But this had to come first. “I don’t know that there’s anything I can do, or should do,” she confessed. “Not really. Nothing’s changed, and we still don’t know the results of the autopsy.”
“But there’s got to be something there, right?” said Pearl. “Daphne’s my friend, so I know I’m biased, but she’s also pretty grounded. Comes from being a goalkeeper,” she added. “If you can think while people are kicking balls at your head, you just don’t get flustered over nothing.”
“I would have to agree with that,” said Angelique. “Her mother has always seemed much the same to me.”
Pearl shot her mother a grateful look, and Angelique smiled at her daughter. Oliver plopped down on his hindquarters right between them, obviously pleased with a job well done.
He’s going to be insufferable for at least a week. Emma ducked her head to hide a smile.
“How well do you know Helen?” she asked Angelique.
“Not well,” said Angelique. “Mostly I know her because the girls are friends. I got the impression she wasn’t comfortable in that house, or maybe I should say, in that family. She came from a very different class, and Richard and Evelyn—the old Mr. and Mrs. Cochrane—I think they tolerated her more than they welcomed her, you know?”
“Ouch.” Emma winced.
“I think she stayed married to Frank as long as she did simply because she didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, but I wasn’t surprised when she took Daphne and moved back to Manchester.”
“But she and Marcie stayed close?”
“Marcie was the only person who really treated her like a friend, instead of a nuisance,” said Pearl. “At least, that’s what Daphne always said. She told me she was honestly relieved when they did move out.”
“But they kept coming back every year. Wasn’t that a little awkward?”
“Must have been,” said Angelique. “They never talked about it, of course.”
“I hate to say it, but it probably got easier when Richard and Evelyn died,” said Pearl.
“When was that?” asked Emma.
Pearl and Angelique looked at each other. “A while ago now. Maybe nineteen or twenty years ago?” said Angelique. “They weren’t very old.”
“Oh, that’s right, it was a car accident, wasn’t it?”
“Richard Cochrane did love his fancy cars.” Angelique paused to check on the eggs baking in the oven. “And he drove too fast. That can be a mistake on these hills. He swerved to avoid a lorry coming the other way and crashed through the hedge and down the incline. In a modern car they might have made it, with airbags and all.”
“Suddenly I’m changing my mind about car shopping,” muttered Emma.
“I doubt you’re going to be taking these roads at a hundred kilometers an hour,” said Angelique. “Frankly, the pair of them were a menace. She was every bit as bad. It was a surprise, really, for such a buttoned-up pair. One of the sons, Gus, he’s just the same. Seems to be a bit of a streak in the family.”
“Streak?” said Emma.
“Adrenaline junkies,” said Pearl. “It happens with upper-class families. The boredom gets to them and they start thrill seeking. We did a bit on it in psych class.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Angelique, “But I do know Richard Cochrane had an older brother, Steven or Samuel, or something. He died in a boat accident donkey’s years ago. Tried to test himself against a northeast gale and lost.”
“That’s a lot of bad luck for one family,” said Emma slowly.
“That’s the truth,” said Pearl. “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
Yes, but think what? Emma bit her lip.
“Enough of this,” said Angelique firmly. “Whatever is happening with the Cochranes, right now, we have a B and B full of guests expecting Sunday breakfast.”
“Hurray!” barked Oliver “Sausages!”
She was right, of course. It was past time to get to work. Emma bundled her unruly hair up under the billed cap she kept for the purpose.
“But, Ma . . .” began Pearl.
“No buts.” Angelique pointed her spatula at Pearl. “We are not going to do Daphne, or anyone else any good by worrying away at things we can’t prove or fix.”
For now. Emma got down the mixing bowls. But tomorrow, that’s another story.
22
Monday was Emma’s day off. Usually, that meant sleeping in, perhaps all the way to eight o’clock, lounging about the cottage, working in her new garden or catching up on her favorite cooking shows and reading new cookbooks.
Today it meant heading down to the Towne Fryer to meet up with Genny and go look at cars.
“And Brian,” added Genny.
“I’m not talking to you,” said Emma.
“Why not?” Oliver, who was sitting on her lap, bonked her chin. “You should talk to Genny.”
Emma sighed. “Oliver says I should talk to you.”
“Oliver is very sensible,” said Genny.
“Genny is an excellent human,” said Oliver.
Emma rolled her eyes at them both.
* * *
* * *
Trevena Taxi and Prowse’s Classic Cars stood a bit to the southeast of Trevena proper, just past the Tesco and the town’s single strip of shops but before the first of the housing estates. The place had most likely been a small farm once. Cornish hedges—walls of earth and stone topped by tangled shrubbery—fenced in the property. A squared-off brick cottage stood on one corner of the lot. The sales office with its signs for both Taxi and Garage had been fitted a bit awkwardly onto one side. There was one huge outbuilding that had probably once been a cow barn and another, smaller one that might have been the farm’s workshop and storage shed. Judging by the assortment of vehicles, and the tow truck parked out front, Emma decided this was now the garage.
As soon as Genny pulled up into the rutted car park, Brian came out of the office. A shaggy collie dog loped beside him.
“Hullo! Hullo!” Oliver barked and bounced up to the much bigger dog. He and the collie started exchanging the exploratory sniffs and nips that stood in for “nice to meet you,” “how about this weather, eh?” “you see the match last night?” and all other bits of human small talk.
“Well!” Brian chuckled. “That was fast. Lucy!” He whistled. “Come say hello to Emma.”
Emma went down on one knee and held out both hands for Lucy to sniff and lick. “Hello, Lucy! There’s a good girl.” Emma rubbed her ears.
“She likes you,” said Brian.
“Everybody likes Emma!” announced Oliver.
Brian laughed at Oliver’s energetic yip and rubbed the corgi’s head. He wore jeans and a soft blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.
Emma found herself staring at his muscular forearms. Genny noticed. Emma could tell because Genny also kicked her in the ankle.
Oliver sniffed at Brian’s hands. “An excellent human,” he told Emma. “But too much petrol, grease and oil.” He sneezed.
Brian laughed again and straightened up. “All right, Genny?”
“Just about. What you got for us, then?”
He turned a wry grin to Emma. “Always good to have a friend along to check out your new relationships, yeah?”
“She thinks if we’re left alone, we’ll get up to no good,” said Emma blandly.
“Well, she knows I cannot resist your wiles.”
“Speaking of . . .” Emma pulled a carefully wrapped packet out of her bag. “Open it when you’re alone.”
Genny pulled a face. Brian just raised both brows. “I’ll treasure it.”
Genny rolled her eyes. “Maybe we should leave them alone, Oliver.”
Oliver grumbled. “A noble corgi never leaves his human— Oooo . . . what’s that?” He put his nose down and started after some s
cent trail. Lucy barked and bustled after him.
“Oliver!” snapped Emma. “No wandering off! There’s cars here!”
“I was not wandering off!” huffed Oliver, but he did come trotting back.
“Amazing how he knows,” said Genny. “My dog never listens like that.”
“We had a really good training school,” mumbled Emma. “Right, Brian. What have you got for me?”
“Well, I don’t know yet.”
Emma pulled back in surprise. Brian grinned. “I can’t say what I’ve got for you until I know what it is you need. What do you want to do with your car?”
“Aside from drive it?”
“Yes. The kind of travel you’re planning is important. If you’re commuting to London three times a week, I’m not going to put you in a Range Rover. So, what are your plans?”
“Well. Obviously, errands around the village. The bus is hopeless if you’ve got a load to carry, and there’s a good taxi but you know, the fees are ridiculous, and the driver’s always angling for a bigger tip . . .”
“Guy’s a prat,” said Brian promptly. “I know him and you shouldn’t put up with it.”
“You two aren’t going to knock it off, are you?” growled Genny.
“Doesn’t look like,” said Brian. “So, okay, errands. What else?”
“Well, general getting around, I guess. I mean, there’s all these lovely farms around here and Devon, I want to be able to check out the markets and the stands, for the honey and jams and the seasonal fruits, all that.”
“Are you talking a lot of hauling or . . .”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. We get deliveries of all the bulk stuff, but just . . .”
“Shopping?” he suggested.
“Shopping, and I want to see the countryside.” Not to mention the jumble sales and antique shops. There was a fantastic vintage store in Trevena, and its owners, David and Charles, had become two of her best friends, but she felt the need to stretch her wings.
“All right then,” said Brian. “I think I’ve got just what you need. If you ladies will step this way?”
Brian led them across the stubbly grass to the massive barn Emma had noticed when they first pulled in. The building was even bigger than it had seemed from the road. Close up, it looked to be nearly the size of a football pitch. Inside though, the stalls and feed boxes had all been removed, leaving nothing but a huge space with a concrete floor filled with neat rows of cars, some new but many vintage.
Emma was not a car enthusiast. Until she moved to Cornwall, she’d never even considered owning one. She hadn’t even gotten her license until university. But even so, a black Rolls-Royce looming over a low, sleek yellow BMW convertible was an impressive sight.
“Wow!” Emma exclaimed. “Not what I was expecting.”
“Oh, don’t let the Cornwall countryman facade fool you,” said Genny. “Brian’s a connoisseur. Although some people around here pronounce that ‘snob.’ ”
“Oh, come off it, Genny, you’ll frighten her,” said Brian.
Lucy had evidently had enough of this human standing about. It seemed that now was actually the time to play chase and bounded off between the cars. Oliver barked excitedly and raced after her.
Dogs.
“Well, Brian, I just hope you don’t think my budget runs to a . . . a . . .” Emma waved vaguely at a low black and silver car, all curves and chrome.
“1966 Shelby Cobra,” Brian said promptly.
“Yes. That. Because I may be inexperienced, but I’m not daft.”
“Emma.” He laid his hand against his breast. “Would I lead you astray?”
Emma turned to him. She moved two steps closer. She blinked up into his blue eyes. “Brian, you may flatter me, and you may be helping keep my shop afloat by purchasing the equivalent of a whole apple cake on a weekly basis, but when it comes down to brass tacks, you, sir, are still a used car salesman.”
“Oof.” Brian put a hand over his stomach. “That, madam, is a low blow. All right. Come on, then.”
He led them both past the first row of vintage rarities, then past a second row of more pedestrian, and more contemporary, imports from Japan, Germany and America.
“Now this is what I was thinking of for you,” said Brian.
He spread his hands toward a tiny, blocky, bright red convertible. It looked like an adorable toy beside the larger models, and Emma’s heart leapt in a way normally reserved for new lemon cake recipes.
“1966 Austin Mini Cooper convertible,” announced Brian. “Fully restored and upgraded. Candy apple red, all the original upholstery. Very gently used, but goes like a champion if you give her the chance.” Brian opened the door. “If madam would care to have a seat?”
I will not fall in love at first sight, Emma told herself firmly. It’s a car, not a puppy.
She settled into the seat. Brian closed the door. Emma put both hands on the wheel.
And instantly she imagined touring down the winding coastal roads, the wind in her hair, a scarf billowing out behind her. Oliver would be in the passenger seat, mouth open and laughing into the wind.
“What do you think?” Brian leaned down so he could smile at her through the open window.
I am a mature woman, not an infatuated teenager, she told herself. I have a business degree and an accounting license. I am not impulse buying thousands of pounds’ worth of automobile. Especially when it’s a convertible and I live in Cornwall, for heaven’s sake.
“It’s very nice,” she admitted.
“What’s the mileage like?” asked Genny. “Are the tires new? When were the brakes last done?”
Emma put a hand on the gear lever. It fitted exactly.
“Emma, stop fondling the gears,” said Genny briskly. “We need to do a walk around.”
“Spoilsport,” muttered Brian.
Emma climbed out of the car, only slightly shamefaced. Oliver immediately pushed past her and put his paws up on the driver’s seat, wagging his entire bum in excitement.
“Oh, it’s you too, is it?” Genny rubbed the corgi’s ears. “I knew you lot needed a chaperone. Show the girl a splash of red paint and a cute pair of headlights and she’s hopeless. Come on, Prowse, open the boot. Smart!” She clapped her hands.
Emma swallowed a laugh and managed to have a serious expression pasted on by the time Brian opened the hatch. Genny kept firing questions as they walked around the little car, and Brian lobbed back the answers. He even opened the glove box and pulled out the maintenance record, meticulously kept, he claimed, by the previous owner, a little old man in St. Ives who bought the car new and only sold it when his grandkids moved to Sydney.
He was warming to this theme when a voice cut across the car barn.
“Hello, Brian! They told me you were out here!”
All three of them turned around. The barn’s side door was open, and a man stood on the threshold.
It was Gus Cochrane.
23
“ ’Scuse me,” murmured Brian to Emma. He pasted on a much broader smile than he’d worn yet as he strode between all the cars.
“Mr. Cochrane! Good to see you.”
Emma looked at Genny and Genny looked back at Emma. In silent agreement they started to stroll just a very little bit closer to the men at the entrance.
Just looking at the cars. Genny’s just helping. Not planning on listening in at all.
But then Oliver and Lucy appeared out of nowhere and headed straight toward Gus and Brian.
“Oh, Oliver!” sighed Emma, and she hurried to call back her endlessly curious corgi.
“I was very sorry to hear about your loss,” Brian was saying when the dogs, followed by Emma and Genny, reached Gus. Both the collie and the corgi started sniffing energetically around his shoes and ankles. Gus shifted backward.
“All rig
ht, Lucy, knock it off,” said Brian amiably.
“Nah, she’s fine,” said Gus. “And this guy . . . I know you, don’t I?” He patted Oliver’s head.
“He’s mine. Come on, Oliver.” Emma whistled. “Manners.”
Oliver came to stand beside her. “Too much petrol and coffee,” he said. “It’s not healthy. He should walk more. Also dead roses.”
“Oh, hullo,” said Gus. “It’s Emma, right? You were at the house when . . . well, the other day. We didn’t get a chance to say it at the time, but everyone really appreciated the sandwiches.”
“Thank you,” Emma said. “I couldn’t have done it without Genny’s help.”
“Oh, ah, yes. Of course, you were . . . there . . . too? Again, thanks.”
“I’m just glad I could do something to help,” said Genny.
“Wish I could’ve.” He shook his head. “She was so, so self-contained, our Marcie. Never wanted to trouble anybody. Just wanted to get on with it, you know? Wasn’t going to burden anybody else with her troubles. I knew something was wrong, but I wasn’t able to do anything in time. And now I’ve got to carry that.” He wiped at his face. “But. We go on, right? Stiff upper lip and all that. Still. I’ll admit, I’m not sorry for an excuse to get out of the house. Especially now.”
“I’m sorry, has something new happened?” asked Emma.
Gus hesitated. He also jammed his hands into his pockets. “Well, I probably shouldn’t say, but I’m sure everybody will know by end of day anyhow. See, Bert’s been on the phone all weekend, and, well, this morning we got the word. It’s official. Marcie’s death has been ruled a suicide.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Brian.
“We all are,” added Genny. “Is there anything . . .”
“No, no.” Gus shook his head. “It’s all being handled. Still . . . bit stuffy back at the house and all . . .” He shrugged.
Murder Always Barks Twice Page 14
