Downward Facing Death (5 page)

“Any idea why he was there?” Annie asked, echoing her own thoughts. Keeley shook her head.

“None at all. I can't even say I remember him. My mother said he used to come into Dad's shop, but she painted him as a bit of a waster, to be honest.”

“Well,” Annie said, her voice dripping with tact, “your mother wasn't really known for being the friendliest of women, or for giving people the benefit of the doubt. But,” she went on hurriedly, “the paper
has
made Terry sound a lot more likable than he really was.”

Keeley turned to page five, where the story continued, and saw a picture of the man himself. Although well dressed and trim—certainly not a down-and-out—he had a pinched look to his face, coupled with a sly look in his eyes that fit with Darla's description of “ratty.” Then Keeley thought about the man's terrible end and felt uncharitable. She of all people should know to look beneath the surface and not judge on appearances.

“Why wasn't he liked?” she asked, continuing to scan the page. There was very little factual detail about the murder, other than that he had been found dead at the scene of an attempted arson, which rather made it sound as if he were responsible for the setting the fire. Although local police were described as treating his death as an open murder investigation, there was no indication of how the man had been killed or any mention of a murder weapon. Keeley wondered if Ben had been telling her the truth about Smith's cause of death or if he was trying to catch her out.

“How shall I put it?” Annie was saying, trying to be diplomatic, which made Keeley smile. “He always came across as rather a mean man. Too quick to laugh at another's misfortune, you know? He was a regular in the Tavern, but people put up with him rather than liked him.”

“Do you go to the Tavern, then?” Keeley asked, surprised at the image of the gentle Mrs. Rowland in the shabby pub. Annie smiled.

“Not often, but now and then if I'm shopping on the High Street. Donald—that was my husband—preferred the inn down the road, but I don't go in there now he's dead. Too many memories, you see. I do miss him; we never were able to have children, so we just had each other, really.” Annie looked sad, and Keeley felt a rush of warmth for her.

“When did he die?”

“Oh, a few years ago now. He had a heart attack. Too much red meat and too many cigars, if you ask me. We could have done with a place like yours.”

Keeley gave her a grateful smile, though she doubted the opening of her café would tempt too many middle-aged men away from their vices. She felt moved by Annie's obvious affection for her late husband. She had never heard that kind of warmth in Darla's voice when her father was mentioned. In fact, Darla rarely mentioned him at all. Pushing away a wave of her own sadness, Keeley handed the newspaper back to Annie and plastered a smile on her face.

“Well, I'm sure the police will sort it all out. Ben—DC Taylor—certainly seems very thorough.” Keeley blushed when Annie eyed her astutely and raised an eyebrow at Keeley's use of his Christian name.

“We went to school together, you know,” she blurted, and Annie gave her a little nod. There was no mistaking the mischievous gleam in the woman's eyes.

“He is handsome, isn't he?” she said before tucking the paper under her arm and standing up. “I have to go, I said I would make cookies for the church ladies' meeting tonight. Why don't you come along? You would be most welcome. Everyone remembers your father.”

Keeley smiled but shook her head. With the news of the murder no doubt having reached most people in Belfrey by now, she wasn't quite ready to face everyone yet. Tomorrow, after a good night's sleep, would be a new day.

*   *   *

The next morning, however, dawned gray and unwelcoming, the balmy spring weather having given way to a chill in the air and some ominous-looking rainclouds that hung low over the hills, obscuring the landscape in swirls of fog. After a fractured sleep, Keeley woke up not feeling very motivated at all, in spite of the previous day's plans to make a start on cleaning up and preparing the shop for its transformation. She went through her morning stretches rather sluggishly, then performed five minutes of an invigorating breathing exercise—known in yoga as a
pranayama
—and then jumped into a cool shower. As she dried her unruly hair afterward, she felt physically more alive but was still filled with an eerie trepidation about the day ahead. No matter how much she tried to tell herself the whole thing was coincidental, she couldn't ignore the fact that a man had been killed in the very place she hoped to birth a thriving business. Keeley wasn't especially superstitious, but nevertheless, a murder was hardly anyone's idea of an auspicious omen.

She walked the mostly downhill route into the town center, relieved not to encounter too many locals on the way and to engage in no longer a conversation than the general “All right, duck?” which made her smile in remembrance of her childhood. Funny how one forgot the little things. The feel of the cobbles under her feet when she reached the old roads leading to the center, the lowing call of cattle drifting down from the hills, and the smell of wildflowers and freshly cut grass lifted her spirits and lightened her step. By the time she reached the High Street, Keeley felt almost at home. She found herself looking at the shop front that would soon be her café with fondness rather than trepidation, picturing the bare, Windex-smeared glass awakened with the bright curtains she had ordered and the faded signs replaced with her own. Keeley had had an artist friend in New York draw up her design; the
Y
and
C
of the café name would be shown as small silhouettes in yoga poses, the
Y,
of course, reaching its hands to the heavens, and the
C
showing a kneeling back bend. A stylized red and green pepper came before and after the letters. The sign itself, she remembered, was due to be installed in a week's time. She thought of Terry Smith then and sighed, coming back to reality as she let herself in and walked through to the damaged back wall.

The crime scene tape around the back had been removed, and Keeley made a mental note to ask Ben what, if anything, forensics had discovered. Although he probably wouldn't tell her. She wondered again about the blunt object that had killed poor Terry Smith, a piece of the puzzle that hadn't been released to the local press. If the suspicious detective hadn't been feeding Keeley false information, then he must have kept the nature of the murder weapon back from the townsfolk because he suspected them too.

Which meant one of the residents of Belfrey, many of whom Keeley knew or was at least familiar with, could be behind the murder at her café. It made sense, she supposed; after all, wasn't it a well-known fact that you were most likely to be killed by someone you knew?

Stop being so morbid,
Keeley chided herself as she went round opening the drapes in the shop, letting the weak sun trickle in. It did little to light up the interior other than expose the thin layer of dust on the counter. She pulled the cleaning products she had brought out of her hemp-woven tote bag and got started, scrubbing at baseboards and shining windows as though she could wipe the place fresh of any grisly memories. As she cleaned, she tried to envision the shop as it would be when it was finished, with the pretty wooden furniture that she had ordered and the colorful drapes and wall hangings she had bought back in New York. She had gone for bright, fresh colors against soft lemon walls and blond wood furniture, aiming for a happy yet relaxed vibe, the colors reflecting the freshness of the food.

She pictured the little counter stacked with fresh fruit and selections of herbal teas, and a salad and wrap bar from which customers could help themselves to a range of her simple salad recipes. Cake stands filled with delicacies—who said vegetarians couldn't indulge themselves?—and her pride and joy, her top-of-the-range smoothie maker, so that customers could watch their drinks being made up right before their eyes. Keeley imagined it full of customers, laughing and chatting while she moved from the shop front to the kitchen, serving and cooking. She would need to advertise for a waitress, of course, and maybe someone to help out with drinks on busy days. They would need some training on how to prepare her recipes for tasty smoothies and fresh fruit juices. On the weekends, perhaps she could even run workshops on healthy living and cooking simple, tasty dishes. Living in America had taught her the importance of branding, and she was soon mentally designing everything from Yoga Café T-shirts to napkins for the place settings.

Keeley was so lost in her daydreams that she had finished scrubbing the two downstairs rooms before she knew it, and as she straightened up, she was almost surprised that the café remained bare and empty, in direct contrast to her musings.
In time,
she reassured herself.

Then, downstairs done, she looked at the small staircase that led upstairs and took a deep breath. That was where it had all happened, not even three days ago. As she climbed the stairs, her legs felt like lead even as she told herself not to be so silly. A yellow piece of crime tape, still stuck to the corner at the top of the staircase, made her jump as it fluttered when she walked past it, and she peered round the doorway as though she expected to see the ghost of the man himself.

The room was empty, of course, looking perfectly bare and unoccupied, as if nothing had ever happened here. It was a large space with a small kitchenette counter at one end and an adjoining bathroom that had just enough room for a toilet and shower. Her father had leased it out a few times over the years, but mostly the space had remained unused. It was perfect for Keeley's needs, just the right size to hold small yoga and relaxation classes. She would replace the thin carpet with laminate floor and have the walls freshly painted a cool, serene blue. A few mirrors, some posters showing various yoga poses, and a stack of mats and props in the corner, and she would be good to go. The small kitchenette would add a relaxed vibe where she could sit and chat afterward with her classes and, hopefully, make friends. Yet knowing what she now knew, she couldn't quite call up the positive visualizations that she had for the café space downstairs. A horrible thought struck her: What if the tragedy that had occurred here put people off attending? Her business would be scuppered before it had even begun. A gruesome murder was hardly in keeping with the fresh and friendly vibe she was aiming to evoke.

Perhaps that was the point. Ben had certainly seemed adamant that it may be the work of someone with a grudge against her or her family.
No,
she mentally shook her head, letting out a dry chuckle. It was beyond egotistical to think someone had gone so far as murder just to derail her business plans. Unless, as she had originally thought, Terry Smith was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.… Now that she was lost in less positive thoughts, the sound of the front door downstairs opening and closing made Keeley literally jump with shock, and her heart pounded against her ribs. She held her breath as she heard footsteps downstairs. Ben, perhaps? But whoever it was didn't bother to call to announce their arrival. Creeping downstairs as quietly as possible, Keeley heard the footsteps go into the kitchen area, where the smoke damage was visible, and she knew it couldn't be Ben.

Not unless he had taken to wearing stilettos, anyway. Could it be the perpetrator, returning to the scene of the crime? Her heart felt as though it were thumping in her throat as she reached the bottom of the stairwell and looked around it just as the figure of a woman loomed in the doorway that joined the kitchen to the main area.

“Can I help you?” Keeley asked as she straightened up and took the last two stairs, aiming to sound assertive and a little annoyed but ending up with a frightened squeak.

A glamorous young woman around her own age looked at Keeley with a flash of disdain; then her glossed lips opened in a very wide—and very insincere—smile.

“Keeley Carpenter, it
is
you!”

Keeley blinked in confusion; then recognition dawned. Her breath came out in a rush of relief as she smiled back at her old friend.

Raquel Philips. They had been inseparable at junior school, bonding over the fact they both came from flawless but distant mothers who had seen one another as rivals, being alike in many ways, even down to their shared Christian name, Darla. Keeley had always been slightly in awe of Raquel, who was possessed of both beauty and poise and the natural arrogance to ensure she was always at the center of someone's attention. In high school, their friendship had cooled somewhat, mainly due to Raquel's leaving Keeley behind for the “popular” crowd, but Keeley had remained a shoulder for Raquel to cry on and someone to help with her homework. They hadn't kept in touch after her father died and Darla whisked her away, and so the last time Keeley had seen Raquel was at their high school leaving disco, where the other girl had largely ignored Keeley in favor of her more adoring hangers-on.

“How are you?” Keeley gushed, taking in Raquel's appearance. Her voluptuous figure was poured into a beige dress that Keeley was certain was real silk; her dark hair tumbled over her impeccably made-up face in a style that looked casual but must have taken hours to create. With a fur stole around her shoulders—which Keeley fervently hoped was fake—she looked like an old-time movie star. In fact, Keeley acknowledged with a stab of jealousy, she looked like the sort of daughter Darla longed for Keeley to be.

“You look great,” Keeley told her, feeling slightly ashamed of her envy. Raquel nodded, the fact of looking great clearly something she took for granted, and her eyes raked Keeley up and down in a slow, leisurely way that left Keeley feeling she had somehow been found wanting. She was suddenly acutely aware of her lack of makeup and the duster in her hands, which she shoved into the back pocket of her jeans defensively as she fought the urge to fix her hair.