Aunt Bessie Enjoys

by Diana Xarissa

  “Let’s take a walk,” Doona suggested suddenly. “It’s a nice warm night and the beach is calling to me.”

  Bessie shrugged. “Why not?” she replied.

  The pair cleared the table, leaving only their half-full wine glasses on it, and then made their way outside. Doona kicked off her shoes and headed straight for the water.

  “Yikes,” she exclaimed loudly as the first wave washed over her feet. “The water is freezing.”

  Bessie had left her own shoes at home. Now she followed Doona into the sea. “It’s a little chilly,” she said with a smile. “But it never gets warm, you know.”

  “I know,” Doona replied. “But I forgot.”

  The pair walked slowly down the beach, nodding and smiling at the families that were still splashing in the sea and building sandcastles on the shore. At the stairs to Thie yn Traie, they turned around and headed back towards Bessie’s cottage.

  They were walking back slowly, enjoying the sunset, when Bessie heard the shouting.

  “Hey, hey, Bessie Cubbon, is that you?”

  She spun around and stared at the tall man who was hurrying down the beach towards her, waving a stick.

  Chapter Eight

  Doona stepped in front of Bessie, ready to intercept the stranger.

  “For goodness sake,” Bessie hissed. “We’re on a public beach in full sight of dozens of people. I’m fine.”

  Doona didn’t answer. Her gaze was fixed on the man who had nearly reached them.

  “Aunt Bessie? It is you, isn’t it?” the man said, coming to an abrupt halt a few paces away from the women.

  Bessie studied the man closely. He was over six feet tall, chubby and completely bald. His eyes were shaded behind those glasses that darken in the sunlight, even though the sun was rapidly setting. There was something quite familiar about him, but Bessie was distracted by the golf club in his hand.

  “Spencer Cannon?” Bessie said. She didn’t so much recognise him as assume it was him, based on circumstances.

  The man flushed. “You remember me?” he asked. “I wasn’t sure anyone would remember me.”

  Bessie nodded and stepped closer to him, ignoring Doona, who was still glaring at Spencer suspiciously.

  “Of course I remember you,” Bessie told the man. “From your childhood, but also from when you came back for your mother’s funeral.”

  Spencer nodded. “That was a bad time,” he told Bessie. “I don’t really remember much of that visit. That’s one of the reasons I’m here now. I loved the island when I was younger and I was hoping to recapture that feeling that I sort of lost during that horrible time.”

  “Your mother was a very special lady,” Bessie said softly. “Everyone who knew her still misses her.”

  “What’s the golf club for?” Doona interrupted in a harsh tone.

  Spencer looked at her and then looked at the club, as if unsure where it had come from. “Oh, I was just, that is, I was working on techniques for getting out of the sand behind my cottage when I saw you two walk past. I didn’t want to miss the chance to say hello to Aunt Bessie.”

  “When did you take up golfing?” Bessie asked.

  “Oh, I’ve been taking it up and then dropping it off and on for years,” Spencer replied. “It’s hard work and frustrating, but then I have a good round and I’m hooked all over again.”

  “Would you like to come back to the cottage for a cuppa?” Bessie asked.

  “Oh, I’d love to, if you wouldn’t mind,” Spencer replied.

  Doona gave Bessie a disapproving look, but Bessie ignored her and led the way back to her cottage. Inside she popped the kettle on and dug out a box of biscuits. She arranged them on a plate while Doona set out the tea things, then the threesome sat down at Bessie’s kitchen table.

  “Oh, this is my friend Doona Moore,” Bessie told the man. “Doona, this is Spencer Cannon. His mother was one of the Raspberry Jam Ladies.”

  Doona nodded towards the man, but didn’t speak.

  “It’s a real pleasure to meet you,” Spencer told Doona. “Bessie always has interesting friends, but I don’t remember her having such lovely ones.”

  Doona flushed. “Thanks,” she muttered, grabbing a biscuit.

  “So what’s brought you back to the island this time?” Bessie asked.

  “A little bit of nostalgia, mostly, I guess. I had a bunch of holiday time to use up so I thought I would come over for Tynwald Day and then stay and get some golfing in. The island has some of the best courses I’ve ever played.”

  “You were here for Tynwald Day?” Doona asked.

  “Yeah, I got here on the second and I’m booked through the end of next month. A nice long lazy stay, where the most ambitious thing I have to do is an odd round of golf.”

  “Did you see the Raspberry Jam Ladies at Tynwald Day?” Bessie asked.

  “Yeah, I did. They all said how great it was to see me and all that,” he shrugged. “They were mum’s friends and I shouldn’t say anything bad about them, but I never really liked any of them. Now they all seem like creepy old ladies, especially Mrs. Lewis.”

  “Did you hear about what happened to Nancy King?” Doona posed the question Bessie was about to ask.

  “I did, and you know what? They tried to give me some of that jam, but I turned them down. My mum was terrible at making jam, and a little obsessed with it. She made hundreds of jars of the stuff every year and it was always unpleasant. I promised myself that once I was an adult, I would never eat raspberry jam again.”

  Doona and Bessie exchanged glances. “That promise might have saved your life,” Bessie said.

  Spencer nodded. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about that,” he said emphatically. “I guess mum’s lack of cooking ability did me a favour after all.”

  Bessie poured out more tea. “Did you hear about Agnes Faragher?” she asked.

  “No, don’t tell me something’s happened to Mrs. Faragher,” he said. “She was always my favourite.

  “The brakes on her car failed and she drove off the mountain road last night. She didn’t survive the crash,” Bessie said somberly.

  “Oh, dear,” Spencer said, looking shocked. “I hadn’t heard. Wow, that’s weird, isn’t it? Two jam ladies dying in just a few days.”

  “You grew up around the ladies,” Doona said. “Do you know anyone who might have had a grudge against them?”

  Spencer laughed for a moment and then stopped suddenly. “Oh, you’re serious?” he asked. “I mean, they were just a bunch of women who met to make jam and compare notes on childrearing. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill them, especially now that they’re all old. Surely none of them have much time left anyway?”

  Bessie harrumphed loudly and Spencer flushed. “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean, that is, I wasn’t suggesting, I was, rather, that is, um….” He took a hasty sip of tea and looked helplessly at Doona, who laughed.

  “Well, whatever you meant, never mind,” Bessie said, waving his discomfort away with a hand that held a chocolate digestive. “Are you suggesting that anyone might have wanted to kill them years ago, then?”

  Spencer shook his head. “Oh, no, or rather, not really.”

  “Which means what?” Bessie asked.

  “Well, all the kids used to get forced to spend time together, especially on school holidays and the like. You know, all our mums would drag us to one of the other houses and the kids would be expected to play nicely together while the ladies drank tea and complained about our dads. Lots of us weren’t very fond of the ladies as a group, but that was just kid stuff. We didn’t want to kill them all or anything, we just didn’t want them to keep meeting all the time and making us come along.”

  “Anyone in particular especially unhappy with the group?” Doona asked.

  Spencer shrugged. “I don’t really remember all that much,” he said. “It was a long time ago. I suppose Ted Porter was the one that complained the most. He was one of the younger kids and I think he got r
ather bullied by the older King boys.”

  “Interesting,” Bessie said.

  “My biggest complaint was against Nathan Lewis, though,” Spencer said, his eyes unfocussed as he remembered the past. “He was, well, slow, I guess is the best way to put it. But he didn’t seem to understand that, which I suppose makes sense. Anyway, he always wanted to do whatever Fred King and I were doing, and he just couldn’t keep up. But if we didn’t include him, he’d go off and cry to his mother and then Fred and I would be in trouble,” Spencer sighed. “It was so many years ago now, I can’t believe how miserable I still feel when I think about it.”

  “But it’s all very interesting to me,” Bessie said. “Someone seems to be targeting the jam ladies and it’s important we figure out who that someone is.”

  “But didn’t you say Agnes’s accident was, well, an accident?” Spencer asked, frowning.

  “The police aren’t sure,” Bessie replied. “But I don’t like coincidences.”

  Spencer nodded. “It does seem a big coincidence. But like I said earlier, I can’t imagine anyone having anything against the ladies. Some of their husbands, maybe, but they’re all long dead.”

  “What do you mean?” Doona asked.

  “It was such a long time ago,” Spencer said with a sigh. “But I still feel like I shouldn’t talk about such things. For instance, I promised the Gelling kids I would never tell anyone how their father used to treat them. In those days, there weren’t shelters for battered wives or anything. Their mum had nowhere to go.”

  Bessie nodded. “That Jonathan Gelling was abusive is fairly widely known now,” she assured the man. “You aren’t giving up any secrets.”

  “He wasn’t the only one, though,” Spencer confided. “Matthew Faragher’s father beat him to within an inch of his life once. He’d figured out that Matthew was gay and he thought he could beat him straight.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Bessie said in surprise.

  “Yeah, obviously it didn’t work, although Matthew did try. He dated Hazel Gelling for a while, but they were really just friends. It got Matthew’s dad off his back, though,” Spencer recalled.

  Bessie shook her head. “Please don’t tell me you have any more stories like that,” she replied.

  Spencer shrugged. “Nathan used to say that his dad hit him, but we all thought he was making it up. He didn’t always have a clear understanding of reality and fantasy.”

  Bessie nodded. “I never spent much time with him,” she said. “Elinor didn’t take him out much, but I do remember talking to him once and him being certain that there was a family of fairies living in their garden.”

  “The Jones-Windsors,” Spencer laughed. “Oh my, I haven’t thought about them for years. Nathan was always talking about the Jones-Windsor fairy family and what they got up to in his garden. We all had to pretend to believe him or else he’d cry to Mrs. Lewis and we’d all get in trouble.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask if you can remember anything else,” Doona said with a smile. “Your childhood sounds, um, unusual.”

  Spencer smiled at her. “It didn’t seem so at the time,” he replied. “It was just like everyone else’s.”

  “If you think of anyone that might have any reason to kill the jam ladies, either all of them or any one of them, please call the police and talk to them,” Doona told the man. “They may well want to talk to you anyway.”

  “I’m happy to talk to them,” Spencer told her. “But I really don’t think I can help.”

  He finished his tea and grabbed one last biscuit. “I’ll just take this one for the walk back to my cottage, if I may?”

  Bessie smiled. “Of course,” she replied.

  “Oh, um, well, that is, um, Doona? I was wondering if maybe you’d like to have lunch with me one day next week?” the man said as he walked towards the door.

  Doona smiled, but shook her head. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t think I should. I work for the police here in Laxey and it’s just remotely possible that you’re tied into the Raspberry Jam Ladies case. Once they find the murderer, though, if you’re still here, I’d love to have lunch with you.”

  “I most definitely am not tied to any murders,” Spencer said angrily.

  “I know that,” Doona said in her most soothing voice. “But my boss is very particular about the company we keep outside of work. Anyone with any connection with a current case is strictly off-limits.”

  Spencer nodded, but he still looked angry. “Whatever,” he muttered.

  Doona grabbed her bag and dug out a scrap of paper. “Here,” she said after she’d scribbled something on it. “My phone number. Call me when the murderer is found and we’ll get lunch, on me.”

  Spencer took the paper and looked at Doona, his frown slowly changing to something close to a grin. “That’s a deal,” he said, finally. With a last wave at Bessie, he headed back out, grabbing his golf club from beside the front door as he went.

  “That was interesting,” Bessie said as Doona sat back down.

  “That’s one word for it,” Doona muttered, grabbing another biscuit.

  “He didn’t seem like your type,” Bessie said in a deliberately casual tone.

  “I don’t have a type,” Doona told her. “Right now, I’ll date anyone who’s breathing as long as they aren’t drunk when they ask me out.”

  Bessie laughed. “It isn’t that bad,” she argued.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Doona shrugged. “It hardly matters. I can’t see the case being solved while the man is still on the island.”

  “You should have more faith in John,” Bessie told her.

  “Yeah, I probably should,” Doona said quietly.

  Doona helped Bessie tidy up and then the women headed for bed.

  Sunday morning Bessie was up, ate a quick breakfast of cereal and tea, and was out for her walk before Doona was up. The sun was already coming up and the sky was clear as Bessie made her way along the beach.

  Back at home, Doona had the kettle boiling and Bessie had a round of toast soldiers with soft-boiled eggs, since Doona had done all the cooking.

  “Delicious,” she sighed as she swallowed the last of her toast. “I should make eggs more often.”

  “You didn’t make eggs this time,” Doona laughed.

  Bessie grinned at her. “You should make me eggs more often,” she suggested.

  “How about a trip into Douglas for some shopping?” Doona suggested as the pair washed up the breakfast dishes. “We could check out that new bookstore and have lunch somewhere.”

  “I was ready to go when you said new bookstore,” Bessie laughed.

  The drive into Douglas was uneventful and the friends spent an hour happily browsing through the many shops on the high street. The new bookstore was their final stop.

  “The store is lovely,” Bessie told the clerk who was ringing up her purchases an hour later. “If it were twice this size, it would be even better.”

  “We’d love to expand,” the girl told her with a smile. “But high street rents are so expensive, we thought we’d better start small. We’re hoping to extend the selling floor into the space upstairs if things go well. It’s just storage at the moment.”

  Bessie took her two very full bags from the clerk. “Well, I’ll certainly be back,” she assured the girl.

  Doona paid for her own much more modest collection of books and the pair headed back to Doona’s car.

  “I’m almost ready to skip lunch so that I can get home and start reading,” Bessie said as they piled their shopping into Doona’s boot.

  “I’m never ready to skip a meal,” Doona replied, laughing. “But if you really want to get home, we can just grab something quick.”

  “No,” Bessie replied. “Let’s have a proper lunch. I’m just excited because they had so many books I hadn’t seen before. I do hope they don’t hurt business for the bookstore in Ramsey where I usually shop, though.”

  “I would hope there are enough avid readers
on the island to support two good bookstores,” Doona replied.

  They went to their favourite little Italian restaurant and stuffed themselves with salad, garlic bread, and spaghetti. They were both too full for pudding.

  “How about if you each take a piece of tiramisu home with you,” the waitress suggested.

  “Sold,” Doona laughed.

  “Go ahead, make it two,” Bessie added.

  Back at Bessie’s cottage, both women curled up with new books for a few hours.

  “I’m ready for my tiramisu now,” Doona said after a while.

  “We should eat something healthy first,” Bessie told her.

  “I’m not hungry for something healthy, though,” Doona replied.

  Bessie laughed. “I’m not going to stop you, but I’m going to have a sandwich before I have mine. I think I’ll have a short walk as well. As much as I love reading, some fresh air sounds good.”

  Doona sighed. “I hate when you’re right,” she complained. “Let’s walk first,” she suggested. “Then we won’t have to feel at all guilty about the tiramisu.”

  The sun was shining, but the temperature was comfortable. They walked as far as Thie yn Traie and stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up at the wall of glass that was the back of the luxury home.

  “I thought someone had made an offer on this place,” Doona said.

  “Doncan said it fell through at the last minute,” Bessie told her. “Apparently the wife decided she’d rather have a summer home in Portugal.”

  “I’d have mine in Tuscany,” Doona said with a sigh. “Or maybe the south of France. What about you?”

  “If I were buying a summer home, I’d want something back in the US,” Bessie replied.

  “Really? You never talk about living there. Why would you want a house there?”

  Bessie shrugged. “When I was growing up we lived near Lake Erie in Cleveland and there were some lovely old mansions right along the water. Matthew and I used to talk about buying one of them some day.”

  “Is that why you bought your cottage on the beach?”

  “It was certainly part of the reason why,” Bessie told her. “Troeghe Bwaaue was as close as I could get to Matthew’s and my shared dream.”