White Lies (29 page)

“No. You know I have to do it myself before I can trust the results.”

“So you don’t want me to tell you where she is?”

“Ooh!” Meinwen thumped his chest and made him laugh. “Where is she then?”

“The Christie Guest House, Lombard Street, Torbay.” He grinned. “I had to fetch him back from there once, that’s how I knew they weren’t divorced.”

“They were still seeing each other?”

“As far as I know.” He shrugged. “Can I get back to work now?”

“Of course. Sorry.” She gave him a peck on his cheek. He smelled of oil and tobacco. “Thanks, Winston. You’re a star.” She headed out of the garage again.

“Well I shine best at night.”

She gave a final wave and turned the corner, putting up her umbrella as the first drops of rain spattered into the sycamore branches overhead. She took protection in the old-fashioned brick bus shelter, though it no longer had any glass in the windows and the inside was covered in graffiti and smelled of disinfectant and stale urine.

She phoned directory inquiries for the number and was put through by the operator at an extra charge of sixty-five pence.

“Hello, Joanna speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hello. I’m looking for Catherine Godwin.” Meinwen raised her voice above the sound of the rain. “I was told she was staying there?”

“I’m sorry. There’s no one by that name here.”

“But this is the Christie Guest House?”

“Yes, it is. Would you like to make a reservation?”

“Yes. No.” Meinwen shook her head despite knowing the other hotel receptionist couldn’t see her. “I’m trying to locate my friend. Perhaps she was using another name, one I don’t know.”

“Then I’m not sure I’d be able to help you anyway.”

“Oh, of course.” Meinwen sighed. “Wait! Perhaps she used her maiden name. Catherine Latt?”

“Ah, indeed. There was a Catherine Latt registered.”

“Was?”

“She left a week ago last Wednesday.”

“I don’t suppose there was a–”

“Forwarding address? No, although–”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t really tell you this, but a letter arrived for her the morning she left. It was postmarked Laverstone. I only remember because my grandmother used to live there.”

“Did she? I’m calling from Laverstone. Perhaps I know her.”

“You might. Doreen Prentiss? She used to live in the black and white house on Meadow Lane?”

“No, I’m sorry. I can picture the house but not your grandmother, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, well. It was a few years ago.”

“Thank you anyway.” Meinwen closed the connection. Another dead end, but one that had drawn the loop back into a circle. Catherine was probably right here in Laverstone again. The question was, where?”

It was time she went home and practiced what she preached. A little bit of witchcraft.

Chapter 27

It made a pleasant change to come home to a warm house where the lights shined merrily. Meinwen paused outside the gate looking at her cottage and seeing it, for the first time since she’d moved here, how others saw it. It was, she decided, a welcoming house, although the long path past the rectory next door would stand for some cheering up. She’d have to get hold of some of those solar powered garden lights they sold in the cheap shop just off the market. A few garden ornaments wouldn’t go amiss, either, and even if she didn’t like the mass-produced fairy statuary they would at least portray the right image to visitors.

She pushed open the gate, headed up the path and closed her umbrella under the thatched porch roof before going in. It was warm in the sitting room. She dropped her bag on the occasional table and hung her coat on the back of the door. Music and the sound of splashing water filtered from upstairs. Dafydd was in the bath again. At least one could never accuse him of being a dirty boy.

She stuck her head into the tiny stairwell. “I’m home. Do you want a cuppa?”

“Hi. Yes, please. I’ve bought some proper tea and milk and stuff. I’ll be right down.”

“No need.” She went into the kitchen and was half-cross and half-amused to see his purchases. A box of Lovey Dovey tea, a bag of sugar and two cook-in-the-oven curries. She checked the fridge. Sure enough, there was a large jug of semi-skimmed cow’s milk too. “Dafydd Thomas,” she said aloud. “What am I going to do with you?”

She answered her own question by putting the kettle on and making a pot of tea to take upstairs. Black tea was something she generally avoided but she was secretly pleased he’d made the effort to find the one made in her hometown rather than a generic brand. She carried it up, pausing for a moment to adjust to the heat and steam in the bathroom. She put the tray on the sink unit and perched on the edge of the bath. “You’ve got a nerve.”

“What?” Dafydd reached for the hand towel to dry his hands and face. He still had traces of shampoo in his hair. “Having a bath? You know I love baths.”

“You know what I mean.” She picked up a hair elastic from the sink unit and tied her long curls back. “How can you dare bring caffeinated tea, processed sugar and cow’s milk into a witch’s house?”

Dafydd grinned. “You said yourself lovey. ‘A witch will never refuse food or drink given in good faith.’ Well what’s me buying them if not good faith? Besides, how can you refuse tea from home? It took me three shops to find it. It’s not just any brand, I’ll have you know.”

“I suppose not.” She reached to pour it. “Though I wouldn’t let anyone else. The energies in the house will all be crooked now. It’ll take me ages to sort out.”

“Perhaps they’ll adjust to me being here.” He grinned as he took the cup from her, sipped at it and put it on the corner of the bath. “Perhaps the house will like proper tea.”

“Go on with you.”

“Why not? What was the house before you moved in? Christian, I’ll bet. It got used to you, didn’t it?”

“Of course. I take care of it.” Meinwen reached for her tea, slipped and slid sideways into the bath. The shriek she gave was from fright, shock at the unexpectedly hot water and surprise at Dafydd’s hard-on, previously covered by the voluminous amount on bubbles he’d used. She opened and closed her mouth several times, unable to speak from the shock.

“I would have asked you to join me.” Dafydd put an arm around her waist. “But it’s good to know you’re so eager.”

“If I’d wanted to share a ridiculously small bathtub with you, I’d have got undressed first.” Meinwen struggled to climb out but her angle prevented it.

“You look like an overturned turtle.” Dafydd laughed and pulled her further in, eliciting another shriek.

“Not my boots. It’d take forever to get them dry and the soap will wash away the dubbin.”

“All right.” he pulled one foot to the edge of the bath and undid the laces, casting the boot to the other side of the room before repeating the action with the second. Meinwen was forced to brace herself against the taps.

“I’m going to have imprints on my back after this.” She pulled off her cardigan and blouse and dropped them to the already wet floor.

“Of course you are.” Dafydd stripped off her socks. “It’s not good sex without a few imprints left behind.” He reached for the soap, rubbed it into a lather and began to wash her feet, beginning with her toes and moving up her legs. Every motion sent hot water over her body.

“I meant from the taps.” She shifted position. “That’s better.” Her eyes closed. “Keep doing what you’re doing. It feels good.”

“Sure.” He squirmed a little to move into a more favorable position, using the soap as a lubricant on his dick. He leaned forward to snag her panties with a finger, manipulating them down one leg by virtue of holding her heel then pulling her forward until she was impaled.

“Despite all the prison jokes, soap is rubbish as a lube.” Meinwen sat up and slipped her legs past his waist, supporting herself by one arm around his back. She rocked gently, squeezing her vaginal muscles to draw his cock farther inside. Her skirt alternately floated on the surface and became plastered to her legs.

“You seem pretty slippery to me.”

“All natural, lover boy.” She added pelvic thrusts to her movements and was gratified to see his eyelids flutter. “Good?”

“Good.” He lips twisted into a smile. “All good.”

She increased the pressure of her contractions, smiling at the steadily increasing pitch of his whimpers as he approached orgasm. His legs and pelvis grew more rigid the closer he came and after only a few minutes he began to buck, shooting his seed into her and the water out of the bath. She arched her back, willing herself to reach the same state of abandonment but it was too far to reach. She had to be comfortable to experience satisfaction and being in a bath with most of her clothes on did not constitute comfort.

She held her position while his cock softened, only relaxing when it was ready to slip out with the minimum of movement. She fished for what remained of the soap to wash herself then flipped over to kneel over him and rose, slipping out of her sodden clothes and reaching for her robe as she stepped out of the bath.

She picked up her cup. “Ooh, it’s still hot.”

* * * *

Some time later, after they’d shared an oven-ready curry, Meinwen opened her computer. She’d left Dafydd washing up, a fair division of labor after she’d cooked and mopped up the bathroom. She logged on with her
Scribe
avatar, watching the laptop cycle through loading her word processor and browser, automatically minimizing both to leave her desktop screen showing an artist’s depiction of a magic circle.

“Here’s a little bit of magic for you, my lovely.” Meinwen patted the machine and logged on to her social network. “This would be witchcraft to someone from fifty years ago.” She scanned the contact list. Mrs. “The Bread” Morris was online. She worked at the bakery at the back of the supermarket and heard more gossip in the course of a day than most people would in a month of Sundays. Julie Turling from the bookshop was showing as online but occupied, though her sister Felicia wasn’t. She never was at night. Meinwen got on better with Felicia and often had lunch with her. She had to catch her at work, where she whiled away the hours supervising the gallery by browsing for art to buy or researching pieces already in her possession. Susan Pargeter at the Larches was online, too, though Jennifer wasn’t. Probably having to tend to the crocodile tears of the old bat.

She tapped out a direct message to Susan. “Sorry about the drama today. I hope Jean wasn’t too upset.”

She had to wait a minute or two for the reply.

Cookie _Cutter: Hi. No. It was okay. She was already upset. You caught her at a bad time.

Scribe: Bad time? Everyday is a bad time for Jean!

Cookie _Cutter: No. She’s usually much calmer than that. Give her some leeway. Her nephew was murdered.

Scribe: Yes, of course. Sorry.

Scribe: Actually, talking of Richard, have you any idea where I might get hold of Catherine? She needs to be told and DI White doesn’t know where she is.

Cookie _Cutter: I don’t know where she lives, but I have an email address for her.

Scribe: You do? Brill. Can I have it?

Cookie _Cutter: I suppose so. You did sort of get them together. It’d be better coming from you. She’ll be devastated. It’s [email protected].

Scribe: Great. Thanks Susan. Talk to you tomorrow?

Cookie _Cutter: Hope so. Bye.

Meinwen sucked at her lip. Why did that address seem so familiar? She opened a search engine and did a domain lookup on luminaria.dom.org. It was hosted right here in Laverstone. Catherine wasn’t so far away after all.

She did a search on “luminaria” plus “Laverstone” and could have kicked herself the result was so obvious. She’d already spent a couple of pleasurable hours at The Hotel Luminaria today. It was probably sheer luck she hadn’t run into Catherine personally. She pulled up the website and looked at the pictures of the staff. It only showed the profiles of those who dealt with members of the general public and not the behind-the-scene professional dominatrices. Fortunately, she knew where to get those.

She crossed to her bag for her phone.