Downward Facing Death (11 page)

“Jack, is everyone going to be like this? Honestly, I thought…” She trailed off, embarrassed to feel tears stinging her eyes.

“Don't go upsetting yourself.” Jack patted her knee awkwardly. “Most of the younger folk will probably come flocking to you. It's the older ones, we've got set in our ways, that's all.”

Keeley nodded, though she didn't feel convinced. Her enthusiasm for questioning Jack about Terry had waned in the face of the Glovers' rudeness, and she suddenly felt she didn't want Jack to think she was snooping. He was one of the few friendly faces she saw.

Instead she excused herself and took her tonic water over to the bar, feeling glum. She had discovered precisely nothing about Terry Smith so far other than the fact she already knew: that he was pretty much solidly disliked by every other resident of Belfrey. A distinction Keeley herself felt close to acquiring. Tom was polishing glasses, looking as faraway as usual.

“I think it sounds pretty interesting,” he announced, surprising her, “this yoga stuff.”

“Really?” Keeley perked up a little. Though she did have to suppress a giggle at the thought of Tom doing an inversion or upside-down pose. Would his beard get tangled in his nose ring?

“Yeah, I saw this clip on YouTube of a naked yoga class. It was hot.”

Keeley nearly choked on her tonic water. “That's not quite the same as what I do,” she said, but Tom continued, his eyes becoming even more glazed over.

“There was this one girl, she did this thing with her hips—”

Keeley finished her drink in one quick gulp.

“Fascinating. But I'm not sure that's yoga you were watching, Tom. I'd better be going.” She slid off her barstool, only to pause at his next words.

“Terry was in the diner last week.”

“Oh?” Keeley slid back onto the stool, although given her height, or lack thereof, getting back on was rather less graceful than getting off.

“Yeah, I heard you asking Jack about that too, the other day.”

“Is that unusual, though? I mean, it is a diner.”

“I reckon so. The thing is—” he lowered his voice and leaned over the bar toward her, “—she was giving
him
money. Out of the till. Not like change, but a wad of notes.”

That did seem odd. It didn't fit with Keeley's theory that Raquel could have been dating Terry for his money either. Could they have been in business together? Some venture that, for whatever reason, Keeley's plans for the café had derailed? Although that didn't really explain why Raquel would want to kill him. And if either of them had intended to either buy or lease the premises, then Darla would surely have known. It didn't make sense.

As Keeley said good-bye to Tom and Jack and stepped out into the High Street, a realization struck her—one so obvious, she couldn't believe she hadn't made the connection instantly.

Terry had been blackmailing Raquel. Why else would a notorious gold digger be giving her money away? Either that or she had a gambling problem, which didn't fit with what she knew of Raquel Philips. But what could Raquel be hiding that she would be willing to pay to keep secret? Or even to kill?

Keeley paused in the middle of the street as she turned over the new possibilities Tom's bit of information had turned up. There was only one way to figure out Raquel's connection to Terry. Ask. Keeley looked across the street to her café as if for luck. It still looked empty and abandoned, as indeed it had been for so long, and it was hard to imagine that in just a few weeks, it would be open for business and, she hoped, thriving. She tried to picture it in her mind, but instead the image now burning bright behind her eyes was a memory rather than a visualization. The memory of the times when it had indeed been thriving and busy, when her father was behind the counter. She felt sure that George Carpenter would have encouraged her in her plans, yet locals such as the Glovers acted as though she were somehow betraying his memory, an attitude that upset her. It wasn't even accurate, she thought as she turned away and began to make her way down the hill toward the diner, to describe Belfrey as a “farming town.” Traditionally, it had always been a milling town, and the historic cotton mills still stood, now turned into museums or office space. Those who hadn't chosen to work in the mills had gone instead to the mines in nearby Heanor. Of course, they were all closed now too. Farming was, she supposed, one of the few traditional large-scale industries left.

Other small towns in Amber Valley had succumbed to unemployment and the recent recession and were a shadow of their former selves, but Belfrey had remained afloat and was still sought after as a place to live. That was due in large part to its flourishing small businesses and various tourist attractions, such as the lush Water Gardens near the river and the country's oldest working windmill. Keeley had half hoped the locals would be glad of her revamp of the shop, of her own small attempt to keep local trade booming. The Glovers at least had given the impression they would rather she shut up shop and left town. They were so hostile, it had been tangible. Hostile enough to send her an anonymous letter or set her shop on fire? It was possible. Passions certainly seemed to run deep here.

As she reached Raquel's Diner, she took a deep breath, not sure she was ready for another showdown with its glamorous proprietor. She decided not to confront her directly with her blackmail theory, which would surely just cause Raquel to clam up.

The diner was empty of customers when Keeley walked in to see Raquel sitting in a corner, filing her nails and looking bored while a thin, pale girl in a red apron cleaned the counter, her expression listless. Raquel looked surprised when she saw Keeley, setting down her nail file and eyeing her warily.

“Come to check out the competition, have we?” she said, although her comment was lacking the level of sarcasm Keeley had come to expect. Keeley tried what she hoped was a warm smile on her, only for Raquel to ignore her and go back to her nails. Well, she hadn't expected it to be easy. She ordered a cup of tea from the girl at the counter, waited for her to pour it, and then took it over to the table where Raquel sat. She pulled out a chair opposite the diner's namesake, who watched her with a frown.

“Mind if we have a little chat?”

Raquel looked surprised again; then her perfectly glossed lips curved into a catlike smile.

“Is this about Ben? I wouldn't get too attached, darling, every single woman in Belfrey has had her eye on him for years.”

Keeley felt herself flush from the neck up as she recalled her own crush and lifted her mug to her face in an attempt to cover it. Thank God she had grown out of it.

“No, of course not. It's not like that. Ben's just investigating the murder at the café.”

“Oh yes, the murder,” the Raquel said, her voice light. Her motions with the file, however, became quicker and firmer. Keeley sat her mug back down, watching Raquel carefully. At least her gibe about Ben had led nicely on to the subject of Terry Smith.

“It's been quite unnerving, coming back to such tragedy.”

Raquel paused in her filing for a few seconds before resuming with even more furious movements. If she wasn't careful, she would have no nails left, Keeley thought.

“Hardly a tragedy,” she said in clipped tones.

“You weren't a fan of his either, then.” Keeley made it a statement rather than a question. Surely the poor man had had some friends.

“I didn't really know him, but I've heard from my customers that he wasn't a nice guy.”

“He wasn't a customer himself?”

Raquel stopped her nail filing then, setting the tool down on the red and white checkered tablecloth and looking evenly at Keeley.

“Maisie,” she said, addressing the girl behind the counter but keeping her eyes fixed on Keeley, “go and finish that washing up, will you.”

The girl scuttled into the kitchen without hesitation, no doubt used to being ordered around by her boss.

“Okay,” Raquel said, drawing out the second syllable, “what's with the questions?”

Keeley took a sip of her tea, which was far too weak and full of sugar she hadn't asked for.

“I'm just trying to get a better picture of the man. I mean, he did die on my premises”—she felt a chill as the reality of the situation hit her once again—“and I don't even really know anything about him.”

“He's dead. What does it matter?” Raquel's bluntness shocked Keeley into blurting out, “But you did know him, didn't you?” She cringed at her complete lack of subtlety.

“Exactly what are you getting at?” Raquel snapped. Seeing what she was sure was a flash of panic in the other woman's eyes, Keeley felt her confidence return a little.

“I just got the impression he came in here quite a bit,” she said, trying to be casual but feeling a weird flicker of excitement when Raquel again looked perturbed. She was hiding something; Keeley would bet her last pound on it.

“Now and then.”

Raquel stood up, placed her nail file back in her designer handbag, and looked at the clock. “We're closing,” she said, although it was only a quarter past one. Knowing when she was being dismissed, Keeley got up. She wanted to ask her about the money, but had no idea how to bring it up without dropping Tom in the proverbial manure.

“He was something of a businessman I heard, had his fingers in a few pies. I wondered if you had any financial dealings with him?” She stressed the word “financial,” her eyes searching Raquel's face.

Raquel glared at her, opening the door of the diner and holding it for her, a nonverbal
get out.

“He owns a betting shop,” she said with disdain. “What possible dealings would I have with him?” She looked angry now, and Keeley admitted defeat to herself and made her way out the door, feeling that she had begun to uncover something, but had no coherent idea what. The door half closed behind her; then she heard Raquel say her name in a quiet voice. Keeley turned her head, just for a moment wondering if she was about to hear some kind of a confession.

“Don't cross me,” Raquel said. Her eyes held such menace that Keeley physically recoiled as if she had been struck. Not a confession, then, but a threat.

“Or you will regret it,” Raquel finished, before closing the door firmly in Keeley's face.

 

Chapter Eight

Keeley walked away with her heart beating faster than was comfortable in spite of her efforts to use her breathing exercises to calm her central nervous system. The truth was, she had to admit to herself, that there was a nastiness in Raquel that really quite scared her, and what had seemed a wild theory now seemed more than fitting: that her old school friend was indeed capable of a gruesome act of violence. Although she tried to tell herself her questions had obviously hit a nerve, confirming that Raquel indeed knew Terry Smith a good deal better than she was letting on, Keeley also had to admit that her questioning technique left more than a little to be desired. In fact, she had been downright clumsy, and had made even more of an enemy of Raquel.

Although it hadn't been her intention, she found herself going into Crystals and Candles, seeking a friendly face and a comforting cup of herbal tea. The heavy smell of incense and various aromatherapy oils hit her as she went in, the flickering candles casting sinister shadows around the brightly colored shop. Keeley gave herself a mental shake; she really must get a grip on herself.

Megan, at least, seemed pleased to see her, enveloping her in a patchouli-scented embrace and waving her to a seat.

“What's happened? You do look pale.” She peered at Keeley in concern. Keeley hesitated, wondering how much to tell her, reflected that she didn't really know her all that well, and then recounted her conversation with the Glover brothers, leaving out any mention of her plans to discover what she could about Raquel and Terry's murder. Megan listened with a sympathetic expression, then leaned over and patted her hand.

“Try to ignore them. People are set in their ways here, they don't like anything that's different or new. Especially if you're a newcomer like us.” Megan had told her before that both she and Duane originally came from Derby, which might be their nearest major city but was worlds apart from the closed-in community of Belfrey.

“But I'm not a newcomer,” Keeley said with a sigh, “I was born and bred here. I know I've changed, but even so, I expected to fit back in more easily than this.” All the time she had lived in London and New York, she thought of herself as quintessentially a country girl, even though she had embraced city life, and she had imagined settling back into Belfrey would be as natural as a duck sliding back into water. To not feel welcome was disconcerting, for if she didn't belong here, then where would she, ever? She gave Megan a weak smile.

Megan gave a sharp nod, as if deciding something, and went over to a small segmented box of crystals on display by the till. The sort of cheap lucky charms Keeley had never set much store by. Nevertheless, she tried to look grateful when Megan handed her a small mud-colored stone.

“Keep this by you at all times, preferably close to your skin,” Megan directed her with a sudden air of authority that seemed unlike her. This was her domain, of course, just as yoga and nutrition were Keeley's, and police work was Ben's. Keeley squashed that thought before she could acknowledge its obvious conclusion—that detecting should be left to the experts. She may not have known Terry Smith, but his murder was becoming personal, and Keeley needed to be proactive.

It was either that, or be terrified.

“Bitten off more than you can chew,” Megan said, causing Keeley to blink with guilt and confusion before she went on, “is that how you feel? Moving back here? You should have more confidence in yourself—you have a very capable aura, you know.”

“Do I? Thank you. Is that what the stone is for?” She looked down at the stone, which had warmed in contact with her skin.