Murder in the Development
Penelope Sotheby
~~~
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2017 Penelope Sotheby
First published in 2017 by Jonmac Limited.
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters and places, incidents are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
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Other Books By The Author
Murder at the Inn
Murder on the Village Green (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Murder in the Neighbourhood (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Murder on a Yacht (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Murder in the Village (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Murder in the Mail (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Murder in the Development (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Murder in the Hotel (A Daniel Swift Mystery)
Table Of Contents
Free Book
Other Books By The Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Murder in the Highlands – Chapter 1
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Chapter 1
The secateurs snipped at the branches of the sprawling rose bush. Diane’s gloved hand gripped the spiked wood as the secateurs bit through and she threw it down upon the growing pile of debris that she was forming on a wrinkled blue tarp. Her actions, while precise, were distracted as her mind wrestled with a thorny problem of its own.
“Maybe,” Diane said distractedly, her gloved finger adjusting her glasses unnecessarily as if focusing her vision would do the same for her mind, “maybe James was having an affair with his brother’s wife. Then Dean would have a motive for killing her!”
Her voice rose triumphantly for a moment before another branch got a snip and a frown descended, pushing her eyebrows behind the thick lenses of her glasses.
“No no no, that won’t do. James had been in Germany for two years. Otherwise he would have known about the stolen amulet. There’s no affair there unless he grew wings.”
The plot line of her book had taken a devilish turn when Albert had spotted a plot hole while giving her latest chapter a read through. It wasn’t so much a hole as a chasm, she had realized. Albert’s simple question about why the murder had happened had split the story open like a knife to the stomach.
Diane briefly inspected the rose bush and gave it a slight nod before moving on to a wayward Morning Glory. She shuffled through the dew-covered grass, the ankles of her trousers already soaked and hanging heavily around her feet. The air of the previous night had been chilly, an early taste of the winter that hovered in the near future, poised to step in when the heat of summer retired to other parts. The beauty of the blooms in the garden had drifted away with the sun, leaving the limbs of plants brown and fast becoming bare.
The delicate hum of Apple Mews drifted through the Sunday morning air, church bells having called to the faithful a couple of hours before. Few cars passed by, their rumble subdued as though respecting the inherent peace of a brisk Sunday morning in a small country village. No dogs barked, and children played quietly indoors while parents relaxed with their overstuffed newspapers. Puffy white clouds slid smoothly over the bright blue sky with no threat of rain or snow. They seemed to have somewhere else they needed to be and were content to pass unnoticed by the people below. Diane was so focused that all of this quiet beauty of the day passed her by without a second thought. Her first, second, and third thoughts were all far away in a room with the body of Pamela Smythe, whose husband, unbeknownst to the houseguests, had buried several grams of lead into her chest. Or had he? Albert had thrown it all into chaos. Diane was ready to scrap anything and everything to make her story work, but she did not know where to begin. She had a body and a weapon and a house full of guests with motives for murder, except for the one person she wanted to be the red herring: James.
Albert had stayed indoors to finish washing the breakfast dishes. He had always had a love-hate relationship with plants: he loved to look at them, and they hated him for touching them. His daughter had called him the “vegetarian grim reaper” after a disastrous two weeks one summer when she had left a robust rubber plant and some herbs in his care. He had come to terms with his supernatural abilities and Diane never asked him to help in the garden out of respect. But this morning, he knew that her mind was plagued with the issues he had given her, and a good savage pruning of the vegetation would help her think it all through.
He peered over the mountain of soap bubbles, for he enjoyed doing the dishes with more than a recommended infusion of detergent, and watched Diane pause again, the secateurs mid-bite. She seemed to be mouthing to herself while staring past the plant that was gripped mercilessly in her gloved hand. Albert smiled softly. He loved Diane’s thoughtfulness in all its forms, from her books to her plans for holidays. She could get lost for hours in an idea, and Albert had become used to entertaining himself during those periods, acting as a sounding board only when she required.
The serenity of his view contrasted with his MP3 player from which Little Richard was enthusiastically discussing the lifestyle of a Miss Molly. The player had been a gift from his daughter who made valiant efforts to keep her father current with technology, no matter how much he protested. Albert felt an odd attraction to the bawdy energetic music. His feet wanted to move, but he restrained himself having once been told that his dancing was dangerous for anyone or anything within leg-flailing distance. Physical dexterity was not a gift he had ever possessed, and he took efforts to minimize potential damage from a wildly waving arm or, more generally, limb.
Albert had paused in his attack upon an egg yolk that had decided to become fast friends with a breakfast plate. Little Richard was drifting into the distance, heading to the moment when a new artist would threaten Albert’s self-control. Except there was another sound taking its place, a light chirping of unfamiliar birdsong, and it was coming from the living room. It took him a moment before Albert realized that it was Diane’s phone calling for assistance.
Grabbing a towel that he had thrown carelessly over his shoulder while Bill Haley rocked around the clock, Albert dried his hands as he walked to the other room. The birds ceased calling as he stood beside a reclining chair and he scratched his thinning hair while scanning the room for a phone that seemed well hidden. A series of sharp tones gave him guidance, and he focused on the sofa where, after some flipping of cushions and delving of hands into the sides, he retrieved several assorted coins and Diane’s sturdy black phone. A small green light blinked, and he triggered the screen to life.
“Inspector Crothers?” he sai
d, returning his hand to head scratching, depositing several crumbs that had stuck in his fingernails onto his scalp. “On a Sunday? I should get Diane.”
Spinning in place, the slick soles of his slippers gliding over the heavy carpet, Albert turned to the back door without dislodging a large vase that came within millimetres of his swinging knuckles. He took it as a small victory, as a sign that his coordination was finally improving.
The dew soaked into the fabric of his slippers as soon as he stepped onto the grass. Diane’s pile of twigs and branches now stood two feet on each side. Diane had her back turned to the stack and Albert and seemed to be staring at a knot in the wood of a fence panel. She was muttering softly to herself, and occasionally a gloved hand waved gently against her side, an externalization of her inner discussion. Albert hesitated, not keen to interrupt what could be a breakthrough. He looked from the green light to Diane and back again. It could be urgent, he thought. Surely, a call from the Inspector is important enough.
“Diane?” Albert ventured quietly, partly hoping that she could not hear him.
As if his speaking had flipped a switch, Diane’s movements amplified and, with a slight pause to pull off a glove, she turned toward Albert, a glassy sheen slowly evaporating from over her eyes.
“Albert,” she said, as if a little surprised to see him standing there. “Still no luck, James just isn’t doing as I want him to. Probably that petulant streak he has.” She smiled softly as she talked about her character.
Albert had realized early on that when Diane wrote a character, the process seemed to be by mutual agreement between Diane and the character itself. The characters had a voice, a personality, and rather than Diane telling them their role, they imparted to her what they would prefer to do and moulding her story became a series of negotiations with these mental constructs. Sometimes, an agreement was hard to come by, the characters refusing any attempt by Diane to coax them along a particular path.
Proffering the phone, Albert said:
“Inspector Crothers called, my dear. I thought you would want to know.”
Diane took the phone and gazed at the lighted screen with a frown.
“He left a message. Let’s see what he has for me. Hopefully it’s not another psychic with vague knowledge that a sense of mischief was floating around in the ether.”
As Diane pushed the phone to her ear and looked over Albert’s shoulder to a point an infinite distance away, the doorbell chimed in the house. Albert made to speak, raising a finger toward Diane, but decided to just answer the door. His toes were getting cold within his dripping wet slippers, and he wanted to get inside and put on some warm socks.
The doorbell rang again as Albert kicked off the slippers before stepping onto the carpet of the hallway. The friction of the carpet on the soles of his feet provided welcome warmth and Albert shuffled them along the floor, savouring the tingle in his toes.
Rufus sat at the top of the stairs slowly licking his tongue out of his mouth as he looked with displeasure at the front door.
“Finally decided to join the waking world, have we?” questioned Albert with a grin.
Turning his displeasure upon Albert, the small dog huffed, licked a last time and turned back towards the bedroom. This visitor would not be feeling the wrath or welcome of Rufus today. The punishment for these people was the removal of his grace.
“Too much personality,” chuckled Albert.
A small flip of a key and Albert pried the door from its frame. The visitor, a young woman with straight blond hair, was walking slowly away from the house with her head bowed. Her thin frame was clad in a light brown jacket and skirt, and she scuffed her shining high heels on the concrete slabs as if she had never worn that type of shoe before.
“Err, Miss?” enquired Albert softly. He had a sense from her gait that a gentle touch was needed.
She stopped in her tracks as Albert spoke and, with a heavy sigh, turned toward him. Albert took a step over the threshold, concerned that her unsteady steps would see her take a tumble. She looked up at his movement, and he saw large almond eyes rimmed with a thick red and the deep dark smudge of tear-washed mascara. She sobbed and moved a petite handkerchief to her face where she dabbed at the shining tracks on her cheeks.
“Oh, you poor thing,” blurted Albert who took several steps towards her, heedless of the chill slabs against his bare feet. “You poor thing, let’s get you inside.”
He placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder, and the visitor curled into his body, her head upon his shoulder, sobs shaking through her. Albert patted her lightly upon the back and made comforting noises as he felt his shirt becoming damp.
“Monique?” said Diane from the doorway. “Come inside and let’s get you a cup of tea.”
Monique raised her head from Albert’s shoulder, smiling weakly as she looked up through long matted lashes.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me,” she sniffed as she straightened and wiped her handkerchief over her eyes. It came back darker, and Albert noted that his shirt had dark smudges within rings of beige where his wet white shirt was stuck to his shoulder.
Diane stepped back into the house, and Monique followed her inside, her steps steadier now, the clicks of the heels much more certain against the pathway. Albert followed behind, closing the door and made for the kitchen to put the kettle on, scuffing his feet as he went.
Monique took a seat on the sofa with her body hunched over her knees as Diane took a chair opposite, peeling off her other gardening glove and placing it neatly on the arm. She watched Monique without expression, trying to gauge who this strange woman was. She had noted the long face and large eyes that men found especially attractive. Her clothes were smart but not fancy, an effort to project seriousness when dealing with the police. Jewellery was modest, a single bright platinum band with a solitary diamond on her slender ring finger and a pair of simple diamond studs in her petite ears which flashed faintly when Monique pushed her hair back from her face.
“Monique Carstairs?” asked Diane.
“Yes,” said Monique while nodding her head in short, vigorous motions. “You’re Diane Dimbleby, I hope. Inspector Crothers told me to come and see you. He said you might be more help than he could be.”
Diane snorted gently, and a wry grin touched the edges of her mouth. Might be. Really, Inspector.
“You have found the correct house. The Inspector was kind enough to let me know you were coming my way. Why was he not able to help you himself?”
Monique looked up into Diane’s face, keeping her hands clenched on her knees.
“It’s my husband. He didn’t come home last night, and I’m terribly worried about him.”
Diane heard a tinge of a Wolverhampton accent buried deep in the r’s under a more sophisticated sounding voice.
“The Inspector told me that he did not come home last night.”
Monique swallowed heavily and answered with a nod. The angle of her head suggested pleading to Diane, though whether it was pleading for help to find her husband or a hope that Diane would not state the obvious was uncertain. That helped Diane with her next question, as she had found that a very useful guide to a person was to see them react to unpleasantness.
“And you don’t think he might have spent the night... elsewhere?” Diane deliberately left a pause to make sure that Monique fully understood the implication.
Monique’s eyes hardened, and the set of her mouth went from loose full lips to a thin strained line. Diane saw a flash of anger before Monique looked down at her hands.
“No,” said Monique brusquely. “These are exactly the same questions the police asked me. And my answer was the same. We’re happily married.” With a shake of the head and an exasperated sigh, Monique continued, “Maybe I’ve come to the wrong place after all. I just need to find him.”
She made to rise, but Diane rose more quickly and placed a firm hand upon Monique’s shoulder.
“Now do sit down, dear. I had to
ask the question, you understand. This wouldn’t be the first case I had heard of. Poor girl that was a substitute teacher at the school here. Thought her husband was away at a conference and, when he didn’t come home, frantically called his office only to find out there hadn’t been a conference at all. He eventually turned up in Margate with a mistress. So you see, I’m just trying to be clear.”
“I understand, but you see why I think it’s just a distraction. He wouldn’t have done anything like that.” Monique leaned forward onto the toes of her feet, again making a pleading pose before Diane.
While not convinced, Diane realized that there was still a mystery here to be looked into.
“So the Inspector sent you to me because…”
“He said there was nothing he could do because there wasn’t any reason to suspect a crime had been committed. He told me that he knew someone that would be able to focus properly on the situation. So he gave me your address and said he would call ahead.”
“And you came directly here from his office?”
“Yes, I want to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. I almost got into an accident because I was so eager to get here.”
Diane wondered if it was the eagerness or the cause for the tracked mascara down Monique’s face that had almost caused the accident. All of the scenarios for her husband being missing would have played through her mind in those solitary moments.
“Well, you’re here safely now. And I will definitely do what I can to find your missing man. They are quite clumsy creatures,” said Diane with a soft smile. “He probably got lost and was too stubborn to admit it.”
Monique replied with a smile of her own, the face gaining a measure of life, a view of her without misery. With the rattling of pottery preceding him, Albert walked into the room balancing two cups of tea on saucers. A spoon and sugar cubes nestled against the cups and were twice doused with overflowing liquid. Albert made his apologies, settled the cups onto side tables beside the ladies and shuffled out to the kitchen again.
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