by Kris Pearson
Thirty seconds later I turned in beside the very pretty cottage. Not in the best of repair, but absolutely oozing charm; strung around with climbing roses and propped up by tall hollyhocks.
I’d never been as far as The Point. With good accessible places further back I suppose our parents had simply held all the family picnics where it was easy and safe – Sunny Cove, mostly. No boyfriend had ever driven me here for a bit of private snogging either, more’s the pity. It was totally new territory, and a lot nicer than Drain Gully.
The late afternoon sun poured down, making the stems of salt-burned grass glitter like shiny wires in the sea breeze. I cut the engine, pulled on the handbrake, and slid out. Against the sun’s fierce glare the air was moist and misty with sea spray. Waves pounded onto the sand at the base of an incline at the end of the property. Seagulls wheeled and screamed above me, and over the noise of the birds and the crashing water the dogs started frantically barking, knowing they were home. They jumped out of the car, raced up the path, and wriggled through the smallish pet door. Then they dashed back, telling me they couldn’t find Isobel. They fell silent, heads on one side, black eyes beadily inquisitive against their snowy coats.
“I know I’m not her,” I said, bending to let them sniff my fingers again. “Sorry. But at least I’ll get your dinner for you.”
They really were lovely little dogs. One of them sneezed, having possibly gotten too much of a whiff of my hand lotion, and the other growled a bit to show he was doing his guard duty, but they led me happily enough to the front door, bouncing along like a couple of little white teddy bears.
The bunch of keys had several possibilities. There was the obvious car key and the garage remote. PC Henderson had told me he’d driven Isobel’s Mini home and garaged it so mine would have to be parked outside. There were two ordinary looking door keys, something small that might be for a suitcase, and a very old brass one that could be anything. Of course it was the second door key I needed, and the dogs encouraged me with yaps and whines and pants while I fumbled around fitting the possibilities into the lock. The dark fingerprint powder around the door handle didn’t help, and there was more inside so I mentally added some cleaning to my list of duties once the Police gave me the okay. They’d taken my prints at the local Police station seeing I’d been at the murder scene, but I couldn’t imagine they’d be much help. I’d never been to the cottage, and I was only rarely at Saint Agatha’s.
“Hold on, hold on,” I muttered, setting down my bag beside a big bucket of cold water on the white-painted kitchen table.
Hmmm, floating leaf fragments. She’d probably given the flowers an overnight drink before setting off to the church with them.
Itsy and Fluffy had name-tags hanging from their collars – gold for one dog and silver for the other – but I didn’t fancy trying to read them until their tummies were full and their sharp little teeth were less likely to nip me.
“How are you doing, doggies?” I asked with no hope of an answer except encouraging barks. The silence needed filling. Paul had been right about the location being isolated. “Are you going to be good doggies for me?”
Kill me now! What would I do if they said ‘no’?
I quickly replenished their big water bowl and located a container of Pup-E-Love in the pantry. Their food bowls had been polished clean by small pink tongues so I pushed them further apart to prevent squabbling and tipped a good sprinkle of kibble into each. The little dogs fell to eating quite happily, with no idea their beloved mistress would never be returning to feed them again. Feeling horrible about that, I sneaked outside while they were occupied, wanting to check out my new surroundings before the sun got any closer to setting.
I didn’t expect to be checking out the long lanky form and smooth tanned muscles of someone who looked a lot like a younger Jon Bon Jovi. With a nipple ring.
Heavens to Betsy – what a hunk!
The man paused at the top of a path that had been cut into the slope leading down from Isobel’s vegetable garden to the sea. He wore almost nothing and carried a surfboard. The lowering sun lit up his flowing mane of streaky blond hair – wet in parts and curling up and floating in the late afternoon breeze in others. I stopped dead in my tracks. Who was he, and what did he think he was doing here on private property?
And could he kill me by whacking me with that surfboard?
He rested his weight back on one foot, which pulled the muscles of his thigh into high relief. “Evening. Are you related to Miss Crombie?” His voice was deep and strong, and definitely North American.
“No. Er… just helping out.”
His eyebrows drew together in a fearsome frown. “Have you bought the place?” he demanded, none too politely.
“No… I…”
“She knew I wanted it,” he interrupted. “I’ve asked her about it every time I’ve seen her.”
Had he indeed? How brusquely had he asked Isobel to sell? He looked pretty fierce, standing there full of belligerence and testosterone. More than a match for little Isobel. He could have snapped her neck with those two big hands. Although, I remembered sensibly, her neck hadn’t been snapped at all. Someone had thumped her on the back of the head with something heavy. “Blunt force trauma,” the ambulance attendant had said before backing off and adding, “but that’s not my call.”
“Wanted to buy it? Her house?” I asked, pushing my hair back over my shoulders. He had almost more hair than me. “I’m not surprised she didn’t want to sell it to you. It’s a piece of paradise.”
“Which is why I want it.” He glared at me with very blue eyes which were eerily illuminated by the lowering sun. He seemed not at all worried he was wearing only a pair of thin and low-slung board shorts. It was hard not to moan after my long man-drought. The wet shorts were hanging so low that the vee of abdominal muscle some men have was all on display, and very nice it was, too. My fingers itched to trace those lines down his hard flat belly, and I mentally slapped myself, moving my attention up to the taut six-pack above. Which was also very touchable. Plainly I’d been editing too many romances.
Stop it, Merry!
I swallowed. “It’s not a young man’s house,” I said, frantic to distract myself.
An arrogant sneer stretched his lips. “You can say that again! I’d bowl it. Or do a progressive reno to make sure the original place disappeared so slowly it never became a demolition.” His expression softened. “Lots of glass and timber. Some feature stone maybe. South Cal style, like me. You wouldn’t get permission to rebuild here.”
I could see that. It was the only house for quite some distance – idyllic but isolated. No doubt some well-meaning local authority official would consider it their duty to return the land to ‘its natural condition’.
“Yes, the vicar said it was a beautiful spot.”
“That hypocrite, Paul McCreagh?” The belligerence was back in full force after his wistful musings over renovations.
“What?” I demanded.
‘Don’t say ‘what?’, darling,’ the dear departed Mrs Summerfield reminded me again.
But the surfer had really shocked me. “He’s a vicar. And a chaplain in Afghanistan!”
“Well hallelujah. So he says. As far as I’m concerned he’s just bad for business.”
“Surfing business?” I asked, somewhat emboldened by Bon Jovi’s obvious distaste for a very nice man.
“Liquor business. Hospitality business. Erik and I have owned the Burkeville Bar and Grill for a while now, and I’m planning on buying him out. We can do without McCreagh mooching around, nursing a soda for an hour, and turning his long nose up at anyone who’s having a good time.”
The penny dropped. Those startling blue eyes and tanned skin. Put him in a tight T-shirt and pull his hair back in one of those ‘man-bun’ things and this was the barman at the Burkeville. I’d only seen him a few times and assumed he was a tourist passing through and picking up casual work. Having placed him now I relaxed a little. And he was p
art owner rather than just a barman.
Okay, I’m a snob.
“Ah,” I managed. Brilliant conversationalist I am when faced with an uber-handsome man. I didn’t think I’d done too well with the vicar either. Out of practice – hopefully that was the answer.
I eyed the surfboard under his arm again. Could he have swung it at the back of Isobel’s head to get her out of the way of his hoped-for acquisition of the cottage? How solid was a surfboard anyway? He continued to stand there as though it weighed nothing at all. From somewhere in my editing past I dredged up the information that they had polystyrene centers for flotation and that the coating on the outside was pretty thin. Which is why sharks could chomp right through them. Not that he could have carried it into the church unnoticed. I was definitely losing my marbles.
“Anyway,” I said, dragging my brain back to the current situation, “Why do you say ‘so he says’, about the vicar? It’d be easy enough to find out whether he was in Afghanistan or not. I could Google him.”
“You go right ahead and do that.”
Talk about arrogant! But then his gaze dropped to my feet, slid up my ankles and calves, practically stripped my dress away when he hit thigh level, and lingered on my two best features. I had no option but to grab a fast breath, which naturally caused some inflation, and by the time he reached my face he had a devastating grin on his. What a flirt.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Summerfield.” I didn’t think he deserved my first name after being so rude about Paul. I might have been a bit sharp with him, and I knew I wasn’t too glam right now, but I was looking forward to turning up at his bar and showing him I polished up okay. “And you are…?” I asked in a voice dripping with honey. Maybe honey with a bit of arsenic stirred in.
“John,” he began. It sounded more like ‘Jaarn’, and I promptly gave a badly-suppressed snort. Surely he wasn’t going to say anything that sounded like Bon Jovi?
“Bonnington,” he finished.
Close enough to make me drop my head and grin, before I raised it again and gave him what I hoped was a cool stare. “Are you using Isobel’s path as a shortcut? I saw a truck a little way along the road. Yours?”
He regarded me with those blue eyes and nodded slowly. “Yup, that’s my pickup. So? It’s on public land.” The nipple ring winked as the setting sun caught it. “Maybe I’m just cutting through, because I’ve been hoping Miss Crombie might change her mind.”
“Selling the house isn’t in her power any longer. You do know she’s dead? I’m sure you get all the gossip in the bar.” I clenched my hands until my nails bit into my palms.
“Yup – main topic of conversation last night.”
“So you see why I can’t tell you anything. It’s not my business.” I edged a couple of steps away.
He took a step closer.
I’m five-eight but he was considerably more, even bare-footed.
“She hasn’t gone and willed it to the church or anything stupid like that, has she?”
I’m sure I gaped a few times like an out of water fish. “Why would you think that?”
“You mentioned the vicar. Smarmy McCreagh. I wouldn’t put it past him to suggest it as a possibility.”
“While she arranges the church flowers?” I needled, incensed on Paul’s behalf. “She’s not the only one who did that for him. Her sister’s on the flower arrangement team, too.”
“Geez, what’s she got that he wants?”
I stared at him, thinking, ‘Well, she hasn’t got a sister any more’.
Then I turned away, wanting to be done with him and deciding the rest of my property inspection could wait until the morning. I had no idea he was following me, padding along silently on his bare feet, until I heard his sharp curse.
“Dammit – has the house been broken into? Much damage?”
I whirled to face him again. “No, it hasn’t, so you can stop worrying about a place you don’t own and which is none of your business.” But to my consternation he stepped closer, peering at the mess of fingerprint powder around the door handle.
“Are you okay, Ms Summerfield?” he asked over his broad golden shoulder. “I know what this is. When we’ve had trouble at the bar we’ve had to go through the same routine. What’s been happening here?”
Then he turned around fully and I saw the genuine concern in his amazing eyes. For some reason I gave a half-hiccup, half-sob. Maybe the stress of the day was catching up with me. Talk about feeling like a nerveless Nellie…
At that moment either Itsy or Fluffy wriggled through the dog door and snagged his attention for a second or two but he turned almost instantly back to me. “You’ve gone pretty pale. Need something to drink and a sit-down, maybe? Come on – you do the sitting down and I’ll see what’s available.”
“Are you always so darn bossy?” I demanded, because by now he’d leaned the surfboard up against the house, opened the door, patted whichever dog it was, and was waiting for me to go inside.
“Probably,” he agreed. “I’m used to getting things done.”
I gave a bit of a sniff and then felt a tear running down my face. Of all the times to turn into a helpless female… I tried to wipe it away so he wouldn’t see it but his sharp blue eyes missed nothing.
“So – tea or coffee, or something stronger?”
“Tea’s fine,” I croaked. “I’ve no idea where everything is because I’ve barely arrived. There might be brandy or whisky somewhere? I could look?”
He quirked an eyebrow at that and followed me in, noting the fingerprint mess on the inside of the door as well. Both dogs were now circling his feet, growling and yipping. “Oh come on,” he said, smirking down at them. “I’ve got two German Shepherds who’d eat you for breakfast.”
“My brother’s got two spaniels,” I said for no particular reason.
“Is this a dog contest?” he asked, strolling across to the kitchen counter, hefting the red enamel kettle, and filling it under the tap. It was a gas stove. I hadn’t used one in ages but he seemed to know how to flick it on. He set the kettle to boil while I searched the cabinet in the dining room. It held half a dozen small fancy glasses and one partial bottle of sweet sherry. Nooooo…
I returned to the kitchen, shaking my head before sagging down onto a white-painted chair with a rather uncomfortable spindle back. Was I slightly hysterical? For some reason it was hard not to giggle at the thought of all the pairs of dogs.
“Were you planning to drown these two?” he asked, glancing from Itsy and Fluffy to the bucket of water. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
I managed a shaky smile for him. “Church flowers, I think. Tip it out if you like.”
It was getting darker. And here I was in a strange house with a strange man who was barely clad. Possibly not a great start to my house and pet minding career, but it was oddly good to have some company. To my surprise he didn’t empty the bucket into the sink but carried it outside. I heard it sloshing in several doses onto the garden.
“She had some strawberries and blueberries coming on out there,” he said when he brought it back inside. “May as well juice them up. She showed me last time I was here.”
I hadn’t expected that. “How long ago?”
He set the bucket in a corner. “Monday morning.” And then added, “My day off.”
I wiped at a couple more tears which had insisted on leaking out.
He took a pretty china teacup and a squat brown mug from one of the glass-fronted cupboards and tossed a teabag into each.
There was a roll of paper kitchen towels on the opposite counter, so I reached out and tore one off so I could blow my nose. I’m sure Drizzle Bay village would have been awash with gossip about the ambulance and Police being called to the church. I dabbed at my eyes again while he waited with surprising patience. “They’re not sure quite how or why yet, but she’s definitely dead. I saw her. And the Police will have fingerprinted the door here to see if anything match
es with any prints on the murder weapon, I suppose.”
“When did she die?”
“Yesterday morning sometime. I went into the village to put a notice on the community board. The vicar was painting the fence – all those little arrowheads on top of it. I stopped to talk for a minute and he mentioned she’d been inside for a long while, so we went into the church – partly to check she was okay, and partly to ask if she ever needed a house-and-pet sitter because he knew about the dogs. She was lying there dead with her head leaking blood.”
Now it was my turn to draw a breath – a deep shuddering one – as the image of poor Isobel swam into my brain again.
“Blood? She was walking around bleeding? Didn’t anyone notice?”
I shrugged at that. “I doubt she was walking around bleeding. It was thoroughly weird because the vicar had seen her going in, carrying a big bunch of flowers, and probably other people had seen her too. The Police would have asked around. The vicar was busy painting. She was juggling her flowers. Maybe he didn’t want to hold her up if was a big armful, although she stopped long enough to give him a carnation for his hat. Perhaps she had a hat on, too?”
I hadn’t thought of that before. Could it have been out in the vestry with her handbag?
“Poor old dame,” John said, pursing his lips and turning the gas down because the kettle was starting to shriek. The dogs were protesting from the pink and blue polka-dotted dog bed they’d settled into but calmed down as the noise died away. “I really liked her, but it makes it difficult trying to buy the house now. I suppose there’ll be a heap of legal messing around.” He looked gloomy as he poured the boiling water into the cup and the mug and pushed the cup toward me.
“Sugar? Milk?” I asked. He shook his head so I decided to go without as well. I’d turned into a total wimp but he didn’t seem to mind too much. As he’d said, he was used to getting things done.
