Let Sleeping Murder Lie: A cozy mystery

by Carmen Radtke

  “We did? It’s hard to remember.” He sounded lost.

  An unexpected wave of pity filled her heart. If her father had made yet another mistake, he paid dearly for it. If he was satisfied with his life, good on him. She shouldn’t judge, especially from thousands of miles of physical and emotional distance away. “I’ve got to go. Say hi to Crystal.”

  “At least think about Christmas, Sweetpea. It’d be nice.”

  “I will.”

  Eve brought out a photo album labelled “Our Wedding” in gold embossing from her suitcase. There they were, Crystal and her dad, under a pink and green flower arch. He’d dyed his salt-and-pepper hair uniformly dark and ditched his spectacles for contact lenses on the bride’s request. Crystal desperately tried to cling onto a faded youth with a bridal dress modelled after the latest royal wedding.

  Eve turned the pages, looking for a hint of the affection Donna and Ben’s early photos demonstrated. Or was that reserved for young couples, before disillusionment set it? Her dad’s gaze did rest on Crystal in most of the pictures, in an expression of what seemed to be gratitude. Maybe that explained his life. Perhaps all he wanted was not to be alone, even if he’d never dance with a woman under the stars on the patio again.

  It wouldn’t be enough for her. It hadn’t been enough for Donna either. She wondered if Ben would have had the courage to pull the plug on his marriage, if it hadn’t been for the money issue.

  She picked up Donna’s calendar and scanned the pages. Instead of covering a year, it went on for fifteen months. The final weeks were empty.

  Eve flicked back to the beginning. There were entries for Donna’s days at work. Starting in April, she’d made brackets around the Wednesday work appointments. She’d also pencilled in when Ben was away for meetings. Lunch dates featured at least once a week, but she’d used abbreviations instead of writing down the full names. “Lunch @LI” appeared regularly until November. In October, Donna also lunched at TFP, which then became the only lunch spot mentioned. Donna had decorated both with scribbled flowers.

  Eve’s heart beat hard against her ribs. Donna had been cryptic, but not overly so. She wasn’t a habitual doodler, sticking to the basic information in the other entries, so the flowers had special meaning.

  Eve tapped her fingers on the table. A married woman living in a small town might easily meet her lover in a remote cabin while her husband was gone. If she wanted to meet another man in public without the affair becoming common knowledge, a lunch date in another town was one of her few options.

  Eve read through the entries again. All the lunch dates coincided with Donna’s work days. The days marked in brackets also showed love hearts and exclamation marks.

  TFP and LI had to be within walking distance from the boutique, to fit in with Donna’s lunch hour. She and her colleagues would take turns, Eve assumed. Which made it safe enough for Donna to meet her lover.

  She took the first of the letters. They were all addressed by hand, with the ink faded. Eve peered at the date stamp. It was too smudged to decipher. She turned the envelope around. No name, only an address in Northern Ireland. Donna’s parents, presumably. No love letter from Ben, then. She breathed easier, relieved not to poke her nose in his most intimate thoughts.

  The letter covered a scant page. Health news, gossip about neighbours, questions about work, and John’s health. Perfectly innocent and useless for Eve’s purposes. The one interesting fact was the date. The letter was written four weeks before Donna’s death. She hadn’t told her parents about her plans to divorce Ben and move out. Why?

  Eve skim-read another letter from the parents. The same pattern, eerily echoing her own thoughts about her dad. She had her answer. Donna’s parents weren’t close enough to their daughter for Donna to confide in them.

  One letter bore a different handwriting, and no stamp or sender’s address. Inside, written in spiky letters slanting to the right, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnet brought back memories of Eve’s high school days. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways …” She whispered the words. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she finished with the line that never failed to tug at her heartstrings. “I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”

  How on earth could a love like this fade away? If Ben wrote this, he must have wanted to win Donna back, desperately. The letter couldn’t be old, the ink looked fresher than on the other envelopes. An icy hand grabbed Eve’s heart. Donna wasn’t a hoarder who held on to things of sentimental value. Her belongings proved that beyond a doubt. This allowed only one conclusion. Donna had kept the letter with the poem because it held meaning for her too.

  Eve needed a sample of Ben’s handwriting to be sure, but if he penned this, he’d lied about his relationship with his wife. What else had he been untruthful about?

  Eve piled up the other letters. She’d ask Ben what she should do with them. The poem, she’d keep. And the calendar. The staff at Donna’s lunch venues wouldn’t remember after five years, but the places themselves might offer more clues about her and her mystery man.

  She slipped the letter in her sock drawer.

  What if the rumours were right, and her own husband had slain Donna Dryden in a fit of passion and jealousy?

  Chapter 13

  Eve found Kim restocking vinyl records at the back of the charity shop.

  “Well, hello again,” Kim said. Her eyes twinkled. “Do you need more jewellery for another hot date, or what brings you here?”

  Eve winced. “Not very likely.”

  “Didn’t it work out? That’s too bad.”

  Eve grimaced. “I’m trying to salvage another relationship instead. Before I’ve ruined that too.” Eve took out her dad’s wedding picture. “I’m looking for something quintessentially British for her. Something that screams old and inherited status.”

  “Ouch. That awful?”

  Eve had another look at the photo. Crystal did hover over her husband, and she lacked sophistication or brain, judging by the handful of occasions they’d been together. But was she really as much of a monster as she’d become in Eve’s head? “I have no idea, to be honest,” she said. “I had this preconceived notion of her the moment my Dad told me her real name was Christa, but she went by Crystal.”

  “That’s not a crime,” Kim said. “A bit new age hippy, but we have a lot of those around here as well.”

  “That’s why I’m here, to give our relationship a chance. Maybe she’s exactly what my dad needs, and I’m the bad guy.”

  “How old is Crystal?” Kim asked.

  “Officially, forty-five. Since at least a decade.”

  They settled on a delicate cameo carved out of Whitby jet, dating back to the end of Queen Victoria’s reign. A tiny chip at the bottom explained why it ended up at the “Helping Hand”. It came with an embossed and wax-sealed certificate which in itself made it worth the price tag of one hundred pounds.

  Kim produced an antique velvet case for it. Eve’s hand trembled.

  “Do you want to sit down?” Kim asked. “You look like a ghost.”

  “Thank you. It must be nerves, I suppose. Weird.”

  “Stress does that.”

  Kim flipped the sign over to ‘Closed’ and locked the door. “I live upstairs, if you’d like a bit of a rest.”

  She settled Eve on a cardinal red tub chair. The complete room was furnished with 1960s pieces in bright colours. A pair of gigantic false lashes framed the peephole in the door, reminiscent of her mom’s favourite TV heroine of the period, Emma Peel in the classic show “The Avengers”. Eve had bought the box-set to watch whenever she was in serious need of an emotional pick-me up. Sometimes, if she tried hard, she could almost sense her mother’s presence.

  “Tea?” Kim asked. “I’d offer you brandy, but I assume you have to drive.”

  “The classic British remedy. I’d appreciate a cup of tea.”

  The tea was hot
, strong and sweet, and soothing. The British were on to something with it. Eve chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Kim asked.

  “I just realised how often I switch personas without even thinking about it. One day I’m fiercely British, thanks to my mother’s side, the next I’m an outsider clucking my tongue over local foibles.”

  “Perfectly normal. You should hear the locals complain about the folks in London, or Wales, or up North. Unless the same people do something fabulous and we fall over ourselves to claim them as ours.”

  Eve drained her cup and got up. “I’d better run along. This was exactly what I needed.”

  “I’m glad you feel better.”

  “I do. In many ways.”

  On her way out, she glimpsed a series of photographs in a triptych frame. Kim as a teenager, hand in hand with a blonde woman pictured from the back, and Kim with a dog.

  True enough, Eve heard a faint bark from the back room as she left through the shop.

  “Why don’t you come to see me one evening?” Kim asked. “The doorbell on the top is for the flat. I’m free most nights. I’d like to know how your relationship rescue works out.”

  “I’ll keep you updated,” Eve said.

  Eve went in search of the nearest post office. She’d scribbled a short note to Crystal, saying “Happy Anniversary”. Number three – no, she must stop calling her that – Crystal and her dad had tons of anniversaries, from first glimpse to first date and first sushi class. There would be a suitable occasion Crystal would think of. The price was a bit steep, but then they’d never exchanged Christmas gifts.

  She found a corner shop with a post office counter a short stroll away, tucked in between a tea room and a ristorante called “Little Italy.” Her pulse quickened. The initials fit Donna’s calendar entry, and the distance fit as well.

  Eve posted the jewellery and ambled into the restaurant. A big main room with ochre walls and prints of Italian landscapes gave way to a number of alcoves, made for clandestine meetings. Her heels clicked on the black and white floor. The décor was upscale, with a blend of authentic and chic that would have appealed to Donna. She’d found the place.

  Eve peered around in a vague manner, implying she searched for a friend. The waiter politely stood back instead of pestering her; another good sign.

  Under normal circumstances she’d have wanted to come back here and sit in one of the alcoves with Ben. Her stomach flipped. She’d managed not to think of him in hours, or of the sonnet she’d found. “How do I love thee?”Apparently until death.

  Ben took the furniture in the attic apart. Like a coward, he’d ignored confronting Donna’s personal belongings. They seemed to accuse him, for not loving her enough or in the wrong way and letting her down. She’d be alive without him, they seemed to say.

  He’d sat in his office while Hayley and Eve did his dirty work, staring at the wall and loathing himself. What kind of man didn’t even clean up his own mess?

  Now the bed and dresser, the wardrobe and the velvet ottoman Donna loved to recline on with a fashion magazine would finally go. Hayley had arranged for a collection the next day. The house would be finally free of Donna’s memory.

  His father rang his bell as Ben loosened the back panel of the wardrobe. He let it slide to the ground without a second thought. Duty called, now and for the rest of John’s natural life. On good days, it hardly felt like a punishment any longer.

  John lay in his bed, a sunken old man. Only his eyes blazed with new-found vigour. “Have you not finished with the trollop’s stuff yet? I want you to bring down the medals.”

  Ben stiffened. “Donna wasn’t a trollop, and I remember, you used to like her for quite a while.”

  John sneered, if one could call it that with his half-frozen face. “I tried to be nice to her, for your sake.” He coughed, gasping for breath.

  Ben gave in, like he always did when his father became upset. “I’ll bring you the medals, and the records.”

  “She’ll be interested to see them, your lady-friend.” John had to rest his voice for a few moments. “See to it she doesn’t meddle in our affairs. Females tend to stick their nose into everything, and Americans have no natural shame.”

  “She won’t.” Ben saved his breath when it came to John’s views of women. His father wouldn’t change, he simply got upset when lectured. The doctors said he needed a calm, nurturing environment, whatever that meant.

  “Good. Just promise me you’ll be very, very careful.” John dozed off.

  Ben climbed up into the attic. He had every intention of keeping the family secrets under lock and key.

  A battle raged in the kitchen of the “Green Dragon”. Grace Archer and Heather Miller, both in their late forties and normally of cheerful demeanour, eyed each other like duellists over a scrubbed oak table strewn with scales, flour, mounds of vegetables, and cuts of meat. Pots with stew and broth simmered.

  Letty presided over them. She sat serenely in a high-backed chair in a corner. Her sweet smile and her newly fluffed white hair made her the epitome of a lovable grandmother. But, and Grace and Heather knew this, in this kitchen she was the supreme ruler, and the battle for succession would be won with blood and sweat and the tastiest pies.

  Letty had resisted the temptation of giving out her recipes. Any halfway decent cook could follow instructions. She needed someone with an eye on costs and a flair for innovation. She hadn’t told Hayley, but she’d been relieved when her granddaughter told her she wanted to find her an assistant. For Letty wasn’t simply looking for a chef, she had an eye out on someone capable of taking over the reins.

  Hayley might not think about her own future, but Letty did. The “Green Dragon” had been the ideal solution when Hayley found herself at loose ends when her job as an HR assistant and a relationship ended simultaneously. Letty would see to it that Hayley got her freedom back at her own terms before she ended in a rut.

  Grace folded another quarter cup of flour into her dough.

  Heather watched her rival like a hawk and with a flourish, added more spices to her stew. They had half an hour to go.

  Letty decided to crank up the pressure, to see who could cope better. She’d make it up to them afterwards.

  “Fancy me missing Ben Dryden’s visit,” she said, sniffing the fragrant air appreciatively.

  Heather banged the jar with her own spice-mix on the table and gaped. “He never.”

  Grace shuddered. “It gives me the creeps to think of him. I always said, he had a shifty look, even as a teenager. You can’t hide a nasty temper, say what you will.”

  “That fancy wife of his gave him enough reason, if you ask me, and you didn’t seem to mind cleaning and cooking for them until it happened.” Heather screwed the lid onto the jar. “My friend went into that boutique on one of Donna’s regular days, and you know what? She’d cut down from three days to two without anyone the wiser. Otherwise why would they get you to come in for all three days? Unless you didn’t tell us.”

  Grace’s eyes bulged. Her pastry was all but forgotten. “Why would she do that? They never cut my hours, and she went, same as usual.”

  “We’ll never know for sure, but I have my ideas. That’s all I’m saying.” Heather popped a tray with bread rolls into the oven, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

  “What did the police say?” Letty asked.

  “Nothing. They never asked me, and it wasn’t my place to say, was it?” A smug look spread over Heather’s face. “Another ten minutes, and I’m done.”

  “Drat.” Grace attacked her pastry with the rolling pin.

  “Two days instead of three?” Eve pulled out the stolen calendar.

  “Heather’s positive,” Hayley said. She dropped in at Ivy Cottage as soon as Letty shared the revelation with her. “She’s our new kitchen assistant, by the way. And the woman who used to cook for John when Donna was at work didn’t have a clue. Any other questions you have, let my nan ask them. Heather’s well-meaning, but
her mouth runs a mile a minute.”

  “She’s a gossip.”

  “But a reliable one and trusting.” Hayley grinned at Eve. “So, anything else you need wheedled out of her?”

  Eve had thought about that. She asked, “Did the helper have a key? I wish I could see the police report, to see how they think the killer got in.”

  “They focussed on Ben.”

  “Who would have had enough sense to fake a break-in,” Eve said.

  “In a premeditated case, yes. But if it was a crime of passion?”

  “That wouldn’t explain the petrol station receipt. Or why he didn’t turn himself in,” Eve said without conviction.

  “And leave his father after a bad stroke? Not likely that he’d done that. But I thought we operated on the premise of his innocence.”

  “We do. Except …”

  “We can always stop.” Hayley gave her a swift and unexpected hug. Eve let herself go limp. She’d hardly noticed how tightly wound she’d become.

  “No. Whatever the outcome, I want to find out what really happened to that poor woman,” Eve said. “Your nan said pretty much the same thing.”

  Hayley nodded in agreement. “I’ll put my feelers out. After I’ve figured out how to rearrange the kitchen to both my nan’s and Heather’s liking. And you can think of ideas where Donna might have gone every Thursday from June onwards.”

  Eve made a list of entries for the Thursdays. They were the ones in brackets. It was a satisfying start, to see part of the puzzle fall into place. She could think of two places where Donna would go: her lover’s home and the cabin.

  Eve found her birdwatching binoculars underneath a stack of towels. Her lack of house-keeping skills became more pronounced with every relocation. She needed to fix that. Maybe Donna was the same. A woman who left condoms in a place her husband might enter unannounced might have dropped another clue. Eve intended to search for it.