Authors: Frances Evesham
Tags: #Short cozy murder mystery
She paused to blow her nose. Libby asked, “Who found him?”
“Oh, didn’t I say?” Angela counted them off on her fingers. “Apart from Geoff and myself, there was Steve’s father, Thomas, his mother, Grace, and Simon. We called ourselves the Circle of Fifths. They were all very kind to me. I don’t know how I’d have survived without them. That’s one of the things about music. It brings people together. The members of the quintet were my closest friends.” Her eyes filled. “Not many of us left, now. Steve’s father died last year, from cancer. Grace and I both gave up performing regularly, after Geoff died.”
“So, Steve and Alice were the newest members of the quintet.”
“That’s right. Two very talented young people.”
Libby murmured, “Have you known Alice long?”
“Steve met her at Wells. They’re very competitive. Alice is really rather brilliant, at her other studies as well as music. She’s off to Cambridge, this year.” Libby breathed a small sigh of relief on Mandy’s behalf. Her rival would soon be leaving the scene.
Angela rose and stretched. “Look at the time. I must have been here ages. And I hardly talked about Steve at all.” She looked around for her scarf. “There is something I wanted to mention, though. When we talked about the manuscript, before, I said Geoff sprained his wrist while he was writing it. Do you remember?”
Libby thought back. “The scruffy writing?”
“That’s right. Then later, I thought about it, and realised it was the wrong year.”
“The wrong year? How do you mean?”
“He’d sprained his wrist the year before.”
“And it had healed by then?”
“It must have, if he was playing the clarinet again, mustn’t it? He was playing in the concert. I suppose he was just tired, and that’s why his writing was so careless. He often took on too much. Didn’t know how to refuse work.”
Angela tied the silk scarf round her neck. “Anyway, I won’t grumble, because he left me very well off.”
Half way down the path, she turned back. “By the way, Marina rang me to remind me it’s the spring show tomorrow. Are you going?”
Libby had completely forgotten. “Good job you reminded me. Marina told me about it, and I’ve taken on a stall.”
Biscuits
A flicker of mixed excitement and terror woke Libby. Today was the spring show. It was a grand affair, apparently, the first she’d ever attended, with a wealth of competitions and exhibitions in the programme. The ploughing competition would take up three nearby fields, the year’s best lambs would be on show in one ring, and the American classic car rally would cover half the rest of the show ground.
It was also Shipley’s big day. The dog show was planned for the afternoon. No doubt Marina had risen early to shampoo the springer spaniel. Libby wasn’t going to miss Marina’s show-down with Mrs Wellow.
She’d spent almost the whole night preparing for her stall. The health and safety inspector had visited late yesterday, peered through wire-rimmed glasses into every inch of the kitchen, pursed his lips at the array of separate sinks and fridges, and, reluctant, as though it pained him, let Libby have the prized certificate. She could offer her wares for sale. Today she’d be letting children ice biscuits, hoping their parents would buy a copy of
Baking at the Beach
and maybe a bag of hand-crafted chocolates.
She drew back the curtains to find rain blowing horizontally from a uniform grey sky. Not a single inch of blue sky broke the monotony. Crazy, holding an outdoor show so early in the year. Still, her granny had always said, “Rain before seven, fine before eleven.” Libby dug out her warmest waterproof jacket and a new pair of well-lined wellies. At least her stall was in a tent.
She loaded the car with tins full of product, boxes so weighed down with books she could hardly lift them, and piles of giveaway bookmarks. The Citroen coughed its way to the show site.
After three trips back and forth to the car, Libby spread clean white sheeting over her allotted table and unpacked her wares. “Morning, Mrs F.” Alan Jenkins appeared at the door of the tent, almost unrecognisable in a clean waxed jacket and some kind of wide-brimmed hat. “How’s the car?”
“Overworked, I’m afraid.”
“You been driving her hard, then?”
“Just up the motorway to Leeds, but I don’t like the noise in the engine.”
He sucked his teeth. “What did I tell you? She needs gentle treatment. She’s a lady, that one.”
Bear appeared from nowhere, reared up, planted his paws on Libby’s shoulders, and licked her face. She scratched the rough fur on top of the animal’s head. Max, close behind, hauled the animal down, clipping on a lead. Libby glared. “Keep Bear away from the food on the stall, won’t you?” She winced. She’d meant to build bridges with Max and be businesslike, but she sounded plain bad-tempered.
“I heard you’d be here.” He smiled, but the glint in his eye told Libby he was annoyed.
She flashed a synthetic smile. “Sorry, I’ve got to set up.” She bent down behind the table, unloading books. Alan, with surprising tact, had melted away.
Max joined her. “I’m sorry I took you by surprise over Leeds. Won’t you forgive me? Look, the sun’s coming out.”
Reluctant, she straightened up to look through the entrance to the tent. A tiny patch of sky had turned a slightly paler shade of grey. “Call that sun?”
“You wait. It’s already drying up. Look, I’ll even buy one of your books.”
That was too much. Imagining Max, who ate takeaways or visited restaurants for his meals, attempting to bake a cake, Libby felt the corners of her mouth twitch. She offered an olive branch. “Do you think I dare sell chocolates, after what happened? I’ve got a hygiene certificate.”
“Of course. If you don’t, people will think there’s something wrong with them. You know you didn’t poison anyone. It’s the bakery that’s in trouble, not you.” Libby straightened up. Her trestle table, neatly covered in white sheeting, decorated with red-ribboned, cellophane bags of chocolates in wicker baskets, was inviting.
The day wore on into an afternoon of watery sun. Mandy arrived, almost back to her old self after nearly twelve hours of sleep, and took over the stall for the afternoon. She settled down in a huddle of children and biscuits, and stuck her tongue out. “Like my new stud?”
The last few drops of rain had dried up as Libby wandered outside, and the dog show was under way on the other side of the park. Libby caught sight of Marina leading Shipley into the ring. Was that Mrs Wellow on a collision course with her rival? It was too good to miss.
“Look out!” Something hit Libby hard in the chest and she fell, landing heavily on her back, every ounce of breath squeezed out of her body. Bear barked, paws on her chest, as with a flash of gleaming chrome, a car whizzed past, inches away. She scrambled to get to her feet, gasping.
A hand on her arm steadied her. “Idiot. Can’t you look where you’re going?” Bear whined, mouth open, tongue lolling.
Libby shuddered. “I think Bear just saved my life. Where did that car come from?”
It juddered to a halt, yards away, and Chesterton Wendlebury stepped out. “You almost went under my wheels, dear lady. Are you all right?”
Libby cringed. “That was stupid of me. Sorry. I’m perfectly OK. You didn’t touch me.”
A crowd was collecting. Max still held her arm. “I think you need a stiff drink.” She nodded. Anything to get away from all those eyes.
Wendlebury slapped Max on the back. “Good idea, good idea. I’ll park the old lady and join you.”
A half pint of locally-brewed beer in hand, Libby found a space on a straw bale in the refreshment tent. Bear lay at her feet. She took a long gulp, glad of the warm, malty taste at the back of her throat. “I feel a fool.”
Max laughed. “I’m surprised we don’t have more accidents, here.”
“What kind of car was that, anyway?”
“A Mustang Convertible. Made around 1965. It’s one of Wendlebury’s collection; he’s got dozens of them. He takes them from one show to another. Alan’s here somewhere, with one of his.” He frowned into Libby’s face. “You’re sure you’re OK?”
Libby remembered the conversation she’d had with Alan, a few days ago. “Several people around here have old cars―what Alan calls classics―don’t they?
“Most of them are probably here today.”
“Did Kevin Batty have one?”
“Used to. He spent hours fiddling around with it, he and Vince. They were mates.” Libby said nothing. Her mind was too busy. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She wouldn’t tell Max, yet, about the idea she’d had. He kept things from her, and she could do the same.
Beer
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Max still looked worried.
Libby forced a smile. “Sorry. I’m just embarrassed at making such a fool of myself. I was on my way to watch Marina do battle with Mrs Wellow at the dog show, but I think I’d rather stay here for a while.”
Max’s leg felt warm and strangely comforting against Libby’s. He took a long draught of Butcombe Gold beer, taking a minute to roll it round his mouth. “Good idea. Listen, Libby, I wanted to apologise. I should have told you what I knew about Leeds. I’d no idea you’d go rushing up there in your old tin can. You could have been in real danger, you know. Don’t do anything like that again, will you?”
Libby swallowed. “If we’re still partners, Ramshore and Forest, we need to talk more. And we need to stop arguing and tell each other about ourselves. You know, personal things.”
Max leaned over to pat Bear. “I’m not good at sharing.”
“I’ve noticed. You’ve hardly told me anything.”
“What did you want to know? You can ask anything you like.”
“I don’t want to be nosy.” Max snorted. Libby tried to find the right words. “Look, I’ll tell you something about me, then you tell me something about you. Something personal. How about that?”
He nodded. “Sounds fair.”
“Well, you know my daughter came to stay?” Libby told him about the row with Ali, how devastated she felt when Ali told her she was leaving the country, and how she found the letter from Trevor. Tears started in Libby’s eyes. “I never really understood Ali. She was Trevor’s daughter, much more than mine, and now, I’m afraid I’ve lost her.”
Max took her hand. “None of us get parenting right, but I think you said just the right things to Ali. She wanted you to know about the house. That’s why she left the envelope where you were bound to find it.” Libby sniffed and blew her nose.
“And now, it’s my turn, isn’t it?” He drew a long breath. “While we’re talking about children, I suppose I need to tell you more about mine. I’m surprised no one in town’s given away my guilty secrets.” Libby waited. “I had a daughter, too. Ten years younger than Joe.”
He cleared his throat. “When Debbie and Joe were growing up, I was in banking. Living in London, working all the hours in the week, I hardly saw the kids, or Stella, my wife. I meant well, of course. I had good intentions, and we all know what happens to them.” He lifted a shoulder, looking suddenly unsure of himself.
“I thought I was doing the right thing, being a good husband. I made money. Plenty. We had a Hampstead house and a place in Italy, but I was never at home with the family. I didn’t have time for holidays, or helping the kids with homework, or going to meetings at the school.”
He emptied his pint glass. “It’s a common story. Nothing special. Stella didn’t need to work. She was bored, with nothing to do all day but go to lunch with her friends. I guess that’s where she started drinking.”
He balanced the empty beer glass on the hay. “I loved my kids, but I thought providing for them made me a good father. They had everything they wanted.” He laughed, but it sounded harsh. “Joe hardly wanted anything. He was on the way to being a scientist. He used to run experiments in the garage. Debbie, though, liked having things. Clothes, toys, ice-skates. When she was twelve, she wanted a pony, and like a fool I bought one. She kept it at the riding school.”
“After a while, she stopped riding the poor thing. It was getting fat. I came home one weekend, and the phone rang. It was the stables, to say they were worried about the animal.”
He shrugged. “I should have let Stella deal with it, but it was eleven in the morning and she was already well down her second gin and tonic. So, I became a hands-on dad and gave Debbie a good talking to.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I’d ever punished her before. I said we’d sell the horse, and sent her up to her room.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. “Here she is. She was a lovely girl. It was my fault she was spoiled.”
Libby felt sick. This was leading somewhere she didn’t want to go. She whispered. “What happened?”
“I bet you can guess. Debbie took no notice, slammed out of the house, caught the bus to the stables and took the horse out for a ride. On the road...”
Libby put a hand on his arm. “There was a crash?”
He nodded. “A lorry sped past, too close. Button, the horse, reared. Debbie fell off and hit her head. She wasn’t wearing a hard hat. She died.”
Max kept his eyes on the photo.“As you can imagine, the marriage didn’t last long. I had an affair, my wife found out. We divorced, Joe wanted to stay with Stella and I let him. I’m afraid I ran away from it all.”
Max glanced at Libby, then looked away, eyes bleak. “I left the job and came back to Exham, where I’d grown up. I did nothing for a while, but hit the bottle. It was Joe that saved me, oddly enough. One day, he arrived at the door, with a degree, a girlfriend and a job with the police, and gave me a piece of his mind.”
Libby could imagine. She glanced round, making sure no one could hear. “That’s when you joined MI6 or whatever it is?”
“That’s right. If Joe could make something of himself, so could I. But, it’s shaming to know your son’s a better person than you, and I’ve been hard on him. When he was poisoned, I thought I was going to lose him, too.”
No wonder Max had been short-tempered. Libby hung her head. If only she’d been less prickly, less worried about her own affairs, she’d have seen there was something seriously wrong. She opened her mouth, not sure what she was about to say.