Downward Facing Death (15 page)

Half an hour later, she had a notebook full of new recipes, including some specifically for the food festival, such as a spicy root curry and a twist on the traditional summer fruit pudding—and, of course, the moussaka—and had finalized the spring–summer menus to go to the printer. On Monday, in just three days' time, the kitchen contractors and decorators would arrive. The revamp of the premises would also go a long way, she couldn't help thinking, to exorcising the shade of Terry Smith.

After a light tea, she settled down on the sofa to read a book, but found her eyelids drooping before she had made much headway on the first chapter. Keeley dozed off with the evening sun warm on her face and the sound of birds singing outside.

They were silent when she woke with a start. A different sound had woken her, but one that she couldn't quite place in her sleep-fuddled state. It had grown cold now and was creeping toward darkness, and her neck ached where it had been resting at a funny angle on the settee. Keeley sat up and stretched, her ears straining to locate the strange noise that had woken her, but there was no noise save the distant drone of a car at the bottom of the hill. She wondered if it had been the church bells, which rang out around six o'clock for evening prayers and, being only a few roads away, could be easily heard by everyone on Bakers Hill. But a glance at the clock showed it was well past that; nearly half past seven, in fact. She had been asleep for nearly four hours.

Wondering if it was something outside, she opened the back door and surveyed the back garden, but heard nothing. She chided herself for being so nervous as she padded back through the house, but nevertheless, the sense of something ominous remained with her. As she opened the porch door with a view to checking out the front, a part of her knew exactly what she would find even as her mind registered the clattering sound that had awoken her as having been that of the letterbox.

The white envelope looked innocently up at her. There was no name on the front this time, but then it scarcely needed one.
Please,
Keeley prayed even as she knew it was futile,
be a leaflet or something.
But as she picked it up, a single white sheet of paper slid easily into her hand, the single line of black letters staring out at her accusingly.

BITCH. STOP SNOOPING, OR YOU'LL END UP JUST LIKE HIM.

Keeley raised a hand to her mouth, her fingers trembling. The warning, coming as it did after Ben's admonition of her the night before, rang in her ears as though the letters themselves could speak.

A wave of reckless anger came over her then, and she unbolted the front door and stepped out, the paper clutched in her hand. She looked up and down the road, but saw no one.

“Why don't you come and say it to my face!” There was no reply other than the hoot of an owl, echoing back at her. Suddenly realizing she was very alone, she retreated into the cottage, slamming and locking the door behind her, then lowered herself onto the sofa slowly, staring at the paper in her hand. She felt very acutely that this was no mean joke; whoever was doing this hated her with a passion so tangible, it seemed to seep from the paper and between her fingers.

Regardless of how she felt about him, or that he would likely say “I told you so,” Keeley knew what she needed to do, whether she wanted to or not. She reached for her phone and dialed Ben's number with quivering fingers.

 

UIJAYI
—OCEAN BREATH

Also known as “the breath of victory.” Enhances mental clarity and focus, and can fortify courage. Is also often used in conjunction with a flowing yoga practice.

Method

• Close the mouth and breathe through the nostrils. Inhale and exhale fully.

• On your next inhale, constrict the throat slightly. (Imagine you are trying to close it.) The inhalation should make a hissing sound coming from the back of your throat.

• Exhale normally through the nostrils.

• Repeat.

• Continue.

If you're not sure you are creating the noise correctly, think Darth Vader, and try to emulate the sound he makes on your inhalation.

 

Chapter Ten

Whether Ben privately thought
I told you so
or not, he didn't say so to Keeley, but was at the cottage within the half hour, and after looking at the letter, his face betrayed nothing but concern.

“Did you not see or hear anyone, or anything at all?”

“I was asleep. I think it was the letterbox that woke me up.”

Ben dashed out then, leaving her looking after him rather bemused, until she heard his voice across the road and realized he was questioning her neighbors. He came back twenty minutes later, looking grim.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Nobody saw anything. Old Mr. Crocker across the way heard a car coming up and down the hill, but didn't look out the window.”

“I heard a car,” Keeley said, remembering that distant drone, “but I don't know if it was too far away. I mean, it sounded like it was in the next street. If the letterbox woke me up, surely I would have heard a car pulling off.”

“You would think. But sleep can play tricks on your perception.”

He sat down next to Keeley, who hadn't moved the entire time he was asking questions and still had the letter clutched in her hands. Taking it off her with a pair of tweezers, Ben placed it into a Baggie that lay on the arm of the sofa. He put it with the message facing down and out of sight—deliberately, Keeley thought.

“Have you been asking any more questions today?” He sounded weary rather than accusing. Keeley shook her head with vehemence, her hair flying round her shoulders.

“No. Honest.” She gave him a brief account of her day, particularly any conversations with Belfrey residents, though she found herself omitting the part where Duane had attempted to ask her out for dinner.

“Okay. I'm sorry to keep repeating myself, Keeley, but are you absolutely sure you can't think of anyone in Belfrey who would have reason to target you like this?”

“No, no one. Well…” She hesitated, wondering whether now was the time to share her information about Raquel. Ben gave her a curt nod, urging her to go on. “Raquel doesn't like me very much. She's been almost threatening, ever since I first bumped into her.”

Ben didn't look surprised; neither did he jump to the other girl's defense, as Keeley had expected. “I'll talk to her tomorrow. It doesn't seem like her style, to be honest, but I know she can be very catty.”

That's the understatement of the century,
Keeley thought. “I'm guessing it was her that complained about my snooping,” she said, the carefully blank expression that came over Ben's face confirming it even though he didn't answer. She took a deep breath, deciding now was the time to share both her information and fears regarding Raquel, whether Ben liked it or not. “I was asking her questions because I thought she might know something. You see—” she went on, ready to relay Tom's information, but was silenced by Ben's lifting a hand to her, the way one would hush a small child. Keeley bristled immediately, but fell silent nonetheless.

“You thought she killed Terry? I'm sorry to disappoint you, Little Miss Sleuth, but Raquel has a very good alibi for that night.”

Keeley felt herself go red with annoyance at his gibe and with other, more secret irks.
How good an alibi? Because she was with you?
She tried to banish the thought from her mind even as it lodged itself there. It was nothing to her who Ben spent his time with; she shouldn't care. They didn't even
like
each other. Except she did care.

“I see.” She put her head down, avoiding his eyes. “I know you two are friends.”

“We are?” The sound of genuine surprise in his voice made her look up, and her spirits lifted when she saw an expression of distaste cross his face. “I wouldn't say so. But not liking someone doesn't mean I can go around accusing them of things they haven't done. As I said, her alibi checks out.”

Keeley was barely listening to anything except that crucial phrase.
He doesn't like her,
she thought, the words fizzing in her stomach. Ben looked confused, and she realized she was smiling widely at him. She straightened her face, and as she did so, caught up with the rest of his words. If Raquel had an alibi, he must at some point have questioned her. Even so, he might not know about the money. If Raquel had some sordid secret, she would hardly want to share it with Ben. Annoyed at Ben's dismissal of her, she decided to keep the information to herself, at least until she had more proof than Tom's account.

“I still think she's behind the letters. She threatened me, said I would be sorry if I crossed her.”

“Really?” Ben raised his eyebrows. “I'll question her in the morning. You definitely haven't been talking to anyone else?”

“Not about the murder, but Daniel Glover and his brother were quite hostile toward me yesterday.” She relayed the conversation. Then added, as an afterthought:

“There's Maggie from my first night at the Inn and her friend Norma too. Not that they've been nasty to me or anything—they just seem, I don't know, the type.” She fell quiet, fearing Ben would think her last comment inane, but instead he nodded as though he knew exactly what she meant. Either that or he was just humoring her. It was hard to know what were his real thoughts and what belonged to what she was coming to think of as his “detective face.” She had thought she caught a glimpse of the real Ben at lunch the other day, until Raquel turned up. Now she looked at him from under her eyelashes, taking in the clean, masculine lines of his face, as well as the shadows under his eyes and the slight furrow in his brow.

“It must be difficult, being responsible for this case,” she said, feeling a wave of compassion for him. His face seemed to soften and he leaned back into the cushions of the settee.

“I'm not strictly wholly responsible—the person officially in charge would be the detective chief inspector, but of course, they're busy with bigger things. A rural murder like this, they bring the big guns in only if it looks as though it's getting complex. Or if the investigating officer on the case isn't making any headway. That would be me. If I can solve this thing, I could even make detective sergeant. If not, well—” he spread his hands out on his lap, palms up, “—I'll look a typical country policeman who doesn't know his arse from his elbow.”

Keeley swallowed a chuckle at the expression, instead giving him a sympathetic nod.

“It's a lot of pressure.” She wasn't the only one this was affecting, although she doubted Ben Taylor sat alone in his house at night jumping at every noise.

“It's not what's important, though. What's important is catching this guy. And keeping you safe. Keeping everyone in Belfrey safe, I mean.” He flushed a little, as though making an admission he would rather he had kept to himself, but any frisson of warmth she might have felt at his concern for her was swallowed by his reiterating, once again, that she was in danger.

“That's why you have to stop this silly snooping,” Ben went on, and Keeley, who had been leaning companionably in toward him, sat straight up, affronted. His use of the same word that had stared up at her from the latest letter rankled.

“Well, maybe I would, if you told me anything,” she snapped. “First you treated me like a suspect, now like a silly child. It was
my
café, you know, that nearly got burned to the ground, and it's
me
who is getting threatened. What am I supposed to do, sit here like a scared victim?” Keeley nearly shouted the last words, surprising herself with her own anger, an anger she hadn't fully allowed herself to express. She looked at Ben, expecting him to roar back, but instead saw a look of startled admiration cross his face; then he simply sat and regarded her until she snapped again. “What?” And then cringed at the petulant tone in her voice.

“You might be right. You have a right to know about the investigations to a point, but I can't share classified information with you, Keeley.”

“Classified information,” she snorted. “Don't sound so pompous.” At the chastened expression on his face, she laughed, her anger dissolving. Ben looked mollified.

“I seem to keep getting off on the wrong foot with you, don't I? I don't mean to.”

He looked so contrite, Keeley almost felt sorry for him.

“I'm trying to remain professional, but it's hard.” He looked at her so intently, Keeley felt her heart skip.

“What do you mean?” she asked, holding her breath, which she let out in a deflated sigh as he went on.

“The trouble with working in a location like this is you know everybody, so everything is more close to home.”

“I see. Haven't you thought of transferring to Derby City?” The idea made her stomach twist, unsure whether she would prefer him out of her hair or here, continuing to stir up unwanted feelings. She must be a glutton for punishment.

“Lots of times. My superiors have even suggested it, but this is home, I suppose. And lately, it's been anything but boring.” He gave her a smile that was like the sun coming out, it was so sudden and broad. She looked at those full lips and strong white teeth and felt a murmur of heat in her stomach.

“Look,” he said, serious again, “if I let you in on a few details of the case, will you at least agree to stop questioning potential suspects? I'm only thinking of your safety. What happened to your friend coming to stay?”

Keeley shook her head. She had spoken to Carly a few days ago, only to hear her friend was planning a holiday very soon with her “amazing” new boyfriend. Not wanting to burst her bubble, Keeley hadn't mentioned her troubles.

“How about your mother?” Keeley's reaction to that suggestion must have shown plainly on her face, judging by Ben's snort of amusement. “Okay, not your mother. Perhaps I'll arrange for one of the constables to keep vigil outside your house for a few nights. It might scare off your anonymous letter writer.”