“Gerald Buxby was found dead last night, Mum. They think he was murdered.”
Darla went very still, like a statue, then gave a little shudder as though she had mentally shaken herself. Her penciled eyebrows shot up her forehead. “Goodness! Are you sure?”
Keeley nodded. “I was with Ben when he got the call.”
“Well,” Darla said, for once seeming lost for words, “how terrible.”
Keeley nodded again, looking out of the front window at Belfrey High Street, with its cobbled stones and range of shops, from the vintage hairdressers to the key cutters, and the local pub, the Tavern, something of an eyesore in the picturesque street with its unkempt, dingy appearance. Belfrey looked so serene this early in the morning, the kind of place where bad things just didn’t happen. And yet this was the second murder of a local resident in just a few months, the first one coinciding with Keeley’s arrival. Morbidly, she couldn’t help feeling that she was somehow jinxed.
She finished getting ready in silence, watching Darla as she flitted around the small apartment, tutting at the lack of space and Keeley’s apparent lack of organization, obviously already recovered from her shock at the grisly news.
“What are you planning on doing with yourself today, Mum? I’ll be in the café until three.”
“Well, I thought I’d come and give you a hand. You were saying last week you could do with taking someone on.”
“Thank you,” Keeley said, surprised and more than a little pleased. Darla was right; Keeley did need an extra pair of hands around as the Yoga Café continued to get busier and busier. Megan, who opened and closed Crystals and Candles whenever she seemed to feel like it, often came in and helped out in return for a free meal and endless cups of chamomile tea, but Keeley didn’t like to take advantage and besides, she knew that, sooner rather than later, she really would need to employ someone.
“Well, I need something to do with myself,” Darla said briskly.
Keeley soon found herself regretting her gratitude for her mother’s offer of help when Darla proceeded to criticize the decor of the café, refused to tie her bobbed hair away from her face—“Darling, I spent a fortune having this styled yesterday”—and turned her nose up at Keeley’s breakfast menu. Keeley could feel any glimmer of tolerance slipping away fast, to be replaced with her usual feelings of utter inadequacy around her mother. She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore her sniping, but the last straw came when Darla tutted loudly about the dust—alleged dust, as Keeley couldn’t see any—on the table near the window.
“You’re going to have to keep things better than this, dear. We don’t want the hygiene people round.”
Keeley exploded before she could stop herself.
“Why do you always have to be like this, Mum? Why are you always trying to make me feel like I’m not good enough?”
Darla, leaning over the offending table, went very, very still, before she straightened up and turned to look at Keeley with a funny look on her face. It was a most un-Darla-like look, Keeley thought. In fact, it was almost like guilt. She noticed her mother was wringing the polishing cloth between her hands. She had actually upset her, she realized.
“Mum, I’m sorry…” Keeley went to apologize, and was shocked into silence when Darla cut in.
“No, dear, you’re probably right. I can be too hard on you. I just want the best for you, that’s all; I want you to have all the things I didn’t.”
Before a stunned Keeley could respond, Darla had bent back over the table and resumed her polishing.
“Mum,” she began, but Darla was already tutting over the bedraggled-looking vase of daisies on the windowsill. With a sigh, Keeley gave up and let her mother get on with refolding napkins and arranging the flowers in the center of the tables, feeling strangely emotional. That was the nearest thing to a genuine apology she had ever gotten from her mother, and she wondered if she, in turn, was being too hard on Darla in her opinions of her. Darla had never been someone who showed her affections easily; she had nagged and sniped at her husband too, but the jovial George had taken it in stride. Taking a deep breath, Keeley got on with preparing breakfasts.
At eight o’clock, she opened the café and waited. Her weekday regulars appeared first: Ethel, who owned the arts and crafts shop around the corner came in for her usual scone and homemade jam, and Lucy, who owned the local nursery, popped in for her usual before-work omelet. Keeley loved that she had regulars now, that her café felt like not just a business but a community.
She glanced at the clock. Tuesdays weren’t her busiest mornings, but news of Gerald’s demise would be winging its way around Belfrey by now and the gossips would soon be out in full force.
She didn’t have to wait long. At 8:34 Norma and Maggie came in. Both middle-aged women, they were nearly always seen together, and were notorious as village gossips. Although Keeley didn’t like to think the worst of anyone, the fact that the pair rarely frequented the Yoga Café but were staunch fans of Raquel’s Diner told her they were there for more than a breakfast smoothie.
“Have you heard? Isn’t it awful?” Norma said as she entered. Her eyes were wide in an expression of shock, but there was an eagerness to her voice that belied her words.
“Awful,” Maggie echoed. “Poor Gerald. It will be that woman he took up with, you mark my words.”
“Raquel?” Keeley asked, marveling at how fast they were to find a villain, at how Raquel, a resident of Belfrey and very well known to the women, had now become “that woman.”
“Well, who else? The diner isn’t open either; I wonder if she will have been arrested already.” The way Norma peered at Keeley, she knew it was a question rather than a statement of wonder. As the girlfriend of the local police detective, Keeley was used to being questioned about the particulars of any crimes that happened in Belfrey. As if Ben ever told her anything, really. She had been surprised at his disclosure of Gerald’s mode of death, putting it down to tiredness. Ever since Keeley’s involvement in the Terry Smith case, Ben made very sure to keep his work and their private life separate.
“I would imagine she’s grieving,” Keeley said.
Maggie snorted. “Grieving? Her? She’ll be on to the next one by the end of the week.”
Keeley went to defend Raquel again, then fell quiet as she remembered the way the other woman had thrown herself into Duane’s arms the day before. Still, Gerald had been alive then. Quite why she felt the need to defend Raquel at all she didn’t know; there was certainly little love lost between them, mainly because Raquel insisted on viewing Keeley as a rival. Nevertheless, they had been friends at school. If “friends” was the right word—Raquel had been happy to get Keeley to do her homework for her and be the obligatory plain, chubby friend to Raquel’s effortless beauty, but had dropped her like a hot potato when there was a better prospect on the horizon. Shy and awkward, Keeley had been grateful for the crumbs of Raquel’s friendship, not seeing it for what it was until her father had died tragically and Raquel had barely even asked how she was, never mind offered any support. They hadn’t kept in touch during Keeley’s ten-year absence, and when she had returned slimmer, more confident, and opening a café of her own, Raquel had gone out of her way to make Keeley feel unwelcome.
Although, Keeley thought with a twinge of guilt, the situation had hardly been helped by Keeley suspecting her of having been the one to kill Terry Smith. Perhaps that guilt was part of the reason why she felt the need to defend her now—that, and the secret Keeley had discovered about Raquel’s parentage.
There had been an awful moment when Keeley, having discovered that Darla had once been unfaithful to her beloved father, had thought it was her own parentage that was in question, and the relief when she had discovered the mix-up had been palpable. Ever since, she had felt a softening toward Raquel, and tried not to engage in the other woman’s antagonism. She wasn’t the nicest woman, but Keeley was almost sure she wasn’t a murderer either. Almost.
“I’m sure
that’s not the case; I would imagine Raquel is very upset,” Darla said, straightening up in the corner where she had been organizing the morning papers. Norma and Maggie’s eyes went wide in genuine shock as they recognized her.
“Darla Carpenter? Well I never!” Norma gave her mother a large, insincere grin. Darla merely looked at her, then gave a tight little smile that looked more like a grimace.
“Norma. Maggie.”
“You look amazing,” Norma said with obvious envy, her small eyes sweeping over Darla’s immaculate appearance like lasers. The look Darla gave her in return made it all too clear that unfortunately, she wouldn’t return the compliment.
“Thank you. Are you ordering anything? Keeley’s very busy, I’m sure she doesn’t have the time to stand around gossiping.”
Keeley hid a surprised smile. Both Norma and Maggie looked taken aback, before Maggie said in a slightly haughty voice, regaining some composure, “No, no, we had better be off.” They mumbled good-byes in Keeley’s direction before bustling their way out of the door. Darla watched them go with pursed lips.
“Never could stand that pair. They were always in here when it was your father’s shop, spreading their poison and trying to barter with him on prices as if he were a market trader.”
“Thanks, Mum,” Keeley said, feeling strangely touched at her mother’s intervention.
Darla gave a graceful, one-shouldered shrug.
“You should be more selective about your customers,” she said, and turned back to the newspapers. Shaking her head in amusement, Keeley went back to preparing the fresh produce for the day’s salad bar. It had been an extraordinarily warm summer, and her salads, smoothies, and homemade ice cream had been selling like hotcakes. There were two pastimes that made Keeley happy: yoga and cooking. Sometimes, when she was in the middle of chopping or whisking or even dreaming up a new recipe, she found herself in that ultrafocused yet relaxed state that a good yoga practice gave her. To many people, her friends often among them, they seemed like mutually exclusive activities, but to Keeley one complemented the other perfectly. In yogic philosophy, food was more than fuel; it was a form of connection, both to oneself and others and the world around you. As far as Keeley was concerned, there was no better way to feel a part of the community around her than by sharing her love of tasty foods. Although her first few months as proprietor at the Yoga Café had been hard work, it had also been fulfilling, and given her the sense of purpose and grounding she had so desperately needed.
If it hadn’t been for a tendency to get herself involved in grisly murders, in fact, these first few months would have been perfect.
As she watched her mother bustling around, somehow managing to convey the impression of being busy without actually doing anything useful at all, she thought about how important it was to her that Darla understand, even be proud of, what her daughter had achieved, of the success she was making of George Carpenter’s old butcher’s shop. Her mother’s out-of-character comments this morning had given Keeley a glimmer of hope that it may not be such a hopeless wish.
“It’s rather cramped in here, isn’t it?” Darla said with a long-suffering sigh, making much of squeezing herself between tables to get to the bathroom even though, in Keeley’s opinion, there was ample room for her mother’s lithe frame.
Customers began to trickle in and Keeley was soon busy with breakfasts. Her vegetarian breakfast and summer fruit porridge had proved to be popular dishes over the last few weeks, and she was soon knee-deep in cooking and serving, and began to find herself grateful for Darla’s presence as her mother took over the till and serving drinks. Although her mother served people with an air of offended disdain, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was having to do so, she was efficient and organized. It certainly took off the pressure of the morning rush, and she thought again that it really was high time she hired someone to help her out on a regular basis.
As she had expected, the locals were full of talk about Gerald’s death. Jack Tibbons came in with his old wolfhound, Bambi, clutching the midmorning papers. A large picture of Gerald in full mayor regalia dominated the front page under the headline “MAYOR MURDERED,” which was certainly to the point if a little lacking in imagination.
“Seen this? Right bad business,” Jack said in his rough voice, putting the paper down on his usual table, in the corner near the counter. Then his eyes went wide as he spotted Darla, and his face softened into a wry grin.
“Darla Carpenter? It’s been a long time,” he said. Darla gave him a brusque nod.
“Jack. What can I get you?” Her voice was as briskly efficient as it had been all morning, but Keeley thought she detected just a hint of warmth in it, a slight softening of her mother’s stance. She watched the pair with interest. Jack had worked with her father and had carried on managing the butcher’s after George’s death and Darla’s departure, until his late wife’s ill health had turned him into a full caregiver and, later, a widower. Jack was the sort of taciturn older man that Keeley often thought of as typical of Belfrey: down-to-earth and with a keen eye for bullshit. Not really the sort of person one would expect Darla to warm to, but Jack had been loyal to their family, and Keeley suspected her mother was a deal more fond of him than she liked to make out.
“It is a bad business,” Keeley said softly, returning to the subject of Gerald’s death. Jack had known Gerald well, as had most of the long-term residents of Belfrey, and the mayor had been a popular character. His murder would be a shock to the whole village.
“Has anyone seen owt of Raquel?” Jack asked. Keeley shook her head just as Megan entered, smelling of lavender and looking the part too; her blond dreadlocks had been dyed lilac. A man was with her, with long hair and a beard and what looked to be a white dress over white trousers. Keeley blinked, before arranging her face into one of polite friendliness. Megan’s companions were often a little “out there,” and the impending art festival was bound to attract a few unusual types.
“She’s with my cousin,” Megan said, coming over and kissing Keeley on the cheek while Darla looked at the newcomer with barely disguised horror, taking in her unusual hair, hippie style of clothing, and the prominent nose ring. Then her eyes went to her companion, and she closed them, looking pained.
“This is David,” Megan said, “he’s here for the art festival.” Keeley smiled at the man, who didn’t speak but gave Keeley a serious look and then inclined his head in a regal motion that made Keeley almost want to curtsy.
“Mum, this is David, and my friend Megan.” Keeley introduced them before turning back to Megan and asking, “She’s with Duane? Is she all right? It must have been a shock.”
“I haven’t seen her; Duane phoned me earlier. He sounded in shock himself. Apparently Raquel was being questioned by Ben this morning.” There was a question in her voice, and Keeley shook her head in answer. “I haven’t spoken to him since the early hours,” she said. Megan looked around the café, where more than a couple of customers had paused mid-mouthful to look very interested in their conversation, and lowered her voice. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Keeley. I looked at the cards this morning, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”
Jack, next to them, gave a disbelieving cough.
“I don’t think them funny cards of yours will tell you anything, lass; best to leave that sort of thing to the police,” he said. Megan looked offended and Keeley, ever the peacemaker, cut in with an offer for Megan to try out her new smoothie recipe on the house. Megan followed her over to the salad bar as she began to whisk up a mango and cucumber smoothie, leaving Darla and Jack chatting in low voices. David sat by the window looking out onto the street, his face in a serene expression, seemingly oblivious to anything going on around him.
“Apparently Raquel turned up at Duane’s crying early this morning after the police had finished talking to her. He said she was in a right mess.”
“Did she have any idea what had happened?”
“You mean, who did
it? No. She kept saying Gerald was a nice man and didn’t have any enemies. She said she hadn’t seen him since their argument outside here yesterday. That’s all Duane told me.”
He wasn’t so nice yesterday, Keeley couldn’t help thinking, remembering that very argument and the way Gerald had shouted insults at Raquel. Megan seemed to be thinking the same thing.
“So if he didn’t have any enemies, and Raquel was the last person to argue with him…” Megan said, letting her words hang in the air. Keeley looked around the café, sure that there were ears straining to hear their conversation even though nobody was looking their way.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Keeley said. “The police have spoken to her and clearly found no reason to keep her in.”
“I’ve always said she was a nasty piece of work, though. It’s her aura; it’s very draining. She’s like a psychic vampire.”
“I don’t know what that means. But whatever it is, it doesn’t make her a murderer,” Keeley said firmly. It wasn’t like Megan to be so hostile, but she had an aversion to Raquel, who had always been at best condescending and at worst downright rude to her, particularly since Keeley had become a close friend.
Megan shrugged. “Maybe not. Ben will sort it out, I’m sure.”
Keeley nodded, thinking about her friend’s statement. Ben was the only local detective, his superiors being based at the main station in Ripley, and there was every chance this case would fall primarily into his hands. If it did, and he solved it successfully, it might mean the promotion to Detective Sergeant he was looking for. A double-edged sword, then, made all the sharper by the fact that the victim was someone he had known well. Keeley felt a shudder go through her, as well as a wave of sympathy for Ben. Although he preferred not to talk about work, she knew a case like this would be hard for him. Ben loved Belfrey, and had preferred to stay and work his way up in the village even when the chance of a transfer to Derby would have upped his prospects, but the downside of working in such a close-knit community meant that cases inevitably hit a little too close to home.
A Death at the Yoga Café Page 4
