Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) (5 page)

Mrs Thomson returned, balancing a tray painted with cats. China cups and jugs rattled, as she lowered it to one of the side tables. Vases, silver-framed photos and dog-shaped ornaments teetered on the piano. Pictures of Bear, standing alongside a bent, aging man, hung on the walls. Mr Thomson?

His widow poured coffee and brought a cup to Libby at the window. “We’ve got three lighthouses in Exham, you know.”

“Three?” Libby sipped the hot coffee.

“Yes.” Mrs Thomson ticked them off on knobbly, arthritic fingers. “There’s one on the beach, up there,” she nodded to the right. “That’s where they found Suzanne, the other day.” Libby set her cup and saucer down on the table nearest to the hairy sofa and sat. She could brush her jeans later.

Mrs Thomson took a brownie. “These are nice, dear. Did you make them yourself?” She must have forgotten about the other two lighthouses.

Libby smiled. “You’ve heard about Susie Bennett, then, Mrs Thomson?”

Her companion shook her head, her brow folded into a criss-cross of lines. She looked about to burst into tears. “Oh, yes. Such a shame, a lovely girl like Suzanne.”

Libby bit her lip. Mrs Thomson was old and widowed. Maybe asking questions, getting her to relive the past, would be cruel. Before she could decide, Mrs Thomson was talking. “I knew her before she was famous, when she was little girl, singing at the Christmas parties the vicar used to put on over there.”

She pointed through the window to a small, squat church that lay almost on the dunes. “Suzanne, we called her, of course. I don’t hold with shortening names that were given at a proper Christian baptism. The young people do it all the time, these days. You never know who’s who. My name’s Marjorie, and I never let anyone call me anything different, not even my Eric.”

“Did you know Suzanne well?” Libby steered the conversation back to the past.

“My Eric used to play the piano while Suzanne sang. Such a pretty little thing, she was, all curls and a big smile.” There were tears in the old lady’s eyes.

What had she thought when Susie grew up and developed a taste for boys and fast living? “Did other children go to the parties, too?”

“All the boys and girls were there. There’d be dancing and games, Suzanne would sing and Maxwell would play the saxophone. You know Maxwell, don’t you? Calls himself Max, nowadays. Of course you do. It’s Maxwell sent you round to walk Bear.” She leaned on the arm of the chair, pushing down for support and staggering to her feet. “I’m getting forgetful, that’s my trouble. Where did I put Bear’s lead, now?”

Libby cut in. “Please tell me more about Suzanne.”

Mrs Thomson narrowed her eyes. “Why do you want to know about her? From the press, are you?” She pursed thin lips. “I know the girls from the local paper. You’re not one of them. Are you from the Western Daily Press?” Her voice rose. “Anyway, I’ve nothing to say to you, so you’d better be getting off.”

Photographs

Judging by the unhealthy, deep red in Mrs Thomson’s face, the elderly lady could be on the verge of a stroke. Libby held out her hands. “No, no. I’m not a reporter. It’s just that―well, I found Susie’s body, Mrs Thomson. Suzanne’s, I mean. I was walking my friend’s dog on the beach.”

“Hm.” Mrs Thomson stopped in mid-gesture. She stared hard at Libby, suspicious. Satisfied, she sank back into the chair, the livid colour slowly ebbing from her face. “I suppose Maxwell wouldn’t have sent you round here if you were with the papers. He has his faults, that one, but at least his heart’s in the right place.”

Libby hesitated. She didn’t want to risk hurting the old lady, but she needed to know more about Susie. “You must have been proud of Suzanne?”

“Mr Thomson used to keep all the cuttings from the newspapers, when she went to the States. Who’d have thought little Suzanne would make such a big name for herself?”

Libby took a shot in the dark. “Did she keep in touch after she left Exham?”

“Oh yes, she used to send me all her records. Albums, they call them nowadays, of course. She sent a card at Christmas, as well, every year, regular as clockwork. All except for that one year.”

“Which one was that?”

“The year the little girl died. It must have been, let me see, the little girl was seven, so that was back in the early 90s. She wrote and told me about it, but no cards that year. Not surprising. Poor Suzanne, it broke her heart.”

Coffee scalded Libby’s throat. “Little girl? She had a daughter?”

“Oh yes, she had a daughter in America. With Mickey what’s-his-name. Big record executive, he was, or some such. Annie: that was the little girl’s name. Annie Rose. Pretty little thing, she was, just like her mother. Here, wait, I’ve got a photo, somewhere.”

Drawers opened and closed in another room. Mrs Thomson returned, clutching a red photo album, old green slippers soundless on the patterned carpet. Libby shifted along on the sofa, making room. Heads together, they flipped through pages of photos: babies, houses, older children. “Here we are.” Mrs Thomson pointed at four photos behind a filmy, plastic sheet.

A neat, handwritten date and caption accompanied every image. “My Eric put all our photos in an album, labelled and everything. He was like that. Always neat and tidy.” Mrs Thomson peered round the room, maybe half-hoping to see the late Mr Thomson in his usual chair. “The farm was the best in the county. Our Herefords won prizes.” Her shoulders slumped. She sighed, misty-eyed. “All sold, now.”

Afraid the old lady was slipping into reminiscence about the farm, Libby tapped a finger on the photo at the top left of the page. “Is this Suzanne?”

“That’s her. Still at school, then.” Libby caught her breath, shocked to see a young Susie smiling in the photo, very much alive. Under the lighthouse, she’d been wet, bedraggled and dead. Nevertheless, this was the same person, no question. There was no mistaking the neat nose and arched eyebrows.

Mrs Thomson moved on to the other pictures. “Here she is, on stage in America.” Two tall youths, one bowing a violin, the other behind a keyboard, each young face taut with concentration, dwarfed the singer. Despite her tiny stature, Susie’s personality sprang from the photograph. She glowed, alive with the joy of performance, an enormous guitar slung round her long, white neck.

“This one’s her wedding photo.” Mrs Thomson’s voice jerked Libby back to the present. “And this―” one gnarled finger touched the last photograph, light as a caress, “is little Annie Rose.”

Libby let her eyes slide down to the image of Susie’s little girl. The child was a miniature of her mother. Hair so fair it was almost white, she struck a dancer’s pose, toes pointed, arms in the air, delicate in a tiny version of her mother’s fringed skirt and full-sleeved blouse.

Libby dragged her gaze from the dead child’s enchanting dimples, and looked at the wedding photo. So, that was Mickey. He loomed over Susie, heavy arm pulling her off balance, crumpling the puffed satin wedding dress. The bride gazed up at her new husband, adoring, while he smirked at the camera, stealing the moment like a spoilt child.

Still, being self-centred and arrogant didn’t mean he was responsible for Susie’s lonely death. If Mickey was in Los Angeles on the day she died, he couldn’t have killed her. Libby hoped Max would take a good look at the man’s alibi. “Mrs Thomson, do you know how Annie Rose died?”

“Oh, dear. I’m afraid the poor thing drowned.”

Libby’s head spun. Perhaps Mrs Thomson was confused. “No, I mean Annie Rose, not Suzanne.”

“That’s right. She fell in the swimming pool.” Mrs Thomson’s eyes were very bright. “They all have swimming pools, out in California. It’s so hot, you see. It broke Suzanne’s heart.” Her smile trembled. “We never had children, Eric and me. Suzanne was like a daughter. We’d been so happy for her, with her little girl, doing so well. Then, Annie Rose died. It was quite dreadful. Eric never got over it.”

Libby’s stomach lurched. Had she jumped to conclusions? Maybe Susie had drowned herself, after all, still heartbroken, choosing to end her life as Annie Rose lost hers. Perhaps the police were right. She struggled for words. “How did you find out?”

“They rang, from America. Mickey’s secretary, I think it was, said Suzanne was too upset to talk but she wanted us to know.” Mrs Thomson took out a tiny white handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “There, it still upsets me, dear. I’m sorry to make a fuss. You see, it all happened so far away. And now this…” She blew her nose again, pocketing the scrap of cotton. “Well, these things happen. I’ll make more coffee.”

Mrs Thomson clattered in the kitchen. Libby flipped backwards through the pages of the album. She found a photo of a Christmas tree, piles of presents and rows of kids. They were about 11 or 12 years old, Libby guessed. The vicar beamed in the centre of the back row. She looked closer. There was Susie―Suzanne―in the front row, a brace running along her teeth.

The tall, gangly boy standing beside Susie looked familiar. Yes. It was Max. Mrs Thomson returned, tray in hand, and leaned over Libby. “Look, there they all are. Most are still here, or hereabouts. There’s Maxwel, of course, and Benedict who’s married to Samantha. The one with the broken tooth is Alan - Alan Jenkins. Oh, look, there’s Angela…”

She broke off as the doorbell rang. Libby jumped to her feet, glad of an excuse to avoid more coffee. Her insides were close to exploding. “Don’t worry, Mrs Thomson. I’ll open the door.”

An elderly woman on the doorstep wrinkled her forehead, perplexed to find an unexpected stranger in her friend’s house. “Oh. Is Regina in?” A cake-shaped parcel, wrapped in tin foil, peeped from her basket. Libby ushered the newcomer in, made her excuses to Mrs Thomson, grabbed Bear’s lead and left them to their memories.

Bear Walk

Libby gripped Bear’s collar, hauling him back as she unlocked the door. The last thing she needed was a confrontation with the cat. She shouted for Fuzzy, but as usual there was no response. That animal came only when she chose. She could be anywhere. Libby wasn’t about to leave Bear outside, digging up the tiny garden. She wanted that dog where she could see him.

She shut the door to the sitting room. He wasn’t going in there, either. She took him into the kitchen. Maybe he needed feeding. What did dogs eat?
Meat.
There was beef in the fridge. A treat for the weekend. Reluctant, she cut it up and dropped it in an old bowl. Bear leaped on it with enthusiasm. Libby filled another bowl with water and set it down near the food.

The builder, Samantha’s husband, arrived, built like a footballer. He considered the bathroom. “These avocado suites were put in during the 70s,” he said. “Don’t see them around very often, these days.” He laughed, twinkling at Libby.

She grinned back. “I can’t wait to get rid of the tiles.”

“It’ll take me a week,” he announced, once he’d measured the room. “I’ll email the quote.” He swallowed Libby’s last brownie in one bite, and left.

Head teeming with plans for her spa bathroom, Libby climbed the stairs to the study, opened her laptop and pulled up a list of a hundred and twenty emails. Most were junk. A long page from her daughter tempted her, but she moved on. Ali would ring if there was a problem. This was a news bulletin. She’d enjoy it later.

Ah, there it was. Max had checked in, as promised.
Staying in luxury in Hollywood,
he gloated.
Contacted Mickey’s company and got an appointment to see him this afternoon. Told them I was an old friend of Susie’s and it was personal and urgent. Will let you know what happens.

Libby snorted. Luxury in Hollywood would mean five star glamour. Flowers in the room, champagne on ice. Libby’s family holidays had been camping in Scotland or a week in a chilly holiday cottage or, when the kids were teenagers, caravan holidays in France. Trevor never wasted money.

Libby closed the laptop, retrieved Bear from the kitchen, wiped up the water he’d splashed on the floor and set off, anorak hood firmly in place against the weather. The wind and rain grew stronger every moment. It was going to be a rough afternoon, and probably a stormy night. Summer seemed a very long time ago.

She turned away from the beach, heading for the fields, hoping Bear didn’t chase sheep. Once there, she found a stick and threw it. Bear charged away, fur flying, grasped it in his teeth with hardly a pause, raced back and laid it triumphantly at her feet. Libby laughed aloud, pulled his ears and threw the stick again. Fuzzy would never dream of such undignified behaviour.

“Oi. You.” The voice came from behind. “What the devil d’you think you’re doing?”

A short, squat man wearing a waxed jacket and flat cap appeared at Libby’s side. “We’re not doing any harm.” How dare he shout at her? This was a public footpath.

Oh. No. Now Libby thought about it, she realised it wasn’t. She’d left the path some way behind. Still, there weren’t any crops here to be trampled, and no sheep or cows. She’d brazen it out. The man’s face was very red, his nose enormous and lumpy.
Drinks too much.

“That dog’s not on a lead. I could shoot him.” The man’s eyes were small. He narrowed them into angry slits.

“You haven’t got a gun.”

“Didn’t say I was gonna shoot, did I? But I could.”

They summed each other up. Libby stood as tall as her five foot four inches allowed and glared, hiding triumph as the man’s gaze dropped. “What you doin’ with Bear?”