TABLE OF CONTENTS
1 – Shopping for trouble
2 – Brucie’s new companion
3 – Visits to Iona and Lisa
4 – Bedroom eyes
5 – An alternative venue
6 – Dinner for Five
7 – Bernie’s bombshell
8 – Fruitless discussions
9 – Walking with Lurline
10 – A brother in Law
11 – Class at the clinic
12 – Help might be at hand
13 – OMG!
14 – What of Winston?
Epilogue
A note from Kristie
1 – Shopping for trouble
Wow, they’re big! And hairy! If pet-sitters were paid by the pound or kilogram I’d be making a fortune this time. I’m in charge of two huge German Shepherds.
Hi – I’m Merry Summerfield, freelance book editor, wanting to escape from the enjoyable but predictable company of my brother and housemate, Graham.
Just now and again, you understand.
So I came up with a scheme to get a little freedom and some extra pocket money as a house and pet-sitter. The dogs and cats of Drizzle Bay get company and regular meals. If there are houseplants or a veggie patch needing water, I'm your girl. And I can carry right on working on my trusty laptop.
Today I’d deserted the all-too-wordy novel I’m currently editing – a Spanish Jane Austen vampire saga. Honestly, these mixed-trope things are all the rage and you wouldn’t believe some of the themes people come up with.
I was trying to erect antiquated trestle tables in the vacant shop next to Winston Bamber’s classy art gallery. My large new charges, Fire and Ice, were watching attentively.
I’d caught my thumb in one of the uncooperative table stands and was sucking it to dull the pain when the vicar’s sister trotted through the open door and gave a loud squawk. Either Fire or Ice sprang up with an answering woof. Heather clutched a hand to her pink-shirted bosom, and her very pretty eyes did a huge boggle.
“Arrghhh!” was the most she managed to say for a moment or two.
“Sit!” I snapped at the offending Shepherd, and to my surprise, he did. “Good boyyyyyy,” I added in an enthusiastic tone, hoping we were making progress together.
“What –?” Heather asked. “Um – what are you doing? And why the dogs?”
That surprised me. “Didn’t Erik say?” Of all people, he should have told her. They’re finally getting married as soon as they can arrange it.
He’s Erik Jacobsen of the Burkeville Bar and Café, and he’s whipped off to wherever he used to live in the USA to attend to some details following the death of a divorced wife we barely knew he had. His off-sider, John Bonnington, has disappeared on mysterious and urgent Black Ops assassin business. I might be assuming too much there, but John is definitely into secret stuff. I’ve seen photos of him in scuba gear looking very shifty by unknown boats. And, in person, in board shorts, dripping wet, long bones hung about with the hardest muscles you’ve ever seen. Not that I was looking too intently, you understand.
Anyway…
I walked a few steps toward Heather. “I’m doing a pet-andhouse-sitting job for Erik and John. They’re both away at the same time, which I can’t remember happening in the years I’ve known them.” I put my sore thumb back into my mouth, and then, fearing I’d look like an overgrown baby, pulled it out again.
Either Fire or Ice gave a gusty sigh.
“They reckoned their staff would have plenty to do keeping the Bar and Café going without feeding and walking these two as well. I’m in the guest bedroom.”
“Of their house?” she asked rather sharply.
“Yes, of course.” (Their very nice beachfront house along in Burkeville on the main highway north of Drizzle Bay.)
“Why didn’t they ask me?” she demanded. Well, how would I know?
“Probably thought you had enough on your plate with your job at Iona’s, house-keeping for Paul, and getting ready for the wedding. And your mother’s up-coming visit, of course,” I said, thinking rapidly on my sneaker-clad feet.
That calmed her down a little. “I knew he’d be gone until next week,” she said, obviously referring to her fiancé, Erik – shorter than John, and maybe older than John, although now I know them a lot better I suspect it’s his thick, prematurely white hair that makes me think that. He’s certainly amazingly fit, and equally at home behind the Burkeville’s bar or ferrying tourists around in his helicopter.
I tried for a gentle, consoling tone. “Given the circumstances –ex-wife and so on – maybe he didn’t want to talk about it too much?”
“Angie-Jo,” she muttered. “Barely a word about her until she died, but I knew something was holding him back.”
“Do you think she was sick, or was it a road accident, or what?” Very nosy of me, I know, but sometimes it’s best to get the proper picture so you can comment. Or not, depending on the situation.
Heather shook her head. “Haven’t a clue. Hardly knew she existed – until she didn’t.” She shot another watchful glance at the dogs. The dogs watched her in return. I’d tied them to the iron
uprights on the small counter that used to hold a big roll of brown paper when this was a haberdashery store. Many years ago.
“I’ve arranged the morning off,” she added. And when I inspected her properly I saw she was very nicely made up, with her hair loose, and looking nothing like she does while working at Iona’s café. “Trying on wedding dresses,” she added with a soft smile.
“Belinda at Brides by Butterfly let me know yesterday she was planning to unpack new stock last night and said there were some I simply had to see.”
“More fun than this,” I said, waving a hand around the dirty old shop.
If all goes according to plan, and Vicar Paul McCreagh ever escapes from the Afghanistan-induced PTSD bunker he’s stuck in, Heather and I might become sisters-in-law. And I’d love that, but there’s a bit of water to flow under the bridge first.
“So what are you actually doing?” She wrinkled her nose.
Yes, it was a rather smelly old place, having been mostly shut up for ages. Musty and mushroomy. It needed a good airing out before I could possibly hold any sort of literary workshop in it. And maybe I’d squirt some French Begonia air fragrancer around, too.
“Well,” I said, giving my jeans a hitch because they have the hidden wide elastic inside the top and it never quite holds them up properly. “It all started with Lord Drizzle’s family history. He enjoyed writing it so much that he talked Lady Zinnia into doing the same about the art groups in the area. And then young Alex surprised us by mentioning some science fiction stories he’d written.”
“Probably an escape from his awful mother,” Heather inserted. “Maybe.”
But she’s dead now, poor thing, and he’s found a happy home at Drizzle Farm. Jim Drizzle makes sure he gets to school, not that he seems to need any encouragement, and Lady Zin sees he’s well fed. He lives in an old house-bus parked there. And OMG, I’d been glad he did, but that’s a story for another day. He’ll be leaving for university soon.
“Anyway,” I continued, “one thing has led to another. The coast seems to be full of people who want to write something and don’t know where to start. Or have already written it and want to know if it’s any good and what to do next. Jim keeps referring them to me.”
“He’s hard to ignore, isn’t he?” Heather said. And then added, “I tried writing a novel once, with recipes.”
I waited for her to continue but she simply shook her head. “It was rubbish.”
Maybe it wasn’t, though? Perhaps I could persuade her to join the soon-to-be critique group?
“Are you in a rush?” I asked. I would be if I was intending to try on wedding dresses, but she could always turn me down.
“No, not really.” She surprised me by walking slowly across to the Shepherds and holding out a hand to be sniffed. It got a full-on lathering from two long pink tongues. “Urk!” she exclaimed. “Look at that dribble. Now I’m all wet. But I guess I need to make an effort to get to know them better if I’m going to live with them.”
Was she picturing them flopped down on the hearthrug in front of Erik and John’s fireplace while she knitted baby booties? Nope –they’re outdoor dogs, with high-tech kennels in their own yard behind the café. Anyway, John is quietly renovating an old beach cottage he plans to move into eventually.
I tried not to laugh. “Well, if you’re really not in too much of a hurry, can you give me a hand with these tables? You’ll have to watch you don’t snag your top, though.”
The old trestles had been donated by Lucy Stephenson, the very thin and very nice head teacher at the Burkeville Secondary School. If you're not from New Zealand I should probably explain that the pupils start there at age twelve or thirteen and the most academic ones go on to university after maybe another five years’ education.
“No trouble,” Heather said. “Are you setting up a writing class?”
“Kind of,” I agreed, indicating one of the trestle stands. “We can start with this across the back. They’re some of the old tables from the school. The new ones have fancy fold-down legs, and these were going begging. So I begged.”
It took us only a few minutes working together. Stands lined up, tops lowered on, and then we stood reading the very creative graffiti. Oh dear. I was going to have to cover them with something…
“You should join us,” I said. “Either with your old book, or to try writing a new one.”
She blew a raspberry. “That’ll be the day!”
Darn – she would have been fun. “Okay. Thank you. Go and enjoy your dresses. Let me know if you find something gorgeous.” I gave her a quick hug before she bustled off.
So. This shop. It’s been empty for ages. When I gave it a thorough sweep I saw it had mice, although what they ate was a mystery. I’d put down half a dozen of those little plastic box-traps that don’t actually hurt them. If anyone went in after the cheese
then I’d set them free – way down the beach, where they could take their chances with seagulls or feral cats. Would a seagull eat a mouse?
And in the meantime, there being nothing to steal except some old tables that were too heavy to carry off without transport, I decided to leave the front and back doors wide open and take my big hairy charges for a beach walk. Hopefully the flow of air in through one doorway and out through the other would have it smelling better by the time we returned.
I unbolted the back door and found a short blind alley running behind Winston Bamber’s gallery with access to both premises. A waist-high plastic trash bin, a few dead leaves, and a brick were all it contained. I pushed the brick into place with my sneaker to hold the door open. The front one was easy enough, too. A big metal hook slid into a matching loop and held it steady.
Fire and Ice sensed action would be following, and shot to their feet, shaking their heads so the buckles and tags on their collars rattled. “Yes, boys,” I said. “Walkies.” No way in the world does John ever say ‘walkies’. I might be exaggerating if I said they rolled their eyes, but they certainly gave me big doggie grins with their tongues hanging out, and I'm sure they looked at each other mirthfully and sent silent messages about the easy-to-con woman who thought she was in charge of them.
I pushed my car-keys into a pocket, hitched their leads from the old counter fittings, patted my sweatshirt to make sure John’s special whistle was hanging there between my D cups, and off we went. The whistle is a stupid thing. I can’t hear it, no matter how
hard I blow it. Fire and Ice certainly can though; it gets their attention instantly.
Drizzle Bay looked most attractive in its early summer guise. The springtime flowers in the tubs along the main street had faded away and been replaced by cute little conifers. The shop windows sparkled. Saint Agatha’s garden borders now boasted pretty clumps of lavender, so Vicar Paul had been busy yet again.
And speak of the devil – or the vicar – there he was, striding toward me, dark hair ruffled by the breeze, teeth and dog-collar both shining white in the sun. I had the leads in my right hand so Paul chose my left side.
“Bigger animals than I generally see you with?”
He was definitely after information, so I sent him a fairly sweet smile and said, “John’s away for a few days.”
I wondered what he’d say to that, and sure enough his eyebrows rose and he gaped a bit. “Are you house-sitting for him? Where’s Erik?”
“Gone to the States. Sorting out legal stuff.”
He nodded along, and then asked, “To do with the wife?”
Okay, Heather is his sister and he was understandably interested in the man she was planning to marry, but I didn’t greatly like his tone. Just to wind him up, I said, “I guess so. Heather didn't seem to know much about his trip.”
Paul's teeth disappeared. “You've seen her this morning?”
“Yes, she gave me a hand to set up some trestle tables in the old shop.”
“So she’s not working?”
Wow – that was pretty fast. “No – she’s trying on wedding dresses.”
He chewed his bottom lip for a while. “Mmm… I thought she was being secretive about something. Avoided having breakfast with me. Dashed out yelling goodbye but giving no details.”
“Probably didn’t think you’d be interested,” I said, knowing he would indeed be intenselyinterested.
He coughed. “Yes, maybe. So what’s happening in the shop?”
See what I mean? Likes to know everything, but maybe it comes with the job and he simply feels the need to keep up with all of his parishioners whether we attend church or not.
By now we’d reached the pedestrian crossing leading over to the beach. The dogs lifted their muzzles and sniffed at the ocean air, their sensitive noses no doubt finding all sorts of interesting scents. Dead fish, discarded food, other dogs’ musky markers… Euw.
We walked across the road together, Fire and Ice now tugging at their leads. It was all I could do to hold them back. “Not yet! Not yet!” I gasped.
“Want me to take one?”
“Thanks Paul, but no. I’ll let them go on the other side.” But it was more of a case of them escaping than any controlled release. Away they bounded, leads trailing, me hoping they wouldn’t get hitched up on chunks of driftwood because I really should have taken them off. My plan had been to walk them further down, away from the most-used family area, but it was early yet for families, so not too much of a problem.
Would I ever see them again though? John has them trained to within an inch of their lives, so maybe it would be okay. I fingered
the whistle hanging between my boobs. Should I try using it? But right at that moment they wheeled around, barking furiously, spraying sand everywhere with their big feet, and bounded back to us, all joyful pants and bright eyes and wagging tails. Off they went again – another huge loop on the sand – and as Paul and I walked on, they repeated the process again and again, sometimes dipping down to dash through the shallows. It seemed they knew I didn’t want them to get too far away. Phew!
“The shop?” Paul asked again, once we were a little further down the beach.
“It belongs to Winston Bamber.” He probably knew that. “I think he had plans to expand the gallery into it, but maybe he does enough business online these days that he doesn’t need it. It opens onto the same alley the gallery does. He might use it for storage sometimes.”
“Yes,” Paul said, slipping an arm around my waist now we were pretty much out of sight of beachgoers. “But what are youdoing there? Reviving your plan for a community meeting room because my replacement church hall fund is growing too slowly?”
Was he offended? I hoped not. The cost of building anything substantial these days is terrible, even when people like old Matthew Boatman leave generous bequests. I shook my head. “No – that was too hard. All those Health and Safety regs and so on. But Jim Drizzle keeps recommending me to people who want to write things. Family histories, novels – whatever. So I thought we could get away with holding an occasional creative session there. Nothing formal. Read each other’s work and offer opinions…”
“With you as the professional arbiter?”
I shrugged. “I suppose. Lucy gave me some old school tables. It’ll be a ‘bring your own folding chair and cup’ kind of deal.”
The dogs wheeled around us again, still full of goofy enthusiasm, and galloped off, water flying back from their legs.
“Is Winston charging you?”
“He doesn’t need the money! He must be worth a heap, given the prices he puts on the artwork in his exhibitions. Think of all his lovely clothes and that vintage Rolls Royce he drives. No – he’s been very generous.”
Paul stayed silent for a minute or two and then said, “I met his sister again recently. Coral Bamber. She’s reverted to her single name.”
“Mmm,” I said. “I think she felt her married name – Clappe –was less than classy. Sounded too much like an STD?”
“It’s a wonder she didn’t hyphenate it to Clappe-Bamber,” he said, with a grin to soften any cruelty. “Or Bamber-Clappe.”
“She’s just the type to,” I agreed. “Always wears beautiful expensive shoes. Has a voice as sharp as the edges on cut crystal, and she somehow lets you know she’s far better than you are while not saying anything you can actually object to. I like Winston much better than her. He’s an old teddy bear by comparison.”
“Merry Summerfield, what descriptions,” Paul said with a chuckle. “Yes, I didn’t find Coral exactly warm. Unhappy, I think.”
Trust him to look on the kind side. I shrugged. “Sorry. Not nice of me. So what have you got against hyphenated names?”
“Nothing in the world. She just seemed the type. And you have to remember I’m hyphenated myself.”
So he is! I once nosily Googled his family and found his father was the deceased politician, Antony Valentine-McCreagh. I’ve never heard Paul refer to himself as anything but plain McCreagh, though. “Are you?” I said, hoping I sounded pretty vague. Good grief, if we ever got around to marrying I could be Merilyn SummerfieldValentine-McCreagh.
Or not.
He glanced at his watch. “I need to get back. Are you okay on your own?”
“With two attack dogs at my beck and call? I’ll be fine, but I have things to do as well so I’ll walk with you.” I was hoping my dear departed mother, Sally Summerfield, had left a supply of old single bedsheets lurking in the base of the linen closet. They’d be ideal to cover those graffiti-decorated table tops.
We turned together and retraced our steps. The change in direction meant the sea breeze blew my abundant hair forward, and I silently cursed I hadn’t fixed it up in a ponytail.
Paul removed his arm from my waist at a respectable distance from the busier part of the beach. Affectionate, but not publicly so. And no further hints of passion in private, either, after those wonderful kisses way back in winter. Yes, there’s a way to go between us yet. No hyphenating for me in the foreseeable!
Fire and Ice were still bounding around in great enthusiastic sandy loops so I tugged John’s whistle from my cleavage and gave a long, silent blast.
“It doesn’t work,” Paul said, looking at me doubtfully, but the dogs immediately stopped their shenanigans and trotted over to us.
“Grab one,” I said, and he reached for the damp sandy loop on one of the leads while I nabbed the other.
“Good boyyyys! Good boyyyys!” I enthused, adding some canine neck-scrubbing to show them it was what I expected. Long pink tongues swiped at my hands and hot breaths issued from between sharp white teeth that could have chomped my fingers off in seconds. Yes, good boys when they want to be, but I’d seen them in action with John in charge, and I wouldn’t have moved a muscle if they’d had me in their steely gazes then.
Paul left me at the front of Saint Agatha’s, and the dogs and I ambled back under the shop verandas. Darker-toned Fire decided the tub with the conifer on the corner was the ideal place to raise his leg. I didn’t fancy trying to stop a big dog in mid-widdle so I turned my back for a few seconds, pretending to look at the display in Meggie Houseman’s embroidery store window and vowing I’d come back with some water later to dilute the effect. Better than over the paving stones, anyway.
The old shop was as I’d left it, apart from a distinct smell of … smoke? Seemed someone had wandered in for a look while we’d been gone. Never mind – as long as they’d wandered out again, it was fine.
I stepped into the alley to remove the brick so I could lock the door. Fire and Ice barged past me, growls rumbling low in their throats. What the?
Then, “Body! Body! Body!” they barked, freezing on the spot, and glaring at the big green plastic wheelie bin from which a distinct odor of trash now issued.
A female leg hung out of it. The lid was no longer totally closed. Surely it was some piece of old sculpture Winston had discarded from the gallery?
The dogs moved nearer, nostrils opening and closing with every avid sniff. Their displeasure echoed around the enclosed concrete space.
Then I registered the shoe. It had the beautiful styling and distinctive lacquered red sole of a Christian Louboutin for sure.
“Coral! Corrral! Corrrrral!” Fire and Ice rumbled. Or maybe it was my imagination.
Their hackles were up and their eyes were now maniacally wide.
I staggered back against the wall. “Leave it,” I begged. Most of my voice had deserted me. Surely this was some terrible joke?
Two sets of big pointed ears pricked up even further. The dogs must have sensed my distress because they dashed back and stood beside me, pushing their noses against my hands.
“This can’t be for real, boys, can it?” I croaked. “Not again?”
I was too good at finding dead people. First Isobel Crombie in Saint Agatha’s aisle. Then Beefy Haldane’s son looking as though he’d been crucified on that tree at the beach. And poor old Matthew Boatman in his kitchen. I’d had nothing to do with any of the deaths, but fate had it in for me: I’d been unfortunate enough to see the bodies each time.
Somehow I held my breakfast down while I stared at the grisly sight of what was probably one of Coral Clappe’s legs.
There’d been no lights showing in the gallery as we passed it, and no sign of Winston’s luxurious car parked outside, so it was up
to me to do what I could. What if the dogs were wrong and it wasn’t a body? Or wasn’t a body, yet?
I took a couple of faltering steps toward the trash bin and looked more closely. No, not a piece of sculpture. There were pores on the skin. Oh God…
Nothing moved. Not the leg, not the dogs, and not me while I tried to gather some common sense and courage.
Then I touched the leg with the tip of one finger. Warm. Shivers chased themselves up and down my spine. She’d been dumped very recently. Was I in danger, too? I stood there panting for a few seconds, almost as though I’d joined the dog team.
No – if there was anyone else around, Fire and Ice would keep me safe. I was the source of the super-premium food in the big bag John had left in the pantry for me, and therefore I was worth protecting. It was a small consolation anyway.
I needed to lever the lid further up and see if I could help. Would I be phoning the ambulance or the Police? How would I avoid disturbing any evidence? Smudging any possible fingerprints? Because that leg was terribly still.
The best I could come up with was to use my car key, currently tucked away in the pocket of my jeans. I wrestled it out with difficulty (must cut down on desserts) and lifted the lid up a little further with it. Two seconds later I knew it would be the Police.
I grabbed the dogs by their collars, hauled them away, and staggered back into the shop, slamming the door to hide the grisly sight. I shrieked and moaned until I made it as far as the grubby old bathroom. Then I somehow managed to hold my hair out of the way before hurling my breakfast into the uncleaned-for-years toilet bowl.
It was a while before I dared to open my eyes and try standing again.
Once I set a rumbling flush into action and slammed the door behind me, I found four big brown eyes watching with concern. Two hairy bodies then leaned against my thighs, maybe to hold me upright, but I’d like to think it was to comfort me. I reached down and petted their big soft ears and took a deep breath of resolve.
2 – Brucie’s new companion
There was nowhere to sit apart from the toilet, and I certainly wasn’t going back in there. I couldn’t stand up for long, though. My heart galloped and my knees trembled as I crept toward the tables Heather and I had set out. I leaned on one, shaking like someone very elderly and infirm – a total contrast to my usually healthy and buxom self.
I needed to phone DS Bruce Carver because it would save going through the emergency services. I needed to sit down. I needed to rinse out my mouth. I needed to un-see what I’d just seen. Fat chance any of the last three would be happening.
Could I make it as far as the old seat Jasper Hornbeam had built around the elderly oak tree in the middle of the street? A glance out the shop doorway showed it was occupied by a couple of mothers and their toddlers, so not an option. And my shocked brain told me I probably needed to stay in the shop to prevent anyone else wandering in. Fair enough.
With that in mind I unhooked the front door, closed it, and pulled out my phone. I leaned against the doorframe, wishing I had a bottle of water with me. The tap above the filthy little kitchen sink currently had a string of drippy green slime attached to it. We needed to get that fixed!
I gave one of the trestle tables a good wobble to see how stable it would be and cautiously climbed aboard, positioning myself over one of the end supports. Better than standing, anyway, and it seemed willing to hold my somewhat curvy five-foot-eight. I scrolled until I found the Detective Sergeant’s number.
“Carver!” he bellowed. What – no friendly greeting? We’d advanced from ‘Ms Summerfield’ to ‘Merry’ somewhere in the last year. Now it seemed we were back to square one.
“It’s M-Merry Summerfield,” I managed between chattering teeth. “I’ve just found Coral Clappe. Winston B-Bamber’s sister.”
“Yes-yes,” he snapped, his irritation plain.
“Dead,” I said. “Face all bloody. We don’t need an ambulance.”
There was a short, stunned silence.
He cleared his throat, and mercifully didn’t follow it with, ‘another one?’ “Where are you, Ms Summerfield?” he asked more gently.
“I’m… I’m… and sh-she’s here too,” I stammered. “The old shsh-shop n-next to the g-g-allery.”
“Be there in a few minutes. Are you on your own? Anyone to keep you company?”
He shocks me when he turns nice. I shook my head, which he’d never have seen, and gulped in a big breath. “T-two dogs.”
“What? Two dogs killed her? Did you see the attack?” Now he sounded appalled.
“No! Two dogs for c-company. John Bonnington’s dogs. Can you… can you… bring a bottle of water? I’ve been sick.”
“No trouble. I’ll contact Forensics. We’re on our way.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and tapped off, forgetting to thank him. To my surprise the paler of the two dogs – Ice – scrambled up and joined me, laying his face on my knee and heaving out a warm breath that I felt even through the denim of my jeans. Good grief –would the table hold us both? I hadn’t tied them up again, of course.
They’d dashed away from me into the alley, following their noses to the scent of blood, and I must have let go of their leads. After that I’d had other things to think about.
Not to be outdone, darker Fire padded across to us. No way was he coming up too! I leaned an arm over the side of the table and petted his ears, rubbing down into the thick fur around his neck, and back up, again and again. His eyes slowly closed.
I sat, marooned like a becalmed boat, staring around the old shop as I waited. High up in each of the twin front windows a single strand of faded red Christmas tinsel hung – maybe too high for Winston to reach. I could see where old staples had secured other decorations lower down on the side walls. Tufts of colored foil and the faded ends of crepe paper streamers were still visible. Across the window above the central door, in fussy old black lead-lighting, I made out REHSAD and REBAH in two lines. It took me a while to translate that into ‘HABERDASHER’ in reverse, but it was good to have something to distract me.
In each of the windows, old sheets of the Coastal Courier had once obscured the view inside but they’d escaped from their suncrisped tabs of tape and drifted to the floor. I clutched my stomach, still feeling very queasy, and wondered when they dated from. Anything, anything,but thinking about what I’d just seen.
I licked my sour lips, wondering if I could go as far as my Ford Focus and check for peppermints or butterscotch sweeties that might be lurking in the glove compartment, but true to his word Bruce Carver didn’t take long. He must have been out on the main highway, heading to somewhere else, and diverted in a hurry.
He, and an unknown man – not his usual off-sider, Marion Wick – halted outside the door and peered through the smeared glass. Fire shot across the shop and started barking fit to bust. Ice skidded off the table and joined the ruckus. I got down with less speed and grace than Ice and stumbled across to the door, still shaky, giving each Shepherd a good neck-rub as a ploy to grab their leads. After a bit of tongue clicking and ‘good boying’ I was able to haul them –straining and complaining – back to the counter, and secure them to the old iron fittings. Not that it stopped their earth-shattering barks.
Bruce Carver opened the door a short distance. “Safe to come in?” he yelled over the din.
I nodded. “Quiet!” I roared at the dogs. Useless.
I dug into my T-shirt and attempted to untangle the dog whistle from my bra so I could try a blast of that. How had the darn thing got hooked around the metal strap-adjuster?
It wasn’t coming loose, and the dogs would be dragging the counter the length of the shop any minute now. Desperate to retrieve the whistle, I hauled my arm out of my sleeve, angry and panting, and far beyond worrying I was showing Bruce Carver and his tall friend acres of white boob and black lace. Honestly, you find someone dead and niceties like that fly out the window…
I struggled to free the cord while they watched patiently (and attentively) half in and half out of the shop. Finally I was able to bring the whistle to my lips and give a long silent blast on it. The barking cut off like magic and I got dressed again.
“Ms Summerfield,” the DS said, gaze darting rather disconcertingly from my chest to my face a couple of times. “Sorry
we meet again under distressing circumstances.” He handed over a bottle of water dewed with condensation and I took it with a grateful nod. His fingernails were still bitten, I noted. At least his over-strong cologne helped to banish the smell of sick from my nostrils.
The other man cleared his throat. He wore a cream suit. How hadn’t I noticed that, even in my whistle-boob-bra panic? A cream suit? Not the most practical choice for the mucky circumstances in which he’d soon find himself. DS Carver’s constant dark gray was a lot more sensible.
Between the cream jacket lapels, a blindingly white shirt sat open at the neck and framed a slice of tanned chest. It covered what looked like a very taut six-pack. A python belt held up his thigh-hugging pants.
Not from around these parts, then, although I wouldn’t mind him around myparts.
A sudden flashback of what I’d seen outside in the alley put that little fantasy to rest in a hurry. He looked like something out of Miami Vice. Had he miscalculated the weather here?
As I unscrewed the cap from my bottle of water, the DS said, “This is Homicide Detective Sean Manahan. On secondment from the Boston Police Department in Massachusetts to see how we operate here.”
Good grief – I didn’t know they did things like that, but I guess baddies are baddies in any part of the world and there’s always something new to learn. I swished some water around my teeth, grimaced, and swallowed before saying, “Very pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise, Ma’am,” he said in a slightly surprising accent. He had big brown eyes, the better to check out my boobs with. I hadn’t
yet progressed below his python belt, but if he was going to be so obvious, I just might – once I’d recovered from the shock of finding poor Coral.
Both men gazed around the shop. “So where’s the victim?” DS Carver asked.
Ah. Yes. I’d slammed the door and there was nothing on view.
“Out the back,” I said, once I’d had another glug of water.
“She’s definitely dead,” I added as an emergency paramedic appeared at the front of the shop.
Bruce beckoned him in, and pointed to the back door, which caused more comments from the dogs.
“And…? What goes on here?” Boston’s finest asked, checking out the collection of graffiti-topped old tables.
I grimaced. “Probably nothing for a while now this has happened, but I was going to run a writers’ workshop.”
“And you own these premises?”
“No – the man next door does.”
“Winston Bamber,” DS Carver inserted. “The gallery owner.”
“Ah. Yep. Wicked expensive place. Charges like a wounded buffalo.” Sean Manahan nodded, and wrote something in a small notebook he’d magically produced. It sounded like he’d already checked out the Drizzle Bay area if he knew that.
“The body is Winston Bamber’s sister,” I said. “I could tell from her shoes.”
The big cop from Boston suddenly froze – as still as a dog scenting something worth chasing. He stared at me, then swallowed.
I set the bottle down on the nearest table after another couple of swigs and swishes. “Thanks so much for the water,” I added in
Bruce Carver’s direction.
“You’re very welcome, Ms Summerfield. Now, might we just…” He pointed to the back door as the paramedic returned, shaking his head.
“Yes, absolutely,” I quavered, hoping they didn’t expect me to go back out there with them.
“How long have you been here?” Sean Manahan asked.
“About as long as it took you to arrive.” I didn’t mean it rudely, but it seemed to get his back up.
“So I’ll ask you another way; what time did you get here?”
Oh come on!He was making me feel like the murderer. “First?
Soon after nine, because I had to meet the man bringing the tables in his van.”
“So quite a lotlongerthan it took us to arrive.”
What? I’d given him a perfectly correct answer. He should have asked his question more precisely.
“And who drove the van?” His eyes didn’t look so friendly now, and weirdly his tan seemed to have faded.
“The caretaker at Burkeville Secondary School.”
“Albie Sedgewick,” Bruce Carver supplied.
Sean Manahan noted it down, although why would he bother if Bruce Carver already knew?
“And he helped you set the tables up?”
I glared at him. Assumptions! “No – the vicar’s sister did.”
Bruce Carver’s mouth quirked a bit.
Cream-suit’s brow crinkled. “What was she doing here?”
“Choosing her wedding dress.”
His brow crinkled further. Of course there were no wedding dresses to be seen.
He turned to Bruce Carver. “Do you want to try interrogating her? She’s maybe in shock. I don’t think we’re being given straight answers here.”
“I don’t think you’re asking straight questions,” I muttered. Unfortunately, he heard.
“Ms Summerfield,” DS Carver said in a placating tone, “I know you must be very upset, so why don’t you start at the beginning and take us through what happened in your own words. Briefly, if possible.”
Cream-suit narrowed his amazing brown eyes and looked daggers at me.
Yes, that was definitely a good idea. “Well,” I said. “The tables arrived here in the van just after nine. I was starting to set them up and Heather, thevicar’ssister,” I said with helpful emphasis for the Boston cop, “popped in and said hello on her way to Brides by Butterfly to choose her wedding dress. She gave me a hand setting them up. It only took a few minutes. I had the dogs secured right where they are now.”
Both men nodded.
I grabbed a deep breath. “But the place had been closed up for yonks and was a bit stinky so I decided to open both doors and let it air out while I took the dogs for a walk. There was nothing to steal,” I added, indicating the old tables and shrugging.
“Yes-yes,” Bruce Carver said, encouraging me to hurry up.
“So I opened the back door first. It goes into an alleyway. There’s a wheelie bin for garbage there, and a brick, but that’s all. I
