As it opened, a wave of noise erupted. Mandy, the Goth. Libby had forgotten all about her. Televisions blared from every downstairs room. Above the racket, Mandy was singing, tuneless but enthusiastic. Libby shouted. “Mandy.” She waited. “Mandy.” She clattered up the stairs to hammer on the door of Mandy’s room.
The door swung open. “Oh, hello, Libby.” Mandy, eyes wide, covered her mouth with one hand and pulled an earphone off one ear. “Sorry, am I too noisy? Mum thumps on the ceiling with a broom handle when she wants me to shut up.”
Libby’s exasperation dissolved. Having Mandy around reminded her of the recent, bitter-sweet days, when her own noisy teenagers lived with her, shoes and bags littering the hallway, damp towels everywhere and the fridge emptied as fast as she filled it. The angry retort died on her lips. “Is chicken and chips OK for dinner?”
“Wow, wonderful. With some of that special sauce you told me about?”
“Ready in half an hour.”
Libby opened a bottle of pinot noir. If Mandy was going to stay, it was time to wean her off sweet white fizz. Forgetting the tired ache in her back, Libby set about preparations with enthusiasm. She made salad dressing, sliced potatoes into chips, washed vegetables and fried a handful of chestnut mushrooms in olive oil. In a minute or too, she’d add some crushed garlic, a slug of brandy, a whisk of mustard and a dollop of cream, and the sauce would be perfect.
She breathed in garlic and olive oil, the scent of sunshine and happiness. Mandy burst into the kitchen. “Mm. Smells good.”
Libby handed over a glass, one third full. “Sit down, Mandy. You’re not to take a single mouthful yet.”
“What? Why not?”
“You’ll enjoy it more, this way. Trust me.” Mandy rolled her eyes, but waited, glass in hand. “Now, just circle the glass in your hand, so the air gets at the wine. That’s it. Be gentle,” as Mandy’s wine threatened to spill over the top of the glass. “Now, have a look at the colour. Gorgeous, isn’t it? OK, now get your nose in the glass and sniff.”
Mandy giggled and put on a fake, affected wine-tasting voice. “I’m getting peaches, brambles and a spot of manure.” Libby threw a tea towel at her. “Maybe I need another glass to be sure.”
“Wait a minute, here’s the food.”
Libby served the chicken breasts. Mandy spooned salad from the oversized wooden bowl onto her plate. “Mmm. Scrumptious.”
“Had a good day at the shop?”
“Your new recipe went down well. What about your day? Made any discoveries?”
“Not about Mrs Thomson, I’m afraid, but I found one or two things about Susie.”
Mandy’s phone rang. She bit her lip. “It’s Mum.” She pressed the button and her voice rose. “Calm down, Mum, I can’t hear you.”
The voice on the other end of the phone sounded scared. Mandy’s hand shook as she covered the phone. She hissed at Libby. “It’s Dad. He’s having one of his tempers―stomping around upstairs and shouting.”
“Tell your Mum to come over here. She mustn’t stay there. No, wait, I’ll go and get her.”
Mandy relayed the message to her hysterical mother. “No, Mum, stay there, but keep an eye out. Libby’s coming.” Her voice rose. “Mum, I can hear him. Get out of the house!”
Libby ran to the car and accelerated away, tyres screaming. The drive took less than three minutes. She screeched to a halt, just as Mandy’s mother, coatless despite the cold, ran out, fumbling at the car door. Libby leaned over to release the catch and Elaine half-fell into the car, shivering, cheeks wet with tears, teeth chattering so she could barely speak. “I s-sneaked out the back door when Bert went to get b-beer from the fridge.”
Bert burst through the front door, bottle raised, and Elaine screamed. Libby stepped on the accelerator. “It’s OK.” The Citroen roared away from the curb, heading for home. “Just in time.”
Home in minutes, Libby slotted the safety chain firmly in place on the front door while Mandy took her mother’s arm and settled her in the kitchen, still trembling. “Did he hit you?” A cut on Elaine’s forehead oozed blood.
She flinched. “No. I―I banged it―”
“Ran into a door, did you? I don’t think so.” Libby dipped cotton wool in warm water laced with Dettol, and dabbed at the cut. “It’s not deep. I shouldn’t think you need stitches, but you do have to ring the police.”
Elaine pushed Libby’s hand away. “No. Bert’s had too much to drink, that’s all it is. It’ll be fine when he sobers up.”
“Mum.” Tears started in Mandy’s eyes. “It won’t be fine. He’ll get drunk tomorrow and do it again, you know he will. Please ring the police.”
Elaine shook her head. “I know what’s best, Mandy. Just let him be. He’ll cool off.”
A heavy blow shook the front door. Libby leaped to her feet. “If Bert’s cooled off, then who’s that?” Another crash echoed round the house, then a third. A male voice bellowed, but Libby couldn’t make out the words. The three women were on their feet, searching for something―anything―they could use to defend themselves.
Mandy grabbed Libby’s arm. “He’s come after us. What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to tell him to go home.” Libby’s stomach lurched. Bert was well-built and strong. The bad back that kept him on sick pay was pure fiction. He could stop hammering on her door, though. How dare he? “Stay here, you two.”
Libby straightened her shoulders, strode to the front door and pulled it open a few inches, the chain keeping it safe. Bert thrust his head into the gap. Libby could make out every mark on the man’s red face: black, open pores on a bulbous nose, blobs of sweat above a mean top lip and deep lines on an angry brow. Spit flew from the thin mouth. “You little…”
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that, Mr Parsons. There are three of us here, and we’re phoning the police at this very moment.”
Mandy had followed, close behind, phone to one ear. “Yeah, Dad. Go home and sober up.” Bert Parsons swore and kicked the door. The chain rattled. Libby took a pace back, bile in her throat. She was vaguely aware of clattering from the kitchen, as Bert kicked again. Helpless, Libby watched as the screws holding the chain on the door sprang out, clinking as they hit the floor.
Chicken and Chips
The third kick burst the door open. Bert lurched inside and shoved Libby in the chest. “Get out here, wife,” he roared.
A growl echoed down the hall. Mouth open, teeth bared, Bear leapt at the intruder. Bert stumbled back. The dog growled again, and reared, enormous paws on Bert’s shoulders. Bert tried to turn, slipped, and fell. Bear dropped to all fours, panting and slavering above him.
Saliva dripped on Bert’s face. He struggled to get up, one arm ready to fend off the dog. “Get that animal away from me.” Bear planted both forepaws firmly on Bert’s chest and howled. The noise was deafening.
“Well done, Bear.” Suddenly, Max was in the hallway, hands on hips. He grinned at Libby, whose stomach performed a leap of relief. “But, it looks as though I’ve arrived too late for the excitement.”
Libby, heart still pounding, hauled the dog off Bert, and scratched Bear’s ears. “Good dog.” She slipped her fingers through the dog’s collar. “Mandy, why don’t you take Bear into the kitchen and find a treat for him.”
Elaine leaned on the doorway to the sitting room, watching in silence as Bert scrambled up, deflated and blustering. “That dog’s a menace. He needs putting down.” He shot a venomous look at Elaine. “And you just wait ’til I get you home.”
“I won’t be coming home, Albert Parsons. Not tonight, and not ever again.” Max gripped Bert’s jacket and turned the man to face him. He grabbed both lapels and tugged, forcing Bert on to his toes. Their noses almost touched. “You’d better leave, Parsons, or you’ll be the one that gets hurt.”
Bert looked from Max to Libby. “So that’s what you’re up to, Max Ramshore.” His words were slurred. “Got a new woman in town. Well, you’re welcome to the ug
ly cow.” He shook off Max’s grip and lurched down the path, stumbling and muttering.
Libby held out her hand, struggling to stop it trembling. “That was good timing, Max. Come on in and join the party.” She stretched the meal to four, adding extra salad leaves, cutting chicken breasts in half, slicing chunks from a loaf of Frank’s finest rustic bread, and opening another bottle of wine.
They ate in the kitchen. Bear settled down to mangle a dog chew; a gentle giant once more. The cat was nowhere to be seen. Elaine, shaking with reaction, refused to go to Accident and Emergency or call the police, but swallowed aspirin and let Mandy lead her upstairs to make up a bed. “I’ll go to my sister’s in Bristol, on Monday. Bert won’t come back tomorrow, not while the dog’s here. And not if it means losing drinking time.”
Libby stacked plates in the dishwasher. “Now, Max, why are you back so soon, and what did you find out?”
He insisted on making coffee, talking loudly over the grinder and frothing milk with enthusiasm. “Well, I heard about poor old Mrs Thomson. It looks like all the action’s over here after all. What?”
Libby was laughing. “Mrs Thomson told me your name’s really Maxwell.”
“Anyway,” he glared, “I was worried about you. I wasn’t sure how you and Bear would get on, after that unfortunate affair with your car. I can see I needn’t have worried.”
He stretched out in an armchair. “That was a wonderful meal, by the way: better than a restaurant.” Fuzzy appeared from his hiding place behind the settee, stretched and sauntered over to sit on Max’s knee.
“Thanks. The car’s been fixed and Bear’s looked after me. He’s even made friends with the cat. I’ll tell you about Guy Miles and James Sutcliffe in a minute, but first, what did you find out in America?”
“I didn’t take to our friend Mickey, that’s for sure. Too rich for his own good, that one, with a trophy wife, a mansion in Beverley Hills and a great opinion of himself.”
“Did you see his house?”
Max laughed. “No, he graciously offered me half an hour of his time in a hotel. But I’d hired a car, so I did a little snooping around the area. You know, see how the other half live?”
“And?”
“You know, I never would have thought I’d say it, but the heat was too much for me. It’s good to get back to some Somerset weather.”
Libby shivered. “Gales and rain, you mean. I suppose, at least we don’t need air conditioning. Anyway, was Mickey what we expected?”
“Exactly so. I met his wife, by the way. Maybe you’ve seen her? She’s starring in that sci-fi blockbuster that came out last month, and she was giving interviews at the same hotel. Mickey whisked me in and out of the room. I think he was trying to impress me.”
“Hm. So, he was rattled?”
“Hard to tell. Trouble is, he’s got a great alibi. He spent most of Monday night at a televised award ceremony. Even with the time difference, he couldn’t have attacked Susie and got back to the States in time. In any, case, he hasn’t really got any reason to want her dead, what with the sparkly new wife and all.” He peered into Libby’s face. “Why are you looking like the cat who got the cream?”
Libby took a moment to savour her triumph. She curled her legs up on the settee. “I just found out today that he and Susie were never divorced. If that film star thinks their wedding was genuine, she’s in for a disappointment. He’s a bigamist.”
The news stunned Max into open-mouthed silence. Then, he threw back his head and laughed. Libby struggled to keep the triumph from showing in her face, as she filled him in with the day’s events. “Why didn’t you tell me Susie was from a traveller’s family?”
“Didn’t seem relevant. She lived with her mother, and I knew Alice Bennett died.”
“Well, it matters. That’s why she didn’t like official documents and solicitors. Why she didn’t make a will.”
Max grunted. “Plenty of people don’t make wills. Susie wouldn’t have cared where her money went, once her little girl was gone.”
“But, if she didn’t bother to make a will, and she never divorced Mickey, then he has the best possible motive for having her killed.”
“Money? You really think that’s what it’s about?”
“Why not. Aren’t most murders committed for money?”
Max removed Fuzzy from his knee and poked at the logs on the fire, prodding until flames shot up the chimney. “There are plenty of reasons people kill each other. Money, of course, but then there’s jealousy, and revenge, and sex crops up, too, pretty often.”
Libby clicked her tongue. “Well, what’s your theory, then?”
Fuzzy stretched and turned a complete circle, yawned and subsided, eyes fixed on the fire. Max waved one hand. “No theory, yet, but plenty of questions. I think we should keep an open mind. Anyway, you look tired out. Let’s leave it for now.”
The Other Lighthouse
Mandy and Elaine slept in on Sunday morning. Libby enjoyed a quiet breakfast with Bear and Fuzzy. She’d see Max again, today. Her stomach performed an odd little flip. Exham had suddenly become a much more interesting place.
They’d arranged to meet in the Lighthouse Inn for Sunday lunchtime drinks. The venue seemed appropriate. Determined not to make too much effort, Libby wore a minimum of makeup: just mascara and lipstick, with the slightest blush of pink on her cheeks. Well, she excused herself, no need to go around looking tired. She pulled on jeans and a raspberry-coloured sweater, brushed her hair until it shone and shrugged on a light grey jacket.
The pub was crowded with pre-dinner drinkers. Libby recognised some of them. Samantha Watson was in the corner, head bent close to Chief Inspector Arnold. She waved a limp hand in the air, without meeting Libby’s eyes. “We must have lunch, some time, Libby dear.”
Max leaned on the bar, an air-force blue sweater picking up the colour of his eyes. Libby slid onto a stool. “Why did you want to meet here?”
“I thought we should talk to a few of Susie’s old friends. See who you recognise from Mrs Thomson’s photos.”
He hadn’t asked her out to enjoy her sparkling wit, then. Libby slipped the Christmas photo onto the bar. “Mrs Thomson told me some of the names. The full names, of course. No nicknames. I wonder if Bert still answers to Albert?” She pointed to one of the boys in the picture, “Who’s that, with black hair?”
“That’s Chief Inspector Arnold.”
Libby snorted. “He’s changed a bit. I suppose the beard makes a difference, and the thinning hair.
Everyone’s changed since this was taken, but I can recognise you. You’re just the same.”
“Apart from the wrinkles.”
“I guess Bert won’t be coming in today?”
“Don’t bet on it. He’ll be looking for sympathy. He thinks he’s untouchable. There he is, with Alan and Ned.” The garage owner waved. Ned winked. Bert kept his eyes on his shoes.
Samantha, elegant in tight white jeans and a navy cashmere sweater, looking years younger than her age, with not a trace of grey showing through expensive highlights, left the inspector and shimmied over to kiss Max on both cheeks. “Libby and I know each other.” Her eyes picked out every detail of Libby’s appearance, before she turned her attention to Max, eyelashes aflutter. “We’re in the history society together.”
Max grinned. “History society. Really?”
“One has to find something to do, here.” Samantha heaved a heavy sigh. “It’s not Bath, you know.” Her voice held a bleak note and a little of Libby’s antagonism drained away. Samantha had no children. Libby’s two had left home, but they phoned regularly. Lately, she even seemed to have a surrogate child in Mandy, but Samantha, with her lovely face and figure, and lucrative career, was sad, bored and lonely. Ned joined them at the bar, but his wife’s lip curled in contempt.
Ollie slid his pint mug along the bar. “Is there a date for Susie’s funeral, yet?”
Max shrugged. “Not until the police release her body.”
Samantha tossed her head. “She pretty well walked away from us all when she was famous.”
“She was back recently.” Libby spoke without thinking. Max glared, sending her a silent message. Maybe she’d stolen his thunder. Samantha blinked. In a flash of inspiration, Libby realised why she looked so young. Botox.
Ollie frowned. “Susie was back here? When? Did anyone see her?”
“She went to visit a member of the band. James Sutcliffe’s a farmer, now, making cheese, out in the sticks beyond Bristol. Susie came back to visit his wife before she died.”
Ollie whistled. “Phew, wish we’d known. Could have had a reunion.”
Samantha put a hand on his arm. “I don’t think Susie would want to be seen with us, these days, Ollie.”
Libby felt an absurd need to defend Susie. “She kept in touch with Mrs Thomson over the years, you know, sending photos.”
Samantha’s tinkling laugh jarred on Libby’s ears. “I don’t know why Susie would bother with that nosy old woman. Such a busybody.”
Max’s eyes flashed steel. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what? I’ve been away the past few days. I only got back from London yesterday.” Samantha was very close to Max, her elbow almost touching his.
He took a step away. “Mrs Thomson’s dead. She fell down the stairs.”
“Oh.” Samantha recoiled. “Well, how would I know that? Anyway, it’s true, she was a busybody, standing at that window of hers, spying on us all. She used to tell tales to my parents.” She looked round the circle of appalled faces and her voice changed. “It’s very sad, all the same.”
Libby said. “Anyway, she seems to be the only one in Exham that Susie told about her―” She broke off as Max repeated the glaring routine. She coughed. “About her visit.”
Max took her arm. “If we’re going to do that walk, Libby, we’d better get going. Joe will let us know as soon as there’s a date for the funeral; either of the funerals.”
Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) Page 8
