Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

Tomorrow, she’d start the search for a builder, and get rid of the horrid, 1970s bathroom: the one room in the cottage she hated. The orange tiles made her feel sick every time she saw them.

The phone rang as she shaved millimeters from the sponge cake. Her son, Robert was excited. “Mum, I’ve got news.” Libby’s heart leapt. He was getting engaged at last. There would be a wedding. She’d need a new dress, and a hat…

“Are you listening? I’ve discovered a new great, great, great aunt, and what’s more, she lived in Somerset.” Libby sighed and cast a despairing glance at the meringue mixture she’d whipped to exactly the right consistency, as it collapsed, ruined.

When he was a studious, serious teenager, Robert preferred history to football and Latin to art. He encouraged Libby to join the local history society in Exham on Sea. “You’ll meet some interesting people.”

Libby had little interest in the Forest relations, Trevor’s ancestors, but Robert worshipped his father. He never saw Trevor’s dark side. She made an effort to sound interested. “Do tell me about it, darling.”

“You know Dad always said his family were landowners?”

“Mm hm.” Did he? Libby swallowed a mouthful from a second cup of coffee. She added a slug of whisky and licked her lips.

“Well, I’ve found someone called Matilda Forest, and she’s a maid in a Victorian house.” Libby almost wished Trevor were here now. An ancestor in service: let him bluster his way out of that.

Robert was still talking. “And the house is in Somerset, near you. It’s open to the public. Maybe we can all go and visit? Sarah’s keen.” Sarah was his girlfriend. Libby wasn’t sure how long she’d stick with dull-but-worthy Robert.

Her interest sparked, she asked, “What did you find out about this Matilda?”

“Well, she had to leave the Hall because she was pregnant. She moved to the next village. The baby kept her surname, but, get this, Mum, his Christian names were Stephen Arthur, and those were the names of the Earl who lived in the house.”

Libby chuckled. “Are you telling me, your father’s ancestor was what they used to call, ‘No better than she should be,’ after hanky-panky with his lordship?”

“Honestly, Mum, Dad would be mortified.”

“So he would.”

The phone rang again. Still smiling, Libby picked it up. “Hello, darling, what did you forget?”

The deep voice on the other end of the phone brought her back to reality with a thud. “Is that Mrs Forest? It’s Detective Sergeant Joe Ramshore here.”

Libby let the silence draw on for a moment. She really didn’t want to talk about the body under the lighthouse. She’d pushed Susie Bennett to the back of her mind. She let her breath out in a long sigh. “Yes, it’s me.”

“Well, I’m ringing to thank you for your help today.” Joe Ramshore was the young detective from the beach. The one with blue eyes and a superior expression. “We wanted to let you know we’ve identified the lady you found.”

“Susie Bennett?”

“Oh. You’ve heard, then.” He sounded put out. “We think we know what happened, Mrs Forest. I thought you’d like to know that the deceased―” He coughed. “I mean, Susie Bennett, seems to have been alone when she died. I didn’t want you to worry. It was all an unfortunate accident.”

“An accident?” It didn’t make sense.

The detective was still talking. “Yes, I’m afraid she had an awful lot to drink. We think she-er-vomited and choked. No one else involved. Only happened a few hours before you found her, though it’s hard to tell the time of death, what with the cold water, and so on.”

“Oh.” What an anti-climax: to die like that, so foolishly. “What about the ring?”

“The ring?” He sounded puzzled. “Oh, yes, that bit of plastic on the sand. It was just a toy ring, nothing valuable. I expect it was in one of her pockets.”

“But―” Libby broke off. No need to confess to moving the body. She compromised. “I just wondered why she’d have a plastic ring in her pocket.”

“Oh, I see. Well, we don’t know.” The police officer’s tone was measured, pedantic. “She wouldn’t have been wearing it, would she? It’s a child’s ring.”

Libby rolled her eyes. She could work that out without his help. “Yes, but―”

“We had a look at it, but there wasn’t anything we could use: no fingerprints or anything, I mean. The weather saw to that.”

Libby insisted. “I meant, did Susie Bennett have a family?”

“Ah, I see what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if she has young children.”

Libby, exasperated, crossed her eyes and waggled her head. Good thing the police officer couldn’t see her. “Yes.”

“I can put your mind at rest on that, Mrs Forest. We don’t know of any family, as yet. Of course, we’re getting records over from the US, because her husband was American.”

“Yes, yes I heard that. You know, from people in the town.”

“Well, it’s a small town. I’ll let you know when the inquest comes up. The coroner will want to ask you some questions. Nothing you need worry about. It’s not like going to a criminal court.”

“No, well, thank you.”

“Try to put it out of your mind, Mrs Forest. I know it’s upsetting, but these things do happen, I’m afraid.”

Libby put the phone down. Too restless to go back to the spoiled meringue, she climbed the stairs to the bathroom. A hot bath might relax her.

She tried to unwind by reading a magazine, but her mind drifted away to the image of Susie Bennett, drenched and cold, slipping sideways in dreadful slow motion. The scene played over and over in her head, like a YouTube video on a never-ending loop.

It was no good. She stepped out of the bath. How could she leave it at that? If the police weren’t going to try to discover the truth, Libby would find out for herself. Was Susie’s death really an accident, or something much worse?

Fuzzy’s Disgrace

The early morning sun peeped, pink and coy, over the horizon, as though the past two days of storms and wind belonged to another era. Libby walked Shipley along the beach in the opposite direction from the lighthouse. She wasn’t ready to repeat yesterday’s disastrous trip.

A dozen fishermen, with all the time in the world, leaned against the sea wall, rods extended into an ebbing tide. They nodded, mumbling a greeting as Libby passed. George Edwards wrapped a fish in newspaper. “For breakfast.”

“How’s your wife?”

“On the mend. The voice is back, more’s the pity. By the way,” he called Libby back. “She loved the cake. Keep a signed copy of your book back for me, will you? Do for her Christmas present.”
Poor Mrs Edwards, was that going to be her only present?

When she arrived home, Fuzzy, Libby’s aloof marmalade cat, left the airing cupboard to follow her mistress into the kitchen, meowing pitifully. “Are you hungry, then?” Libby picked her up, nuzzling the soft, pale fur. Fuzzy allowed this display of affection for a count of three, then squirmed, squeaked and wriggled away. Libby opened a can of salmon.

Full, content and purring, Fuzzy left the house, via the cat flap in the back door. She’d work off breakfast chasing the mice, frogs and birds that had made the neglected garden their home, long before Libby moved in. “A wildlife garden,” Libby explained, when Ali phoned. Her daughter had protested against Libby’s crazy move from London to a quiet seaside town. “No need to weed the borders.”

Libby downed a second mug of tea, shrugged on a bright red trench coat guaranteed to brighten her mood, and climbed into her tiny, eleven-year-old Citroen, to drive to work at the bakery.

Reversing out of the drive could be a challenge. The road she lived on wasn’t exactly busy, for most traffic used the parallel main road, but it was ever-changing. Mums and Dads walked their children round the corner each day, heading for the nearby primary school. Teenagers, ears plugged with headphones, materialised suddenly from behind parked vans, mouths open in amazement at finding cars on the road.

It was too early for young people, today. They’d still be struggling awake. Libby switched on the ignition and reversed the car, hands light on the wheel, head turned to peer through the rear window.

A flurry of barking exploded nearby, like a pack of hounds after a fox. Libby jumped, foot jerking on the accelerator. The vehicle lurched. She jammed on the brake, but it was too late. The rear of the car crumpled with a sickening crunch, as it hit the lamppost on the corner.

Libby threw the door open, to find her exit blocked by a dog. It reached almost to her shoulder as it struggling on its lead, howling like a wolf. “Be quiet, Bear.” The grey-haired man on the other end of the lead yanked the dog back, to let Libby out of the car. “Sit down.”

The dog subsided, panting, saliva dribbling from its tongue. Libby slammed the door. “That animal should be locked up.”

The man bent over the rear of the Citroen. “I’m afraid there’s a dent.”

“Of course there is. Your dog’s a menace.”

He straightened up, towering several inches above Libby. “He’s not mine,” he said. “I hope you’re not hurt?”

Libby pointed. “Just look what you’ve done to my car.”

“Forgive me, but you were driving. All Bear did was bark at that cat.”

Libby followed the pointing finger. Her shoulders slumped. Fuzzy crouched on top of the fence, fur fluffed out, laser-beam eyes trained on Bear. The dog, tantalised by a tormentor so close, yet out of range, howled again.

If a cat could be said to smirk, that’s what Fuzzy did. Libby groaned. “Oh. That’s my cat,” she blurted. “Well, my husband’s. Late husband.” The back of her neck was hot. She tried to smile. “I’m afraid Fuzzy’s nothing but trouble.”

“Fuzzy?” The man grinned.

“Her fur goes Fuzzy in the rain.”

“Well, I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about the car. Your insurance will cover it.” The stranger smiled, waved and went on his way. Bear barked once more, in a forlorn attempt to entice Fuzzy down from the fence.

Libby rubbed at the dent. The paint was intact and it was only a tiny bump. A garage would knock it out in minutes. She straightened up. That man could have apologised a bit more, though. Who was he? Where had he come from? She hadn’t seen him before around here, but he looked familiar, nevertheless. She glared at Fuzzy. “Last salmon you’ll get from me.”

The Bakery

Frank brought a tray of bread, steaming and fragrant, through into the bakery, just as Libby arrived. “Morning,” he sang out. “What’s the latest on Susie Bennett, then?” He scooped up a pile of baking trays, already on the way back to the kitchen. “They say her last album will be back in the charts, now she’s dead. Too late for her, but it makes you wonder who’ll get all those royalties.”

The shop’s work experience teenager leaned on the counter, twirling a stud on her lip. Libby secretly called her Mandy the Goth. “My Dad went to school with her.”

Libby laughed. “So did half the town, I gather.”

“I heard you found her. Was it gruesome? Was there much blood?” The girl’s eyes, black with layers of kohl and mascara, were enormous in the white-painted face. Two silver rings decorated one nostril, above purple lips.

“Mandy.” Frank put his head round the door. “Get on with those sandwiches before the rush starts. Wash your hands and put some gloves on.”

Mandy sighed, rolled her eyes, hitched up a long, black lace skirt and went back to scraping egg mayonnaise into baguettes. “Dad said she was always asking for it,” she muttered under her breath, glancing towards the kitchens. “Sexy but stupid, he said.”

The bakery did a roaring trade. Almost everyone in town dropped in, keen to take a look at the person who found the body. Frank beamed. “That’s the most sandwiches we’ve sold since Jeremy Clarkson came down, to drive off the pier.”

By eleven o’clock, Libby’s feet ached. Her head throbbed from the effort of repeating, “I just happened to find her,” and, “The police say there’s nothing suspicious.” When the queue no longer snaked out of the door and round the corner, but had shrunk to one or two stragglers, she retreated to the kitchen. Mandy could serve the final few High Street estate agents.

Frank removed his white hat. “Can you finish that new ginger and lemon recipe by this afternoon, Libby? I reckon it’ll be a winner.”

“Mmm. Just need to tweak the frosting. A bit over-sweet, I thought.”

“You’re the expert. It’ll sell like hot cakes.” Libby grimaced. Frank made the same joke at least once a week. “Funny thing,” he went on. “Millions of people watch cooking programmes on TV, and half of ‘em don’t know how to turn on their ovens. Still, mustn’t grumble. Where would the business be if everyone did their own baking, eh?”

Frank left to drive the van, loaded with filled rolls, to a nearby conference centre. Libby took a deep breath, drinking in the smell of fresh-baked bread. She tied on a clean apron, and set about testing the new recipe, relishing the familiar, satisfying tasks of measuring sugar, beating eggs and sifting flour. She’d have to persuade Frank to let her put the new confection in the book.

Mandy joined her. Libby opened her mouth to tell the teenager to stay in the shop, ready for new customers, but one look at the girl’s face changed her mind. Mandy’s lip trembled. Libby said, “We’ll hear the bell if anyone comes.”