by Kris Pearson
“I doubt you could even find my church,” he agreed.
“I rest my case,” Brett said, reaching out for his beer and his wife’s gin and tonic and ambling off with them.
Paul slid his hand halfway over mine. John’s unnerving blue gaze followed.
“Does Marion Wick have any theories,” I asked him.
John’s eyes flashed back to mine. “Why ask me?”
“Oh,” I said, pretending surprise. “I thought you had a little thing going with her.”
“As you’ve just demonstrated with Brett, strange stories do get around.”
What a cool customer. Not a twitch.
“She’s very pretty.”
“So are you, Ms Summerfield.” And with a pointed glance at my neckline, he turned away.
“I’ve overdone it,” I muttered to Paul. “Did you see that?”
He let go of my hand and grinned now John wasn’t there to be misled by it resting on mine. “In fairness, you do have a dynamite rack.”
“Rack?” I croaked.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Rack of ribs I suppose. Soldiers. Bad influence.” He tucked his tongue into his cheek. “Don’t worry, Merry,” he whispered. “You have no ribs on display at all.”
“Paul!” I protested.
His unrestrained guffaw turned quite a few heads. Just what I’d been hoping to achieve, but maybe not at my own expense.
He reached for a couple of menus from a nearby holder and handed one to me. “Want to choose your dinner? May as well get our order under way.”
“Well, well!” two women chorused right behind us. “What are you two up to?”
We swiveled our heads around like guilty children. Lisa and Lurline stood there, hands on hips and accusing expressions on their faces.
“Only having dinner,” Paul said, possibly going a bit pink. “I thought Merry could do with some company instead of eating all on her lonesome out at The Point.”
Lisa was looking her tiny trim self in skinny jeans and a textured white cotton top. Lurline had tied her dreadlocks back with an orange ribbon that matched one of the colors in her long batik skirt. Neither appeared to believe Paul’s explanation. Hopefully anyone else at the Burkeville would think the same.
“What have you done with the kids?” I asked Lisa.
“It’s Ten Ton’s night for ‘daddy time’.” She stood on tiptoe to peer at my cleavage. “I see you brought your girls out for some air.” Yes, she was short, and I was perched up on the stool, but did she have to be so obvious?
I pointed a forefinger at her. “I’ve only worn this dress a couple of times. I want to get my money’s worth.” I hoped she’d think any possible pinkness on my cheeks was a reflection from the cerise fabric.
Lurline nodded and smiled. “Looks like the vicar’s getting his money’s worth, too.”
“Lurline!” I exclaimed.
“Well, you don’t let your hair down for just anyone,” she said, eyes twinkling. “What else would I be talking about?” She reached over and touched my abundant mane. “You’re so lucky. Mine’s ultra-curly. The dreads are the only way I can deal with it.”
“You could chop it off in a pixie cut like mine,” Lisa said. “A vet can get seriously messy around big animals. That much hair would really hold me back.”
We all laughed, no doubt picturing tiny Lisa covered in cow dung and mud.
Paul sipped his beer. “It’s good Ten Ton’s seeing more of the children. Boys need time with their dad.”
“One weeknight plus every second weekend,” she said. “It’s not enough. I wish he’d come home.”
“Have you told him that, instead of moaning to all of us?” I asked. When she looked appalled I quickly added, “It’s not the first time you’ve mentioned it, that’s all. Try asking him nicely.”
“He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“He just won’t.”
“Lisa,” Paul said quietly. “Sometimes people outside the situation see things those caught up in it can’t. What have you got to lose by asking him? At worst he’ll still be gone. But at best your kids could get their dad home again and you might be able to rekindle things with him. Even if it’s a bit rocky for a while.”
“Sheesh,” she said, raising her chin and pulling her shoulders back. “I came out for a meal, not marriage counselling or friends poking their noses in.” She glared at Paul who was twice her size. Ten Ton was a lot bigger again. And I guess a mature Angus bull outweighed the whole group of us. Where did she get her fierceness from?
“Buy you ladies a drink?” Paul asked in a conciliatory tone. “Would you like to sit and eat with us if I haven’t offended you too much?”
“That looks nice,” Lurline said, pointing to my cranberry and lemonade.
“Brandy and ginger,” Lisa snapped.
I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds. The idea had been to make it look as though Paul was out on a somewhat romantic date, not that he was so desperate to be seen with women he had to round up three of us. How gay would that look?
“No thanks to sitting together, if you don’t mind,” Lisa added.
I said a silent thank you.
“This is a business dinner. Lurline and I have things to talk about.”
Paul inclined his head. “Maybe another time then.”
“Maybe,” Lisa agreed, but she still looked furious.
“Vicar!” Lurline exclaimed. “Rona Jarvis – thank you for following up. And thank you Merry for passing the message on.”
Paul stared at his beer. “Right now Drizzle Bay’s not safe for old ladies living alone.
Or younger ones,” he added, just as the waitress approached our group. I ignored that as he placed the order for Lisa and Lurline’s drinks.
“We’ll be over there,” Lisa said, indicating a vacant table for two. “Thank you,” she tossed back at Paul as she hurried off.
“Brave of you,” Lurline said to Paul. “I’ll take the drinks across. You’re right though – what does she have to lose?”
“Two stubborn people,” I said, noticing John was now the center of attention with a group of nubile young women who looked as though they’d been poured into their stretchy clothes. “And Drizzle Bay’s perfectly safe to live in. Just not safe to go to church in.” Now it was me who was snappy.
Lurline rolled her eyes. “Hardly his fault. Are you two having a lovers’ tiff?”
“NO,” we roared.
“Could have fooled me.” She picked up the drinks the waitress had just set down. “Thanks for these, Vicar.”
“Paul,” Paul and I corrected her in unison.
“You’ll get over it,” she said, departing with a grin.
I turned my gaze down to the menu and muttered to Paul. “Mission accomplished. That’s John Bonnington, Lauren the waitress, Brett, Lurline and Lisa who all now think you’re a ladies’ man.”
“And that we’re having a lovers’ tiff.”
I glanced up at him again. There was definitely affection lurking in his dark eyes. And amusement. “Job done, then,” I grumped. “For that I deserve the scallops.”
“And the butterscotch ice cream and raspberries?
How did he know?
Chapter 13 – Another possible weapon
It was the nicest night out I’d had in ages. Having Paul make it clear he wasn’t suitable husband material (maybe until his PTSD was less of an issue?) took the usual male/female tension out of the atmosphere and we relaxed and had a really good chat over dinner. His mother was widowed, which I already knew from my sneaky enquiries about his dad to Jim Drizzle. He had a sister called Heather who loved cooking and wanted to enter The Great British Bake-off. He had no nephews or nieces, and seemed sad about that. I didn’t like to dig too deeply.
I told him about how I’d met Duncan Skene.
“Why do you always call him by both names?”
“Do I?” I thought for a bit. “No idea. He’s just a cardboard cutout cal
led Duncan Skene these days. Not a man I loved for long because he… didn’t love me for long, either.”
“But you stayed together?”
“I guess,” I said slowly, “that I hoped he might change. That it wasn’t really over. Stupid things like that. I stayed far too long.”
“Did he need you?”
His question surprised me. “Not at all, as far as I could see.”
“People like to be needed, even if it’s only a little.” He added at a much quieter level, “Take Lisa and Ten Ton as an example. She’s so feisty and capable she’s made him feel inadequate and so she’s driven him away.”
I tipped my head on one side. “They had three children to care for. Most parents can’t do that on one income these days.”
“But she’s insisting on constantly being Superwoman. She should let him be Superman sometimes. Good for his ego. Good for the kids to see him in a stronger role. Probably good for her to have a rest, too.”
I looked at him really directly then. “I bet you did well at vicar school.”
He snorted, and then covered his face with a hand. “Theological College,” he chuckled from behind his fingers. “I did okay.”
“You like people. Knowing what makes them tick.”
“Couldn’t do the job otherwise,” he agreed.
“So what motivation could anyone have for murdering Isobel?”
He shook his head. “Whichever way I think about it – and she’s been constantly in my thoughts – I come up blank. I don’t believe for a moment Margaret had anything to do with it. She’ll be happy enough to inherit a beachside cottage but she wouldn’t kill her sister to get it. All these stories floating around about Isobel blackmailing people don’t really ring true, either. I don’t know why I was so worried she had it in for me. She was an entirely dependable self-effacing little mouse. Lived an unremarkable life. That cottage has nothing luxurious in it.”
“Agree. So do you think it was simply random?”
“What? That Drizzle Bay has a mad killer on the loose? Someone wanting the thrill of knowing what it feels like to take a life?” His face crumpled into an expression of utter distaste. “I certainly hope not. And then we come back to ‘why in my church?’ because it was a risky place to do it.”
“Mishtaken identity?” That was hard to say after the Pinot Gris because I’d had more of it than Paul.
He smiled at me, despite the grim topic. “You’re getting tiddly. Or tired. How was your ice-cream?”
I looked down at my plate and found it scraped clean. “Really good, and they were lovely raspberries. How was your sticky toffee pudding?”
“Delicious. Maybe not as good as my mother’s, but she sets a high standard.”
“Yes, mothers do,” I agreed wistfully, thinking of the slightly eccentric curry waiting for me in the old refrigerator at the cottage. Sally Summerfield lives on in all the recipes I absorbed from her while she was alive.
The tables were thinning out. I glanced at my watch; already ten-thirty. I didn’t want the evening to end, but I supposed it had to so I upended my glass and enjoyed the last half inch of the lovely wine.
“Coffee?” Paul asked.
“I won’t sleep.”
“Merry, he said, “I’m trying to sober you up. You still have to drive out to the Point.”
I smiled across at him. “Thank you Paul.”
By now I’d had just enough wine to make me indiscreet. With no-one sitting near to us any longer I crooked a finger and beckoned him closer. “I know something from DS Weasel,” I murmured.
His eyebrows rose, and he leaned toward me as though indulging a child. “What do you know, Merry?”
“Your church vase wasn’t the murder weapon.”
“How the… ?”
“He told me because I told him something in return.” I was so close to Paul he’d almost gone out of focus.
“What did you tell him?”
I cupped a hand around his ear so I could whisper. “That when I asked Graham who would own Isobel’s house now, he said Margaret and Tom Alsop brought the old parents in to update their original will so both daughters inherited it.”
I pulled back far enough to see how he’d taken that. Not exactly pleased with their behavior to judge from the crease between his eyebrows and the very direct stare.
“And the vase?” he asked. “I thought they were pretty sure about that because of the size of her wound and the curve of the vase and so on.”
I put my hand back around his ear so I could whisper again, although I was probably drawing more attention to us than being discreet. “No blood or other yucky stuff on it.”
Paul suddenly sat up very straight. He grabbed my hand. “We need to go, Merry. We’ll forget that coffee if you’re okay without it.”
“That’s fine,” I agreed, no doubt sounding puzzled. “Thank you for a nice night.” Why had he gone into rabbit-bolting-off mode?
He handed over his credit card and put an arm around me to escort me to the car. Yes, I was somewhat wobbly on the high pink heels after the Pinot Gris, but the crisp night air was a helpful slap in the face. Traffic was still pretty constant because the Burkeville Bar and Grill is ideally situated on the main highway across from the ocean. As each vehicle passed and silence fell for a few seconds, big waves crashed over onto the sand with a rhythmic roar.
“Surf’s up,” I said. “It’ll be hard to sleep at the cottage tonight with the sea making such a noise.”
Little did I know…
Paul helped me into the car and closed the door. As soon as he’d fired up the engine he turned the ventilation onto rather cool. It gave me goosebumps on my arms but probably helped bring me to my senses. I reached for the cardi I’d hung over the back of the seat and draped it around my shoulders.
“Okay?” he asked.
I nodded at him.
“Thinking clearly?”
What an odd question.
I nodded again.
I was rather drowsy to be honest, and he didn’t try and engage me in further conversation for the fifteen minutes it took to reach the main street of Drizzle Bay.
“Why are we here?” I asked as he pulled up outside St Agatha’s. The village was deserted.
“I want to check something,” he said. “And I want a witness. You feeling up to it?”
“So that’s what the cold air was about?” It made sense now. “There’s no blood still in there, I hope?”
“No Merry – all gone. But what you said about the vase? That’s got me thinking. There were two matching vases.”
I let that sink in for a few seconds. “So where’s the other one?” I asked after my tired and tipsy brain caught up.
“Inside,” Paul said, opening his door, slamming it, and walking around to my side of the car.
My cardi had got caught around part of the headrest, and we spent a few seconds untangling it so I could put it on. “Whereabouts inside?”
“Up by the pulpit. There are stands for flowers either side of the nave and we generally have a vase on each.”
I pushed myself up off the seat and Paul closed the door behind me. I heard the locks click in the deafening silence. Well, deafening apart from the sea.
“Ummm… so there’s one vase now?” I asked as he led me past the crime-scene tape and around to the back of St Agatha’s. He unlocked the door. “Why do you want to see it?”
He fumbled around the switches inside and snapped one on. Half a dozen small side-lamps glowed golden. It wasn’t a lot to see by but Paul was used to his church and seemed to think it was enough. He pushed the door shut again and took my hand, then produced his cell phone and turned on its torch. That was better.
“She always used a little folding table from the vestry to sit the vases on while she arranged the flowers. You probably didn’t notice it, having just had such a shock. It was knocked flat anyway.” He started leading me forward. “She’d get the flowers looking good, carry each vase to its stand, a
nd then bring the water to the vases because they were far too heavy for her to carry when they were full.”
My brain was clearing now. “So that’s why there were flowers and pottery shards on the carpet but no water?”
Paul shone the torch further up the aisle, illuminating the single colorful vase of flowers there. “Isobel had the other one sitting beside a pew for the rest of the flowers. It must have got kicked sideways because I remember that WPC picking it up and setting it on its stand out of the way while I was phoning Margaret. I didn’t even think about it until you mentioned it, but of course the Police secured the crime scene. I asked if I could rescue the other flowers Isabel had set aside, shoved most of them into that remaining vase, and went to get the water.”
“You did quite a good job,” I said, inspecting the arrangement. “Tall things at the back, big things in the middle.”
He looked at me as though I was his small and silly sister. “I’m a gardener, Merry. I used to help my mother with her herbaceous borders when I was home for school and uni holidays. Delphiniums at the back, daisies and phlox in the center, low-growing aubrietia along the front.”
He’d stopped a few steps away from the vase and seemed reluctant to go right up to it. The light from his phone cast unearthly shadows everywhere. Then he cleared his throat and squeezed my hand tighter. “The thing is – maybe whoever hit her used this vase and dropped it beside the pew before they left. And the vase she was already arranging flowers in was the one that fell and smashed on the floor?”
“And everyone assumed she’d been hit with that one.” My voice sounded pretty shaky.
Paul took a deep breath. “So I thought we’d better come and check this one in case there’s any…”
“Blood,” I whispered. “Oh Paul.” Now it was my turn to squeeze his hand.
We approached the vase together. “Better not touch it,” I said.
“I’ve already touched it.”
“Even so – in case there are other fingerprints on it?”
Together we leaned toward the back of the big dark vase as Paul illuminated it. There might have been something there. “I can’t tell for sure,” I said.
“Me either,” he agreed. “But maybe there is.”