Downward Facing Death (4 page)

“Was there any mention of anyone wanting to buy?” Keeley asked. Perhaps if the fire had been set with malicious intent, it had more to do with business reasons than personal ones. Perhaps her plans for the building had seriously derailed someone else's entrepreneurial dreams? If this Terry Smith was some kind of drunk, as her mother implied, perhaps he had just been looking for a place to sleep and caught the arsonist unawares? Keeley blinked as if to ward off the macabre images that filled her mind, along with a wave of pity for a man she didn't even know, but who had come to such a gruesome end.

“No, I don't think so. Honestly, Keeley, you sound like that detective who keeps ringing me up. I do believe he thinks
I
had something to do with it.”

Keeley suppressed a giggle at the thought of Ben Taylor and her mother at loggerheads. The policeman would certainly have met his match in Darla.

“So, I suppose you're going to need money for the repairs?”

“Possibly.” Keeley sighed. Darla had already made it clear that if Keeley's idea for the Yoga Café wasn't profitable within the first year, she would be selling. At the moment, Keeley's meager savings didn't stretch to buying the property. Most of the savings account she gotten access to at the age of twenty-one had been spent on her travels to India and then the lease on her New York flat.

She rang off before Darla could make her feel any worse. Without bothering to change or even rummage through her things for her yoga mat, she ran through a quick series of postures that were designed to balance and reenergize her. That was the beauty of her yoga practice; it could be done anywhere. Although the industry itself was big business—and in New York especially, she had seen just how commercialized it could become, with the elite paying a small fortune for classes in heated, mirrored studios and handwoven mats that cost an average month's salary—when one got down to the bare bones of it, none of the expensive trappings were necessary. It was just the body and the breath, and a combination of both movement and stillness that could relax or invigorate, depending on the practitioner's needs. What had initially attracted Keeley was just that; how it became so personal. There was none of the competitiveness she had found in gyms full of sweaty, struggling bodies each trying to lift more than the next, or the sidelong glances in aerobics classes from women who reminded her of her mother, sleek and vindictive.

Keeley moved through her workout with her mind as blank as she could make it, the soothing rhythm of the postures keeping her thoughts away from both her mother and the murder. As she bent and stretched, breathed and reached, she felt a peace that she hoped would remain with her after she finished.

Instead, she just felt restless and hungry. After discovering little in the cottage other than blocks of tofu, packets of herbal tea, and some spices, she decided to take a walk down to the shop on the corner of the hill. It was, if she remembered rightly, next door to the Baker's Inn, a more upmarket version of the Tavern. A nice cool glass of wine sounded like the perfect remedy. Although she usually drank very little, if ever a girl deserved a pick-me-up, it was today.

*   *   *

Keeley emerged from the local newsagents with a grocery bag containing a few vegetables and a carton of soup that looked to be about a hundred years old. Although she hadn't expected the only shop outside of the High Street to have much in the way of vegetarian produce, she had assumed it would at least have
some
produce. The shelves had been all but empty, and the ancient-looking shopkeeper glared at Keeley as she came in, apparently angry at the interruption.

The Baker's Inn stood to her left, and that glass of wine was becoming more and more tempting. Perhaps they would be a touch more welcoming there than the Tavern was at least. The mock Tudor front and trailing flower baskets hanging around the wooden front doors gave the inn a homey, comforting look.

Her hopes died as she entered the inn to an indifferent glance from the barman and a few curious looks from the customers. There were none of the warm greetings and friendly camaraderie that she remembered from her childhood in Belfrey. In fact, Keeley was beginning to wonder if Belfrey had ever truly been as she remembered it, or if ten years away had added a rosy tint to her nostalgia. She had regaled her American friends with stories about the pretty English village she grew up in but was beginning to think they had been just that, stories. Made up by a girl desperate to feel she had actually belonged somewhere.

“A small, sweet white wine, please,” Keeley ordered. The barman poured her wine and pushed her glass over the counter without making eye contact. Still, at least he hadn't spiked her drink with vodka.

Keeley sat down at a booth, looking around for a friendly or at least familiar face and not finding one. Eyes that had been appraising her with curiosity now slid away from her as if she weren't there. It couldn't be because of the murder, for no one had even bothered to ask who she was or what she was doing there. Feeling a little nauseated, Keeley understood why she was being treated like an outsider.

Because she was one. Even if there had been anyone here she recognized, she had been away from Belfrey for ten years. Not only did she look different, but she
was
different as well. And she no longer fit in.

Keeley was staring glumly into her glass of wine when a shadow fell across her table. She looked up to see a woman and man about her own age beaming down at her. The woman had long blond dreadlocks and wore what Keeley could only describe as a purple chiffon sack. She was pretty, although Keeley couldn't help but think she had marred her looks a little with the scattering of small stars that were tattooed across her right cheekbone. The man next to her, in contrast, was a vision of perfection, with shiny hair curling onto his collar and a deep tan that set off his obviously whitened teeth. His toned form was encased in a vest and cut-off jeans. He wouldn't have looked out of place back in Manhattan, Keeley thought, especially with those teeth. She wondered if he was gay. Either that, or a gym instructor.

“I'm Duane,” he said, offering her a smooth, brown hand. “I work at Belfrey Leisure Center.” He gave her a flash of those sparkling teeth, and as he slid into the seat opposite her, his eyes lingered for a moment on her breasts. Her latter assumption was right, at least.

“And I'm Megan, Duane's cousin. I own Crystals and Candles on Belfrey High Street.”

Keeley's ears perked up at that. Perhaps she would have something in common, if not fashion sense, with another young female shop owner in Belfrey. She introduced herself and explained about her plans for the café, gratified to have found at least two people who seemed to think it was a good idea. They also didn't mention the murder, either out of tact or because they hadn't heard about it yet.

Megan freely admitted that although her only customers that tended to be residents of Belfrey were teenagers and the odd eccentric spinster, she also had plenty of customers coming over from the nearby towns of Ripley and Matlock. Keeley thought that ironic, considering the two towns couldn't be more different. Ripley was generally regarded as “rough” by the residents of Belfrey, who considered their own town a cut above. Whereas Matlock was Amber Valley's main tourist attraction, thanks to its seaside town vibe and beautiful, illuminated caves and cliff faces.

Megan's words cheered her. If a shop selling crystals purported to “clear the pathways to angelic influence” and candles that smelled like marijuana could flourish in Belfrey, then her Yoga Café should do just fine. She was even more cheered when Duane encouraged her to seek customers at the leisure center.

“We have only one yoga instructor at the minute, she comes in from Derby, and the demand for classes is more than she can manage. Perhaps you could run an evening class up at the leisure center?”

Keeley nodded, thinking it over. With the opening of the café delayed, she wouldn't be able to hold classes upstairs in the flat yet either. A regular class at the local gym would pull in some extra money as well as help her drum up some interest in her business. She smiled at Duane with genuine enthusiasm.

“That sounds like a great idea.” Keeley reached for her glass only to find it empty. Duane took it from her, his fingertips brushing hers. His fingernails, she noticed, were perfectly manicured.

“I'll get you another,” he said smoothly. Keeley blinked at him. He was definitely flirting with her, she decided, but as tempting as another glass sounded, all she really wanted to do was get an early night. She shook her head.

“Thank you, but I had really better go. Some other time,” she suggested, her gaze taking in Megan as well as Duane so that he didn't misread her intentions. Duane was handsome, very buff, and obviously interested, yet Keeley hadn't experienced that immediate and all-important spark of attraction from being in his company.
Not like with Ben,
spoke an impish voice inside her, one that Keeley mentally and firmly told to shut up.

Duane followed her to the door and opened it for her, standing far closer to Keeley than he needed to so that she had to brush past him as she exited the inn. Megan waved at her, her dreadlocks bouncing.

“About that drink,” Duane said, flashing Keeley what was obviously meant to be a seductive smile, though the whiteness of his teeth against the shadows creeping in the doorway made it more eerie than alluring, “how about Wednesday night? I could meet you in here, say about seven? Just me and you,” he added.

Keeley hesitated. Then she thought about Ben and the charred frame of the back door of the café.
What the hell,
she thought, it was only a drink.

“It's a date,” she said with a smile of her own, then ducked under Duane's impressive biceps and hurried off up the hill before she could change her mind.

The night air hit her, making her feel decidedly tipsy, and an owl hooted, making her jump and then laugh at her own foolishness. As she let herself into Rose Cottage, she felt happier than she had all day, and optimistic about her future in Belfrey for the first time since stepping off the train. The police would resolve the murder, she was sure, and the damage to the café would be repaired. She even had a date! And with a man who had never witnessed her being called Lardypants or accused her of murdering poor homeless alcoholics and then setting fire to her own shop.

Keeley climbed into freshly laundered sheets, courtesy of Annie Rowland, and drifted off into a dreamless sleep. Yet the last face she saw on the inside of her eyelids before oblivion took over wasn't Duane's, but Detective Constable Ben Taylor's.

 

Chapter Four

Keeley spent the next day sorting out the little unpacking she had to do and flicking through her recipe books, making plans for the opening of her café. She was determined to go ahead, murder or no murder. A deep yoga practice that morning had strengthened her resolve and given her a fresh perspective on matters. Standing on your head for ten minutes tended to have that effect on a girl.

When Ben phoned to let her know that the café would be hers again as of the next day, she felt even more cheered.

“So, do you have any leads?” she asked, the thought of a murderer wandering around Belfrey unnerving her more than she cared to admit.

“Nothing concrete,” Ben replied tersely, his voice down the phone line sounding very deep and masculine. Sexy, if you liked that kind of thing.

Which I don't,
she reminded herself as Ben went on.

“No thoughts as to why Terry Smith was on your premises?”

“Like I said, none.” He really was like a dog with a bone, no matter how delicious his voice might happen to be.

“If you say so,” he said, making no effort to hide his disbelief. Keeley could just imagine that handsome face closed with suspicion, his eyes narrowed in her direction. “You'll be pleased to know I spoke to your friend in London, and your alibi checks out.”

As if she herself had ever held any doubt. Keeley muttered a good-bye and replaced the phone with a curse, then immediately picked it back up to ring Carly, the friend in question, who would no doubt be wondering what the hell was going on.

“Keeley? How is everything? I had this guy phone me earlier—it sounded like there had been some trouble?”

“No, no, everything's fine,” Keeley reassured her. Her friend didn't sound convinced.

“Are you sure? He said he was from the police.”

“Yes, he was, and yes, I'm sure. Some guy was found dead at the café, but I'm certain they will sort it all out soon.” Her voice had a false ring even to her own ears.

“Dead?” Carly shrieked, sounding both appalled and excited at this unexpected gossip. Of Keeley's London friends, Carly had been the most critical of her plans, insisting that “nothing ever happens in the country.” Keeley pretended she could hear someone at the door and cut the call before Carly could wring out the details from her.

Ten minutes later, she was considering calling her back. With her unpacking and her daily routines done, she was restless and even a little bored. When the doorbell did ring, revealing a red-cheeked Annie Rowland, Keeley ushered her landlady in gratefully, only to feel her heart sink when Annie flourished the day's local newspaper at her.
MURDER AT THE YOGA CAFÉ
the headline screamed, obviously channeling a national tabloid. Keeley shook her head in frustration. This was publicity she didn't need—and wherever had they gotten the name from? She was sure she hadn't mentioned it to anyone.

“It's a much bigger story than yesterday,” Annie said with disapproval, sitting her plump frame down at the kitchen table.

“I'll have chamomile, dear,” she said to Keeley's offer of tea.

Keeley made two cups and sat with her, pulling the newspaper toward her for a closer inspection. Thankfully, there was little about her in particular other than that she was the owner of the building that had become a murder scene and the daughter of a former local businessman. There was plenty about Terry Smith, however, and it was apparent that he wasn't the pitiful, homeless drunk that Keeley's imagination had conjured up. Described as a local businessman—apparently, he now owned the local betting shop her mother had accused him of frequenting—Terry Smith was also a well-known local personality. Keeley felt her heart sink even as her curiosity was piqued. What on earth had he been doing in her café?