Authors: Frances Evesham
Tags: #Short cosy murder mystery
Libby stopped walking. “But, you must have known she wasn’t sleeping with Guy.”
“What? Of course, she was. She didn’t deny it.”
“Max, he’s gay. I told you, he’s living with Alvin. They’re a couple.”
“You’re kidding.” He scratched his head. “Guy? Who’d have thought it? Are you sure?”
She nodded. He gave a crack of laughter. “More fool me. Well, Susie and I didn’t get back together.” He stopped, frowning, as though thinking hard. He murmured, “Not Guy? Then who?” He shrugged. “Well, the band played at Glastonbury, Mickey came along, whisked her off to the States and married her.”
Libby’s head was spinning. “Can we sit down for a bit?”
They perched on a couple of the stones that speckled the hillside, and Libby’s heart rate slowed to something more normal as she gazed out across a patchwork of fields. Rooks swooped, cawing, high above. The wind blew Max’s hair over his eyes and he shoved it back with an impatient hand.
Of course, Max still had a soft spot for Susie, his first love. It was touching, really. Those teenage years, when life was so intense. That must have been around the time Libby met Trevor. She shook the thought away and spoke lightly. “Well, that’s quite a story. I guess we all have stuff in our past. Anyway, did you see Susie again after she left the country?”
“No. I was too proud. I wasn’t going to chase after her. I wish I had. Not to get back together again, just to keep an eye on her. She could have used some old friends, I think.”
“My mother used to say, ‘If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.’ Come on, I’ll race you to the top.”
Max overtook Libby easily. She stood and watched as he climbed on, towards the summit. What were those motives he’d mentioned? Money, jealousy, revenge, sex. Max could have nursed his anger at Susie all these years, and seized the opportunity for revenge when she came back.
He turned to wait for Libby, and she remembered he’d been gone when Mrs Thomson was killed. Relief left her legs shaky. She closed her eyes for a moment. She’d been in danger of letting imagination run away with her. She put on a spurt of speed and caught up with him.
Bear reached the summit first. He rolled in a patch of hazy sunshine. Max reached back to pull Libby, panting, up the last few yards. She groaned. “I need to get into shape.”
“You look good enough to me.” She blinked, surprised, and a little warm glow ignited inside.
He was still talking. “I’ve been thinking about Mickey.”
The autumn sun warmed Libby’s face as she leaned her back against the jutting rock. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“Mickey. You were right. I’d crossed him off the list of suspects. His alibi’s pretty unshakeable, it’s true, but Susie put a lot of money away in the bank for Annie Rose. If he knew about that, it would be a big motive, like you said. A man like him wouldn’t need to come over and murder her himself. He’d outsource it.”
It was probably as close as Max ever came to an apology. “He probably knows plenty of criminals. Even if he didn’t know any English hitmen, they could come across from the US.”
The sun went behind a cloud and Libby shivered. “You’ve been asking Mickey questions. He’ll know you suspect him.”
“But he doesn’t know you found out about the missing divorce. Who does?”
“Well, James Sutcliffe showed me a letter she’d sent. They kept in touch, you know. I didn’t tell anyone else. Or did I? I wish I could remember…”
“Take it easy. It’ll come back to you if you don’t think too hard. We need to keep it as quiet as we can. If Mickey knew Susie was in the UK, he must have had people watching her. They may still be around. We don’t want them to know what we suspect.”
She grabbed his arm. “Max, I told Mandy.”
He groaned. “Then it will be all over town. Libby, take care. Look what happened to Mrs Thomson. I’ll leave Bear with you for a while. He’ll look after you. Keep your eyes open and don’t go out alone, especially at night.”
Diary
A weak autumn sun shone above Exham next morning. Cold dread had haunted Libby after the conversation with Max, but it evaporated with the night. Of course, she was in no danger. They’d been over-dramatising.
She hummed as she showered and dressed. She drove Mandy and Elaine to the station, on the first leg of their journey to Bristol, waving as they crossed the bridge. Mandy planned to stay, settling her mother in with her aunt, before returning in a day or so. “I’ll try to get Mum to talk to the police.” Mandy had a determined glint in her eye.
Libby planned to take Bear back to Max. She’d kept him here for one last night, but there was no space in her tiny house for such an enormous animal. He needed to run free on Max’s extensive grounds. “Make the most of it,” she told Fuzzy. She gathered up the day’s post from the mat. “We’re both going to miss that dog.”
She flipped through the handful of letters: a catalogue, two flyers and something official from Trevor’s solicitor. More on the slow progress of probate, presumably. It seemed to take forever, even though he’d left everything to Libby.
She ripped the letter open.
Dear Mrs Forest…
She sank on to the bottom stair, deaf to the racket Fuzzy and Bear made, chasing one another round the house. The letter shook in her hand. Nausea gripped her stomach.
She read the words again, hoping she’d misunderstood.
We regret to inform you…
The solicitor used careful, legal language, but the meaning was clear. There was no money. Trevor had spent every penny, and more. He’d had accounts in places Libby had never dreamed about, all with overdrafts and loans. The solicitor had tracked them all down, paid back as many as possible and set out the account for Libby to see.
Trevor’s debts far exceeded the total of the estate. Libby was broke. What’s more, she owed several thousand pounds to Trevor’s creditors. Shaky, she heaved her body up. A headache tightened its grip on both temples. She threw the letter on the kitchen counter, mechanically spooned instant coffee into a mug, searched for aspirin and wondered what in the world she was going to do.
It was already late. She had to go to work. She couldn’t afford to lose the job: in fact, she’d have to ask Frank for more hours. She brushed her hair and found a coat. Released from paralysis, her mind buzzed. The business course would have to wait. Thank heaven, she’d sold the London house. It had been in both names. Trevor had slipped up, there. This house had been much cheaper, so Libby had some funds in her bank account, but not many. Would they be enough?
The advance from the book publisher was tiny. It wouldn’t keep her for long. She’d better finish the work. Susie’s death had taken over Libby’s life, this past week. She’d become obsessed with Susie, Mrs Thomson and Max. She needed to sort out her life.
The morning at the bakery passed in a fog. Business had returned to normal; the excitement over Susie’s death little more than a nine-day wonder. Libby could hardly talk, for the knot in her stomach. She had no clear idea, afterwards, who she’d spoken to or what she’d said. She’d ask Frank about extra work tomorrow. She’d burst into tears if she tried to broach the subject today.
She left as soon as her shift ended and drove home, where Bear and Fuzzy snored, curled together in a bundle of fur, in Bear’s apple crate. Libby started the computer. She’d experimented enough with recipes. It was time to write them up. She worked for two hours, hardly glancing away from the keyboard, except to check her notes.
Finally, she stretched. Her shoulders ached and a lump of cement seemed to have settled in her stomach. She couldn’t eat, even though she’d had no lunch. She’d suck a mint: that might help. She pulled out the drawer where she kept a supply.
Mrs Thomson’s papers lay on top of the tin. Not now. Libby slammed the drawer shut. There was no time to think about Mrs Thomson. She had a living to earn. She’d leave the police and Max to find out what happened to Susie and the old lady.
She leaned both elbows on the desk, hardly noticing as the cursor winked. It was no good. She couldn’t concentrate on the book anymore. A surge of guilt had brought on a cold sweat. She’d stolen Mrs Thomson’s papers, hiding clues from the police. She ought to hand them over.
Libby groaned. She couldn’t do it. The police would stuff the papers in a file and forget them, but someone drowned Susie and pushed Mrs Thomson downstairs, and they thought they’d got away with it. Libby meant to prove they were wrong.
She cleared a space on the desk, lifted the heap of papers and books from the drawer, and laid everything in a neat pile. She set the photograph album aside, flipped open a blue, hardback book and ran a finger down one line after another of small, crabbed handwriting. Each page was dated, like a diary. Libby chose a page at random.
Monday 15 March
2.30pm Judy Roach took her three boys down to the beach. They walked all the way to the lighthouse. Philip had a new, red bucket, and made sandcastles, but his older brothers kicked them down.
7pm Five girls were running wild on the beach this evening. They collected driftwood and tried to light a bonfire but the wood was wet
.
Do their parents know what they’re up to?
So far, so dull. An everyday story of a sleepy seaside town after the summer visitors had left.
Wait.
A sudden brainwave set Libby’s pulse racing. She turned to the back of the book, fingers fumbling. What if Mrs Thomson saw what happened on the day Susie died? Maybe she’d recorded it here, in the dairy.
Libby checked the dates on the final pages. The notes stopped the day before Susie’s death. Disappointment kicked in. Libby tossed the book on the desk and trailed down to make tea, narrowly escaping a fall as Fuzzy appeared in front of her, from nowhere. “Hello. You’re friendly, today. Bear’s having a good effect on you.”
She picked the cat up to stroke the soft fur. “If you’ve been wondering what’s going on, Fuzz, you’re not the only one.” Bear snored in the apple crate, twitching, dreaming of bones, or chasing rabbits. With a sudden wail, Fuzzy leaped from Libby’s arms and ran up the stairs, into the study, onto the desk.
“Watch out.” Libby grabbed the cat’s tail as papers slithered across the surface, on to the floor. Fuzzy settled on the shambles and purred. “Oh, they smell of Bear, do they? Is that what you’re telling me? Well, I’ll be finished with them, soon. There aren’t any clues there, after all.”
Libby retrieved sheets of paper from the floor and tapped them into a neat pile. She glanced at the bundle in her hands. Just a spiral-bound notepad and a few clean, detached sheets. She flicked through the pad. It was blank. She set it aside, turning to one of the loose pages. The light from the computer monitor reflected back from the paper. Libby squinted. She could see indentations―the kind left by pressure from a pen.
She flipped through the pile, a faint spark of hope flickering, only to die a moment later. There was no sign of the top sheet. Frustrated, Libby grabbed the indented page and held it up to the light. Was that an S? She peered more closely. Yes, and those marks were W and E. Try as she might, though, Libby failed to make out any full words.
The doorbell rang. Annoyed, she weighed down loose pages with the tin of mints, and scooped up the cat. Max leaned on the doorstep.
Rubbish
“I came to say you should hang on to Bear, until this business is over. He’ll keep you safe.”
Libby, not listening, grabbed Max’s arm and tugged him inside the house. “Never mind that, now. Follow me.” She led him upstairs, protesting. “Look. Can you see?”
She thrust the blue notebook under Max’s nose. He squinted. “Not really.”
“These are Mrs Thomson’s notes. She watched from the window, writing about everything she saw, then transcribed everything into her diary.”
Understanding lit Max’s eyes as he read the short entries. “These are from the week before Susie died.” He flipped to the end. “Oh―”
“I know. The last day’s missing. It’s not there―” Excitement made Libby babble. She took a breath. “At first, I thought Mrs Thomson hadn’t been watching the beach that day, but then I saw these marks. The top page has gone, but you can make out some of the letters, where she pressed down.”
“Why would the top sheet be missing?”
Libby drew a sharp breath. “Oh. Do you think the – the killer took them?”
Max’s eyes narrowed. “You could be right. We have to know what she wrote. The police can read it: they have specialist equipment. We’ll take all this to Joe.” He waved a hand at the papers.
“Oh.” It was an anti-climax. Libby murmured, “Can’t we try to understand it ourselves?”
Max laughed. “You’re not a fan of the police, I take it. Well, since they’re convinced her death was an accident, I don’t suppose they’ll be in any hurry to look at her notes. How did you get these, by the way?”
Libby’s face burned. “I suppose I stole them from Mrs Thomson’s house.”
“Did you, indeed.” Max twinkled. “Well, before we confess to my son, who’ll make a song and dance about it, let’s see what we can find out.” Taking a lead pencil from the pot on Libby’s desk, Max rubbed lightly over the surface of the paper. The indentations stood out clearly against the dark background. “You still can’t see all the letters, but there should be enough to tell us if it’s useful.”