Aunt Bessie Finds (An Isle of Man Cozy Mystery Book 6) (8 page)

She made herself a cup of tea and then sat down with a few biscuits
and the packet from Island Choice Properties.
 
The letter had the same horrid logo
across the top and it was addressed to “Mrs. Elizabeth
Cubbon
.”
 
Bessie gritted her teeth as she read it
quickly.

Dear Mrs.
Cubbon
,

It was a pleasure speaking
with you today about the Douglas flat you are interested in viewing.
 
I look forward to showing it to you on
Monday morning, as arranged.
 

Please find enclosed the
details for that flat, as well as the particulars for several other flats in
the Douglas area that I though might be of interest.
 

I shall take the liberty of
making viewing appointments for a few of them for Monday, to follow on from our
viewing at
Seaview
Terrace.
 
If that isn’t convenient, they can be
easily rescheduled.

Thank you for choosing Island
Choice Properties.
 
I look forward
to meeting you.

Sincerely, Alan Collins

Bessie sighed.
 
She
didn’t really want to see the
Seaview
Terrace
flat.
 
Now it looked as if she was
going to have to go around a few others as well in order to persuade Mr.
Collins that she was genuinely interested in moving.

“No more
favours
for friends,” she
muttered to herself as she put the letter down and took a look at the brochure
for the flat in question.

The price shocked her, but it shouldn’t have.
 
She knew property prices had gone up
dramatically in the last year or so.
 
Her own cottage had to be worth at least as much as the flat she now
read about.

While the estate agent had done his best to describe the flat in
glowing terms, it was obviously just a small flat in a small building.
 
Bessie read through the descriptions of
each room, thinking how much they reminded her of
Bahey’s
place.
 

Putting that paper aside, she flipped through the half-dozen or so
other properties that Alan Collins had included.
 
If the price of the first flat had
surprised her, she was speechless at some of the others.
 
The listings had been arranged in the
envelope in ascending price order and by the time Bessie reached the last
sheet, she was laughing to herself.
 
Even if she could afford a million-pound property, there was no way she
would ever consider buying one. What on earth had Doona told the man that made
him think she might?

The property in question, a penthouse flat in a brand-new building,
sounded lovely.
 
It was right on the
promenade and there was no doubt it would have amazing views from its “floor to
ceiling walls of windows,” but Bessie already had amazing views and she
certainly didn’t need three bedrooms and four bathrooms in downtown
Douglas.
 

She put the paperwork back, giving the letter a dirty look as she
slid it into the envelope.
 
Something caught her eye that had her pulling the letter right back out
again.
 

“Interesting,” she said out loud as her brain registered what she’d
seen.
 
Down the left hand side of
the page was a list of “Directors.”
 
Bessie read the list again.
 
There were only three names on it.
 
Alan Collins, George Quayle and Grant Robertson.
 

Grant Robertson she knew more through reputation than anything
else.
 
He’d worked for the Manx
National Bank for many years and had earned a reputation for being both
ruthless and slightly dishonest.
 
He’d retired early and taken several board positions with local
companies.
 
He was also
well-known
for being willing to invest in locals with big
ideas and small budgets.
 
Bessie
knew of three or four small business owners who owed their success to his
assistance, which was often not simply financial.
 
She’d been told more than once that the
man was very willing to get his hands dirty, helping a small business get
started.

George Quayle was another matter.
 
He had grown up on the island and then
moved across.
 
He’d made his fortune
in sales and had recently returned with his wife and their children and
grandchildren.
 
He was a loud and
boisterous man that Bessie found she could only take in small doses, but she
was enjoying a growing friendship with his shy wife, Mary.

But what was he doing acting as a director for Island Choice
Properties, Bessie wondered.
 
There
was only one way to find out.

“Mary?
 
It’s Bessie
Cubbon
.
 
How are
you?” Bessie began when the phone was answered.

“Oh, Bessie, I’m fine, thank you.
 
What can I do for your today?”
 

“Two things,” Bessie replied.
 
“First, can you meet me for tea on Tuesday somewhere lovely?”

“I’d like that,” Mary said.
 
Bessie could hear the smile in her voice.
 
“How about that new little tearoom in
Ramsey that wasn’t open yet when we tried to go last time?
 
I’m sure it’s open now, but I haven’t
managed to get inside yet.”

“That’s perfect,” Bessie said.
 
With their plans made, Bessie moved on to her next question.

“I had lunch with a friend the other day and she is trying to
persuade me to move into her building in Douglas.
 
I told her I’d have a look at an empty
flat there and it’s listed with Island Choice Properties.
 
They’ve just sent me the details and I
see that George is a director there.
 
I’d never even heard of them before.”

Bessie stopped there, well aware that she hadn’t actually asked any
questions but unsure of how to phrase what she wanted to know, which was
anything and everything about the company.

“Oh, I’d love it if you’d move to Douglas,” Mary told her.
 
“We could get together far more
regularly.”

Bessie laughed.
 
“I’m
really just looking at the flat to
humour
my friend,”
she said.
 
“But I suppose it’s
possible that I’ll fall in love with it.”

“I do hope so,” Mary replied.
 
“But I don’t know anything about George being a director at any estate
agency.
 
I don’t really keep track
of all the things he does.
 
I’ll
have him ring you back, shall I?”

“That would be great,” Bessie forced
herself
to say, hoping that Mary wouldn’t pick up on her lack of enthusiasm.
 

Bessie looked at the clock and sighed.
 
She’d been so interested in her post
that she’d forgotten to have lunch.
 
The tea and biscuits had been a poor substitute, so now she fixed
herself a tin of soup and ate it with a slice of bread.

George
Quaye
rang her back in the
afternoon, just when she’d reached the very best part in the book she was
reading.

“Hello?” she said, her mind still lost in the pages of the
thriller.

“Bessie, my love,
it’s
George.
 
Mary said you wanted to talk to me.”

Bessie held the phone away from her ear as his voice boomed down
the line at her.
 
Why did he always
talk so loudly, she wondered.

“Ah, yes, I was just telling Mary that I saw your name on the
letterhead for Island Choice Properties,” Bessie replied.

George laughed.
 
“Ah,
that’s Grant’s baby, nothing to do with me, really,” he said.

“But you’re listed as a director,” Bessie said.

“I put up a bunch of the money,” George explained.
 
“But I don’t have anything to do with
the running of the company or anything.
 
Grant brought Alan Collins in from across to handle the day-to-day
operations, and I gather he keeps a close on eye on everything Alan does.”

“I’ve only met Mr. Robertson once or twice,” Bessie said, almost to
herself.

“Oh, you’ll have to come to our barbeque the week after next,”
George said.
 
“Grant will be here,
and I’m sure Mary’s planning to invite you.”

“I’m having tea with Mary on Tuesday,” she told him.

“Oh, good, glad you two ladies are keeping up your friendship.
 
Mary rather needs friends.”

“Yes, well, she’s lovely….” Bessie trailed off.
 
“Hello?”
 
There was no reply.
 
Clearly George had decided that their
conversation was finished.

Chapter Four

The weekend was a relatively quiet one for Bessie.
 
Spencer stopped by on Saturday to thank
her again for her help in his job hunt.

“I have three interviews lined up for next week,” he told her
excitedly.

He didn’t mention Doona, so Bessie didn’t either.
 
Otherwise, Bessie was on her own, just
the way she liked it.
 
She pottered
around her cottage, doing some cleaning and tidying when she felt like it.
 
She ate what sounded good at whatever
time she felt hungry and she read her way through a dozen books.
 
To Bessie, that was just about a perfect
weekend.

On Monday morning Dave picked her up and took her into
Douglas.
 
She’d arranged to meet
Alan Collins in the foyer of the building on
Seaview
Terrace.

“Do you know what time you’ll need driving home?” Dave asked as he
pulled up to the curb.

“I’ve no idea,” Bessie said with a sigh.
 
“Mr. Collins may have arranged for other
viewings, so I’ll have to ring you.”

“Sounds good,” Dave told her.
 
He jumped out and held her door for her as she climbed out of the
car.
 
“Have fun,” he whispered.

“Not likely,” Bessie muttered in reply.
 

She quickly walked up the short pavement to the building’s entrance
door.
 
The door had been propped
open with a block of wood and Bessie frowned at the compromised security.
 
While the island was a very safe place
to live, she didn’t think it was wise to invite trouble.
 
If this sort of thing happened
regularly, it was less surprising that someone had found his way into the empty
flat.
 

It was quite warm in the small foyer, and Bessie could understand
why the building manager, who was once again sitting behind his small desk, had
propped open the door.
 
A very light
breeze coming in from the sea was the only thing that was moving the air around
the stuffy space.

“Good morning,” she said politely to him.

He looked up from his newspaper and squinted at her.
 
“Morning,” he said in a grumpy
voice.
 

Before Bessie could continue, a man rushed into the foyer.

“For goodness sakes, man, there’s a prospective buyer coming
through in a minute.
 
What did I
tell you about propping open that door?” he shouted towards the building
manager.

Bessie studied him as he bent down to move the wooden block.
 
He looked to be in his mid-thirties,
with a small amount of dark hair that he’d combed from one side of his head to
the other in an effort to disguise the fact that he was mostly bald.
 
He was wearing an ugly brown suit in a
chequered
pattern that he must have bought when he’d
weighed at least a stone more than his current weight.
 
Perhaps he’d been taller in those days
as well, Bessie thought, as she noticed that the trousers were considerably
longer than they ought to have been.
 

Now he straightened up, allowing the door to slam shut.
 
He wasn’t much taller than Bessie, and
he glanced at her through beady little eyes before turning his attention back
to Nigel Green.

“I told you we need to make a good first impression,” he said
angrily.
 
“The flat’s been on the
market for three months and this woman definitely has the funds to purchase
it.
 
Not only that, I got told on
Friday that she’s friends with George Quayle.
 
Do you know what that means?”

“It probably means you shouldn’t be talking about her right in her
face,” Nigel drawled, glancing at Bessie.

The man flushed and looked from Nigel to Bessie and back
again.
 
“Isn’t this your mother?” he
hissed at Nigel.

Nigel shook his head and then laughed.
 
“Mum’s tucked up having a nap,” he told
the man.
 
“I reckon this is your
prospective purchaser and I also reckon she’s none too pleased with you.”

The man took a deep breath and then straightened his shoulders and
turned to face Bessie.
 
“Mrs.
Cubbon
?” he asked.
 
“I’m Alan Collins.
 
I’m very
pleased to meet you.”

Bessie forced herself not to laugh; instead she followed his lead
and pretended that she hadn’t just witnessed the little scene she’d thoroughly
enjoyed.
 
He was sadly mistaken if
he thought she wouldn’t remember it, though.

“How do you do, Mr. Collins,” she said, offering her hand.

“You must call me Alan.
 
And I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t shake hands,” he told her.
 
“I’ve a very weak immune system, you
see.”

Bessie raised an eyebrow.
 
“Perhaps you’re in the wrong line of work,” she said dryly.

“Oh, but I love my job,” he told her.
 
Bessie couldn’t detect any enthusiasm in
his words.
 
“But shall we have a
look at that flat, then?”

“Yes, let’s,” Bessie agreed, eager to get things over with.

Nigel handed Alan a key ring and then sat back in his chair with a
smile on his face.
 
“I hope you like
it,” he told Bessie politely.

“This is the main entrance foyer, of course,” Alan told Bessie,
ignoring Nigel completely.
 
“As you
can see, it has a security door and a doorman on duty during the day.
 
Each flat has its own intercom that
connects to the system, so if someone rings the bell for your flat, you can
find out who it is before you unlock the door for them.”

“How nice,” Bessie murmured.

“The postboxes are all back here,” Alan continued, leading Bessie
across the small space.
 
Along the
far wall the two rows of metal postboxes were arranged at a convenient height
next to a small door.

“The door opens into the post room,” Alan told her.
 
“Only the postman has a key to the room,
so he can go in and distribute the post and nothing can be tampered with.
 
It’s very secure.”

“Indeed,” Bessie replied.

“This would be your postbox,” Alan told her, gesturing towards the
box labeled “10.”
 
He inserted a key
from the ring that Nigel had given him and pulled open the box door.
 
The small box was empty, which was to be
expected, Bessie supposed.
 
She
glanced inside and made what she hoped was an appropriately appreciative noise.

“Right, then, let’s head up to the flat, shall we?” Alan said with
much more enthusiasm than Bessie felt.

“Certainly,” Bessie said to his back as he strode away.

It only took three steps for her to catch up to him at the tiny
lift.
 
It took several minutes for
the lift to arrive, during which Alan kept up a steady stream of comments about
the amenities of Douglas.
 

“Of course, the island’s only hospital is here,” he told her.

“There’s a hospital in Ramsey,” Bessie pointed out.

“There is?”

“Only a small one,” Bessie explained.
 
“But it is quite useful for the people
who live in the north of the island.”

“Well, Douglas has the best shops, of course, being the island’s
capital.
 
And we have….
”
 
Bessie tuned
him out as he droned on.
 
She’d
lived on the island for more years than he’d been alive.
 
She was well acquainted with everything
Douglas had to offer.

The lift, when it finally arrived, smelled peculiar.

“What is that smell?” Bessie asked as Alan punched the single
button that made the car travel between the two floors.

“I don’t smell anything,” he said.

The lift rose slowly before the doors gradually slid open.
 
Alan stepped out quickly, tripping over
the two-inch difference between where the lift had stopped and the actual first
floor.
 
He nearly fell over, just
barely catching himself.
 
Bessie
decided to ignore the muffled curse she heard as she carefully followed him out
into the corridor.

Number ten was the first flat on the right, and Alan had the door
open quickly.
 
“In we go, then,” he
said, holding the door open so that Bessie could walk through.
 

The flat appeared to be identical to
Bahey’s
,
as Bessie had been expecting.
 
She
walked in slowly, studying the main living space with a critical eye.

The walls were that particular shade of cream that builders and
estate agents seem to love.
 
The
floor was covered with wall-to-wall carpeting that matched the walls
exactly.
 
The curtains that covered
the windows were the same bland shade and Bessie felt slightly disoriented by
the sheer relentless lack of
colour
.
 

“It’s just been redecorated to a very high standard,” Alan told
her.
 
“The carpets and drapes are
new and the walls were just painted.”

“Who buys paint in this non-
colour
?”
Bessie asked, shaking her head.

“It’s a lovely neutral shade,” Alan replied.
 
“The carpets and walls would complement
any furniture you chose to put in here.”

Bessie didn’t bother to argue.
 
For all she knew, he was right, but it was incredibly boring.
 
She strode to the largest window and
pulled back the curtains.

“Of course, the views are excellent,” he told Bessie.
 

She looked out at the back of the hotel on the promenade and
sighed.
 

“You can see the sea,” Alan told her.
 
He pointed to the gap between buildings
where
Seaview
Terrace ran.
 
Bessie could see the promenade, and if
she worked at, she could just about see the water as well.

“Of course, the tide is out,” Alan said.
 
“You’ll have a better view when the tide
comes in.”

Bessie bit her tongue and walked over to the side window to see
what she could see from there.
 
Bahey’s
flat was in the middle of the row of three, so she
didn’t have a side window.
 
Bessie
pushed back the curtains and smiled.
 
Because the building had been built on an angle towards the sea, there
was a better view from here.
 

“This flat has the best views in the building,” Alan told her in a
confiding tone.
 
“This is the only
one on this end of the building to have side windows.
 
The foyer, the lift and the stairs are
in the way of the others.”

“The flats at the other end of the building won’t look out on the
sea from their side windows, will they?” Bessie asked.
 
“Perhaps they should have put the lift
and the stairs at that end.”

Alan shrugged.
 
“Blame
the architect,” he said.
 
“Anyway,
the kitchen is very modern.”

Bessie crossed to the small space that was fitted as the
kitchen.
 
The lack of cupboard space
would have worried her if she were seriously considering moving, but otherwise
the area was well laid-out, with all of the most modern equipment.
 

Alan opened the large “American-style” refrigerator.
 
“Look at all the room you get in here,”
he said enthusiastically.
 
“I’d love
one of these in my place.”

“It’s very nice,” Bessie replied.
 
“As is the entire kitchen.”

“Yes, well, the bathroom has every modern touch as well,” he told
her, leading her towards it.
 
He
turned on the light and then gestured for her to step inside.

Bessie noted the pedestal sink with a mixer tap and the large
shower cubicle.
 
“There’s no tub,”
she said in surprise.

“People don’t waste time with long soaks in the tub anymore,” Alan
told her.
 
“Showers are quicker and
more efficient.”

Bessie shook her head.
 
“I quite like a bath now and then,” she said, even though she couldn’t
actually remember the last time she’d bothered to take one.

“It’s just as well I’ve booked us in to see some other flats, then
isn’t it?” he asked.
 
“Some of the
others will have bathtubs in them.”

Bessie opened her mouth to reply and then snapped it shut.
 
She’d been stupid enough to get herself
into this mess; she’d just have to keep going.