‘It isn’t; he’s coming back.’
‘Has Em told you I’m getting divorced?’
‘Yes. Bloody good idea.’
‘It wasn’t mine, but I’m getting quite used to it. I’ve discovered that although I’m deeply shocked and upset, I’m not heartbroken. Mostly I’m annoyed that I stayed faithful all these years when I needn’t have bothered.’
‘Em says you’re selling the house and going home.’
‘Yes – I won’t have much money, so I’ll have to live at home for a bit, until I can rent a place of my own. But to do that I’ll need to either sell more paintings or get a job of some kind.’
‘The mistress has got in the house.’
‘She’s not only in the house, she’s in my room. If Em doesn’t get rid of her soon I’ll have to stay in the Summer Cottage.’
‘You might like it. Home but sort of independent. Eat in, live out.’
‘Yes … Oh, I saw you on the news a few days ago. Nice waist-coat – khaki suits you.’
‘Just as well; never wear anything else. Like you, with your black.’
‘I might have a change.’
‘Em’s thinking of having a change, too: turning to the Black Arts, or maybe greyish. The darker side of Wicca, anyway,’ Anne said non-committally.
‘Yes, but is it a good idea?’
‘Who knows? No one can stop Em doing anything she’s made her mind up to do.’
‘That’s true. I expect she’s got the measure of the mistress by now, too. Do you think you might be visiting Upvale soon?’
‘Might do, in a few weeks. Depends.’
She rang off after a few bracing words about getting a solicitor and a better settlement, but I don’t think Matt’s got very much to settle, so it would be pointless and tiring.
Came back from the supermarket with a whole lot more boxes, and had to kick the front door closed behind me.
Flossie was still snoring in the kitchen, lying just as she was when I went out: on her back in her furry igloo, with her head hanging out of the opening and her ears on the floor. She didn’t wake up even when I started clattering unwanted cooking-ware in the boxes.
It was as I was standing on tiptoe on the very top of the high kitchen steps, unhooking the cast-iron frying pan from the ceiling rack (so convenient for Matt, who never cooked, so inconvenient for me, who did), that I was seized extremely familiarly from behind.
‘All alone at last?’ gloated a horribly familiar voice. ‘You can’t know how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on these!’ And he squeezed painfully, like an over enthusiastic fruit tester.
These were, I fear, the last words ever spoken by Angie’s husband Greg. Had he known, perhaps he’d have thought of something a little less trite: but then, everything he uttered was straight out of a Victorian melodrama, so perhaps not.
Startled and off-balance, I couldn’t stop the weight and momentum of the pan I’d just grasped from swinging down and connecting with his head.
What an odd, strangely meaty, but hollow noise it made against his skull! A sort of watermelon-hit-by-a-cricket-bat sound which I don’t think I’ll ever forget as long as I live.
It was only the smaller frying pan, but unluckily he must have had a very thin skull. Mind you, even with a two-handed swing I would probably have dropped rather than swung the bigger pan. Bad luck all round.
As I stepped carefully down, Greg twitched like a dying insect at my feet, then lay still.
Not dead yet? Not dead?
Someone let out their breath in a long exhalation, and when I looked up, Miss Grinch was standing in the doorway, her choppy fingers to her skinny lips, as Shakespeare has it. An empty milk jug hung from the lax fingers of her other hand.
‘I mustn’t have locked the door,’ I said inconsequentially. ‘I’m always careful, especially when I know Greg’s home – but it was awkward with all those boxes.’
Naturally Miss Grinch would have been so consumed with curiosity she’d followed Greg in. Probably tiptoed up the hall right behind him.
‘Is he dead?’ she enquired, stepping into the room just as I dropped the pan from nerveless fingers. (It landed on Greg’s foot with a crunch, but he was beyond caring by then.)
‘Did he fall, or was he pushed?’ I quavered.
‘Not that he doesn’t deserve it, behaving in such a disgusting way to a defenceless woman,’ she said severely. ‘Find a mirror and hold it to his lips.’
I began to giggle helplessly: ‘A mirror? Why would he want to see himself at a time like this?’
‘Pull yourself together, girl,’ she snapped. ‘A mirror will mist up if he’s breathing. Here, I’ll do it.’
She unhooked the small pine square from the wall under the clock. ‘You phone 999.’
I managed that, even though my fingers felt even deader than Greg looked.
‘Ambulance – accident – emergency!’ I babbled. ‘There’s no mist on the mirror!’
‘Where are you speaking from, please?’
‘This is Miss Grinch,’ that lady said, taking the receiver from my hand. ‘I don’t think there’s any rush. He’s dead.’
She gave my name and address to the operator, then added, ‘We just need the ambulance, no police. This is such a nice neighbourhood, and none of the Grinches have ever been mixed up with police.’
‘Except the one who stole Christmas,’ I said helpfully.
Of course, we did get the police, much to her indignation, but never did I think I would be so glad to have a nosy neighbour!
Were it not for Miss Grinch I’m sure I’d be facing a murder charge right now. But she described how she’d followed Greg right into the house and had seen the whole thing, which was an unfortunate accident.
If Greg hadn’t suddenly assaulted me just as I was reaching down the pan, with no idea that I wasn’t alone, it would not have occurred.
The frying pan was impounded, but I wasn’t, although I felt so guilty at having taken a life I’d have gone without a struggle.
Flossie finally awoke at one point during the noisy and exhaustive debacle, took a look out of her igloo and retired back in, until everyone was gone except Miss Grinch and me. She’s easily confused by loud voices and big feet.
Later, Miss Grinch gave me a small glass of colourless fluid and insisted that I drink it. I’m positive she said it was gin and laudanum, but surely that can’t be right?
Whatever it was, it put me out like a light.
About the Author
Trisha Ashley was born in St Helens, Lancashire, and gave up her fascinating but time-consuming hobbies of house-moving and divorce a few years ago in order to settle in North Wales. She is a Sunday Times bestselling author.
For more information about Trisha please visit www.trishaashley.com, her Facebook fan page (Trisha Ashley Books) or her Twitter account @trishaashley.
By the same author:
Sowing Secrets
A Winter’s Tale
Wedding Tiers
Chocolate Wishes
Twelve Days of Christmas
The Magic of Christmas
Chocolate Shoes and Wedding Blues
Good Husband Material
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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First Published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
Copyright © Trisha Ashley 2013
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Version: 2013-10-10
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