Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1)

by Frances Evesham

  Libby bit her lip. “All right.” She stood up. “I’ve got to get back to the shop. Pick me up at seven?”

  Dinner

  Libby changed her dress three times before seven o’clock. It was stupid to feel so nervous. I’m behaving like a teenager. She hadn’t been out alone with a man since Trevor died. The last thing she wanted was an entanglement. Not now, as she started to build the life she’d always wanted.

  The linen shift dress was elegant, and a shade of pale rose that brought colour to her cheeks, but it creased too much, and anyway, the neckline was too low. She tossed it on the bed. This wasn’t a date.

  She tried a silk dress with a high waist and flared skirt that made her look girly. “Mutton dressed as lamb,” she told Fuzzy, who rolled on the linen dress, covering it with ginger and white hairs.

  Libby shooed the cat away and pulled out a pair of black evening trousers, matching them with a white shirt. There, that didn’t give out any awkward signals. It was neat and business-like, but the trousers were well cut and the subtle embroidery, like damask, made them chic enough for evening. A silver chain round her neck, a heavy silver cuff on her wrist, and a squirt of scent completed her preparation, just in time. The bell rang as she left the room.

  He was early. Libby ran downstairs, stomach fluttering, took a breath and opened the door. Mandy, hair wildly backcombed into an unruly bird’s nest, rested a foot on the doorstep as if poised for retreat. In one hand, she hefted an unwieldy backpack with a black t-shirt spilling out of the top. The other hand was at her mouth, teeth tearing at a black-painted fingernail. She dropped the hand long enough to whisper, “Did you mean it? Can I really come to stay?”

  “Of course you can stay.” Mandy staggered into the hallway and Libby took the bag. “Good heavens, whatever have you got in there?”

  Mandy made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sniff. “My laptop. And some books.”

  Books? Mandy? “Well, you’re welcome to stay. Does your Mum know you’re here?”

  “I didn’t tell her.” Mandy’s fingernail was back in her mouth. She looked like a frightened child.

  “You should let her know. Won’t she worry?”

  “I’ll ring her later. Dad won’t be back tonight. He’s going out drinking with his old mates and staying over at the Watson’s place.” Maybe Samantha would keep an eye on Mandy’s father: help him stay out of trouble. Libby would ask Max about Mandy’s dad, this evening. He’d know what to do. His son was a police officer.

  Mandy, gaining confidence once the front door closed, perched on a stool in the kitchen, gazing round the room, eyes wide. “Wow. What a place, Mrs Forest.”

  “Call me Libby. Now, I have to go out this evening, but the bed’s made up in the spare room. I won’t be late. Make yourself at home and help yourself to anything you can find.”

  Mandy was scooping walnut brownies from a tin when Max arrived. “Don’t worry about me.” She looked from Libby to Max and back, the hint of a smile on her face. She’d be on Facebook before Libby and Max were out of the drive. By tomorrow, everyone in town would know they’d been out for dinner.

  Max drove a comfortable, well-used Range Rover. Bear lay in the back, greeting Libby with a bark. “Hello to you, too,” she said, pulling his ears.

  Max raised his eyebrows. “Hope you don’t mind if Bear comes too. He likes the White House.”

  The restaurant was by the river, a string of tables lining the bank. There was an autumn chill. Good job she’d brought a jacket. Libby rejected Max’s polite invitation to eat inside. Bear made himself at home, disappearing into the reeds on the river bank, searching for a succession of sticks for Max to throw.

  “If you grew up in Exham, you must know just about everybody in town.” Libby had spent all her life, until now, in West London. “I meet a new person one day, like Mandy at the bakery, and next day I drop into the newsagent and find her mother works there. It’s like a spider’s web.”

  “It’s useful. If you need a job done, you can always find a friend or relative of someone you know, who can help.”

  “I need someone to renovate my bathroom. Any ideas?”

  He tapped his fingers on the table. “There’s always Bert, that’s Mandy’s Dad, if you want it done for cash, with no questions asked. But I wouldn’t advise that. A bit crooked, is Bert. Try Ned Watson. He does building and plumbing. Tell him I sent you, and he’ll give you a decent price. We were at school together.”

  “Tell me more about Mandy’s father.”

  Max grimaced. “The man’s a bully. He was like it at school. No one’s lunch money was safe.”

  Libby peeked at Max’s shoulders, broad as a boxer’s. Her lips twitched. “I bet yours was.”

  He smiled. “I can look after myself. Since school, Bert’s been on the dole most of the time, though he makes plenty by cleaning windows: cash payments only, of course.”

  “Is Mandy’s mother safe? Won’t he hurt her?”

  Max took a sip of ice-cold Pinot Grigio. “I’m not sure. Bert goes down the pub with a bunch of his loser pals, gets drunk and takes it out on Elaine. The police are called round there from time to time.” He shrugged. “Usual story. Wife takes him back every time. Refuses to press charges. She’s had a black eye or two.” Max’s own eyes glinted, cold as ice. “I try to keep an eye out for Elaine. Bert listens to me, so long as he’s sober. We go back a long way, but I’m not always successful. One day, he’ll go too far.”

  Libby swallowed. “Well, she’ll be OK tonight. He’s staying with the Watsons.”

  Max laughed. “Samantha must be away. She’d never let Bert stay if she was at home. She rules Ned with a rod of iron.”

  “Anyway, Mandy’s safe with me. Her father won’t even know she’s there.”

  “He’ll hear soon enough: you can’t keep secrets in Exham on Sea, you know.” Max topped up her glass. “Don’t worry about Mandy. She’s eighteen, old enough to make her own decisions.”

  He swished wine around his glass. “What about you? How did you get here?”

  “My husband died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She met his eye. “Don’t be. I’m not.” His eyebrows shot up. Libby laughed. “Sounds dreadful, I know, but he was my big mistake. My parents warned me.” She hadn’t listened, and she’d never told them they were right. “I know it sounds awful, but when Trevor had a heart attack, I cheered inside. At last, I could work, have my own life, make friends and live where I chose. I chose Exham on Sea.” She raised her glass. “To my new life.”

  “Now,” she put the menu to one side. “We didn’t come here to talk about me. What can you tell me about Susie Bennett?”

  Nest Egg

  Max drummed his fingers on the table. “The thing is, Susie kept in touch after she left. I used to live and work in Bath, in one of the banks, and Susie came in one day, before she left for America, and opened an account.”

  “Was she rich?”

  “Not rich, then, though she was later, but I don’t think she ever trusted Mickey. I tried to stop her going away with him.” Max’s eyes were focused on his plate. Did he still hold some sort of a candle for Susie? It would explain why he was the only person in Exham on Sea with a good word to say for her. “She wouldn’t listen. Said she could handle herself, but wanted to be sure there were funds somewhere safe, that only she knew about, in case she, or anyone else, ever needed them.”

  Their steak arrived, and Max stopped talking, refilling Libby’s glass with red wine and taking a deep draught from his own. Libby sliced into her food, watching blood trickle from the rare steak. “Or anyone else,” she murmured. “What could she have meant by that?”

  Max shrugged. “She wouldn’t say. Just told me it was her secret and she’d let me know when she wanted the money. That’s all there is to it.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I shouldn’t even be telling you.” The sharp edge was back in his voice.

  Libby ignored it. “I’m g
lad you did. What happens to the money now?”

  “There’s been a pretty big pot waiting for Susie, but she never used it. Never came back, just contacted me from time to time, to check on the interest. In the early years, we spoke about every six months. She talked about needing it soon, but after a while, she stopped contacting me.”

  “When was that?”

  “Oh, six or seven years after she married. It was about the time of her last album. You remember, Twilight over the Sea?”

  Libby did remember. Susie’s dark contralto voice blending with a plaintive guitar in sad songs of love and loss. Her best work, the critics said. “She never made another album, did she?”

  “No, that was it. She lived the rock and roll lifestyle with Mickey: plenty of drugs and booze. They broke up a few years later, and she wrote to me again, asking me to keep the account open. She said she’d probably not need it, anyway. That was the last time we were in contact, apart from the statements sent by the bank.”

  Libby took a chance. “You were pretty close to Susie, then, if she trusted you with her money?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What gossip have you been listening to?”

  Libby held his gaze, keeping her voice steady. “I don’t listen to gossip, but you’re the only one I’ve met so far who knew Susie after she left.” Max twirled a spoon in his fingers. His eyes slid away, looking out over the hills. Libby pulled her jacket more tightly round her shoulders.

  “Susie and I had a business relationship. It was no more than that.”

  “But you’d have liked it to be more?”

  Max’s eyes narrowed. Libby flinched at the steely undertone to his voice. “It’s none of your business, Mrs Forest.”

  She gripped her hands under the table. She murmured, “Did your wife know how you felt about Susie?”

  Max’s eyes were stony. “We’re divorced.”

  “Because of Susie?”

  He laughed, suddenly, and drained his glass with a flourish. “Oh, Mrs Forest, how very inquisitive you are. Do you think I murdered Susie Bennett?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure someone killed her. I’m just trying to find out more about the people who knew her. You’re one of them. I thought you wanted to help.”

  The anger died from his face. “Of course I do. Well, you’ll have to make up your own mind about me, but for what it’s worth, I didn’t kill Susie, even though I was no model husband. To answer your question, Susie was just one of the reasons my wife and I quarrelled. But there were plenty of others. Now, if you’ve had enough to eat, we’d better move inside. The wind’s getting up.”

  Sure enough, a gust of wind blew napkins from the table and raindrops splattered the cloth. Max rose to his feet, calling Bear back from the river. The dog arrived, wet, muddy and smelly. Libby shivered. “Maybe we’d better just leave?”

  Walnut brownies

  Max drew up behind the Citroen. “You’d better get that dent fixed. Try Jenkins’ Garage, it’s the best around this area.”

  “I suppose you were at school with Mr Jenkins.”

  “As it happens, I was.”

  “Another member of The Band of Brothers?”

  Max put the car into gear as Libby climbed out. “I suppose you could call it that. We look out for each other.”

  The house lay quiet, the kitchen clean and tidy. Mandy was on her best behaviour. How long would it last? Libby fell into bed, stomach full of good food and wine, and slept heavily until morning.

  The phone startled her awake. “I’ve been thinking about that money of Susie’s.” Max didn’t bother to ask how she was. This relationship was strictly business. Libby yawned and focused on his voice. “Anything she saved will be part of her estate and go to her heirs. I’m wondering who they might be.”

  The smell of burnt toast and the sound of scraping rose from the kitchen, and Libby’s mouth watered. She tried to concentrate as Max talked. “I’m going over to the States. I’ve got Susie’s old address. I think we need to let people know what’s happened.”

  “Isn’t that a police job?”

  “No, not if there’s no foul play in the case, apparently, and no grieving husband or children. Someone needs to find a solicitor, or attorney, or whatever they’re called in the US, and sort out wills and so on.”

  “So, you’re going to do it.”

  “Er―yes. Well, there’s no one else, is there? It’ll take ages if we wait until after the inquest and anyway…”

  He let the words hang in the air, but Libby knew what he was thinking. Justice for Susie. “I’m off to Heathrow now. There’s a flight this afternoon.”

  “Already? What about Bear? Who’s going to walk him?” Shut up, Libby, what are you saying?

  “I’ve left him with Mrs Thomson. He’ll have to wait for his exercise until I get back.”

  Libby let the silence grow. It wasn’t her job to look after that huge dog. She groaned. “I’ll go and rescue him. I don’t see why he has to suffer.”

  “Libby, you’re a treasure.”

  “I know I am. You’d better let me know anything you find out. And Max, there’s one question we have to answer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If she’s been living in the US since the 1990s, with no contact with anyone in England, what the heck was she doing on Tuesday on the beach at Exham on Sea?

  She put the phone down. And why are you so keen to go to the States? What are you up to?

  She rang Ned Watson, mentioned Max’s name and asked him to give a quote for the bathroom. He was business-like. “I like a week, to do a bathroom. You don’t want to rush it.” He’d come round tomorrow. Libby, used to long waiting lists for any work in London, was impressed. She couldn’t wait to see the back of the orange tiles and avocado green bath.

  Mrs Thomson’s old, tumbledown house lay just outside town, surrounded on three sides by green fields, cattle and a green knoll that rose in a rounded hump from the Somerset levels. A flock of sheep speckled the slopes, along with three or four horses.

  Libby peered up the lane. A few stray leaves, hardy enough to withstand the gales, still clung to the branches of a row of trees―horse chestnuts, perhaps. The tracery of branches framed a neat, white-painted building. That must be Max’s place. Libby whistled. Max Ramshore lived in style. Mr Lord of the Manor.

  What was it he did, exactly, that he could desert at such short notice to go to the states? He’d left the bank, but he was way off retirement age. Or, was he going to America for some other reason, using Susie as an excuse?

  Beyond Mrs Thomas’ house, dunes led down towards the golf club and beach. The nine-legged lighthouse must be nearby. Libby dragged on the brake, eased out of the car, tugged the battered boot until it opened with a screech, and rescued a box of walnut brownies. Tucking it under one arm, she scanned the net curtains for signs of occupancy.

  She thumbed the doorbell and waited. No answer. She rapped on the wood of the door, and leaned harder on the bell. No one in. Maybe she’d do some snooping round Max’s house. As she stepped back, Bear bounded round the corner, greeting her with the enthusiasm of a long lost friend. With a super-human effort, she kept her feet, pushing the dog’s wet nose away from her face. The door creaked open.

  An aged head appeared in the gap between door and lintel, hearing aid just in sight behind each ear. Libby recognised the old lady’s Victory Roll hairstyle, popular at the end of the Second World War. Her great aunt used to wear one. “Mrs Thomson?” Libby raised her voice. Deafness must be a blessing to anyone who lived with Bear and his ear-splitting bark, but it was going to make conversation difficult.

  The lady of the house screwed up her eyes and squinted. “Are you the dog-walker for Bear?”

  So far, so good. “Max Ramshore sent me. He said you’d like me to come and help with Bear while he’s away. I’ve brought some brownies.”

  The door closed. A chain rattled and Mrs Thomson pushed the door wide, beckoning with one hand as she untied her apro
n with the other. “Come on, come in. I’ll make a cup of coffee and see if we’ve got any biscuits. You must be hungry, coming all this way.” She led Libby through the house, talking all the time.

  All this way? From Exham? “I’ve brought brownies,” she repeated.

  “Yes, we get a lot of townies here. They like to walk on the Knoll.”

  Annie Rose

  Mrs Thomson’s long, low sitting room looked out over the dunes. The windows were small and wooden, long overdue an update to double glazing. Libby shivered. The wind from the sea must blow straight through the crumbling wood. She could smell the salt from here.

  Mrs Thomson shook her head at Libby’s bawled offer of help in the kitchen, pointed to the sofa and went out. Libby tried to remove dog hairs from the tapestry cushions decorating the sofa, changed her mind about sitting down, and stepped over to the window. It took an effort of will to make herself look right, along the beach to the lighthouse.

  The tide was out again, leaving the building’s stumpy legs exposed in the mud. Libby released her breath in a relieved sigh. No body today.

  Mrs Thomson returned, balancing a tray painted with cats. China cups and jugs rattled, as she lowered it to one of the side tables. Vases, silver-framed photos and dog-shaped ornaments teetered on the piano. Pictures of Bear, standing alongside a bent, aging man, hung on the walls. Mr Thomson?

  His widow poured coffee and brought a cup to Libby at the window. “We’ve got three lighthouses in Exham, you know.”

  “Three?” Libby sipped the hot coffee.

  “Yes.” Mrs Thomson ticked them off on knobbly, arthritic fingers. “There’s one on the beach, up there,” she nodded to the right. “That’s where they found Suzanne, the other day.” Libby set her cup and saucer down on the table nearest to the hairy sofa and sat. She could brush her jeans later.