Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) (3 page)

Mandy grunted, tipped a bowl of risen dough onto a bench top and pummelled it. Libby watched. Nothing relieved angry feelings better than bread-making. It had been a favourite therapy during her miserable marriage.

For ten minutes, only Mandy’s effortful gasps and the whirr of the food-processor disturbed the peace of the kitchen. The corners of Mandy’s mouth still drooped. She sniffed. Libby had an idea. “Why don’t you make the frosting?”

As Mandy dumped the bread dough back into a stainless steel bowl, for its final proving, she explained. “I’ve weighed everything out, but the sugar needs watching.” The teenager scraped dough from sticky fingers, shrugged and picked up a wooden spoon. “Make sure it all melts before you turn up the heat. That stops the mixture turning into a gritty mess.”

Mandy, eyes on the saucepan, stirred. “Libby?”

“Mm-hmm.” Best not to sound too interested.

“Dad threw a knife at Mum.”

“A knife?” Libby stiffened, sugar spilling from the spoon. Her hand shook.

“It was only a knife from the table – not a carving knife or anything.”

“Is your Mum OK?”

Mandy nodded. “Think so. She says it’s not the first time, nor the last. He missed, anyway.”

Libby lowered the spoon and took Mandy by the shoulders. “Your Mum needs to tell the police.”

The girl shrugged Libby’s hands away and swiped a sleeve across her eyes, smudging black mascara across one cheek. “She won’t. I’ve told her. She says he doesn’t mean it.”

“Mandy, that’s rubbish.” Libby closed her eyes, fighting memories. She took a long, slow breath. “Of course he’s sorry, afterwards. They always are, but it happens again.” Fingernails bit into the palm of her hand. “Has he ever hit you?”

Mandy tossed her head. “He tells Mum it’s her fault for making him angry, but anything sets him off. It was just about watching football on the telly, yesterday.”

Libby pulled out a chair and eased on to it. She’d had just such a stupid row with Trevor. They argued―shouted―about nothing, and she threw his dinner in the bin. He cracked the TV remote control against her shoulder, all his strength behind the blow. His face, contorted with fury, sometimes appeared in Libby’s dreams. She’d been terrified he’d hurt the children.

“Mandy.” She took a moment to control her voice. “Mandy, if your mother won’t do anything about it, then you should leave the house. You’re old enough.”

Mandy bent over the saucepan. “I think the sugar’s ready to boil.”

Libby handed over the sugar thermometer. “Think about it. I’ve got spare beds at my house if you need them.”

Mandy sniffed and rubbed her nose, but said no more. Libby let it go. The girl had to make up her own mind.

The doorbell tinkled. Libby left Mandy at the hob, watching water boil in the pan, and stepped into the shop, pulling on a pair of clean white gloves. “Can I help you?”

Tall, grey-haired, a little older than Libby, and dressed in a long blue overcoat, the new arrival smiled. “Good morning.”

Libby stared. “It’s you. The man with the dangerous dog.”

“So it is. We seem to have got off to a bad start.”

“I should say so.”

He grinned. “I gave Bear a good talking to before I handed him back to Mrs Thomson.”

Libby’s lips twitched. “Quite right. He needs to learn to behave. Fuzzy’s a bit of a menace, of course.”

“Well, to be honest, I liked the look of Fuzzy. I admire a cat that stands up for itself. Bear doesn’t agree.”

Libby looked at the blue eyes. Yes, definitely familiar. Where else had she seen them? “Did you want a sandwich? Or cake?”

“Just a ham salad baguette, please.” He patted his middle. “Have to watch the weight, these days.”

Mandy arrived from the kitchen. She’d redone her mascara. “The frosting’s ready, Libby.” She stopped. “Hello, Mr Ramshore.”

Libby looked from one to the other. “Ramshore. Like the detective sergeant?”

He smiled. “My son.”

Coffee and Suspicion

This new Ramshore’s first name turned out to be Max. “My parents were Norwegian.” That explained the blue eyes.

Libby chose a table in a corner of the coffee shop, while he bought two lattes. “I thought I owed you a cup of coffee. I wasn’t too gracious, earlier. Bear is much too big and loud.”

“What breed is he?”

“Carpathian Sheepdog. Very gentle, like many big dogs, but he needs an incredible amount of exercise. He belongs to my neighbour, Mrs Thomson, really. Her husband kept him on the farm, but old Eric had to go into a care home before he died―dementia, I’m afraid. I bought the farm and I look after Bear when he gets too much for Mrs T. Which is quite often. She still lives in the old farmhouse down the lane from me.”

“Well, anyway.” Libby wasn’t ready to forgive him, or Bear, completely. Besides, she was suspicious. “Did you know I worked in the bakery? I’m sure you didn’t just happen to walk in today.”

“No, to be honest, my son told me about you.”

“The detective sergeant himself? What did he say?” She glared. “Aren’t the police supposed to keep things confidential?”

“He just suggested I look out for you, on my marathon Bear-walk this morning. He thought you might be upset, after that business on the beach. Then, you had your little accident.”

“Caused by Bear.”

“And Fuzzy.” His eyes twinkled. “I can see we’re not going to agree on that. Anyway, I felt bad, so I asked one of your neighbours where you might be going. It’s a small town, you know.”

“You can say that again.” Where did looking out for each other stop and nosiness begin? “Have you always lived here?”

He nodded. “I went to school with Susie Bennett, you know. She wasn’t in my year, she’s a couple of years younger, but I knew her.” Libby waited for the inevitable slur on Susie’s character, but he surprised her. “She was a nice girl. Not such a nice family, though.”

“Oh?” Libby hesitated. “You’re the first person I’ve heard say anything good about her.”

“Who have you asked? Wait. Let me guess. The WI?”

“No.” Libby’s face burned. “The local history society, actually. They all knew her at school.”

“And didn’t approve.”

“Maybe they were jealous?” She was thinking aloud.

He stirred coffee with a long spoon. “Susie was too pretty for her own good, and too ready to believe everything the boys told her. You know how teenage boys can be. They try it on with girls, then if one says yes, they pull her reputation to pieces. That’s how it was with Susie. Hardly any friends, just boys who wanted her for one thing. She had a terrific singing voice, though.”

“I hear her album’s going back on sale.”

He crumbled a macaroon onto the table. “The vultures don’t wait long to make a profit, do they?”

“She went to America, before she became famous, didn’t she?”

“It all started here, though. Small local gigs at first. It was at Glastonbury, where they got their big break.”

Libby shivered. “Glastonbury. Cold, wet and smelly, as I remember.”

He laughed. “You’ve been there, then? Still, it’s great place for up-and-coming bands. Mickey Garston, the big American music producer, heard Susie there, signed up the band and married her. It all happened pretty fast. He whisked her away and the next we knew, she was on the cover of million-selling albums and on TV.”

“What about her family?”

“All dead or gone away. No Bennetts left in the town.”

“That’s sad.”

“Typical story of a small-time girl with a turbulent life, I’m afraid. The marriage with Mickey Garston didn’t last long. They split up years ago, but she never married again.”

“No, she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring when I found her.” Did Max know about the plastic ring? Had Joe told him she’d moved the body?

Max drank the last drops of coffee and set the cup down with care. “My son mentioned a different ring. He said you seemed bothered by it.”

“Bothered? No, why should I be?” Her face was burning.

“Come on. What are you hiding? I’m not the police, you know.”

“No, but your son is.” She bit her lip. Now it sounded as though she’d committed a huge crime. “OK. I moved the body. I pulled her hand out of her pocket and the ring fell on the beach. That’s all. I know I shouldn’t have touched her, but she looked so―well―vulnerable, I suppose. I wanted to help. Does that sound crazy?”

“I told you, I’m not the police.” It was his turn to hesitate. “Truth is, I know a bit more about Susie than the others around here. It’s private information, and maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone, but it makes me think there was something more going on than her committing suicide.”

Libby licked dry lips. “D’you mean, you think she was murdered?”

“Mmm. Sounds a bit melodramatic, doesn’t it?”

Libby thought about it. “That scene at the beach―it wasn’t like a suicide.”

“The police have closed the case, at least unless the coroner disagrees.” He shook his head. “Frankly, if no one does anything, she’ll be a statistic: just another girl who grew too rich and famous and couldn’t handle it. I don’t want to let that happen.”

“What is it you know?”

Max blinked and looked away. “Not here. We need to talk somewhere more private. Can I take you to dinner tonight? There’s a restaurant near Taunton where they know me. They’ll let us have a quiet table.”

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.