Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) (15 page)

Chief Inspector Arnold stepped closer to Samantha. Ned’s lip curled. “I was driving Susie back to Bristol. She’d had a lot to drink, and she told me everything. All about my little girl: how cute she was, and how she died, all alone in that swimming pool. I think I went a bit crazy. I couldn’t think straight.”

Libby strained to hear Ned’s words through his tears. “I stopped the car, grabbed the satnav and hit Susie with it. It smashed into the side of her head.” He rubbed clenched fists into his eyes. “I thought of my little girl, drowning. Susie deserved to find out what it was like for Annie Rose.”

He took a breath, shuddering. “I drove to Exham, and carried her out to the beach. It was already blowing a gale. I put her under the lighthouse; tucked her in between the supports. I couldn’t kill her. I left it to fate to decide. She might have woken up in time, before the tide came in.” He looked at the ring of horrified faces and pleaded, “I didn’t kill her.”

“How could you do such a thing, Ned?” Samantha hid her face, paper-white, behind her hands. “How could you?”

Ned tears dried. He glowered at his wife, hate in his eyes. “She deserved it. I’d do it again, for Annie Rose.”

Max

Libby curled up on the sofa. Max stretched out in an armchair. Both nursed large glasses of wine. Bear and Fuzzy jostled for position on the floor, in front of the fire. Mandy had gone to Bristol with her mother. “I’ll be back the moment she starts nagging,” she whispered to Libby. “See you tomorrow, probably.”

“The town will pay for Susie’s headstone,” Max said. “It’s going to say,
Loving Mother of Annie Rose.
We won’t take the money from her estate. Mickey’s welcome to it. It won’t do him any good.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Think, Libby. He’s probably a bigamist. He was still married to Susie, when he went through some sort of a ceremony with his film star wife. I guess he always hoped Susie might die first so he could get his hands on her money. I’ve already emailed some law-enforcement contacts in California. He’ll end up in gaol, I hope, and with any luck, his new wife will sue for damages and he’ll be ruined.”

It took a while for Libby to stop laughing. “I’m glad about the headstone. I’m sure Annie Rose was all Susie really cared about, in the end.”

Max asked, “How did you know Susie was pregnant when she left Exham? You weren’t here, then.”

“Ever since the day I dressed up in that Victorian costume, at Mangotsfield Hall, I’ve had a feeling I was missing something. It was the costume, you see. There were layers of clothes; petticoats and skirts and corsets. I think I said, ‘I could put on pounds and no one would notice.’ The point was, you could hide anything under there. It rang a bell, because my son had told me about one of my husband’s ancestors, a maid, who ‘got into trouble.’ But I didn’t put it all together at first. I didn’t think about Susie hiding her bump, to trap Mickey into believing he was Annie Rose’s father.”

Libby took a large mouthful of wine. “About the document I gave you.” Max pulled the single sheet of paper out of his pocket. “What do you want to do with it?”

He unfolded it, reading in silence. “You’re right about everything,” he said, when he finished. “Bert, Mickey, Samantha, Ned. You’re right about me, too. I never quite got over Susie. I met my wife in Bath, but the marriage was a mistake. Joe grew up living with my wife. I don’t think he ever forgave me, even though she left me. Divorce is tough on a child.” He shrugged. “I made my fortune, bought the big house and salted money away in the stock market. But there was always something missing. I guess I craved excitement.”

He raised one eyebrow. “When I retired early from the bank, I looked around for something else to do: something that could give me the buzz banking lacked. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what I do, or who I work for.” He waved the paper at Libby. “I can’t comment on your last sentence.”

Libby smiled. Not commenting was as good as admitting her conclusions were correct. The last sentence read,
Secret Service
.
“I suppose it’s because of your job you were so keen for an excuse go to the States. Or were you heading somewhere else?”

“On my way to Bolivia, actually, but you’re right. It was useful to have an excuse.” Max’s smile was enigmatic. Whatever the job description, he was keeping it to himself.

“Tell me about Alan Jenkins. I know he’s one of your old mates, but you wouldn’t have been able to get him out of trouble with the police, if you didn’t have contacts.”

“You’re quite a sleuth, Libby. The ringing gang was part of a vehicle fraud, where the proceeds were laundered and sent to Latin America, to finance the drug trade. Joe discovered it, and he was on the point of arresting Alan, who had no idea what he was getting into. Joe wasn’t too pleased when I stepped in.”

“That gave him another reason to be mad at you.”

Max drained his glass. “I’m not easy to know, Libby. You’ll find that, if you let me stick around.” He stood up. “Do you want me to go, now, and let you get on with your new life? What’s it going to be: a patisserie or a chocolatier?” Libby’s body ached with tiredness. Her brain had all but stopped working, but at least she knew she didn’t want Max to disappear from her life.

She took the document from his hand, tore it into small pieces, and tossed them into the fire. “There’s a whole lot of things I don’t know, at the moment, but I’ll think about it all tomorrow. For now, let’s just finish the wine.”

Thank you for reading

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Murder on the Levels

Amateur female sleuth Libby Forest is about to realise her dream of selling hand-made chocolates when disaster strikes. Two cyclists die and the bakery gets the blame. Libby runs into trouble as she sets out to solve the mystery, save the bakery and rescue her career, helped by Bear, an enormous Carpathian Sheepdog, Fuzzy, an aloof marmalade cat and the handsome, secretive Max Ramshore.

CLICK to start reading Murder on the Levels now.

CHAPTER ONE

The warm tang of yeast percolated through Exham on Sea’s bakery. “This must be the quietest place on the planet.” Libby Forest didn’t mean to complain, but there hadn’t been much excitement here, lately.

Frank, the baker, dumped a pair of disposable gloves in the kitchen bin, hoisted a crate of fresh loaves, grunted and shuffled backwards through the door. “Time to revamp the bakery, then. Make some space for those hand-made Forest Chocolates.” Libby’s knife clattered to the table. Had she heard right?

Mandy, Exham on Sea’s resident teenage Goth, pumped a tattooed arm. “Our very first proper chocolate shop.”

A big fat grin forced its way across Libby’s face. It was weeks since she’d presented her business plan. Frank had sucked his teeth, scratched an ear and mumbled, “We’ll see.” She’d almost given up hope. Maybe it was the constant supply of free samples that wore him down.

His head bobbed back around the door. “Are you in a fit state to drive, Libby? The cycling club left their sandwiches in the van.” He thrust packages into Libby’s arms.

Mandy giggled. “Too busy stuffing themselves with free chocolates. Kevin Batty gobbled up at least three lemon meringue truffles.”

Still in a daze, Libby loaded the sandwiches into her ancient purple Citroen, crunched the gears and drove out onto the Somerset Levels, following the cyclists’ route through corkscrew lanes, beneath a broad blue spring sky. Her head whirled with plans for packaging, marketing, future outlets and exotic new chocolate flavours. She turned up the CD player and bellowed We Are The Champions at the top of her voice. Why not? No one could hear it, in this peaceful corner of the West Country.

The car squealed round a corner, narrowly avoiding a row of bicycles propped against a wooden fence. It lurched to a halt and Libby jumped out. Beyond an open gate, clumps of sedge and willow lined the placid waters of a stream. Moorhens ducked in and out of overhanging branches, and a pair of geese honked in the distance.

Libby slithered on the grass. Patches of mud, still damp from a brief overnight rainstorm, squelched under her feet. Not quite a country girl yet, then. She’d keep a pair of wellies in the car in future.

A hand grasped her elbow. “Careful.” A few years older than Libby, Simon Logan had pleasing pepper and salt hair and a warm smile, and almost managed to make Lycra look elegant. As Mandy, Libby’s lodger and self-appointed dating advisor, had pointed out, “He’s divorced, no children, retired university lecturer, conductor of the local orchestra and much richer than Max Ramshore. He’ll do for you, Mrs F.”

Enjoying a sudden, welcome independence, since her husband’s heart attack ended their unsatisfactory marriage, Libby had scoffed at the idea. Intent on building a business and a new life, she didn’t need male complications, thank you. Max Ramshore was hardly more than an acquaintance. She’d worked with the secretive ex-banker on Exham’s recent celebrity murder investigation, but he’d left town without so much as a word.

“Lovely morning.” Simon Logan’s deep brown voice resonated pleasantly in Libby’s ears, but she had no time to reply. Kevin Batty intervened, wiping streaks of sweat from sallow cheeks. His pointy-chinned, pink-eyed face lacked only a set of stiff whiskers, to complete the resemblance to an over-friendly rodent.

He stood so close, Libby could count the pores on his nose. “Mrs Forest. Why don’t you join us?” What’s more, he’d been eating garlic.

About to refuse, Libby changed her mind when Simon joined the appeal. “The least we can do is offer you some of our lunch.”

The heady smell of still-warm pastries made Libby’s stomach growl. “Just an Eccles cake, then.”

A smile still hovered over her face as she drove back to Exham. Mandy was taking the afternoon shift at the bakery, so Libby had the rest of the day free. She collected Shipley, a friendly, noisy springer spaniel, from her indolent friend Marina, and let him loose on the beach.

“Hi, Libby.” Her sunny mood evaporated in a flash.

“Max.”

“Still mad at me? How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? I had to leave town at short notice.” Max threw a stick for his dog, Bear, the owner of four vast paws and the shaggiest coat Libby had ever seen. Bear loped steadily along the sand to fetch it, while Shipley raced back and forth, barking, ineffective, and wild with excitement.

Max didn’t look sorry. In fact, he’d gained a light tan, that made his Scandinavian eyes gleam brighter and his thick silver hair shimmer. He was grinning, expecting to be forgiven. Libby exaggerated her shrug. “It’s quite all right. You don’t have to tell me when you go away. Anyway, it wasn’t you I missed. It was Bear.”

Max threw the stick again. “I couldn’t leave him with you. He’s too big for your cottage, so I sent him off to have a little holiday with a farmer friend of mine.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s back.” Of course, Max was right. Bear had stayed at her cottage before, and the carpets had never been the same, but Libby loved the giant animal more than home furnishings.

Max pulled a box from the pocket of his waxed jacket. “I brought you a present. A peace offering.”

Libby narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “What is it?”

“OK, if you don’t want it...”

“Of course, I want it. I never refuse presents.” Libby unfolded layers of tissue paper inside the little blue box. “A fridge magnet. How nice.”

“Look what it says. World’s Greatest Cook. That’s you.”

She tried not to laugh. “You think flattery will get you anywhere. My son gave me one just like it, years ago, when he was about twelve.”

“I may be childish, but am I forgiven?”

Why be grumpy while the sun’s shining? “Maybe. My book came out, by the way. Baking at the Beach is now available world-wide. I’m just waiting for my own copies to arrive.”

“No. Really? Why didn’t you tell me? Wait, because I wasn’t here. Now I really do feel bad.”

“Good. Then I forgive you.”

“To make up, I’ll buy your first hardback copy.”