A Date With Death: Cozy Private Investigator Series (Flora Lively Mysteries Book 2) (17 page)

‘I’ve heard Alberto controlled her with his fists,’ Marshall said, his lip turning up at the corner.

‘I heard that too, but we’ll never know for sure, will we? Even so, my gut tells me it wasn’t her.’

‘Which leaves Eduardo, Nick or Celeste,’ Marshall said.

‘Or Gabriella. After what I saw on Eduardo’s phone, she had a motive too.’

‘And me, of course. Don’t leave out Jack’s prime suspect.’

‘Don’t even joke about it,’ Flora said with a shudder. ‘Anyway, what happened to you being just a warm body?’

Marshall seemed about to say something, but he didn’t. Flora carried on.

‘So, Celeste comes in behind me and takes Raquel into the bedroom while I go to call the police. Then, while Raquel goes into the bathroom, Celeste comes out and messes things up a bit to make it look like a robbery, tidies away the glasses, and opens the bureau.’ She thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘I think Celeste looked in the bureau for those photographs she says Alberto has. Or had. And she didn’t find them.’

‘Or maybe she knocked over the table and the picture because she was looking for them. Maybe she wasn’t trying to cover up for Eduardo after all.’

Flora stared at Marshall, her skin suddenly covered in goosebumps.

‘And maybe,’ he went on, ‘she tidied away the glasses because it was her who’d been drinking with him. Maybe that’s where Celeste went when she left you in her room.’

‘Gabriella was there too,’ she reminded him. ‘I left her right outside the door while I went to phone Jack. She could easily have slipped in and taken the tiara herself.’

‘But then Celeste would have seen her. Or heard her.’

‘Celeste was in the bedroom with Raquel some of the time. And she didn’t kill Alberto,’ Flora said flatly. ‘I know she didn’t.’

‘Do you? Do you really? I get that this is difficult for you, but you haven’t seen her for two years, and before that she was just a voice on the phone most of the time. You said so yourself – you’d already started to drift apart. Sure, you roomed together, but that was years ago. She’s …’ He tailed off. When Flora looked up, his gaze was fixed on a spot outside the door.

‘She’s what?’

‘She’s coming for a visit, is what.’ He got to his feet, throwing Flora a look she couldn’t interpret.

‘Hey, guys!’ Celeste dipped her head and peered into the yurt. ‘Okay, this is just too cute. Look at this place – it’s like a film set. No, really. I had to do a whole scene in a tent like this when I was working on a film in Mexico. You guys are really lucky. Unless it’s leaking in all this rain. Is it leaking?’

‘Hi,’ Flora said, putting on a bright smile. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Fine.’ Celeste strolled to the centre of the space and put her hands on her hips, still looking around. She was wearing a see-through raincoat over designer jeans and a thin blue jumper – no borrowed anoraks for her. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks pink from the chill in the air. But Flora could sense something else, some kind of tension. ‘Oh well,’ Celeste said, ‘actually things aren’t that great. Nick’s shutting us down. That’s why I’m here. He wants you to load up your van, take all the scenery to that arts college he’s so fond of.’ She sagged a little, then flung herself down on Flora’s bed. ‘So it’s all over.’

‘Have you heard from Eduardo?’ Flora said, coming to sit by her side.

‘No. I’ve been into town and asked around. No one’s seen him there. I mean, he’d stand out, right? A gorgeous guy like that in a shit-hole like this. Good-looking guys seem pretty thin on the ground in deepest Shropshire. No offence,’ she said, looking at Marshall. He glanced at Flora, who widened her eyes a fraction, warning him to say nothing.

‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ Celeste said suddenly, throwing off Flora’s comforting arm and getting to her feet. ‘That creepy old house is driving me insane. This place is like a prison camp.’ She seemed about to say something else, maybe to ask about the Calais run, but then thought better of it. ‘Okay, so I’ll see you guys later. We’re having a final dinner, sort of a farewell to Alberto. Huh! You’ll be there, right?’ Without bothering to wait for an answer, Celeste dipped back out of the yurt and scurried away.

Marshall started getting changed into warmer clothes, but he hadn’t bothered pulling the curtain across. Flora sat by the doorway, looking out at the hills. Suddenly she couldn’t face hauling scenery, those huge cardboard blocks of orange painted sky and rooftops and church bells. And she couldn’t face being stuck in the van with Marshall going over and over this mess again.

‘Hey,’ she said, ‘do you mind if I duck out today? I’d like to go and visit Stiperstones while there’s still a chance. A bit of hill walking, clear my head. Is that okay?’

‘Sure. You go ahead.’

Flora pulled on her walking boots, grabbed another layer and a beanie hat, then slipped into the red anorak. When she turned to say goodbye, Marshall was sitting in the chair, watching her.

‘See you later,’ she said.

‘You’d better. And Flora,’ he called as she stepped out into the rain, ‘you be careful, you hear?’

***

Flora found Celeste getting into her hire car, heading into town. After a brief negotiation, Celeste agreed to let Flora take the car, dropping her off in Ashton Castle on the way.

‘Will you get a taxi back to the house?’ Flora said. ‘Or do you want me to meet you later?’

Celeste murmured something about sorting herself out, don’t worry about it. She seemed preoccupied, happy to let Flora drive, content to stare out of the window at the fields and the hedgerows. Flora let her out by the town square, and watched her friend dash across the street in the direction of a cafe. It would do her good, she thought. Getting out of there, away from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the manor house, would do them both good.

She parked at the visitors’ centre at the bottom of the Stiperstones ridge and picked up a guidebook and a map for a five mile trek along and around the ridge. She’d brought a bottle of water and a cereal bar from the yurt, and had packed them into her rucksack along with dry socks and her phone. Her dad had instilled the walking code into her from a young age. She still missed him every time she set off on a new trail.

The countryside was beautiful in that spare, bleak way Flora appreciated. She trudged on with her head down, stopping occasionally to tilt her face to the sky, to scan the horizon for other walkers. The rain had died off a little, but once she was up on the ridge there was enough of a breeze to whip the anorak around her thighs, making slapping noises in the otherwise silent air. After a while, Flora took out the map and worked out her location. She was about halfway around the loop. She looked about for somewhere to sit, settling on an outcrop of stones, about five or six metres below a tor called the Devil’s Chair. Behind her, the rugged tors towered majestically, the way they had since the Ice Age. Below, the landscape stretched out, on and on, misty and blurred under the low cloud, but still green and reassuringly English. She reached inside her rucksack for the water and took a long drink.

Before her legs got too comfortable, Flora pressed on, ready for the challenging part of the walk – up to the trig point on Manstone Rock, and then a steep descent back to the visitors’ centre. It was on her way down, following a faint path that led over a lumpy hill, that Flora caught her first glimpse of a fellow walker. There was a flash of green to her left, an unnaturally bright green, and she turned automatically. The man – she was sure it was a man – seemed to be on a different path, about halfway up the hill. He was heading away from her, moving quickly. She turned and continued, but when she looked back again he had gone. Which was weird, she thought, as there was really nowhere for him to go. The hillside was spotted with low bushes, and the odd forlorn-looking tree, but nothing else. Maybe he had reached the summit already and was out of sight behind one of the rocky tors.

She took another drink, then moved on, pulling her anorak around her more closely as the rain began to come down harder. The wind picked up, shoving against her, making forward progress an effort. The path wound to the right, then uphill again. She huffed out a breath and bent into the climb – it wasn’t that steep, and she was fit and fairly bursting with energy. This was it, she thought. This was what she needed. She smiled, her cheeks tight in the cold and the rain. This was the very thing to be doing right here, right now.

Then she saw the flash of green again. It was closer now. Flora had to turn her whole body around to see the man because her hood made peripheral vision impossible. He was about fifty feet away, or maybe more, it was hard to tell, hard to get a sense of scale up here. She carried on along the path, waiting for him to catch her up and pass her. He didn’t pass her. She looked again, surprised to see that he was still the same distance away. Not moving fast anymore. Virtually matching her pace now. She stopped and took out her water bottle. This was a good place to have a quick rest, anyway. A few more minutes and she’d be in the wooded area that would eventually bring her out by the car park. She wanted to make the most of being outdoors, and she would prefer to do that entirely alone. She drank and waited for the man to pass.

He didn’t pass. When she looked back again he was gone.

A twinge of fear pressed at the corners of her mind. Not real fear – there was nothing to fear – just the shadow of the possibility of fear. She laughed at herself, and shook her head. Well, she’d been stuck in a falling-down, rat-infested manor house for days, with a murderer still at large, living on a film set in some kind of time vortex with people who lived and breathed the over-dramatic. It was no wonder she was easily spooked. He’d taken a different path, was all. Or perhaps he, like her, preferred not to have contact with other walkers so he’d headed off in another direction to avoid her. Yes, that was the most likely explanation.

She put the water bottle back in her rucksack, had one more glance around – nothing – then set off down the hill. The trees soon closed in around her, but they were thin trees, upright and sparse, so the rain continued to hammer down on her hood. She made good progress, enjoying the scent of the pine and the spongy feeling of moss beneath her feet. The noise of the rain was a constant, along with the rustle of her anorak around her ears and the swish, swish of her arms at her sides. Occasionally she thought she heard a twig snap behind her, an animal perhaps, but she forced herself not to keep turning around. Besides, every time she did turn around there was nothing there.

And then there was. She had no idea where he had come from, but suddenly the man in the green jacket was behind her, only twenty or so steps behind her. His hood was pulled low over his face, so she couldn’t see it, but then her glance had been fleeting because she was worried about her footing on the uneven path.

Silly to be worried. He must have joined the path from another direction, that’s all. He wasn’t following her, and if he was following her that was completely normal because this was the direction of the visitors’ centre. But why didn’t he pass her, or speed up or slow down – why match her pace? Why didn’t he call out a greeting, which would be normal for two walkers on the same path in a situation like this?

Stop and turn around, she said to herself. Face him head on. Keep walking for ten more steps, count them, then stop dead and turn full around. No more glancing like a frightened child. Just turn around and say hello. She couldn’t do it. The rain beat down on her head and the swishing of the plastic anorak filled her ears and she knew, she just knew, that the man was right behind her now. She was too terrified to turn around and face him. It was ridiculous, she kept telling herself it was ridiculous, but still she couldn’t make her head turn, couldn’t make herself stop. Her legs kept moving, her heart banging against her chest, her breath coming out in bursts of hot air. On and on. Around a couple of thick oaks, past a boggy ditch, the path wound on. She heard another twig crack and it was right behind her. She felt as though she could see him, as though she had eyes in the back of her head and she could see him bearing down on her. His arm was extended, reaching.

Around another bend in the path and Flora saw another walker ahead. Two walkers, in fact, a man and a woman. They were peering at a map, and when they saw her they looked up and waved. She broke into a run.

‘Are you okay?’ the woman said when Flora drew near. Flora stopped, her hands on her thighs, panting. She braced herself, then turned around. The path behind her was empty. She looked again, searching the trees for the tell-tale green jacket, but could see nothing other than brown trunks and brownish grass and dark spaces in between.

Your imagination will be the death of you. She could hear her father’s voice in her head. She smiled. She had been an over-imaginative child, and it was true that nothing had changed. Some things never changed.

Then the woman said, ‘Where did your friend go?’ She was looking over Flora’s head, also scanning the woods.

‘Probably taking a leak,’ said the man, grinning. He held up the map to Flora. ‘Maybe you can help, though. We’re trying to work out the best route to –’

‘What did you say?’ Flora rounded on the woman. ‘What did you say about my friend?’

‘Erm, nothing.’ The woman was backing up now, clearly discomforted by the crazed look in Flora’s eyes.

‘Did you see him?’ Flora asked, trying to calm her breathing. The woman nodded, still wary. Flora let out a strange sort of half-sigh. ‘You saw a man? Behind me?’

‘With you. Well, we thought he was with you.’ The woman seemed to realise what Flora was saying. Her hand shot up to her mouth. ‘Oh, my. You mean he wasn’t with you? He was … Was he following you?’

Her companion stepped forward. ‘What? Someone was following you?’ He put his arm around the woman’s shoulders and pulled her close, as though the mystery stalker might suddenly emerge from the trees and attack her. Flora’s heart was beginning to slow. She said,

‘Look, let’s get out of here. Out of the rain. I need to get back to the visitors’ centre, anyway. Is it this way?’