternoon at Mangotsfield Hall had confirmed every one of Libby's fears about making a new life in a small town: gossip, cliques and the cold shoulder. London neighbours had warned her, but she'd thought she knew best. So much for those great plans for opening a chocolatier here. She was a laughing stock.

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. Libby had better cook dinner, instead.

She screwed the top back on the wine bottle, replaced it in the fridge and rifled through the shelves, 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 I've officially 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 firelighters 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 chocolate shop.’

Libby groaned. ‘That's the idea. Sometimes it seems a very long way away. Don't tell Frank, because I don't want him to 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 the next book, if I decide to do one. I haven't signed the contract yet.’

It sat on her computer, still waiting for a decision. ‘Don't worry, Mrs Forest,’ the publisher, a thin, exquisitely dressed young man, with a condescending attitude, had insisted. ‘We'll do all the hard work for you. 'Baking at the Beach' was delightful, of course, but just a photo book, you know. Not – er – exactly professional. We're offering real expertise, and the chance for a bestseller.’

Libby had laughed.

‘No, no, Mrs Forest – or, may I call you Libby – I mean it. We're one of the foremost publishers of creative crafts in the country. Of course, we can't offer an advance – but we'll bear all the organisation and all the costs.’

‘And all I have to do is invent dozens of recipes, and test them?’

‘Exactly. Oh, and provide a tiny story for each one – to keep the reader interested. Couldn't be easier.’

Libby told Mandy the story. ‘So, we're looking at months, if not years, before I'll be in business for myself.’

‘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 in Exham, 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 it, but if she signed one, she might have left it with a solicitor.’

‘What about the rest of her 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. She 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 halfway 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 a copy of the little girl's photo for me to show him I mean business, 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 Thomson's bungalow. She sighed. The car was in Jenkins' garage. ‘I'm in the middle of something, I'll send it this evening.’

‘OK. No hurry. 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 me where he goes: I'm meeting her again at one of the bars here later today.’

Of course, you are. She couldn't resist you, could she?

‘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 lodging with me. She came 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.’