‘Can’t remember. Not far. Thirty miles or so.’ Mrs Marchant gave an elaborate shrug. ‘Lost the address, didn’t I? Last time he came to see me was just after Mildred arrived. The day he took the photograph.’ Libby groaned, inwardly. She couldn’t let this state of affairs continue. She’d have to challenge Terence.
The temptation to walk away almost overwhelmed Libby. She could refuse the commission, leave Mrs Marchant to find her own cat, and forget about the ungrateful son. She already felt like a size eight foot in a size six shoe.
Instead, she added the task to her long mental to-do list and asked, ‘May I keep Mildred’s photo?’ The cat woman shrugged, pulled it from the drawer among another shower of odds and ends, and handed it over.
‘Has she been lost before?’
‘Of course not. Well, just one night, shut in a neighbour’s garage. She’s not there now. I looked.’
The smell in the house sickened Libby. She had to get away. ‘I’ll arrange for some prints of the photo and distribute them around Wells. Would you like me to put an ad in the local paper? It might be expensive.’
‘You may do as you wish. The cost,’ Mrs Marchant raised both eyebrows, looking down the aristocratic nose at such vulgar talk of money, ‘is of no consequence.’
12
Samantha
The news of Angela Miles’ interview under caution had travelled fast. On Thursday morning, half the inhabitants of Exham on Sea discovered they needed a loaf of bread or a cake, and Libby tuned in to every conversation, listening hard.
Gladys had been at school with Angela. ‘She wouldn’t harm a fly, and that's a fact.’
‘Who knows.’ The estate agent slouched by the counter. ‘Middle-aged women—’
The florist cut him off, standing full square, hands on hips, eyes blazing. ‘Middle-aged women what?’
‘Nothing.’ He backed away, stammering. ‘I just meant she might be lonely. You know. Living alone. Maybe this Giles Temple took advantage of her.’ He edged towards the door.
Mandy held out a paper bag. ‘Don’t forget your sandwich.’ Red faced, he grabbed it and shot out of the shop, narrowly avoiding a collision with Samantha Watson.
‘Well, really. Some people have no manners.’ Patting her hair into place, the solicitor stalked to the counter to order smoked trout with mustard.
‘It seems your friend Angela Miles is our killer, Libby. I’m surprised you missed that. You’re supposed to be the local sleuth. But you’re an amateur, of course. Perhaps you’ll leave inquiries to the professionals, in future. Chief Inspector Arnold tells me the evidence against Mrs Miles is most compelling.’
Mandy slapped the solicitor’s food on the counter. ‘You mean that scarf?’ she scoffed. ‘Planted. Any fool can see that.’
Samantha sneered. ‘You mind your manners, Mandy. If I had your background, I’d be more careful what I said.’
The spiteful words dropped into horrified silence. Someone drew a sharp breath. Mandy’s father had been in trouble with the police many times. He’d even attacked her mother and threatened Mandy. Her face twisted in fury, mouth working, she escaped into the back kitchen.
Before Libby could gather her wits, Frank made a rare public appearance. Hiding in the back, he’d heard every word. He strode to the front door, held it open, glared at Samantha, and pointed to the street. ‘You’ve gone too far, this time. Get out. You won’t be served here in future.’
Samantha gasped. ‘I haven’t paid, yet.’
Frank folded his arms and waited as she picked up her food, tossed a handful of coins on the counter and swept out. At the door, she stopped. ‘I won’t forget this. Since you came here, Libby Forest, there’s been nothing but trouble. Just watch out, you and your lodger. You’ll be sorry.’
As the door slammed, the hubbub in the shop swelled. ‘Well,’ Gladys whispered to Libby, with a wary glance at Frank, ‘if your apprentice dresses like a Goth, it’s hardly surprising people think the worst.’
As the last customer left, Libby confided in Mandy and Frank. ‘Sometimes I think a small town’s the most vicious place in the world.’
Mandy scowled. ‘Samantha Watson’s got it coming. She’s the one who’ll be sorry.’
After the morning’s drama, Libby took time alone to work in the peace of her kitchen while Mandy stayed at the bakery. Developing overdue new product lines, she forgot everything except her recipes.
Max would be home soon. It would be a relief to talk over the problems with him. ‘I like my independence,’ she explained to Bear and Fuzzy as she scraped food into separate bowls – fish for Fuzzy, beef for Bear, ‘but I do miss him.’
Perhaps their partnership really could work. She stopped work for a moment, imagining it. If they set up as private investigators, she’d have to do a course, take exams. Butterflies swooped in her stomach, but it would be interesting. She liked a challenge. As for marriage? She shook her head. She’d think about that later. Max hadn’t offered a proper proposal. A vague suggestion in a phone call didn’t count.
Soon she was humming above the noise of mixer and grinder. Chocolate hearts needed filling. Libby mixed and measured, tested and tasted, until strawberry, coconut, lime, coffee and praline cream scented the air with heady sweetness and every chocolate brimmed with flavour.
She polished the kitchen until the surfaces shone, made a cheese sandwich and put her feet up. The living room reminded her of the last time Max sprawled on the sofa, Bear at his feet, stroking Fuzzy with one hand and twirling a whisky glass with the other, watching as an inch of golden liquid coated the sides.
Libby rarely sat here on her own. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she muttered. ‘I’m getting sentimental.’
She pulled out a pair of knitting needles and a ball of wool she’d brought home from the Guild, curled up on the sofa and concentrated on producing squares. The Knitters' Guild would meet again, tomorrow, and Libby would be there.
If only Chief Inspector Arnold hadn’t burst into the meeting, full of pomposity and self-importance, Libby might have discovered an important clue amongst the gossip. What had the knitters said? A vague thought, shapeless but insistent, nagged at Libby’s brain. She couldn’t bring it into focus. Maybe it would become clearer tomorrow.
13
Dinner
That evening, Libby felt like a mother hen with a brood of unruly chicks. Max had returned, but instead of the quiet evening together in the cottage she’d have preferred, they were eating supper at his almost-mansion, and were not alone.
Apart from Bear, snoring loudly in the corner of the room, there was Reg, Max’s American colleague. Max wanted to introduce him to Libby. She suspected Max felt awkward after their phone call, and he’d brought his
