Screaming Yellow (2 page)

Jennifer moved it onto a coaster, her face pinched in irritation, then turned away to stare at the painting of Jesus baring his heart on the wall. “She wouldn’t have confessed a murder to you, would she? How many times has that happened? I bet that even when you had the parish of St. John’s Wood you never got a ‘Bless me Father, I’ve strangled my husband and made it look like an accident.’”

Simon scowled. “Of course not, and Henry’s death was an accident as well you know. Besides, if she was such a cold-blooded killer, she’d hardly be likely to commit suicide, would she?” He pulled off his white collar and unbuttoned his shirt.

“Just because she didn’t confess doesn’t mean that she wasn’t wracked with guilt.” Jennifer was unfazed by the double negatives. “What about all those sleeping pills she took? She couldn’t sleep for the guilt eating her up inside.”

“She didn’t take sleeping tablets.” Simon shook his head. “Really, Jennifer. Where do you get all these ideas?”

“Was there a suicide note?”

“Why would there be?” Simon stood. “She was obviously very depressed.”

“What makes you so sure there wasn’t?” Jennifer held out a hand and Simon pulled her to her feet. “Have you seen the crime scene?”

“Of course not. I haven’t been to her house, only the hospital. The police called me there to identify her.”

“Why you?” Jennifer led the way into the kitchen and took the oven gloves off the hook. “Who found her?”

“The police. Susan Pargeter dropped in to see her and when she didn’t get a reply she called the police. My name was in her wallet on the ‘in case of accident’ card. The Lord knows why.”

Jennifer smiled. “She liked you. You were the only person in fifty miles who didn’t think she’d murdered her husband.”

“That’s because she didn’t. It’s a moot point, anyway. Whatever she did or didn’t do in her life is between her and God now. That smells good.” He nodded toward the lasagna Jennifer was pulling out of the oven. “I’m famished.”

“It’s a bit overdone,” she said. “It’s gone crispy on the top. I had the oven set to ‘flames of Hell’ for the first forty minutes.”

“Now who’s being disrespectful?” Simon smiled. “Shall I put the plates out?”

“Please.” Jennifer carried the dish to the small table. “Have we got any of that pinot blanc left? It’d go well with this.”

Simon put the plates on the work surface and checked the wine rack. “We have, yes.” He took the bottle out and ferreted in the cutlery drawer. “Where’s the corkscrew?”

Jennifer blushed. “It’s probably next to the computer. I’ll go and get it.” She trotted back to the study, pulling off the oven gloves.

“Straight back, mind.” Simon rattled the cutlery. “No chatting to your friends. I don’t want this conversation spread all over Laverstone.”

“As if I would,” Jennifer called, stealing a glance at her contacts list. Margaret was still online as well as Catherine from The Larches. She couldn’t wait for dinner to be over so she could log back on. She returned to the kitchen and gave the corkscrew to Simon. “Shall I be Mother Superior?”

“That got old the first time you said it.” Simon opened the wine, holding the bottle between his knees for leverage. “I wish you’d give it a rest.”

“Why should I when it needles you so?” Jennifer laughed and patted his arm. “How will the bishop react to a suicide in your parish?”

“He’ll give me one of his hard stares and a lecture on the saving of souls.” Simon broke into a grin. “I just hope she left something to the Church in her will, else he’ll probably demote me to St. Jude’s.”

“That’s Anglican, though.”

Simon laughed. “My point exactly.” He carried the plates and cutlery through while Jennifer took a loaf of garlic bread out of the oven and sliced it up. She arranged it in a bowl and went through to find Simon already dishing up two generous portions of lasagna. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the bowl. “Don’t let me have too much of that,” he said. “My parishioners would never forgive me.”

“Nonsense.” Jennifer put three of the twelve slices on his plate. “Garlic is good for you.”

“Not when it’s swimming in butter it’s not.” Simon held out his hand and Jennifer took it while he said grace. As soon as she repeated his “Amen” Simon bit into one of the pieces and chewed, a line of grease speckling his upper lip.

“What did she look like then?”

“Who?”

“Grace Peters.”

Simon gestured with the piece of bread. “You know what she looked like. Sixties, gray hair in a bun, all her own teeth.”

“No, silly.” Jennifer picked up her knife and fork. “What did she look like when you saw her? Was her neck broken? Bulging eyes from the blood pressure? What?”

Simon picked at the lasagna with his fork. “She looked…pale,” he said at last. “Look, do we have to talk about this? How was your day?”

“Fine. Same as always.” Jennifer knew her brother well enough to know when not to push a subject. “The bookshop in Dark Passage was having a sale. I bought you a nineteenth-century bible for your collection.”

“Thank you.” Simon smiled, though she suspected it was more for the change of subject than the gift. “I hope it’s not like the last one you got there.”

“With all the ‘Gods’ replaced with ‘G-dash-d?’” Jennifer laughed. “It was an American bible. They’ve decided naming God is disrespectful.”

“A Jewish tradition, I think you’ll find.” Simon pointed at her with his fork. “If God hadn’t wanted us to say His name He wouldn’t have given us vowels.”

Jennifer laughed and the rest of the course was eaten to small talk. She finished long before her brother, who had a second portion, and waited patiently for him to finish his plate. She cleared up and brought out the second course. “Pudding?”

“Lovely.” He opened his arms to allow easier access to the table. She put a dish in front of him and a can of pressurized cream on the table then returned to the kitchen for her own.

Simon squirted cream over the top of his pudding and picked up his spoon. It was a simple affair of apricot yoghurt poured over sliced banana. “I’m sorry.” He pushed the dish away and rose. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Jennifer looked up. “Don’t you want that?”

“No, thanks. After identifying corpses, this looks like chunks of dead flesh over empty eyes.” Simon clenched his lips as if she’d try to force him to eat it. “I’m not in a pudding mood.” He rubbed his forehead and cheek with one hand, brushing away the lock of hair that fell into his eyes. “Do you want coffee?”

Jennifer was torn between wanting to talk more about the suicide and wanting to get back onto the computer. She looked at her brother’s face. He looked tired. It was worth the sacrifice of another hour offline to encourage him to go to bed early, for then she’d have all night online if she wanted.

“Yes, please,” she said. “Make it a sweet one, though.”

“Coming right up.” Simon picked up his pudding dish and carried it into the kitchen.

Jennifer watched through the serving hatch as he switched the kettle on and emptied the yoghurt and banana into the bin. He stood there while the kettle boiled.

Jennifer finished her pudding and followed him into the kitchen. “Then send it to them.”

Simon laughed. “How did you know I was thinking about Mum?”

“You always do.” Jennifer dumped her dish into the sink and turned on the taps. “You always hesitate when you throw food away.” She mimicked their mother’s stentorian tone: “Don’t you waste that good food. There are children in Africa who’d be glad of it.” She smiled, reverting to her own voice. “No wonder you entered the priesthood.”

“What else could I do?” Simon smiled and added his empty bowl to the swirling water. “It was either that or start work at the factory. At least I got a grant for my education.”

“I didn’t need one.” Jennifer took the coffee mugs down from their hooks. “I had that scholarship to Middlesex. Not as prestigious as Queen’s, perhaps, but I did all right for myself.”

“You certainly did, dear.” Simon squeezed her hand. “I know you’re an excellent writer but I do think your imagination gets a bit carried away sometimes.”

“It’s my job.” Jennifer spooned coffee into the cups and passed them to him to add the hot water. “I have to think the unthinkable or nobody would read my books.”

Simon laughed. “Just stick to your pen name is all I ask. The bishop would have a fit if he connected me with the author of
She Died for Passion
.” He filled the cups and passed them back.

“I didn’t know he’d read it.” Jennifer smiled and added cream to the coffee, followed by a sprinkle of cocoa powder. “Do you want sugar in yours?”

Simon laughed. “No thanks, I’m sweet enough. Hey! I said I’d make the coffee.”

“I know, but you make it too strong.” Jennifer sprinkled brown sugar over the cream, allowing it to dissolve. “All the parishioners think you’re sweet enough to eat.”

“Who am I to dissuade them?” Simon smiled, the lines of fatigue easing from his features to leave him looking the part of the dashing young priest once more. “At least it keeps the church full.”

“Beauty equals bums on pews,” agreed Jennifer. “Even some of the men come just to ogle you.”

“All sinners saved as part of the service.” Simon winked at her.

“And a few damned for impure thoughts to keep the books even.” Jennifer carried the coffees into the living room. “Leave the washing up. I’ll do it later.”

“Thanks.” Simon followed her in. “I might have an early night, I think.”

“No work to do? That makes a change.” Jennifer sat in the armchair while Simon kicked off his slippers and lay on the sofa, propping himself into a seated position using the arm. His left sock had a hole in it.

“I wish you’d throw those out,” Jennifer said with distaste. “What if someone saw you with holes in your socks?”

“They’d think me a darling for devoting my life to poverty and the church. They might even put an extra pound in the collection box.” Simon waved his foot at her. “If they offend you that much you’re welcome to darn them.”

“Not a chance.” Jennifer shuddered. “Nobody darns socks anymore.”

“Why not?” Simon sipped his coffee. “Mum used to darn socks.”

“That’s because we couldn’t afford new ones. Now that Tesco sells three pairs for a fiver there’s no need to mend them anymore.”

“That’s a shame.” Simon took a sip of his coffee. “I think the world wouldn’t be in such a crisis if we did a bit more making do and mending.”

“You won’t save the world by darning socks.”

“It’s not just socks, though, is it? Plastic milk bottles. Whoever thought of plastic milk bottles should be excommunicated. What was wrong with the milkman’s glass bottles, eh? That was pure recycling at its finest.”

“And ten pence on the pop bottles,” said Jennifer. “I made my makeup money collecting pop bottles.”

Simon laughed. “Yes, sometimes you collected them from the back of the pub. You were a tearaway in those days.”

“So were you, before you decided the priesthood was a cushy number.”

“I was called to it,” said Simon. “I renounced my worldly passions.”

“Only after Eleanor Page dumped you.” Jennifer smiled and changed the subject. Simon would never go to bed if she wound him up. “What was that I heard about Old Tom digging up a grave today? Apparently he got the plots mixed up and tried to bury Mrs. Daniels over the top of Mr. Peabody.” Jennifer looked over at her brother. His eyes were closed, his hands still clasped around the coffee mug balanced on his leg. She stood and relieved him of it, setting it on the coaster he’d used for his glass.

She dimmed the lights on the way out of the room and sat in front of her computer again, logging on to her messenger program. She put her coffee to one side and poured herself a generous glass of wine while her chat program connected, the string of names changing to green or red to show their online status.

“Guess what?” she typed to her friend Catherine. “Grace Peters has taken a long drop off a short rope.”

Chapter 3

Susan writhed under Sir Robert’s gloved hand, the hot wax spilling onto her back and hardening. All the colors of the rainbow, or at least in the online catalog of the candle merchant, had been dripped, poured and ladled onto her back, bottom and thighs, running like the rivers of Eden across her smooth skin.