Downward Facing Death (12 page)

“Oh no. That's a smoky quartz. It's for protection.”

Keeley felt herself grow cold, as though the stone in her hand were leaching all the warmth from her body.

“What makes you think I need protecting?” She also wanted to ask
from whom,
but instead Megan answered solemnly:

“There are dark forces around you, trying to attach themselves to your energy flow. This will help strengthen you.”

“Oh. Right.” Keeley slipped the stone into the back pocket of her jeans, then remembered Megan's advice and took it back out, tucking it inside her bra instead. It didn't hurt to be careful, and the gesture certainly made Megan happy, judging by the beaming smile she now wore on her face.

“I could get my spiritual circle to go to your house—or perhaps the café—and do an energy-clearing and protection ritual, if you like. It could do a world of good. Things like murder, they leave an imprint on a place.”

“Er, maybe. I've got the decorators and kitchen fitters coming over the next few days, so I might be a bit busy. But we'll see after that,” she added as Megan looked crestfallen. The shopkeeper was so eager to help that turning her down was rather like kicking a puppy. Keeley wondered for a brief moment if Megan really was psychic, and if it would be worth showing her the poison pen letter. But if that were the case, then she would have been able to deduce who killed Terry Smith. Keeley could just imagine Ben's face if she asked him to give her the letter back before it had even been processed for fingerprinting and whatever else the police did with such evidence, so that Megan could read its “aura.”

“How did things go with Duane?” Megan asked, changing the subject. “He wants to get in touch with you, I saw him this morning.”

Duane. With everything else going on, he had been the last thing on Keeley's mind.

“He's a lovely guy,” she said, feeling awkward now, “but I'm not sure I'm ready to start dating.”

Megan gave her a sympathetic look. “Still pining for an old flame? I have crystals and even spells that can help with that, you know. But I think he wanted to ask you about the yoga class tomorrow, if you were still going to take it over? The usual instructor has been cutting her hours, and the center really needs someone to take the Saturday lunchtimes—they're absolutely full. He said you seemed really keen, and of course, it might help you feel more welcome.”

Keeley blinked and nodded, trying but failing to recall when she had apparently had this conversation with Duane. It must have been on their “date” at the inn, when she had tuned him out. Obviously, he hadn't just been talking about himself. She should have given him more of a chance, she thought, trying not to think about Ben and the way he had questioned her about Duane's walking her home.

“Yes, I'm looking forward to it. It's the twelve o'clock class, isn't it?” She had no idea, of course, but Megan didn't seem to notice.

“One o'clock, actually. It's the beginners, so it should be simple enough for you. I might go myself, I've heard yoga is brilliant for opening up your spiritual pathways.”

“It is good for body and soul,” Keeley agreed, thinking she shouldn't be so quick to dismiss Megan's off-the-wall beliefs. Not everyone had understood her need to take herself off to India and do two hours of yoga postures every day before dawn, after all. Each to their own. Plus, it would be nice to have a face she knew at her first class here.

The wind chimes that served as a door alert went off behind her, and Keeley looked over her shoulder as Megan rose to greet her new customer. She obviously knew him, and in fact, seemed to know exactly what he had come to purchase, as she went straight over to a small cabinet on the far side of the shop, next to the tarot cards. It was filled with mysterious-looking jars and pots with handwritten labels wrapped around them. Megan reached inside for one of them and placed it into the newcomer's hands. He was a thickset man who looked to be in his early fifties or so, with thinning, sandy hair and the kind of face that could only be described as “jolly.” He would have been handsome in his youth, she decided, but that had been eclipsed by a love of good food and no doubt good wine. There was an air of affluence about him, not least because of his well-tailored blazer, adorned with rather flashy gold buttons, and slacks, but a nervous air too, as if he were agitated about something. He beamed at Keeley as he moved toward the counter with the pot of lotion clutched in his fleshy hands, but it was a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

“This is Gerald Buxby.” Megan introduced the man in the tone of voice that suggested Keeley should recognize the name, but it didn't sound familiar to her. “The mayor of Belfrey,” Megan clarified as Gerald reached a hand for Keeley to shake. It was a surprisingly firm shake, she thought, as she realized that for some reason, she had expected it to be limp. He gave Keeley another broad smile that didn't quite meet his eyes.

“This is Keeley,” Megan continued her introductions, “she's opening the vegetarian café I was talking about the other day. Where that awful murder happened, of course.”

Gerald's smile wavered for a moment on his face, sliding over his features before settling into a wider beam than before.

“Of course, you're George Carpenter's girl. I knew your father well, he was a wonderful man.”

Another apparently known-to-her-father person whom Keeley had no recollection of whatsoever. She tried to remember if Buxby had been the mayor before she moved away, but it wasn't the kind of thing a seventeen-year-old girl paid attention to.

“I'm sorry, I'm not sure I remember you.” As she said that, she could have sworn she saw a hint of relief in his eyes.

“Oh, I wouldn't expect you to, my dear. You were a slip of a thing when I saw you last. I didn't live in Belfrey then, you see, I'm a Bakewell boy born and bred, but I used to see your father on a weekend for the bowls. Quite the player, old George.”

Keeley nodded in fond recollection. Her father had always said bowls was a “proper country sport,” along with fishing and foxhunting, the latter of which thankfully, to her vegetarian sensibilities at least, was now outlawed across the land.

“Your mother too, she was an amazing woman. How is Darla?”

Keeley wasn't sure which struck her as the more odd: the fact of anyone who knew her mother well describing her as amazing, or the idea that Keeley would have any real idea of whether her mother could currently be described as “well” or not.

“She's the same as ever,” she said, settling for an evasive truth.

“Good, good. Well, listen, if there's anything I can do to help you get yourself started up in business or settle back in, just let me know. I live just up the road from here, the big white house, you can't miss it.”

“Thank you.” Although Keeley should have been gladdened by his offer of help, for being on good terms with the town mayor couldn't do any harm to her rather dismal social standing, something about his offer felt hollow.

Or perhaps she was just being paranoid, after the open hostility of both the Glovers and Raquel. Keeley fancied she could feel her “protection” stone growing warm where it nestled at the side of her bra. She watched as Gerald handed his pot of cream to Megan, who wrapped it in hemp paper and began to ring it through the till. Her curiosity about its contents distracted her for a moment from Gerald.

“Is that something you've made yourself?” She was so certain Megan would tell her it was a potion designed to ward off evil, or commune with the fairies at the bottom of the garden, or something, that she felt almost disappointed when Megan said, “Yes, it's a foot lotion.”

“My feet swell something terrible in the hot weather,” Gerald explained, looking a little shamefaced to be discussing the state of his feet with her, “and Megan's cream is the only thing I've found that soothes them for any length of time.”

“I'm trying to develop my own line. Moisturizers, hand creams, that sort of thing, using herbs and natural ingredients, locally sourced where I can.”

Keeley was impressed, again thinking she had been too quick to write Megan off as flaky. Herbs and ethical ingredients—now, that was something she could understand. Not to mention the fact that it dawned on her Megan might well be able to offer her some useful business advice, for she was an outsider and had managed to successfully run a small business in Belfrey that may seem rather “different” to some of the locals. She had the town mayor as a regular customer, no less.

“I'd like to try out some of your products one day, they sound great,” she said honestly. Megan looked happy.

“They're doing really well, actually. Even Gerald's housekeeper has some of my soothing headache balm, doesn't she?”

“Yes, Edna gets quite overwrought sometimes, tends to suffer terrible migraines. She swears by your balm; in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she was needing some more soon, she seems more agitated than usual lately.” As the words left Gerald's mouth, he closed his mouth almost comically quick, as though he thought something may escape without his meaning to, then flushed. Odd, Keeley thought, and even more so when his color deepened as Megan went on, oblivious to his sudden discomfort, “I'm not surprised. Terry being killed has the whole town feeling out of sorts. It's not a nice thought, is it, knowing there's a murderer in our midst.”

Gerald's color went from red to a sickly white in an instant. “Yes, yes, it's really quite awful. Well, I've got a lot to do, girls, so good-bye, now.” He gathered up his hemp bag and rushed out of the shop, setting the wind chimes off loudly. Keeley watched him go, puzzled.

“Well, that was odd.”

“Yes, I thought so too.” Megan looked thoughtful. “But it is an unsettling subject and he must feel sort of responsible for it all, being the mayor. There's the food festival coming up next week, and it's not good publicity.”

“That's true.” Keeley remembered the annual food festival, held in the Town Hall, where various stall holders showcased some of Amber Valley's traditional and best cuisine. Pies, battered fish, and the finest sausages abounded. Her father had always done a roaring trade on food festival weekend, and it did pull in people to Belfrey for the day. Even so, the possibility of some bad publicity didn't warrant the man's demeanor. She had thought him nervy even before Megan explicitly referred to it.

“Did he know Terry well?” Keeley tried to sound as casually interested as she could.

“Well, I suppose he knows everyone, it's his job. But I wouldn't have thought he knew him on a personal level. Maybe he did, and that would explain why he seems so upset.”

“Maybe,” Keeley echoed, still looking at the doorway from which he had so quickly made his departure.

She left Megan with an invitation to share a bottle of wine with her at the weekend, and went to the local supermarket before catching a cab back to the cottage to stock up her all-but-bare cupboards. She hadn't been feeding herself very well, and also wanted to practice a few recipes. It was high time she started concentrating on menus, or she wouldn't leave herself time to get in all her stock. Although she hadn't had a formal word from Ben yet regarding her being able to start work on the café, she couldn't see what else the police were going to find from the scene that they hadn't already. She should have asked him about it yesterday, but of course had been distracted by that horrible letter. The altered date for the decorators and shop fitters to come in and work their magic was close, and so she should really make sure she had the all clear. Keeley thought about calling him but didn't, remembering Raquel's words and the way the other woman had sneered at her. Had implied she was one in a long line of women who had had a crush on the man.

Still, as Keeley squeezed an apple to check its firmness, or inspected a box of free-range eggs to make sure none were cracked, her thoughts kept straying back to both Ben and the killing of Terry Smith, which were now inextricably linked in her mind. Reason enough to stay away from the detective constable. As for her attempts at uncovering the truth, she felt as though she had uncovered something, but that something seemed to lead only to deeper mysteries. Raquel was certainly guilty of something, and her undisguised threat had shaken Keeley; even so, now that she was away from her and in more everyday surroundings, engaged in such an ordinary pastime as shopping, the idea that her old schoolmate could be behind arson and murder seemed far-fetched. The whole scenario, in fact, seemed so bizarre that it couldn't be true—but of course, it was.
Someone
had done it. Keeley thought about the mayor, and the way his face had changed at the mention of Terry Smith and the way he had rushed off. But Gerald had seemed such a genial, amiable kind of guy. Not to mention the fact that he had offered her his support, which was hardly conducive to his having tried to burn down her business just a week beforehand. She hadn't been convinced of his sincerity at the time, but given some of the other reactions she had experienced so far, Keeley thought she needed all the help she could get.

At least there was one area she felt sure of her own expertise, she thought as she unpacked her bags and surveyed her purchases stacked up on the kitchen side, and that was in providing her future customers with good food. If she could just get them through the door, she felt sure she could keep them returning. Cooking was something she enjoyed as much as her yoga practice, if not more; after all, any form of exercise could feel like a chore on tired days, but cooking she always found a pleasure. It was a character trait most definitely inherited from her father. Her mother preferred her food made for her, had even employed a cook to make use of the choice cuts of meat her father brought home.

Keeley's interest in cooking for others came from the months she had spent in India, where the kitchens were communal, with all visitors expected to take turns serving everyone else, and supplies had consisted mostly of vegetables and rice. There are only so many things that could be done with vegetables and rice, but Keeley had found she enjoyed rising to the challenge and creating new recipes, and when her fellow travelers had started clamoring for her dishes, she discovered a new love: creating food for other people. Now, thank God, she had more to work with than vegetables and rice.