Murder at the Bridge: An Exham on Sea Cosy Murder Mystery (Exham on Sea Mysteries Book 5)

by Frances Evesham

  He rose, his chair scraping awkwardly on the laminated floor, and began to stack dishes in the dishwasher. "Now, I'm afraid I have to get away and finish preparations for old Mrs Banks. Come and see me again soon, won't you? I'd love to hear about your adventures as our local sleuth."

  Sultana cake

  Libby spent the drive back to Exham thinking about the rector's words. No one yet knew if Liam was the victim of a murderer, or an accident. There was no evidence of foul play, but Libby was learning to trust her instincts. While the police checked for giveaway fibres from clothes, and tested blood samples, Libby kept wondering who might want Liam dead, and why.

  So far, he seemed to be an ordinary, hard-working farm hand with no family and no obvious girlfriend. There had been no sign of a 'plus one' at the wedding. No one gained from his death.

  What about hatred? "Max, what was it the rector said about Tim and Liam?"

  "'Tim resented the way his father relied on Liam.' That's what I remember." Max chuckled. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Maybe Tim hated Liam more than others realised. He'd even walked away from the family business out of jealousy."

  Libby groaned. "And that business with the ring at the wedding. Tim could easily have set that up to incriminate Liam. Then, as that turned out to be a damp squib, he might have caused the accident."

  "Wait a moment. Let's not get too far ahead. How could Tim arrange Liam's death?"

  "In any number of ways." Libby counted ideas on her fingers. "Brake failure or tyre pressure, or some other damage to the tractor…"

  "The police would notice that…"

  "Poison?"

  "Some unnoticeable poison from the Amazon rain forest? Come on, Libby, how likely is that."

  She shrugged. He wasn't taking her seriously. "There are other untraceable poisons, you know." She let the silence hang a moment. "Anyway, my point is, Tim is definitely a suspect."

  "I'll give you that," Max's hands gripped the wheel firmly, "but we need to keep open minds. We don't know of any other motive, yet. Let's keep looking. Meanwhile, is this afternoon the first of Shipley's retraining classes? Are you willing to take him? I know I'm his official owner, but he's your dog, really."

  He sounded distant. Libby shifted in her seat. If it wasn't her imagination, a rift was growing between them. Max had been different this morning; unusually polite and thoughtful, letting Libby do most of the talking. Libby missed the robust teasing she'd grown used to hearing.

  His attitude to Shipley had changed, too. Perhaps he was mentally sorting things into piles: sorting out which were his possessions and which belonged to Libby. Her fingers tightened on the seat belt. Those were not thought processes of someone contemplating marriage. Maybe Max was having second thoughts.

  Libby stuck her jaw out. She wasn't going to lay herself open to rejection. If Max was losing interest in her, it was a good thing they'd never made any real commitment. They could carry on as business partners and Shipley could live with Libby.

  She blinked hard and took a deep breath, forcing herself to concentrate on events in the Exmoor villages. She had a bad feeling about the people she'd met recently. Instinct again? Well, this time she wouldn't tell Max. She was perfectly capable of visiting the Papadopoulos couple alone. Shipley would protect her.

  ***

  Shipley's snores reverberated in Libby's ears on the drive back to Exmoor. The hour-long obedience training had exhausted the poor animal, and he wasn't the only one. Libby's head spun from the effort of remembering the commands. It wasn't just the words that mattered, she'd learned. It was all about tone of voice and gesture. "We've both been back to school this afternoon, Shipley."

  Shipley paused on his way into the Citroen, sniffing round the boot of the car. Inside, safe in a tin wrapped in layers of cardboard was a cake Libby had picked up from home. She had a plan to gain entry to the Papadopoulos house, and the cake was an important element. Who could resist sultana cake? "You can smell it, can't you?"

  The dog's ability was amazing. No wonder the ex-policeman who ran the session was impressed. "That dog would have made a brilliant drug sniffer," he'd said.

  Tanya had laughed. "Or mortuary dog. Isn't that what they call them? Dogs that can pick out a dead body from miles away?" She grinned at Libby. "You could do with one of those in your line of work, Libby."

  "I'm hoping it won't be necessary for a while. Too many deaths have happened in the area already."

  The dog slept in the back of the car while Libby enjoyed a little peace and quiet. As she passed the pub in the next village, she waved at the barmaid rearranging chairs in the sunshine, but her mood slipped as she drew nearer to Upper Compton.

  Shipley woke, looked out of the window, lost interest, and scratched the back seat, as though trying to dig through to the boot of the car. Libby, suddenly nervous, wished she'd left the cake at home. The excuse she'd dreamed up for her visit seemed wafer-thin. Well, it was too late now. She'd have to go through with it.

  Her skin tingled as she drew up on the gravel outside the Papadopoulos's house. Solidly built, it boasted a central front door and symmetrical windows that gazed out like blank eyes. Libby retrieved the cake and rehearsed the story she'd planned during the drive. It sounded ridiculous, now, but it was too late to turn back. The occupants must have heard her arrival.

  Trying to look more confident than she felt, she strode up the path leading between overgrown beach hedges to the front door, Shipley following close at heel, just as he'd been taught today. Usually, he'd bound ahead, barking wildly and running rings around Libby. This dog training business had already made a difference.

  At the front door, Libby swallowed hard and leaned on the bell push, listening to the distant jangle echo through the house. She pasted a warm smile on her face as Olivia Papadopoulos opened the door and spoke as cheerily as possible. "Hello. I don't know if you remember me."

  The woman's eyebrows twitched and a tight smile dissected her face. "Of course I remember you, Mrs Forest."

  Libby moistened her lips, straightened her shoulders, and embarked on her story. "I know you're friendly with Belinda at the farm. You see, I made this cake for her. It's meant to be a surprise, but when I took it to the house just now there was no one there. I don't want to transport it all the way back to Exham, and I remembered the quiz this evening in St Mary's church hall. Mike had mentioned it to me, and the rector said everyone attended, so I thought I'd take a chance you were going and ask if I could possibly leave the cake with you, to pass on to Belinda tonight."

  She came to a sudden halt. The gabbled story sounded hopelessly contrived.

  "Then you'd better come in." Mrs Papadopoulos smiled. "Why, I'd be delighted to pass on your cake. Belinda's told me how brilliantly you cook. Mind you," she led Libby down a long, gloomy corridor, turning left into a conservatory, "I might be tempted to eat it myself. What kind of cake is it?"

  This was going better than Libby had dreamed. The woman was so welcoming she'd even waved Shipley into the house behind Libby. Perhaps Libby had been too quick to judge. Just because her husband was weird, with strange, hippie clothes and cold eyes, it didn't mean Olivia was scary. Libby had been imagining things, at the farm. Mike and Xavier had business to discuss, that was why they'd wanted Libby gone. She relaxed, cheered by her internal pep-talk. "Sultana."

  "Oh my. My favourite." The woman heaved a loud sigh. "Never mind, I'll wait until the quiz. Perhaps Belinda will share."

  The woman seemed inclined to chat. Libby gestured towards the woodland visible through the conservatory glass. "What a wonderful setting for your house."

  "Yes, we're very lucky. It's just the place for our little meetings."

  "Meetings?"

  Olivia's eyebrow twitched. "Just a few friends, you know. We get together from time to time to share memories."

  In the distance, music played. Olivia wore an odd expression. "That's my husband. We have a grand piano in the music room."

  "How wonderful," Li
bby heard herself gush. "I recognise the music. Rachmaninov, isn't it?"

  Olivia's smile grew broader. "So, you're a musician, Mrs Forest?"

  "Not really…"

  "Come, he won't mind us listening. This way."

  Libby followed the woman up the curved staircase. It led in a perfect spiral to an upstairs landing. Mrs Papadopoulos took Libby's arm. "Come in. He'll be so pleased to play for you."

  Her fingers were tight against Libby's flesh. "I need to go," Libby said, suddenly nervous. She stepped aside, shaking off the woman's fingers.

  "Nonsense, my dear, you can spare a minute or two to enjoy the music." Olivia pushed open the heavy door to reveal her husband, half-hidden by a beautifully polished grand piano. "Look dear," she said. "Remember Mrs Forest? She's enjoying your music."

  Xavier Papadopoulos stopped, hands resting motionless above the keys, and smiled at Libby. "I knew we would be seeing more of you, Mrs Forest. I'm never mistaken about people. Now, what can we do for you?"

  "I was just-er-bringing a cake. For Belinda Carmichael. She's not at home." Libby's voice sounded thin in the large room. She spoke louder. "I hope you don't mind my dog being in here. He's rather excitable."

  Giving the lie to her words, Shipley remained motionless, nose in the air as if he smelled something no human could detect.

  Olivia Papadopoulos laughed. "Dogs always behave beautifully around my husband. He has a gift for animals, you know. One of many."

  Libby forced a smile. "Well, the music was certainly beautiful, but I need to be getting back now."

  Olivia Papadopoulos took her arm again. Once more, the bony fingers gripped just a fraction too tightly. "It's been such a pleasure to have you with us. If you're free this evening, why not come to our quiz too, and give Belinda her cake in person. We could use another team member. Liam Weston was in our team, poor boy, and we miss him dreadfully. Such a sad death."

  Libby's rapid increase in heart rate warned her to refuse the invitation. This pair gave her the creeps. She wanted to get out of the house, drive away, and never come back, but the possibility of finding out more about Liam was too good to turn down. That was, after all, why she'd trekked out to Exmoor in the first place.

  At least, she'd be able to spend a minute or two alone with Belinda. The two women hadn't met since the wedding, and Belinda seemed never to answer a phone. The quiz night might be Libby's best opportunity to get to the bottom of Belinda's problem.

  ***

  Libby hoped to spend a few moments alone with Belinda before the evening's entertainment began, but Mike was already seated with the Papadopoulos couple and, to Libby's dismay, there was no sign of his wife. Olivia rose and approached Libby. "Such a shame." She sounded breathless. "Belinda came home from her shopping trip today, with a dreadful cold, so Mike sent her to bed. Such good luck you've joined us. Mike can take your cake home later."

  Libby couldn't care less about the wretched cake. She wanted to see Belinda. Hadn't the woman been on a shopping trip when Libby visited the farm? Did the woman do nothing but shop?

  Thinking hard, Libby subsided into her seat at a table spread with sheets of paper and a pile of pens. She nibbled squares of cheese. Perhaps Belinda regretted mentioning her money worries when they spoke at the wedding. She'd been avoiding Libby ever since.

  The rector scurried round, settling people in their seats, sorting lone arrivals into teams, and pouring wine. There were empty chairs at Libby's table, but when someone from the next table claimed them, Xavier Papadopoulos shook his head. "So sorry, we're waiting for the rest of our team."

  Libby watched the door. At the last moment, just as the rector tapped a spoon against a glass to call for quiet, the latecomers arrived. As Max entered, Kate Stephenson leaning on his arm, Libby's breath stuck in her throat. "What are you doing here?" she hissed. "You might have told me."

  "You didn't tell me you were coming, either."

  Libby bit back angry words. He was right. Under cover of the rector's voice, as he gave instructions for the quiz, she muttered, "OK. But why are you here?"

  "Kate invited me. Remember? We knew each other years ago." Libby had carried Kate's message herself. "Give my regards to Max," Kate had said, pearly teeth gleaming.

  There was no time for further talk, for the quiz had begun. As the evening progressed, Libby grew hotter and more annoyed, while Max spent the evening ignoring her, leaning much too close to Kate Stephenson. The alternative therapist knew almost all the answers, from the names of obscure capital cities to the top forty pop tunes of the 1980s.

  For some reason, Libby could hardly remember her own name, never mind the names of five chemical elements beginning with vowels. The more she tried to think, the less she remembered. She thought she might explode when she caught sight of Xavier Papadopoulos watching her, a patronising smile across his face, as she gave yet another wrong answer to a geography question. How was she supposed to know the names of land-locked African countries, anyway?

  The final straw came at the end of the evening. Libby's team came second, but Kate won a prize for the best individual performance.

  Croissants

  Libby was first to arrive at the bakery next morning, determined to put Belinda and the Papadopoulos couple out of her mind. She wished she could so easily forget the way Max had looked at Kate. As she unlocked the shop, switched on the oven and mixed flour with yeast and water, her head swam with images of the alternative therapist, all smiles, head close to Max's as they argued whether or not Botswana was on the coast of Africa. Libby took out her anger on a mound of dough.

  The front-door bell jangled and Mandy burst into the shop. "Have you seen it?"

  "Seen what?" Libby thumped harder.

  "They've started work on the new shop. You know, where Leather Heaven used to be? Guess who's bought it?" The small, independent shoe shop had been forced out of business during the recession and the premises had passed through several pairs of hands since.

  An invisible cloud of doom seemed to gather over Libby's head. "Terence Marchant?"

  Mandy nodded. "I just saw Peter. He couldn't wait to give me the news. Smug little…" With a show of huge self-control, she fell silent.

  "Quite." Libby squeezed dough between her fingers. "I suppose we knew it would happen sometime." Viciously, she chopped the dough into equal portions and tossed each into an oiled metal bowl.

  "What can we do? If Frank's bakery closes, I'll be out of work and I won't get a chance to finish my apprenticeship." Mandy was breathing hard.

  Libby forced a smile. "Don't worry. We have plenty of outlets for the chocolates, thanks mainly to your business flair, so we'll keep going even if the worst happens. Poor Frank, though. The new shop's likely to dent his profits, and he hasn't seemed really well since that business with the poisoned cyclists."

  Mandy said, "That's an idea. I suppose poisoning the competition's out of the question?"

  Before Libby could answer, the morning's first customers arrived, full of gossip about the new shop. "I hear they'll be serving those French crossings," old Mrs Blandish announced, handing over a pile of coppers in payment for her weekly order of a small split tin and half a dozen currant buns.

  "Croissants?" Mandy suggested.

  The old lady shrugged. "Some such. Can't get my tongue round these foreign words." She winked at Libby. "You'd better check that money. Never was much good at sums," she said, as she did every time.

  Libby counted coins into the till, sucking in her cheeks to keep her face straight. "Perfect as always." She avoided Mandy's eye. Like many of the town's oldest citizens, widowed Mrs Blandish rarely left Exham on Sea except for an annual trip to Birmingham to stay with her daughter. A farmer's wife all her married life, she'd certainly never had leisure to cross the Channel for a taste of real French croissants. Perhaps Terence Marchant's raid on Frank's customers would fail, as they stuck to their old ways.

  ***

  Later that day, Libby's kitchen rang with the noise
of chocolate grinders and food processors. She emptied smooth, tempered chocolate into piping bags and began to fill paper cases. Mandy sat on the other side of the room, fingers flying over a computer keyboard as she recorded weights, volumes, and notes about the ingredients.

  "I gave this batch an extra two minutes," Libby called. "I think perhaps the beans were less ripe than the last ones. Fingers crossed I got it right."

  Mandy tapped into the machine. "Me too, Mrs F. That was one expensive batch."

  "It puts the unit price up quite a bit," Libby admitted, "but with luck, it'll improve the quality."

  "Enough for us to call it a premier range?"

  Libby looked up again, surprised. "Good idea. I hadn't thought of that." She paused, impatient to reveal the surprise she had in store for her apprentice. "Mandy, I've got something for you." She peeled off her gloves, opened a drawer, and took out a set of keys, dangling them in front of Mandy. "Here."

  Mandy leapt to her feet. "You mean…"

  "Don't get too excited. It's just an old banger, but it should get you around the countryside."

  Mandy grabbed the keys, and dashed outside. "Where is it?"

  Libby giggled. "It's hidden round the corner. I wanted it to be a surprise."

  She followed Mandy down the street. "There." She pointed at a bright yellow car. "It's five years old, but it's only done 20,000 miles. Go on, try it out. It belongs to the business, officially, but you can hang onto it."

  Mandy, breathless with excitement, drove away with a flourish. The house seemed suddenly quiet. Libby piled used bowls in the dishwasher, suddenly lonely. There was plenty more work to do, but she'd lost her enthusiasm.

  She trudged upstairs to the bathroom, where the airing cupboard door was ajar. A pair of green eyes gleamed in the depths of the cupboard. Libby addressed her marmalade cat. "At least you're still here with me, Fuzzy." The cat opened her eyes, glanced at her mistress, and turned her back. Libby sighed. "You're such good company."