Downward Facing Death (7 page)

 

Chapter Five

After leaving Megan to lock up, Keeley took the bus back to Rose Cottage, trying to head off thoughts of the unfortunate Terry Smith by pondering a more mundane question. What to wear? Her impending “date” with Duane wasn't filling her with as much excited anticipation as perhaps it should. Every time she tried to picture his handsome, almost pretty face and undeniably buff body, she instead saw Ben Taylor's intense green eyes with their cool, uncompromising gaze. When it came to the inevitable trying-on of outfits, somehow Keeley found herself wondering what Ben would think. Holding up a red fitted dress that clung to every yoga-toned curve, she thought with a flash of rare pride that there was no way he could fail to notice her now.

She settled for her new jeans and a checked blouse. After all, she hardly wanted to give Duane—or the villagers—the wrong idea. After curling her hair and applying a touch more eyeliner than usual, she found herself pacing the cottage restlessly, waiting until it was time to leave. What had seemed a good idea the other night after a glass of wine was less appealing now, but it would feel rude to back out. What was the harm in a quiet drink?

As soon as she walked into the inn, she wanted to run back out. It was busier than it had been last time, and she could feel the gazes raking over her as she walked up to the bar. The barman made eye contact with her for a change, but only to ask, loudly enough for anyone in the small room to hear:

“You're the girl who took Rose Cottage on? Same as owns the place Terry was killed? Bad business, that.”

Keeley smiled, attempting to look as friendly and nonthreatening as possible, though she could feel a tightness in her jaw. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw more than a few heads turning their way.

“Yes, it's horrible. I only hope they catch whoever was responsible.”

The barman shrugged.

“Your place, though, isn't it. How did they get in?”

Keeley opened her mouth to protest her ignorance when a deep voice came from behind her shoulder, startling her.

“Picked the locks, by the looks of things. Ms. Carpenter is lucky she was elsewhere at the time, or it could have been incredibly dangerous for her.”

Ben. She turned and nearly bumped her head on his chest. He placed a steadying hand on her arm.

“Would you like a drink?”

Keeley blinked at him, more than a little shocked. He was the last person she'd expect to champion her innocence. He was smiling at her almost kindly, though she couldn't be entirely sure the expression had made it to his eyes, then looking at the barman expectantly.

“Thank you. A small white wine, please,” Keeley asked, her eyes still on Ben. Out of his work clothes, he looked younger and even more like a catalog model, in jeans and a casual T-shirt that defined his frame to perfection. He was taller and stockier than Duane, with the sort of physique that suggested sports rather than posturing in the gym. Rugby, maybe. With effort, she pushed away a vision of him in shorts and covered in mud, reminding herself that Ben Taylor was exactly the sort of man she would usually avoid. Although Duane was both handsome and rather shallow, there was a sort of naiveté to him, in spite of his obvious charms, that didn't leave her feeling so unsettled.

The barman served her almost deferentially now, nodding at Ben with obvious respect. As soon as the bartender had moved down the counter to serve the next customer, Keeley gave Ben a relieved smile.

“Thank you.”

Ben shrugged one shoulder in a movement that was almost graceful.

“No worries. It certainly doesn't help my investigation to have the locals jumping to conclusions or stirring up unrest.”

Keeley raised her eyebrows. There she was, thinking he was being gallant, but of course, he was just doing his job. In fact, she recalled now he had displayed the same focus at school, whether in class or in sports. Certainly he had always been too engrossed in the task at hand ever to notice her attempts to engage him.

Clearly, not a great deal had changed.

“What brings you here?” Ben asked, his tone abrupt. Keeley went to answer him, and as she did so, saw Duane enter the inn. She closed her mouth and waved at him, giving Ben a grin that felt false even to her.

“I'm with Duane,” she said, then winced when she realized how that could be misconstrued. Ben glanced from her to him, his face devoid of expression. Was it her imagination, or had his eyes become even more guarded?

“I see. Well, I'll let you get on with your night, then.” He turned and left as Duane hurried over, and Keeley watched him retreat to the other side of the room, craning her neck to see who he had sat down with. She felt oddly surprised when she saw him sit next to a young blond woman. She hadn't even thought about his having a girlfriend—but then, why wouldn't he? In any case, it was none of her business.

“Are you okay?” Duane was looking at her with concern. Keeley realized with a jolt of embarrassment that she had been so busy watching Ben, she hadn't even greeted her date.

“Yes, yes, wonderful. I saw Megan today,” she gushed. Duane's face brightened.

“Yes, she told me. You've got things moving with the café, then?”

As they carried on talking and Duane steered her over to a small table—mercifully out of sight of Ben Taylor and his companion—Keeley felt herself relax. Duane was pleasant, if unchallenging company, and certainly seemed eager to help Keeley establish herself as a local yoga instructor.

“We need some fresh faces up at the leisure center. Especially one as pretty as yours.”

Keeley blushed at the compliment. Although the mirror didn't exactly show an old hag, she still found such compliments difficult to accept. Six months in New York surrounded by the beautiful people had left her feeling decidedly plain. But then, judging by the easy way the words rolled off his tongue, she suspected Duane gave out compliments like other people gave bread to ducks. He had an easy charm that she imagined must make him very attractive to women, and she wondered if that was the reason for her lack of enthusiasm.

 … Nothing to do with Ben Taylor, who didn't even look in her direction when he went up again to the bar. Keeley twisted in her seat and turned her attention fully to Duane.

However, after twenty minutes of listening to a breakdown of his workout regime and his battle against body fat, her eyes were beginning to glaze over. As much as she was interested in healthy living, she liked to think there were other topics of conversation to be had.

“But, of course, you will know what I mean, with your yoga practice, won't you?” Duane said. Keeley had no idea what point he was referring to, but nevertheless, she opened her mouth to speak, eager to talk about it with someone who had a genuine interest. But before she could formulate a word, Duane was talking again, about his superior flexibility or something. Keeley sat back in her chair and sighed, then looked up as two women around Annie's age approached the table. One, who looked familiar, was tall and thin, and her companion was shorter and a great deal plumper. Keeley couldn't help but be reminded of the fat and thin aunts from
James and the Giant Peach,
a favorite book from her childhood that her father had read to her over and over again.

“You're Keeley, aren't you?” the taller of the two asked. They each gave Keeley a genuine smile, and she sat up, relieved both for a break from Duane's monologue and at the chance to make more friends.

“You're staying at Rose Cottage? George Carpenter's girl? My, look how pretty you are, your dad would be so proud.”

Keeley blushed, pleased at the mention of her father. She recognized the shorter woman, she realized, from her father's shop. Maggie, she thought. Her mother hadn't liked her much, but then, Darla didn't like anyone much.

Maggie and her companion sat down at their table. Duane shot Keeley an annoyed look.

“I'll go to the bar,” he said in a sulky tone. Maggie looked at him in approval.

“Why, that's kind,” she said. “We'll have two gin and tonics. In fact, make them doubles.”

Keeley stifled a smile at Duane's look of horror and turned her attention to the women. She started to tell them about her plans for the café, only to be interrupted by the taller woman, who introduced herself as Norma.

“Yes, your café. You're not still opening it after that poor man was killed, surely?”

“I am,” Keeley said, trying to sound assertive in an attempt to convince herself as much as the woman. “It's a tragedy, of course, but I'm going ahead with my plans. It's what my father would expect,” she added quietly. Norma nodded impatiently.

“But aren't you scared? Who do you think did it?”

“Yes, you must have some idea,” Maggie said, leaning over the table. There was a greedy, almost predatory look in her eyes, and Keeley remembered why her mother hadn't liked her. The woman was notorious as the village gossip. They hadn't come over to welcome her at all, but to press her for details that—had she any to give—would no doubt be all round Belfrey by the morning.

“If you'll excuse me,” she said, standing up and joining Duane at the bar, where he was now talking to a pretty redhead who seemed to be hanging on his every word. She gave Keeley a less-than-friendly look as she joined them.

“I've got a bit of a headache,” she said to Duane, which wasn't altogether a lie, “so I'm really sorry, but I think I'll get going.”

Duane winked at her. “I'll walk you home.”

Keeley went to protest, then saw Ben watching her out of the corner of his eye. She smiled at Duane.

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

She was acutely aware of Ben's eyes on her as she walked out, Duane close behind her with a proprietary hand on her lower back. Outside, it was gloomy and overcast, the clouds pulling the night in early. She shivered and then regretted it as Duane moved his arm up around her shoulders. Sidestepping neatly, she quickened her pace. If he noticed her reluctance to get too close to him, he gave no sign, but launched instead into a description of his latest workout class. By the time she had reached Rose Cottage, Keeley was sure her partly feigned headache would be all too real. As she turned to say good-bye to Duane, he had a hopeful look in his eyes that made her wish she hadn't agreed to let him walk her home. Damn Ben Taylor.

“Are you inviting me in for coffee?” he asked in a low voice, pulling her toward him, his gaze fastened on her lips. Keeley felt her face flame, the nearness of him embarrassing rather than arousing her. In the half light, his handsome features looked almost ghoulish, and as his lips started to descend toward hers, she felt a stab of panic. She stepped back, bumping into the doorframe as she raised her clutch bag in front of her as if to ward him off, reaching for her keys.

“Like I said, I've got a really bad headache,” she gabbled. “Perhaps I could call you tomorrow?”

She gave him a swift peck on the cheek and darted inside the door, leaving him looking confused. Once inside and listening to the sound of his footsteps going down the hill, she leaned back against the solid oak and sighed with relief. So much for her date. She wondered if there was something wrong with her. Duane was attractive, fit, and certainly available, even if not the greatest conversationalist in the world. After her months of celibacy, and recent shock, an uncomplicated fling could be just what she needed. She was a modern woman, after all, even if deep down, part of her yearned for the full-on Disney romance. But she just couldn't muster up any interest in Duane or the comforts he was so obviously offering. All she wanted right now, in fact, was a cup of chamomile tea and a hot bath, and then bed.

As she took off her shoes, she saw an envelope lying on her interior doormat, with her name neatly typed across the front. It was hand delivered; there was no stamp and no address. Frowning, Keeley reached down and picked it up, feeling a creeping sense of foreboding. She opened it, holding her breath.

The letters jumped out at her, stark and crude against the paper. They were typed in bold, as if the author had been determined to hammer the point home. Keeley swallowed, her chest constricting as she tried to calm the mounting tide of panic. No matter how hard she stared at the words, willing her eyes to be playing tricks on her, they remained the same:

IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU.

 

Chapter Six

The next morning, Keeley hesitated before pressing the intercom outside the police station. If you could even call it a station, as Belfrey's local police department seemed to consist of a tiny redbrick building sandwiched between the library and the local community center. Through the glass doors, she could see a small reception space with an unattended desk. The doors were locked, with a small typed sign asking visitors to please press the button and report to reception.
Which would be easier if there was someone around to report to
, Keeley thought as she shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. The anonymous letter sat in the back pocket of her jeans, seeming to grow heavier with each passing second.

Her first thought—after the initial shock subsided and she finished locking all the doors and windows to the cottage, trying not to scare herself with visions of a psychopathic murderer lurking in the shadows—had been to throw the letter away. It was probably no more than some spiteful village gossip with too much time on his or her hands. Why would a cold-blooded killer waste time on such things? It made no logical sense.

Yet a long night of tossing and turning and jumping out of her skin at every owl call and creak had convinced her she needed to report it. Still, she had been on the verge of changing her mind a few times on the walk down to the High Street and was thinking again of just walking away, when a figure finally emerged behind the reception desk and looked at Keeley through the glass with what she was sure was annoyance. She recognized the young woman in police uniform as the blonde whom Ben had been sitting with at the inn the previous night. Perhaps just a colleague, then, rather than a girlfriend.