Silver Lake Cozy Mystery Bundle

by Hugo James King

  Was it the same person who’d posted the letter? The same person who’d left the bludgeoned gift? Someone was watching me? Someone knew I was out of the house, but how? There was plenty of land between my home and my neighbours, from all angles, nobody would’ve known I was out unless they were watching me.

  “Charlie,” I said, slapping a hand against my thigh. “Let’s get inside.” I tiptoed around the footsteps, noticing how small they were, much smaller than my feet, but they were wellies, I could tell from the grooved impression they left behind.

  Unlocking the front door, I kept my head cocked slightly with an eye over my shoulder. Opposite my home there were trees, but they weren’t dense, the trees were thin, dishevelled in the winter season. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

  As soon as we passed the threshold inside the house, I slammed the door shut and locked it.

  I refused to call Paul again.

  I refused to let someone intimidate me.

  “There isn’t a mob in Silver Lake,” I said to myself, repeating it as I pulled my wellies from my feet. It wasn’t the narrative I was letting inside my head. There wasn’t a mob anywhere nearby, and if there was, well they weren’t living up to the hype; I hadn’t found a horse’s head in my bed, or calling cards lying around.

  Boiling the kettle, I waited on the milk delivery, but even after ten minutes in wait, I realised there wasn’t going to be any such delivery. I’d usually use the entire pint of milk in a single day, for cereal in the morning, teas and coffees throughout the day, perhaps another occasional bowl of cereal in the evening if I was peckish.

  I settled for a cup of black coffee, it would certainly wake me and perhaps string together the fragmented thoughts I had from lack of sleep.

  Sitting with the coffee in hand and the television on a low hum in the background, I checked the list I’d made the other day with Ruth. There were pieces of information I had questions about.

  Scott, somehow went from suspect number one to someone I didn’t consider further, and perhaps that was what he wanted. I remembered Scott having been a real wordsmith, talking himself out of all number of situations and increasing his percentage of a business’s takings in only a matter of hours under negotiation.

  Had our meeting been a negotiation? Was he trying to convince me otherwise of something I believed? Was Gertrude correct in implying Silver Lake had their own mobster gang of businessmen, looking to get back at people who’d once wronged them—and was I going to be next?

  Harry hadn’t been a shady businessman, he certainly wasn’t in the same category as Gilbert. My husband was definitely not someone part of any gang, unless you counted the boy’s club he was part of.

  The boy’s club.

  Quickly, scaring Charlie, I ran into the kitchen and rummaged through paperwork on the kitchen counter. There was a list of business colleagues somewhere. I knew I had something, a list of names, a list of men part of the club my husband had spent many evenings with.

  Papers cascading to the ground, falling across the kitchen.

  A small red leather-bound book. A log book.

  It was all clumped together with a pile of sales receipts.

  I glanced over the names.

  Harry Green, Thomas Sodbury, Gilbert Sodbury, Scott Pope, Mack Entwistle, Don Filbert, Frank Martin, Alexander Saint, Elijah Saint, Anthony Nolan. The ten names, the ten men who’d been party to the group.

  I wasn’t surprised to see Gilbert’s name; the list was considerably old.

  This opened the pool of potential suspects, excluding my husband and the recently deceased, there were eight men. The note left in my letterbox could’ve easily been left about any one of those men—and they all knew where I lived.

  Charlie yapped.

  A note came through the letterbox.

  A metal clap as the box shut.

  Jumping on the spot and turning in a three-sixty, my heart let out a wrenching yelp.

  My trembling fingers dropped the book and approached the door.

  It appeared blank-side up. The same torn paper. I had to pick it up. I had to see what was written on the other side.

  Kneeling, I slipped a fingernail beneath the note and flicked it.

  A chug of blood drummed against my ears.

  My eyes zoomed in and out of focus, processing the words.

  Written in red ink.

  ‘Gotcha.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  I stepped away from the door, slowly backed against the wall. With a hand to my chest, I slipped down the wall, crouching by the floor. I didn’t want to be seen. Charlie immediately snuggled his snout against my face, pressing it up at my chin.

  “We need to get out of the house,” I whispered to him.

  We needed to be anywhere but here; alone. I wanted to be surrounded by people.

  I dressed in the outfit I’d laid out for the funeral. My fingers still shaking as I put my black boots on, zipping them at the side.

  Passing the note on the floor, my heart dropped a beat. I kicked it into the kitchen, sliding across the tiled flooring.

  I wasn’t in any place to drive. We’d have to walk into the village. And with time to kill before the funeral, I needed answers.

  Glancing inside my handbag, I noticed my umbrella and other essentials; notepad, pen, chewing gum. “Let’s go.”

  Thirty minutes later and we were in the village. I stood outside a door, pulling my handbag on my arm and tensing a hand into a fist to knock. For the third time, I knocked. The sound echoed through the empty street.

  “She’s not in,” a voice squawked.

  From the end of the street, a hunched figure moved in my direction. Dressed in all black, I squinted to see.

  “There’s a car outside.”

  Nancy. Her small figure hunched and hurried forward. “Everyone’s making their way to the service,” she said in passing, without bothering to pause and speak.

  Of course, everyone was making their way to the church. Everyone was on their way to the funeral. But someone was inside Harriet’s house, it was the only house with a car parked outside.

  It wasn’t Harriet I wanted to speak with, it was the ex-wife. She probably knew more about the boy’s club than I ever did.

  Knock. Knock.

  No answer. I was in my head about this. Of course, she was at the funeral.

  I tried the handle. Nobody was that—

  It opened.

  “Harriet?” I called out into the house.

  Charlie ran inside. I chased after him, quietly closing the door.

  People were too trusting, even after a murder.

  “Harriet?” I called out, once again.

  Nothing. The same mass of flowers gathered in the living area. A good thing I didn’t have an allergy to pollen, the many different smells were overpowering.

  “Charlie?” I called out, wandering into the kitchen.

  Charlie had his snout buried into a black bin liner by a door at the back of the kitchen.

  “You’ve been fed,” I said in a snap.

  He continued, regardless.

  On the kitchen counter, there was an envelope. Gilbert’s name was scribbled on it. I didn’t touch it; it seemed official, personal. The handwriting in all capital letters with a thick line beneath it.

  Charlie yapped.

  I snapped my fingers, hushing him. “What?” I approached as he continued to rifle through the bin, nipping at the plastic with his paws. “What is it?” I crouched to pull him away. He tore at the bag, opening a seam for clothing to pour through.

  “What are you doing?” a voice screamed as a door slammed shut.

  I jumped back, almost slipping on the linoleum.

  Harriet stood in the kitchen doorway. Dressed in black from head-to-toe, including a thin chiffon black veil. “What are you doing here?” her voice, now a whimper.

  I pulled Charlie in my arms, standing as I cradled him. “Sorry, I came to ask if you remembered anything about the boy’s club?”
/>   “Everything okay?” another voice came.

  Wendy appeared in a similar all-black ensemble from behind Harriet.

  “Eve’s here,” Harriet said.

  My heart pounded. Wendy was the one I knew would have answers. “The front door was open.”

  “It was?” Wendy asked, her brows knitting tight together. “You didn’t lock the door?”

  Harriet shook her head. “Nobody is going to come in and steal anything, are they?” she snapped back, already dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief.

  “Wendy, do you remember the boy’s club?”

  She scoffed. “That plague,” she said. “If you ask me, that’s what put Gilbert in an early grave.”

  I wish she hadn’t said that. I didn’t want to think it was true. I didn’t want to think of any of the men my husband had been friends with had played any part in this.

  “I only remember bits and pieces,” Harriet said. “My mind is too full right now. And we have to be quick. We were only up the road, trying to clear my mind before I have to face everyone.”

  “You’ll have me by your side,” Wendy said in a gasp and a sniffle.

  Her eyes fell to the black bag, ripped from where Charlie had been digging. “Oh. Your bloody dog should get its claws cut.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Let me re-bag it for you.”

  “Leave it,” she said. “It’s rubbish anyway.”

  Rubbish? But there were clothes in it.

  “Didn’t you say you were burning that?” Wendy asked. “I don’t know what for. You’ll end up with a fine.”

  Harriet scoffed, snatching the letter from the counter. “It’s ceremonial.”

  Ceremonial? But it was rubbish. I didn’t want to question her motives, people grieved in different ways. Granted, I would never have burned anything belonging to Harry.

  Harriet turned and walked back out of the kitchen.

  “We’re taking some of the flowers,” Wendy said. “If you wouldn’t mind giving us a hand.”

  “Wendy’s driving there, if you want to join.”

  Oh. “I was planning on walking.”

  “Well, my car’s outside,” Wendy said once again. “So, you’re free to come with me.”

  I accepted the offer. “Let me grab some flowers for you then.”

  Inside the car, Charlie sat on my lap. We were surrounded by flowers and floral arrangements.

  “Who’s taking the casket in?” I asked.

  “A couple old friends.”

  I wondered who she meant, and whether or not I’d recognise them. My tongue clicked against the dryness in my mouth.

  We drove in silence, all the while, wondering whether or not I was soon to be face-to-face with the killer. It was entirely possible the person who’d been sending me those notes was at the funeral—in fact, Paul was almost certain.

  “Do you have numbers for the wake?” I asked, breaking the silence.

  A grumble fell from Harriet’s throat. “Not important,” she said. “I want it over with already.”

  “Have you called the estate agent?” Wendy asked.

  “Oh, what for?” I asked. “You’re not moving, are you?” I couldn’t imagine anything worse than leaving the house I’d spent the best part of my life in.

  Harriet shifted around in the passenger seat at the front of the car. “Yes, I’ve called, but they won’t be able to list the house until they’ve done an inspection.”

  I wasn’t aware they’d owned the house. “I thought you were renting.”

  “Oh, no,” she grumbled once again. “I owned the house before we married.” She shuddered. “I don’t think I can stay here much longer, especially after everything. It makes me feel sick to think someone inside could have—could have—murdered him.” Choking in tears, she blew out into a handkerchief.

  The car rolled to a stop.

  “I doubt they’ll be here,” Wendy said, grabbing Harriet’s hand. “And we’re all here for you. We’re all behind you.”

  Knowing Harriet owned the house, new possibilities swirled through my mind. She was the breadwinner but marrying Gilbert can’t have been good for her credit. Had Gilbert been taking from his wife and his brother?

  “We’re early,” Harriet sobbed, tugging at her door handle. “The hearse isn’t here.”

  “Let’s go inside,” Wendy said, pulling her key from the ignition.

  “But—but—but I wanted to walk in with him behind me.”

  Wendy cooed her. “It’s going to be okay.”

  But how well could it go, when the swollen tension in my jaw kept thinking about the potential murderer among us.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Light rain spat from the sky, the overcast grey clouds gathering to mourn. We hurried from the car, parked in the disabled bay, into the parish chapel. I carried Charlie in my arms and tugged my handbag on my shoulder.

  Inside the parish church, there was a small waiting room with chairs and a bin for umbrellas. And beyond the room, double doors, opened wide to reveal an aisle and pews laid out in orderly lines—packed with people.

  “You okay?” Wendy asked, pulling Harriet into a hug.

  I stroked Charlie’s snout. “No barking when we go inside.”

  I followed Wendy and Harriet inside, holding Charlie close to my chest.

  All eyes turned with curiosity as we entered.

  My eyes searched for Ruth’s face. I couldn’t imagine she sat close to the—front.

  Ruth sat with Frank on the second row of pews. Right behind the reserved seating for Harriet and Wendy, currently where Thomas was already seated. Ruth patted the space at the end of the pew. I glanced around, noticing some people standing around the edge of the room, all of them looking back in my direction—or the direction of Harriet and Wendy.

  Ruth cupped a hand to my ear. “You okay?”

  I nodded. The entire chapel was quiet, anything I said would’ve echoed.

  The deep droning hum of the organ played. Charlie winced into my lap at the sound. I placed both hands over his ears.

  Craning to Ruth’s ear. “Think I’m onto something,” I said.

  Her forehead creased with question. “That’s what you were doing, then?”

  I had told her it was a work commitment.

  The organ played louder, and Charlie’s nail gripped into my clothes. He only got this way over bonfire night and the winter holidays when people decided to set fireworks off.

  “They’re bringing the casket in,” she said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  People stood, blocking any view of the door.

  Charlie wouldn’t leave my arms. I stood with him, joining Ruth and Frank, alongside the people who sat beside him. I didn’t quite notice who they were.

  I cooed Charlie like I would a child, rocking him in my arms.

  The casket was brought down the aisle. People in front of me obscured the view of the people carrying the casket inside the parish church. I turned to see Thomas standing with a cane in hand beside Wendy. I couldn’t see any other familiar faces of the boy’s club.

  My sight moved around the room and to the ground, where I noticed a letter. The same envelope as the one Harriet had plucked from her counter. It would be rude of me to sit or bend while everyone else was standing, but it would also be unnoticed of me to move while everyone’s eyes were on the entryway.

  I took my seat again and with my free hand, I reached for the letter. Pulling it up, I slapped it close to my chest.

  Thomas now stood beside Harriet while she buried her head into his chest.

  I looked at the name once again. It wasn’t for me, but it was addressed to a dead man, and he couldn’t read it, but I certainly could.

  As the organ played louder, I tore open the envelope.

  “They’re almost here,” Ruth said, tapping my arm.

  I squeezed the letter into the depths of my handbag.

  “Let’s see.” I stood, heaving Charlie up into an arm like a baby.

>   Four men carried the casket.

  Alexander Saint, Elijah Saint, Anthony Nolan, and out of view, Scott Pope.

  I hadn’t noticed him among the people, but there he was.

  “Is that—is that Scott?” Ruth asked.

  In an attempt to look at Frank’s reaction, I caught a glimpse of Thomas pulling at his bandages with a shaky hand. He tried to stand tall and strong, leaning on Harriet for support. I tapped Ruth’s arm and she immediately looked to him.

  “What are you doing?” her voice, a mere whisper among the sound. She reached over the pew and grabbed at his hand.

  His sob grew louder, and the organ music came to a climactic pause.

  I turned to see the casket at the front of the chapel.

  Vicar Hamish MacBride took to the stage, asking everyone to be seated.

  He was a soft-spoken man, instructing us of the hymns prepared inside the service booklets on the pew stands.

  As the hymns began, I looked around for the four men. They were now seated together on the right-hand side of the hall on the front row.

  I grabbed the letter from the inside of my bag, my fingers slick with sweat. I placed the envelope inside the hymn booklet, disguising it as I hummed along to the tune.

  My stomach opened with a grumble as I read the first line.

  I’m sorry.

  “Are you singing?” Ruth asked in a whisper.

  “Yes, yes,” I said, slamming the hymn book.

  She raised her brows and squinted. “Well, open the book then.” A smile pinched at her lips, suppressed back by the situation.

  Ruth continued to sing.

  I peeked at the letter again.

  I loved you.

  I failed you.

  As a wife, I tried to be strong.

  I wish I’d been a better wife.

  Her eulogy? My teeth clenched at my awful curiosity.

  Charlie yapped. He jumped from my lap and skirted down the aisle, making a beeline for the exit.

  I dropped the pamphlet and letter, grabbing my bag and hurrying after him.

  Most people paused to watch, their heated eyes directly on me as I tried to stay low, hurrying out into the foyer.

  “Charlie?” I called out in a hushed voice.