“Yes, yes I heard that. You know, from people in the town.”
“Well, it’s a small town. I’ll let you know when the inquest comes up. The coroner will want to ask you some questions. Nothing you need worry about. It’s not like going to a criminal court.”
“No, well, thank you.”
“Try to put it out of your mind, Mrs Forest. I know it’s upsetting, but these things do happen, I’m afraid.”
Libby put the phone down. Too restless to go back to the spoiled meringue, she climbed the stairs to the bathroom. A hot bath might relax her.
She tried to unwind by reading a magazine, but her mind drifted away to the image of Susie Bennett, drenched and cold, slipping sideways in dreadful slow motion. The scene played over and over in her head, like a YouTube video on a never-ending loop.
It was no good. She stepped out of the bath. How could she leave it at that? If the police weren’t going to try to discover the truth, Libby would find out for herself. Was Susie’s death really an accident, or something much worse?
Fuzzy’s Disgrace
The early morning sun peeped, pink and coy, over the horizon, as though the past two days of storms and wind belonged to another era. Libby walked Shipley along the beach in the opposite direction from the lighthouse. She wasn’t ready to repeat yesterday’s disastrous trip.
A dozen fishermen, with all the time in the world, leaned against the sea wall, rods extended into an ebbing tide. They nodded, mumbling a greeting as Libby passed. George Edwards wrapped a fish in newspaper. “For breakfast.”
“How’s your wife?”
“On the mend. The voice is back, more’s the pity. By the way,” he called Libby back. “She loved the cake. Keep a signed copy of your book back for me, will you? Do for her Christmas present.” Poor Mrs Edwards, was that going to be her only present?
When she arrived home, Fuzzy, Libby’s aloof marmalade cat, left the airing cupboard to follow her mistress into the kitchen, meowing pitifully. “Are you hungry, then?” Libby picked her up, nuzzling the soft, pale fur. Fuzzy allowed this display of affection for a count of three, then squirmed, squeaked and wriggled away. Libby opened a can of salmon.
Full, content and purring, Fuzzy left the house, via the cat flap in the back door. She’d work off breakfast chasing the mice, frogs and birds that had made the neglected garden their home, long before Libby moved in. “A wildlife garden,” Libby explained, when Ali phoned. Her daughter had protested against Libby’s crazy move from London to a quiet seaside town. “No need to weed the borders.”
Libby downed a second mug of tea, shrugged on a bright red trench coat guaranteed to brighten her mood, and climbed into her tiny, eleven-year-old Citroen, to drive to work at the bakery.
Reversing out of the drive could be a challenge. The road she lived on wasn’t exactly busy, for most traffic used the parallel main road, but it was ever-changing. Mums and Dads walked their children round the corner each day, heading for the nearby primary school. Teenagers, ears plugged with headphones, materialised suddenly from behind parked vans, mouths open in amazement at finding cars on the road.
It was too early for young people, today. They’d still be struggling awake. Libby switched on the ignition and reversed the car, hands light on the wheel, head turned to peer through the rear window.
A flurry of barking exploded nearby, like a pack of hounds after a fox. Libby jumped, foot jerking on the accelerator. The vehicle lurched. She jammed on the brake, but it was too late. The rear of the car crumpled with a sickening crunch, as it hit the lamppost on the corner.
Libby threw the door open, to find her exit blocked by a dog. It reached almost to her shoulder as it struggling on its lead, howling like a wolf. “Be quiet, Bear.” The grey-haired man on the other end of the lead yanked the dog back, to let Libby out of the car. “Sit down.”
The dog subsided, panting, saliva dribbling from its tongue. Libby slammed the door. “That animal should be locked up.”
The man bent over the rear of the Citroen. “I’m afraid there’s a dent.”
“Of course there is. Your dog’s a menace.”
He straightened up, towering several inches above Libby. “He’s not mine,” he said. “I hope you’re not hurt?”
Libby pointed. “Just look what you’ve done to my car.”
“Forgive me, but you were driving. All Bear did was bark at that cat.”
Libby followed the pointing finger. Her shoulders slumped. Fuzzy crouched on top of the fence, fur fluffed out, laser-beam eyes trained on Bear. The dog, tantalised by a tormentor so close, yet out of range, howled again.
If a cat could be said to smirk, that’s what Fuzzy did. Libby groaned. “Oh. That’s my cat,” she blurted. “Well, my husband’s. Late husband.” The back of her neck was hot. She tried to smile. “I’m afraid Fuzzy’s nothing but trouble.”
“Fuzzy?” The man grinned.
“Her fur goes Fuzzy in the rain.”
“Well, I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about the car. Your insurance will cover it.” The stranger smiled, waved and went on his way. Bear barked once more, in a forlorn attempt to entice Fuzzy down from the fence.
Libby rubbed at the dent. The paint was intact and it was only a tiny bump. A garage would knock it out in minutes. She straightened up. That man could have apologised a bit more, though. Who was he? Where had he come from? She hadn’t seen him before around here, but he looked familiar, nevertheless. She glared at Fuzzy. “Last salmon you’ll get from me.”
The Bakery
Frank brought a tray of bread, steaming and fragrant, through into the bakery, just as Libby arrived. “Morning,” he sang out. “What’s the latest on Susie Bennett, then?” He scooped up a pile of baking trays, already on the way back to the kitchen. “They say her last album will be back in the charts, now she’s dead. Too late for her, but it makes you wonder who’ll get all those royalties.”
The shop’s work experience teenager leaned on the counter, twirling a stud on her lip. Libby secretly called her Mandy the Goth. “My Dad went to school with her.”
Libby laughed. “So did half the town, I gather.”
“I heard you found her. Was it gruesome? Was there much blood?” The girl’s eyes, black with layers of kohl and mascara, were enormous in the white-painted face. Two silver rings decorated one nostril, above purple lips.
“Mandy.” Frank put his head round the door. “Get on with those sandwiches before the rush starts. Wash your hands and put some gloves on.”
Mandy sighed, rolled her eyes, hitched up a long, black lace skirt and went back to scraping egg mayonnaise into baguettes. “Dad said she was always asking for it,” she muttered under her breath, glancing towards the kitchens. “Sexy but stupid, he said.”
The bakery did a roaring trade. Almost everyone in town dropped in, keen to take a look at the person who found the body. Frank beamed. “That’s the most sandwiches we’ve sold since Jeremy Clarkson came down, to drive off the pier.”
By eleven o’clock, Libby’s feet ached. Her head throbbed from the effort of repeating, “I just happened to find her,” and, “The police say there’s nothing suspicious.” When the queue no longer snaked out of the door and round the corner, but had shrunk to one or two stragglers, she retreated to the kitchen. Mandy could serve the final few High Street estate agents.
Frank removed his white hat. “Can you finish that new ginger and lemon recipe by this afternoon, Libby? I reckon it’ll be a winner.”
“Mmm. Just need to tweak the frosting. A bit over-sweet, I thought.”
“You’re the expert. It’ll sell like hot cakes.” Libby grimaced. Frank made the same joke at least once a week. “Funny thing,” he went on. “Millions of people watch cooking programmes on TV, and half of ‘em don’t know how to turn on their ovens. Still, mustn’t grumble. Where would the business be if everyone did their own baking, eh?”
Frank left to drive the van, loaded with filled rolls, to a nearb
y conference centre. Libby took a deep breath, drinking in the smell of fresh-baked bread. She tied on a clean apron, and set about testing the new recipe, relishing the familiar, satisfying tasks of measuring sugar, beating eggs and sifting flour. She’d have to persuade Frank to let her put the new confection in the book.
Mandy joined her. Libby opened her mouth to tell the teenager to stay in the shop, ready for new customers, but one look at the girl’s face changed her mind. Mandy’s lip trembled. Libby said, “We’ll hear the bell if anyone comes.”
Mandy grunted, tipped a bowl of risen dough onto a bench top and pummelled it. Libby watched. Nothing relieved angry feelings better than bread-making. It had been a favourite therapy during her miserable marriage.
For ten minutes, only Mandy’s effortful gasps and the whirr of the food-processor disturbed the peace of the kitchen. The corners of Mandy’s mouth still drooped. She sniffed. Libby had an idea. “Why don’t you make the frosting?”
As Mandy dumped the bread dough back into a stainless steel bowl, for its final proving, she explained. “I’ve weighed everything out, but the sugar needs watching.” The teenager scraped dough from sticky fingers, shrugged and picked up a wooden spoon. “Make sure it all melts before you turn up the heat. That stops the mixture turning into a gritty mess.”
Mandy, eyes on the saucepan, stirred. “Libby?”
“Mm-hmm.” Best not to sound too interested.
“Dad threw a knife at Mum.”
“A knife?” Libby stiffened, sugar spilling from the spoon. Her hand shook.
“It was only a knife from the table – not a carving knife or anything.”
“Is your Mum OK?”
Mandy nodded. “Think so. She says it’s not the first time, nor the last. He missed, anyway.”
Libby lowered the spoon and took Mandy by the shoulders. “Your Mum needs to tell the police.”
The girl shrugged Libby’s hands away and swiped a sleeve across her eyes, smudging black mascara across one cheek. “She won’t. I’ve told her. She says he doesn’t mean it.”
“Mandy, that’s rubbish.” Libby closed her eyes, fighting memories. She took a long, slow breath. “Of course he’s sorry, afterwards. They always are, but it happens again.” Fingernails bit into the palm of her hand. “Has he ever hit you?”
Mandy tossed her head. “He tells Mum it’s her fault for making him angry, but anything sets him off. It was just about watching football on the telly, yesterday.”
Libby pulled out a chair and eased on to it. She’d had just such a stupid row with Trevor. They argued―shouted―about nothing, and she threw his dinner in the bin. He cracked the TV remote control against her shoulder, all his strength behind the blow. His face, contorted with fury, sometimes appeared in Libby’s dreams. She’d been terrified he’d hurt the children.
“Mandy.” She took a moment to control her voice. “Mandy, if your mother won’t do anything about it, then you should leave the house. You’re old enough.”
Mandy bent over the saucepan. “I think the sugar’s ready to boil.”
Libby handed over the sugar thermometer. “Think about it. I’ve got spare beds at my house if you need them.”
Mandy sniffed and rubbed her nose, but said no more. Libby let it go. The girl had to make up her own mind.
The doorbell tinkled. Libby left Mandy at the hob, watching water boil in the pan, and stepped into the shop, pulling on a pair of clean white gloves. “Can I help you?”
Tall, grey-haired, a little older than Libby, and dressed in a long blue overcoat, the new arrival smiled. “Good morning.”
Libby stared. “It’s you. The man with the dangerous dog.”
“So it is. We seem to have got off to a bad start.”
“I should say so.”
He grinned. “I gave Bear a good talking to before I handed him back to Mrs Thomson.”
Libby’s lips twitched. “Quite right. He needs to learn to behave. Fuzzy’s a bit of a menace, of course.”
“Well, to be honest, I liked the look of Fuzzy. I admire a cat that stands up for itself. Bear doesn’t agree.”
Libby looked at the blue eyes. Yes, definitely familiar. Where else had she seen them? “Did you want a sandwich? Or cake?”
“Just a ham salad baguette, please.” He patted his middle. “Have to watch the weight, these days.”
Mandy arrived from the kitchen. She’d redone her mascara. “The frosting’s ready, Libby.” She stopped. “Hello, Mr Ramshore.”
Libby looked from one to the other. “Ramshore. Like the detective sergeant?”
He smiled. “My son.”
Coffee and Suspicion
This new Ramshore’s first name turned out to be Max. “My parents were Norwegian.” That explained the blue eyes.
Libby chose a table in a corner of the coffee shop, while he bought two lattes. “I thought I owed you a cup of coffee. I wasn’t too gracious, earlier. Bear is much too big and loud.”
“What breed is he?”
“Carpathian Sheepdog. Very gentle, like many big dogs, but he needs an incredible amount of exercise. He belongs to my neighbour, Mrs Thomson, really. Her husband kept him on the farm, but old Eric had to go into a care home before he died―dementia, I’m afraid. I bought the farm and I look after Bear when he gets too much for Mrs T. Which is quite often. She still lives in the old farmhouse down the lane from me.”
“Well, anyway.” Libby wasn’t ready to forgive him, or Bear, completely. Besides, she was suspicious. “Did you know I worked in the bakery? I’m sure you didn’t just happen to walk in today.”
“No, to be honest, my son told me about you.”
“The detective sergeant himself? What did he say?” She glared. “Aren’t the police supposed to keep things confidential?”
“He just suggested I look out for you, on my marathon Bear-walk this morning. He thought you might be upset, after that business on the beach. Then, you had your little accident.”
“Caused by Bear.”
“And Fuzzy.” His eyes twinkled. “I can see we’re not going to agree on that. Anyway, I felt bad, so I asked one of your neighbours where you might be going. It’s a small town, you know.”
“You can say that again.” Where did looking out for each other stop and nosiness begin? “Have you always lived here?”
He nodded. “I went to school with Susie Bennett, you know. She wasn’t in my year, she’s a couple of years younger, but I knew her.” Libby waited for the inevitable slur on Susie’s character, but he surprised her. “She was a nice girl. Not such a nice family, though.”
“Oh?” Libby hesitated. “You’re the first person I’ve heard say anything good about her.”
“Who have you asked? Wait. Let me guess. The WI?”
“No.” Libby’s face burned. “The local history society, actually. They all knew her at school.”
“And didn’t approve.”
“Maybe they were jealous?” She was thinking aloud.
He stirred coffee with a long spoon. “Susie was too pretty for her own good, and too ready to believe everything the boys told her. You know how teenage boys can be. They try it on with girls, then if one says yes, they pull her reputation to pieces. That’s how it was with Susie. Hardly any friends, just boys who wanted her for one thing. She had a terrific singing voice, though.”
“I hear her album’s going back on sale.”
He crumbled a macaroon onto the table. “The vultures don’t wait long to make a profit, do they?”
“She went to America, before she became famous, didn’t she?”
“It all started here, though. Small local gigs at first. It was at Glastonbury, where they got their big break.”
Libby shivered. “Glastonbury. Cold, wet and smelly, as I remember.”
He laughed. “You’ve been there, then? Still, it’s great place for up-and-coming bands. Mickey Garston, the big American music producer, heard Susie there, signed up the band and married her. It all
happened pretty fast. He whisked her away and the next we knew, she was on the cover of million-selling albums and on TV.”
“What about her family?”
“All dead or gone away. No Bennetts left in the town.”
“That’s sad.”
“Typical story of a small-time girl with a turbulent life, I’m afraid. The marriage with Mickey Garston didn’t last long. They split up years ago, but she never married again.”
“No, she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring when I found her.” Did Max know about the plastic ring? Had Joe told him she’d moved the body?
Max drank the last drops of coffee and set the cup down with care. “My son mentioned a different ring. He said you seemed bothered by it.”
“Bothered? No, why should I be?” Her face was burning.
“Come on. What are you hiding? I’m not the police, you know.”
“No, but your son is.” She bit her lip. Now it sounded as though she’d committed a huge crime. “OK. I moved the body. I pulled her hand out of her pocket and the ring fell on the beach. That’s all. I know I shouldn’t have touched her, but she looked so―well―vulnerable, I suppose. I wanted to help. Does that sound crazy?”
“I told you, I’m not the police.” It was his turn to hesitate. “Truth is, I know a bit more about Susie than the others around here. It’s private information, and maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone, but it makes me think there was something more going on than her committing suicide.”
Libby licked dry lips. “D’you mean, you think she was murdered?”
“Mmm. Sounds a bit melodramatic, doesn’t it?”
Libby thought about it. “That scene at the beach―it wasn’t like a suicide.”
“The police have closed the case, at least unless the coroner disagrees.” He shook his head. “Frankly, if no one does anything, she’ll be a statistic: just another girl who grew too rich and famous and couldn’t handle it. I don’t want to let that happen.”
“What is it you know?”
Max blinked and looked away. “Not here. We need to talk somewhere more private. Can I take you to dinner tonight? There’s a restaurant near Taunton where they know me. They’ll let us have a quiet table.”
Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) Page 2
