Downward Facing Death (22 page)

“You know something,” she stated.

“Only rumors, and they're never good to know. Like I said, it's best coming from the horse's mouth.”

Keeley sighed in exasperation. She could hardly ask her father, could she? Then she understood what he meant, because her father might be in no position to clarify anything, but her mother was. The thought of asking Darla something like that made Keeley cringe. Her mother wasn't the sharing type.

“I understand,” she said to Jack, although she felt like she would never really understand anything again. “I have to go.” She left without saying another word, her vision blurred through the tears that still threatened to spill. Over at the café, she let the decorators out in near silence, looking around at the admittedly wonderful job they were doing with a feeling of miserable detachment, and then she locked up. She still had a list of things to do, but they could wait until tomorrow. Everything could wait.

There was a lone taxi outside the Tavern, and Keeley got in it, unable to face walking or even the bus, in case she saw anyone she knew and was obliged to make small talk. Back at the cottage, she put on the kettle and ran a bath, comforting rituals that didn't offer any comfort.

Lying back in the hot water, she asked herself just why Edna's words had affected her so badly, and could only conclude that it was the final straw. Murders, anonymous letters, and hostile townsfolk were bad enough, yet a combination of curiosity and hope for her career had kept her going. The sense that she was doing something both with the legacy of her father's shop and to uncover the person who had threatened it. This, now, was the last straw. It had all finally become too much, and the true magnitude of events seemed to weigh on her all at once, a physical weight on her chest. She should get out of the bath, she thought, stretch her suddenly lethargic body and try some heart-opening poses. Yet she just couldn't be bothered. Her limbs felt leaden.

She thought back to her conversation with Ben, when she had poured her heart out to him about her father's death, and about Brett. Brett, who had cheated on her, as her father had apparently done to her mother. It just felt all wrong. Like everything she thought she knew and believed in had been spun around and turned upside down, leaving the very ground beneath her feet shifting. She couldn't imagine her father capable of such a thing, though God knows her mother was probably enough to drive any man to seek comfort elsewhere, but to lie and cheat on his family seemed antithetical to what she remembered of George Carpenter.

Maybe it was just a fling, some village garden party that got out of hand. Brett had used that very excuse: “It was just sex.” As if that made it all okay. As if it wasn't the act itself that constituted the cheating, as if it counted only when it was more than just the physical. In any case, Keeley had never believed there was such a thing as “just” sex. There was always a deeper reason, a motivation, even if it was one that was very far from love. Whether need, or loneliness, or the urge for reassurance, or even pure and simple ego flattery, sex was never “just” sex. She thought about Ben then, or more specifically about her and Ben, and was glad she hadn't given him the chance to think of her as “just” anything.

Finally, as the water started to turn uncomfortably lukewarm and her fingers to groove and crease, she got out, wrapped herself in one of the fluffy white towels Annie had provided, went upstairs, and lay on the bed. She felt exhausted.

Her phone, lying on top of her clothes where she had taken them off, rang loudly. She let it ring, but when it began again, she sat up with a sigh and leaned over to check the caller display. Her tummy gave a funny sort of flip as she saw the name. Ben.

She reached out to take it, then thought better of it. Probably he was going to chew her out for talking to Gerald and once again act as if the kiss had never happened. In truth, last night felt like a decade ago.

She fell back onto the bed and let his call ring through. Whatever it was that DC Ben Taylor had to say to her, right now she didn't want to hear it.

 

Chapter Fourteen

Keeley smiled at the man as she opened the café door, wishing she could muster up some more enthusiasm. Other than the actual opening day itself, this was the moment she had been waiting for most—a mundane thing to some, maybe, but full of significance to her.

This was the day her sign went up. When the café announced itself to the world, or to Belfrey at least. When the “old butcher's shop” finally became “Keeley's café.” Or to be more exact, the Yoga Café. It was a moment she had been excited about, until Edna's revelations three days ago put a gray fog over everything. One that she just couldn't seem to shift. Even her yoga practice, which she had relied on for so long to keep her body balanced and her mind clear, didn't seem to help for more than an hour or so, and then the fog descended again. She had spent the last few days just going through the motions, watching the café take shape with the dispassionate eye of an observer, as if it were happening to someone else.

Keeley had half expected another letter by now, and when none arrived, had felt a vague disappointment, for at least a touch of fear was better than feeling nothing. For it wasn't that she felt sad, or angry, or even simply shocked; she just felt numb. If the murderer confronted her now, Keeley didn't think she would bat an eyelid. Somehow whoever had killed Terry Smith didn't seem to matter anymore.

As the man unwrapped her sign, however, a flicker of pride sparked. It looked great, and they had captured her design perfectly, the letters fluid and graceful, the renditions of silhouettes performing poses for the
Y
and
C
were beautifully done, and the peppers on either side looked good enough to eat. She looked around at the interior of the café itself. She had yet to arrange the furniture, the wall hangings, and to add the details that would make the interior come alive, such as fruit baskets on each table, the napkins she had had printed with the logo and cake baskets for the counter, but the framework was there. The fresh lemon walls and pale laminate floor made the space open and inviting, and the new white counter looked professional and tempting. She should have been itching to get behind there to serve her first customers. Not to mention the newly installed kitchen, complete with new appliances and implements that the cook in Keeley should have been in raptures about.

Of course, that had been slightly marred by the fact that she had also had an alarm system installed, in case of any more break-ins. Or arson attempts. If that had been an attempt to derail Keeley's plans as opposed to covering up a body, then she wasn't taking any chances. She just wished she could summon back her initial passion for the place.

“You're not happy,” Carly had observed during a phone call the night before. “Why don't you just come back to London? You can open up your business anywhere. Everyone in London loves yoga.” She was right, of course. Although there would be more competition, there were also more customers. But if she decided to shut up shop before she had even opened, her mother would have to sell, and was highly unlikely to fund another start-up. Besides, she admitted to herself now that it hadn't been purely for financial or business reasons that she had come back to Belfrey. She had come back out of some nostalgic longing for “home” and to feel she was somehow following in her father's footsteps, albeit with a meat-free alternative.

And look at how that backfired,
she thought to herself despondently. She should have listened to Ben in the first place and left well alone. Now she felt like she was walking around with that dreadful weight of knowledge on her chest, wondering if her entire childhood had been a lie. She had had to drag herself out of bed and into the shower that morning, and had pulled a brush through her hair and left without even bothering to check the result of her administrations. No doubt Darla would tell her to stop being so melodramatic and in this case be right, but Keeley was in a funk that seemed all-encompassing.

Darla. She had spoken to her mother also on the phone last night, with the intention of asking about Edna's accusations, but the words had caught in her throat. As hard as it was to picture her mother as the wronged woman, nursing a secret hurt all these years, Keeley still didn't want to upset her.

Or maybe she just didn't want to know. She wished she had never been to talk to Gerald, had never spoken to the malicious cleaning lady, or, failing that, that there was some way to give herself selective amnesia, to take back the words. Maybe then she would be standing watching her sign being installed with the joy she should be feeling.

“Ooh, that looks lovely!” exclaimed a woman walking past with a pushchair, smiling at Keeley. The man walking with her squinted up at the sign and shrugged. “There's too many cafés here as it is. What do we need another one for?”

What indeed? Keeley watched them walking up the hill. Maybe Carly was right; maybe she should just go back to London.

She was still ruminating when she arrived at the center the next morning to teach her class. It was even more full than it had been the week before, a few of the women having brought friends along. Maggie was there again, as was Diana, looking even more twitchy and nervous than before. Keeley realized she had expected the woman not to come after the way she had shied away last week, and felt pleased that she had after all. She faced the class and took a deep breath as she prepared for the preliminary stretches.

As she took the women through the sequence of postures she had carefully choreographed for their different fitness levels and abilities, she felt the shift in her own body, the lethargy lifting as she moved her body in time with her breath. For all that her practice hadn't seemed to help over the past few days, something about the very act of practicing with and, more important, for others caused something in her to respond, some little spark to ignite. By the time they reached back bends, she felt, if not exactly happy, then at least more alive, more aware.

As the class came to an end, she smiled round at the women, grateful for their presence, which had nourished her in ways she knew they wouldn't understand. In yogic philosophy, it was called
seva,
the act of doing something for others that in turn made one feel better about oneself. Altruism, basically. Although she couldn't feel too noble, given the prices that the ridiculous insurance premiums at the center forced her to charge.

But pricey session or not, the rows of faces looking back at her looked nothing short of serene. Even Maggie's seemed to have lost its predatory gleam—temporarily, at least.

“Namaste,”
Keeley said to them, the traditional way of opening and closing a class. It was Sanskrit word that meant roughly “I honor the Spirit in you.” A sentiment Keeley found particularly profound, acknowledging the common thread that united everyone, regardless of age, gender, or background. Or meat-eating preferences, she thought, suppressing an unexpected urge to giggle.

“That was great,” Diana sighed.

“Yes,” agreed a silver-haired woman next to her. “Are you going to be taking on any more classes here? Through the week?”

“She's going to be opening her own studio,” another woman said knowledgeably. Keeley blinked in surprise, gratified that they had taken such an interest in her plans.

“It's not quite a studio,” she said, “but I was planning on holding a few evening classes above the café.”

“Was?” Trust Maggie not to miss a thing.

“I am considering moving back to London,” Keeley admitted. The women looked taken aback, even disappointed. Diana looked almost stricken.

“Really?” One of the younger women, Sasha or Sonia or something, pouted in disappointment. “I thought your café was opening at the end of this week? I was quite looking forward to coming along.” The two women next to her nodded. “Yeah, we thought it was a great idea.” There were nods throughout the room, even from Maggie. Keeley felt touched.

“Well, I haven't made a decision yet. Maybe I'll see how things go.” She should at least open, she thought, after all the work she had put into it. She said good-bye to her class as they trooped out, feeling almost maternal toward her students, which was bizarre, as at least two thirds of them were older than her.

“I'll see you on Tuesday, then,” Maggie called.

“Tuesday?” Opening day was Thursday.

“For the food festival.”

Keeley had all but forgotten about it, she realized in panic. She had given herself less than forty-eight hours to prepare her dishes for the stall. Trying to hide her consternation, she said good-bye to Maggie and rummaged in her gym bag for her phone. Hopefully she could recruit Annie to help. She had a vat of her spicy root curry to make, a dish she hadn't even tried out yet, veggie burgers and sausages, a large dish of her moussaka, and various sides. She would have to do some of the cooking in the café, as her little oven at the cottage wouldn't be able to cope with it all in time.

Shaking her head at her own carelessness, the name on her caller display, showing a call she had missed half an hour before, took a few minutes to register. Ben had phoned her again. She hesitated, then pushed the redial button, raising the phone to her ear with fumbling fingers, finding herself both relieved and disappointed when it went straight through to his answer machine. As she hoisted her gym bag onto her shoulder and left the center with a wave at the bubble gum–chewing receptionist, a little chink of hope slipped through the armor she had built around her conflicting feelings for Ben Taylor. A hope that allowed her to wonder if he regretted his abruptness to her the day following the kiss. If after all, it had meant something to him too.

When she reached the High Street and the bus stop, she was in the act of redialing his number when she spotted something across the street that stopped her. Ben's car, parked outside the Tavern. He sat in the front seat, talking to someone with their heads close together. Keeley stepped forward just enough to confirm what she thought she was seeing, then ducked back out of sight behind the bus shelter. Ben had been in his car with Raquel, leaning so close together their heads were almost touching. Keeley felt a wave of humiliation wash over her. They had looked close. Very close. As though she was a lot more than a possible suspect. So much for his claims not to even like the woman.