Downward Facing Death

by MICHELLE KELLY,

  Darla went quiet at that. If anything would bother her mother, it was the idea that people were talking about her in less-than-favorable terms.

  There was a long silence. Then hesitantly, in a small voice Keeley couldn’t remember her mother ever using before, Darla started to speak.

  “It was a very long time ago, Keeley—before you were even born, in fact. We hadn’t been married for very long, and I had moved to Belfrey to be with your father. I found it very hard. I missed my friends in London, and I never really fit in in Belfrey.”

  Keeley felt a flash of sympathy for her mother then; she knew what that was like, but she swallowed it down.

  “Why move here, then?” she asked bluntly. “Why not get Dad to move up to you?”

  “He had the shop. And I wanted to move, at first. I thought it would be worth it, to be with him. I loved your father very much.”

  Keeley, who had been leaning against the arm of the sofa, sat down in surprise.

  “You never show it,” she blurted out. “I’ve never even seen you cry.”

  “What good would that do?” Darla said in something like her normal voice. “Crying isn’t going to bring him back, now, is it? Besides, I had to be there for you.”

  “There for me,” Keeley echoed, thinking she had never heard such a ridiculous phrase in her life. Not once could she remember a cuddle or soft word from her mother, particularly after Dad had died.

  But then, that just wasn’t Darla’s way. Rather she had bullied Keeley out of her stupor of grief until Keeley had gotten up and moved on with her life purely so she could get away from her. It had never occurred to her that the constant nagging might have been the only way Darla knew how to show her concern. And she had paid for her to go to college, and to study classes that Darla had frankly described as a waste of time. Had let her have free rein with her father’s shop when she could have just sold it. For the first time, Keeley wondered if she had more reason to be grateful to her mother than she had ever realized.

  “You were telling me about the affair,” she said, unwilling to start examining her tangled relationship with Darla right now.

  Her mother gave a heavy sigh. “I was young, Keeley, and lonely, and gullible.” Like me with Brett, Keeley thought, though it was admittedly very different circumstances. Her mother continued. “It didn’t go on for very long—the guilt was too much. I told him in the end, and, well, it was awful.” Keeley was sure she heard Darla’s words catch in her throat, as though suppressing a sob, but told herself she must be imagining things. Hadn’t her mother just admitted she never cried? But there was no denying the tremor in her voice as she went on.

  “He threw me out. That’s the only time I ever saw your father really angry. He threw me out, and I went back to London.”

  “You actually broke up?” Keeley found herself fascinated by this story of her parents’ marriage, of events that had occurred before she even existed. Tried to imagine her mother young and vulnerable, and failed.

  “Yes, for some time. I wrote to him, called him, even got my friends to call him, but he wouldn’t speak to me. I was on the verge of giving up when he turned up at my parents’ house one day, a bunch of flowers in one hand. ‘Darla Carpenter,’ he said, ‘you had better be getting your bottom back home this minute.’ I threw myself at him so hard, I nearly knocked him over. By the time we got back to Belfrey, I was pregnant with you. Although we didn’t know that for a while.”

  Keeley felt stunned. Whatever she had been expecting to discover from the dreaded conversation, it wasn’t this. Trust her mother to manage to frame her infidelity in some kind of positive light.

  “Well, that’s lovely,” she said, trying not to sound sarcastic but not entirely succeeding, “but what about when you came back? Why does everyone know?”

  “Everyone meaning who?” Darla said, her tone sharp.

  “Edna, obviously, so I suppose Gerald. I asked Jack Tibbons, and he wouldn’t tell me anything, but he knew.”

  “Keeley Carpenter,” her mother said in that voice that had always cowed her as a child, “I’d thank you not to go around Belfrey asking about my past indiscretions. They would know because they were your father’s friends, I suppose. Really, it should be forgotten about now. But then, Edna never liked me.”

  Keeley had a sudden, horrible thought. “Did Terry Smith know?”

  “The man who died?” Darla sounded puzzled. “I shouldn’t have thought so. Why?”

  There was something nagging at the back of her consciousness, something her mind just couldn’t get a grasp on, but for some reason, her mother’s revelation felt significant.

  “Apparently,” Keeley said, trying to sound as if she had come by the information quite by chance, as though it were common knowledge, “the police believe Terry was killed because he was blackmailing people. Discovering their secrets and extorting money out of them not to reveal whatever they were hiding.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with me. Goodness, it was nearly thirty years ago, Keeley. And as you’ve discovered, it’s hardly a secret.”

  But what about the other person? she thought to herself. Had they too been married, with a family?

  “Who was it?”

  Her mother gave a light laugh, a noise Keeley recognized. It meant she was going to ignore whatever you had just said to her, because she had no intention of responding.

  “No one important. No one you know.”

  “No one from Belfrey?”

  “No,” her mother said, a note of finality in her voice. Keeley felt that Darla was still hiding something, or at least telling her as little as possible, but she also knew her mother wasn’t going to be drawn out any further. She dropped it, at least for now. There were other questions she wanted to ask about her parents’ history, but she had gotten as much as she was going to out of Darla for one day. It was the most honest conversation she could ever remember having with her mother.

  Darla took the lull in conversation as an opportunity to change the subject, asking Keeley instead about the café and opening day. After making it clear she held Keeley fully responsible for ensuring it turned a profit within the first year, she rung off, leaving Keeley staring at the telephone, wondering what had just happened. So she did what she often did when struggling to process events or emotions.

  She cooked.

  With the food festival fast approaching, it was a necessity in any case, and so she threw herself into washing and chopping vegetables and fruits. Tomorrow she would give herself the best part of the day to make up her recipes and ensure everything was perfect. Being as it was a festival stall, she wouldn’t be able to make too many main dishes for practical reasons and so had decided to go with one main dish as a showcase and a basic recipe for veggie burgers that she could then serve with fresh bread rolls and her favorite rainbow salad from her proposed salad bar for the Yoga Café. It had occurred to her that desserts were always a crowd pleaser, and so she had decided to make up a summer fruit ice cream that could be kept in her cool box for the day and would hopefully attract the children; and for her main dish, she was going with a spicy root curry. It was a bit of a gamble, as she hadn’t used the exact recipe before, but Keeley thought it a better option than the moussaka, as curry was a dish that tended to taste better the day after, when the spices had had chance to fully develop and were at their most flavorsome. For a while, as she immersed herself in her work, her recent worries receded. She was aware she should be angry at her mother, but for reasons she wasn’t quite ready to fully explore, her overwhelming feeling was one of relief.

  Cooking, she mused and had often thought before, was in many ways a type of practice of yoga. The central point of yoga, as her teachers had taught her and she tried to impart to her own students, was not just to relieve a backache or get thinner thighs—as nice as that thought was—but to experience a union of body and mind. A sensation of being in the moment, or being in flow, that one sometimes heard athletes or artists talk about. For Keel
ey, cooking often had the same effect. At the ashram in India, cooking was considered an act of seva as much as teaching or offering help and kindness, and as Keeley washed and chopped, she tried to imagine people eating and enjoying her food, without worrying about whether or not the café turned a profit or she would ever feel accepted back in Belfrey. Or the killer would ever be caught. Or if Ben Taylor would ever kiss her again.

  After she had finished for the night, she made herself a comforting carrot and coriander soup, taking the time to say grace over it before she tucked in, and went to bed feeling rather more serene. Talking to Darla had, she felt, restored some kind of balance, albeit a tenuous one.

  She started the next day with a vigorous yoga practice and then walked up to the Glovers’ farm, trying not to hope that Ted Glover would be nowhere to be seen. A sign advertised fresh free-range eggs and milk, and Keeley smiled to herself at the expression “free-range,” guessing that Diana had written the sign. The Glovers indeed ran a free-range farm, which chimed with Keeley’s attitude toward ethical eating, but they had done so for decades, out of tradition, before ever “free-range” was part of the public consciousness, and given Ted’s obvious hatred for “hippie types,” the use of the term seemed incongruous.

  As she had hoped, Ted was somewhere out on the farm proper, and only Diana was present up at the farmhouse. She was delighted by Keeley’s idea to use fresh produce in her recipes, and when Keeley told her she intended to use their milk for the ice cream for the food festival, Diana beamed with pride.

  “It might cheer Ted up a bit, at least,” she said in a bright voice, though a shadow that Keeley pretended not to see passed over her face at the mention of her husband’s name.

  She then popped into Annie’s to enlist her help for the next day, then went back to Rose Cottage to get on with her preparation. The afternoon flew by, and it was well into the evening before she was finished, and then she had the cleaning up of her own chaotic kitchen to do. Finally, she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork with a satisfied sigh.

  If ever a girl deserved a glass of wine, she decided, it was now.

  * * *

  Reaching the Baker’s Inn, Keeley nearly changed her mind about going in, then squared her shoulders and stepped inside. As usual, every head in the bar turned, but this time, there were a few friendly nods and Keeley walked to the bar with a little more confidence. The barman served her with a distinct lack of interest, and she took her glass of wine over to a table in the corner, feeling almost disappointed when no one attempted to talk to her or question her. She almost wished Duane were there.

  Instead, when the door swung open and a man walked in, it was exactly whom she didn’t want to see. As Ben walked to the bar, Keeley rummaged in her handbag, letting her hair fall over her face in an attempt to hide herself. At least, she noticed as she peeped through the layers of her fringe, he was alone.

  “Keeley.” He said her name in a matter-of-fact tone as he pulled a chair out opposite her and sat down. Keeley pushed her hair back from her face and sat up, trying to look surprised to see him, as if she hadn’t been deliberately trying to escape his notice. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “I’ve been busy,” she said, not looking at him.

  “I’m sorry.” She did look at him then, surprised at his words.

  “This is the second time you’ve apologized to me this week,” she said, her voice deliberately light, although even she could hear the sharp edges. Ben seemed chagrined, a look that seemed at odds with his usual composure.

  “I was abrupt with you the other day, on the phone. I didn’t mean to be. Things are just … complicated.”

  Keeley didn’t respond, just held his gaze, wondering how much of that complication had to do with a certain glamorous mutual acquaintance. She thought of him and Raquel in his car, leaning into each other, and felt a stab of anger.

  “What’s complicated?”

  “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?” When she didn’t answer, Ben sighed and leaned back in his chair, gazing around the room.

  “It would help if I knew what ‘this’ was,” she said, and then blurted out, unable to hold it back any longer, “Is this about Raquel?”

  “Raquel?” Ben looked surprised, but also, she thought, there was a trace of guilt in his expression.

  “I saw you in the car with her,” she said, and immediately cursed herself silently for even bringing it up. For a moment, Ben looked nonplussed; then his expression cleared. He shifted in his seat as he spoke so he was leaning toward her, glancing around to make sure they weren’t being overheard.

  “You think there’s something going on,” he stated. He sounded amused, and Keeley glared at him.

  “Isn’t there? You seem so certain she has nothing to do with either the murders or the letters, yet she has repeatedly threatened me. You spoke about her as though you don’t particularly like her, then I see the two of you as thick as thieves.”

  Ben shook his head.

  “You’ve got it all wrong.” He looked around again, then got up, walked around the table, and slid into the double seat next to Keeley. The small confines of the space meant they were very close, their thighs pushed up against each other. She raised her eyebrows at him.

  “Listen,” he said quietly, an urgent tone to his voice, “I was talking to Raquel about her statement, because I, er, have to be careful what I put in the paperwork. I had to formally question her after those letters.”

  Keeley felt confused.

  “What do you mean?” she whispered. “Is her alibi fake? You said there was no way she could have done it—the murder, anyway.”

  Ben’s face said he felt conflicted, frowning so that a groove appeared between his dark brows as he seemed to struggle with how to or if he should answer her.

  “There isn’t. She was with someone that night, but that someone needs to be kept out of any paperwork. And no,” he said quickly, guessing at the thought that flitted across her mind, “it wasn’t me.”

  “Then why would you cover up for her?” Keeley snapped at him, feeling self-conscious. Although no one had turned to look at them or even paused in their conversation, she had felt a discernible interest in the air. The fact that they were huddled in the corner together only made them look more conspicuous. She remembered Gerald’s gibe concerning her and Ben and winced, then took a long sip of her wine.

  “I’m not covering up for her,” Ben snapped back, “the man in question is married. And also my superior.”

  Keeley paused mid-gulp, then set her glass down on the table with care.

  “You mean, the guy who you said was pressuring you to solve the case?”

  “The very same. As you can imagine, he was none too pleased when I questioned her about these letters you’ve been getting.”

  “Then why did you?”

  Ben looked at her as though the answer were obvious. “Because you thought it might be her, and it was a logical assumption. I’m not going to skimp on my job just because the senior officer can’t keep it in his pants.”

  Keeley stifled a laugh at his words, then thought about the implications of what he had just told her. No wonder he was angry when she had gone barging in the diner with her accusations; he had probably gotten a good talking-to, thanks to her. And no wonder he was getting so frustrated on this case if the only feasible suspect was his superior’s secret girlfriend. His married superior. She thought again about her parents, and Brett. Was she the only person who seemed to think fidelity a trait worth having?

  “So did you have to doctor her statement?” she asked quietly, not wanting to think of Ben doing such a thing. To her relief, he shook his head firmly.

  “No. She was never formally questioned about the night of Terry Smith’s death; you were the first person to float that idea. No, what she wanted was for me to leave mention of her surgery out of her statement concerning the letters. I said the best I could do was to not specify the body part.”
/>   Keeley couldn’t help laughing out loud at that, and this time a few curious looks did turn their way. Ben smiled at her.

  “Shall we get out of here? There are a few things I’d like to go over with you.” Although both his voice and expression were perfectly neutral, something about the way he said those words made her insides tighten. Keeley allowed her gaze to travel from his eyes down to the sensual lines of his mouth and back up again. She wondered if half a glass of wine had made her bold.

  “Are you going to try to kiss me again?”

  Those lips curved in a surprised smile.

  “If I do, are we likely to get interrupted again?” Meaning Duane. He had been jealous, she thought, much as she had been over Raquel. She didn’t want to focus too much on what that might signify, the fact that they both had such proprietary feelings toward one another, so she finished the last of her wine and then stood up.

  “I hope not.”

  They left the inn, her walking in front of him with his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, a gesture that felt both alien and yet familiar, as though it were perfectly natural for him to place his hands on her. As the cool evening air hit her, she felt quite giddy, and with the lightness came a wave of relief. About her father, about Ben and Raquel, and simply just for the fact that they were walking together, apparently at ease with each other, as if the tension between them had, if not dissolved, then at least changed.

  If only the murderer could be caught, things would be looking up indeed.

  “I heard you questioned Gerald Buxby,” she said, wondering if he was still so keen to let her in on some of the details of the case. She had gotten the impression, when he told her about Raquel and the senior police officer, that it had been a relief for him to talk about it. No wonder he felt under pressure.

  “Where did you hear that?” he said, instantly suspicious. She had obviously misjudged his level of openness. She decided to come clean, at least partly.

  “Someone mentioned the mayor had been in some financial trouble.”

  “Someone,” Ben said flatly, although to her relief, he didn’t ask her who that “someone” was.