by Kris Pearson
“So… how?” he asked, sitting down opposite me.
OMG – he now looked entirely naked above the table top. Delicious, but how would I stop staring?
I dabbed my eyes again to bring the view into better focus, because why waste a sight like that? “It looked like she was hit on the back of her head. The ambulance man said ‘blunt force trauma’, but then he backtracked because it’s not his job to do the official examination and decide the cause of death.”
By now I’d decided that unless John Bonnington was a very good actor it wasn’t him who’d attacked Isobel. He might have been putting a bit of pressure on to try and get her to sell him the house, but he knew about the strawberries and blueberries in the garden, and had bothered to water them, and seemed genuinely saddened by the thought of her being dead.
Although what’s to stop a guilty man from putting on a good act? I was trying to see things from both sides.
“I wonder who gets the place now?” he speculated. “McCreagh might have talked her into leaving it to the church. She had no kids. Only the one sister I think. It’ll be her I suppose.”
“Margaret,” I said. “Margaret Alsop.” I’d remembered the name from the Kirsty and Phil house-finding program on TV.
John’s gaze sharpened again. “Not Tom Alsop’s wife?” He took a sip of his tea and grimaced. Maybe he was a coffee man? Or hoping for whisky.
I watched as his throat constricted and his Adam’s apple bounced up and down. Why do men have them and women don’t? Something else I needed to Google. I prodded surreptitiously at my throat. Do women simply have fleshier necks so whatever’s going on inside doesn’t show?
“I think she said he was called Tom,” I agreed. “He’d gone to bowls.”
“Alsop A-One Autos,” John said, curling his lip. “His time would have been better spent attending to business. Word gets around…”
My ears pricked up at what was possibly useful information, and I straightened up and tossed my damp paper towel into the bucket in the corner. “Why do you say that? Was the business in trouble?”
He shook his head. “Might only be rumors. Tom Alsop does himself no favors though. Made a few enemies. Always showing off in the bar. Buying people too many drinks and insisting loudly on the best brands. Good customer for us, but I don’t like the guy.” John sipped again. “I’ve heard he’s real slow at paying his bills. When you’re working somewhere like the Burkeville you get all the stories.”
Huh – so maybe Tom Alsop also needed considering in the case of Isobel’s death. I wondered how much he owed and how I could find out.
“Wears a lot of rings,” John added, pressing his lips together as though ring-wearing was a crime. Plainly a nipple ring didn’t count.
I thought of Margaret’s bracelet. Hmmm. Flashy people needed money if they wanted to keep up appearances. Inheriting a beachfront property – even one not in top condition – would buy a lot of bling and booze.
John took another gulp of tea. “So how do you fit into the scene? I mean – what are you here to do?”
I set my teacup down with care and glanced toward the dog bed. I’d had two fingers caught through the curly china handle for a while and didn’t want to tip the cup over. “Looking after these two guys,” I said as I carefully extricated my fingers. “I’d gone to put a notice on the community board offering to mind houses and pets for people who were away from home.”
“Pretty fast result,” he muttered.
I might have gone a bit pink at that stage. “Not what I was expecting to happen at all. One thing led to another, and then to another. We found Isobel, called the cops and the ambulance, the vicar got hold of the sister because she’s on the flower roster too, and when she turned up she started going on about bad timing because she and her husband were off on a week-long cruise.” I looked at him across the top of the tea-cup. I’d stupidly stuck my fingers through the handle again.
“Sounds a bit cold.”
“Give her a break – she must have been in shock. She’d just lost her only sister.”
“I guess… So bye-bye cruise. Bad luck Tom.”
I grinned at his all too obvious satisfaction. “No – they’re going. Both the vicar and the WPC said they thought they should.”
John’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds even colder.”
“Well, poor Isobel has to be autopsied, I suppose. They can’t bury her until that’s done. And the vicar pointed out that funerals often don’t happen until some days after the death because people had to travel to get there. So…” I shrugged.
“Which still doesn’t explain how you scored the job.”
I glanced toward the dog bed again. “Margaret got worked up about finding kennels to take Itsy and Fluffy while she was away, and the vicar pointed out that I could look after the house and the dogs until they got back and settled things.”
“Itsy and Fluffy?” John repeated. Very softly, and trying not to grin.
“Hey – she liked things pretty,” I said, waving a hand at the china cups, the hollyhocks practically climbing through the kitchen window, and the dotty dog bed. “What are yours called?”
He looked me straight in the eye. “Fire and Ice.”
Yeeeesss… Masculine and to the point. Why would I have expected otherwise? “Better than my brother’s dogs,” I conceded. “The little girl next door named them. Daniel and Manual. To rhyme with spaniel.”
The brown mug had been halfway to John’s lips, but he gave such a sudden yelp of laughter that some of the tea jumped out and landed with a splash on the table-top and points south. “Manual?” he asked as I reached across and ripped another paper towel off the roll.
“Yes – she wouldn’t go for Manuel. She said ‘Man-well’ didn’t rhyme with spaniel.”
John patted some spots of tea off his belly and possibly his shorts. I didn’t like to peer too closely. Then he soaked up the small puddle on top of the painted timber table. His shoulders shook and his lips curved in a wicked smirk.
“He compromised on Manny and Dan,” I assured him. “He pretends they’re American, like you are. The dogs can tell those two names apart, and that’s probably what matters most.”
John glanced at his watch – a big and no doubt waterproof stainless steel one – and then transferred his gaze to me. “Hate to say it but I’d better be going. Surf was so good I begged off bar duties for an hour or two. You okay on your own?”
I pushed the chair back so I could stand. There was a flurry of barking from the dog bed followed by the patter of small toenails on the old linoleum. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll be fine. The Police said the locks were good. I’ll have a quick snack, set my laptop up, and do some work. I’m a book editor.”
John looked as though he was trying not to grin again.
I stopped myself from saying ‘what’ in the nick of time.
“No Wi-Fi. She told me a while ago she didn’t have a computer.”
I groaned. “So I’ll have to go back home if I need the internet? Which I will of course. I was hoping for some time away from my boring brother. I can’t leave these dogs alone for hours on end, either.”
He sat there yawning, and did a slow and mesmerizing stretch which hollowed his belly, expanded his chest, and made his biceps bulge quite beautifully as he shoved his hands back through his mane of nearly dry hair. “Come to the pub and make use of ours. You can set up in the courtyard with the dogs, and if it gets too busy we can tie them up out back with mine. I’ll tell them not to eat yours.”
Then he rose from the chair. I couldn’t look him in the eye for longer that a second or two after that display. “Thank you,” I managed. “Yes, maybe.”
Yes of course, screamed my long-neglected body.
Chapter 3 – The Police come calling
It was no surprise when early the next morning I received a call from a gruff-voiced person who introduced himself as DS Bruce Carver. Could he come out and ask me a few more questions? I graciously agreed through a
storm of yapping. In fact I was bursting to know what they’d discovered so far, although far from certain they’d tell me anything.
I shooed the dogs out, refueled them when they re-appeared, and dived into the old-fashioned but functional shower.
It was a relief to be awake. All night long I’d twisted and turned in the spare bedroom, listening to the waves crashing on the nearby shore, and trying to discourage the dogs from sharing my bed. Isobel’s dead eyes and the blood on the carpet had swirled around in my brain all mixed up with John’s naked chest and American aggression and Paul’s excellent legs and BBC voice. The dreams had been both erotic and horrifying. By the time I crawled out from under the floral bedcover there were bags under my eyes and itchy bites around my ankles – maybe there’d been sandflies in the garden the evening before? Surely there weren’t fleas in the old house? But the dogs showed no signs of being bitten so I calmed down about that after a few minutes.
I did my best with a clean T-shirt and some make-up and was ready for DS Carver in the nick of time. He slid out of a charmless grey sedan he’d parked beside my Ford Focus and introduced me to his off-sider, Detective Marion Wick. I led them into Isobel’s sitting room and we settled into armchairs with Sanderson linen slip-covers – very floral, and on their last legs in places.
DS Carver wore a dark suit, had severely bitten fingernails, and rather a lot of cologne. Maybe it would wear off later in the day? Detective Wick was very slim and had the most amazing eyes – huge and dark as though they’d been computer-enhanced. She said she’d be recording the interview. I nodded. I’d presumed they would be.
“So,” DS Carver began, looming so far forward I was engulfed in a cloud of double strength cologne. “Walk us through the scene in the church again if you don’t mind…”
I tried to smother a cough. Holy Moly, did the man bathe in the stuff? I leaned well back in my chair. “I’m not really a witness to anything except finding her,” I objected. “But okay,” I took a deep breath. Oh golly, that was awful cologne. “I went in to the village to put a notice up on the community board outside the church –”
“What time was this?” DS Carver barked.
“Around ten? Mid-morning. I’m really not sure.” From the look on his pinched face it seemed he didn’t like my answer. Well, tough. I hadn’t expected events to unfold the way they did so I hadn’t noted the time. “You can check that with the emergency phone service,” I added. “We called them the minute we found her.”
He waved a hand, which I took to be a signal to continue.
“I spoke with the vicar for a couple of minutes. He was painting the top of the church fence. I teased him about the carnation tucked into the band of his hat. He said Isobel Crombie had given it to him when she came to freshen up the church flowers.”
“And?” Detective Wick asked, crossing her long, slender legs.
“He said she’d been inside the church for quite a long time.”
“Did he seem edgy?” Carver demanded.
“Not really.”
I was starting to feel like a criminal with all his questions, so decided to try some yoga breathing.
“Did you expect she’d been injured?”
I inhaled slowly and tried to stare him down. “No, of course not. Why would I? She was just a little old lady I’d seen around the village. I didn’t know her.” The room became quiet. “Would you like tea or coffee?” I asked into the humming silence.
They both shook their heads.
“What happened next?” Detective Wick asked.
“We went into the church and found her. The vicar took her pulse. Or tried to. No pulse. And not breathing, because he checked with the mirror from my handbag. He seemed to know what to do. He said he’d been a chaplain in Afghanistan, so I guess he was familiar with blood. Unfortunately.”
She widened her huge eyes, and DS Carver gnawed on his bottom lip for a few seconds.
It seemed to be up to me to continue. “I phoned for an ambulance and the Police, the vicar said a prayer, and then he…” I stopped, because DS Carver had held up a hand as though he was directing traffic.
“He said a prayer?”
“He’s a man of God. Why wouldn’t he?” It had seemed fair enough to me. “And while he was down there praying he had a good look under her head and said it wouldn’t be a gunshot wound. Which I guess he probably also knows a bit about.”
“How long did all of this take?” Detective Wick asked.
I shrugged. “A couple of minutes? No time at all. We found her, we panicked for a moment in case anyone else was still there, then I phoned, and the vicar went out the back to check the other entrance in case they could have gone in or out that way.”
Carver steepled his fingers, which displayed his nasty nails. “So you didn’t have him in your sight the whole time? Could he have let someone out?”
“No, of course not! Well, he could have I suppose, but I’m sure he didn’t.”
“But would you have heard him, if you were on the phone?” Detective Wick queried. “You’d have been listening to the operator and answering questions by then, I imagine?”
I nodded at that. Couldn’t argue. I certainly hadn’t been concentrating on what Paul was doing – not that I’d expected he’d done anything other than a quick recce. And thinking back, had I still been on the phone? I knew I hadn’t got up from the pew, anyway.
I bent and scratched my itchy ankle. “It’s not a very big church. I’ve never been out the back but I doubt there are more than one or two little rooms. I don’t recall hearing any doors opening or closing.”
“Moving on,” Carver snapped, sending me a glare as sharp as his name.
I was still worried I’d somehow incriminated Paul. “He was back very fast,” I muttered. “And then the two constables arrived and I’m sure they’ve told you the rest.”
I thought for a few seconds, and my tummy felt squelchy. It couldn’t have been Paul, could it? There was nothing to say he hadn’t murdered her earlier and then come out to do his fence-painting as though nothing was wrong. Although why would he? I decided that made no sense at all.
“Did you know Miss Crombie well?”
I shuffled around in my chair a bit. There was a spring doing a bit of a poke under the fabric. “No – not at all. I already told you that.”
“So why are you here?” Detective Wick asked.
I tried to look casual and hoped it didn’t come across as shifty instead. “Total chance. The notice I’d put up was for a house minding and pet feeding service I operate.” (Okay, that sounded a bit grand, but I’d give a lot to be slimmer and to have eyes like hers.) “And when Miss Crombie’s sister came into the church to see her sister, she said she and her husband were going on a cruise and started panicking about who would look after Isobel’s dogs. So…”
“Hang on… hang on,” DS Carver interrupted. “Let’s back-track a bit. Why was she at the church?”
I took a deep breath and immediately regretted the cologne again. Didn’t the uniformed and plain-clothes cops talk to each other?
“Because,” I said, trying not to sound as though I was explaining simple arithmetic to five year olds, “She was also on the flower roster. The vicar had her number in his phone. He offered to tell her about her sister, and the lady policeman said she hated informing relatives, and sounded grateful if they could do it together. So the vicar phoned – the sister’s name is Mrs Alsop, which you no doubt know by now – and it turned out she was just across the road at the shops. So she tore over while I was still there.”
DS Carver looked daggers at me for a few seconds. “Talk about irregular,” he muttered.
How was this my fault?
I liked Marion Wick better, so I said to her, “And the sister was shocked, of course, and blurted it out about the cruise and the dogs. And the vicar asked if I’d be free to look after the dogs and the cottage while they were away because he’d seen my notice. And I was. So here I am.”
I wasn’t getting anything from them in return so I casually asked if they’d be investigating the sister’s husband.
Carver’s eyes sharpened even further if that was possible. “Why?”
I tried to stare him down, but it wasn’t easy. “He’s a bit of a flash Harry. The sort of person who puts people’s backs up. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Who from?”
It was my turn to wave a languid hand. I wasn’t keen to drop Bon Jovi in the mire, so I said, “No-one in particular. Just local rumor. Bills being paid late. Money owed for too long. That sort of thing. There might be nothing to it.”
Marion Wick promptly started scrolling through her cell phone. “Alsop A-One Autos,” she said to DS Carver after a few seconds. “Three branches. They import top-of-the-line used vehicles, mostly from Europe.”
“You’ll have to hurry if you want to talk to him,” I said. “They’re going off on this cruising holiday later today, I think.”
Carver grimaced. “Right. Don’t leave town, Ms Summerfield.”
“What?” I exclaimed, as my stomach did a huge surging bounce.
“Figure of speech,” he added, rising from his chair with the merest ghost of a grin. “But I presume we’ll be able to find you here if we need to ask anything further?”
“Not necessarily.” He’d given me a real fright with his ‘don’t leave town’ so I didn’t feel like groveling with helpfulness.
“So how can we contact you?” Detective Wick asked in a much softer tone. “May I have your cell number please?”
I recited it for her and she tapped it into hers.
“I’ll either be here or at home in Drizzle Bay or at the Burkeville Bar and Grill,” I added. “There’s no Wi-Fi here and I need it for my editing work.”
“Why go as far as Burkeville?” she asked, sliding her phone into a pocket of her jacket.
I decided that was really none of her business, and I’d had enough of her skinny body and long legs and huge eyes. It was time to stand up for slightly older, curvier women!
“I know the owner,” I said sweetly. “John has a lovely outdoor courtyard area and good Wi-Fi. He’s invited me to bring the dogs and work there when I wanted to.”