Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun (22 page)

‘Still not back?' I murmured and pulled my towel around my practical black swimming costume. A couple of small girls, wearing colourful armbands, exited the changing room and pushed past, followed by calls from their mums to slow down.

We stepped out of the way. Kensa shook her head.

‘Have you informed the police?'

‘No.' She shrugged. ‘He wouldn't want me to and … this happened once before. Six months ago. He came back the next day.'

‘Did you know where he'd gone?'

She shook her head again and turned as a phone rang out from Reception. ‘Look, I know it all seems very strange, Kate. And you've been brilliant. I'm sure he'll be all right. I … I'll ring the police if it goes past twenty-four hours and he hasn't even called.'

Biting my lower lip, I headed into the changing rooms. I realised it was too early for Tremain to be listed as officially missing, but what if something terrible had happened? And yet, like Kensa, I had a sense that he would be all right. There was a profound sense of strength about him, despite the fact he'd clearly been through some sort of trauma.

Stomach rumbling, I dried my hair. I'd grab a doughnut on my way back to the chalet—Izzy was doing the early shift and I would help out after lunch. I couldn't face an all-day breakfast with Lucas. The false jollity and affection—it was all too much. Today I would definitely fess up about the real reason I'd thought him the perfect plus-one for Saffron's wedding and would tell him that a relationship between him and me … ? Uh uh, that was no longer going to work.

I peeled off my dripping swimsuit and picked up my knickers from the bundle of clothes in front of me, on the brown slatted bench, humming the tune that I had written last night. Hurriedly, I slipped them on and then glanced sideways at a folded pile of tiny, designer clothes. No doubt they belonged to Mrs Peppard. What a surprise that she hadn't locked them away in a Louis Vuitton holdall, although she probably wanted to show them off to other swimmers and could easily afford replacements.

I was about to look away, as I struggled to put on my bra over slightly damp skin, when something in the pile caught my eye. I pulled on my T-shirt and double-checked I was alone in the room, then lifted up the blouse on top to investigate a centimetre of pink leopard-print material that was sticking out.

My jaw dropped. Underpants. The label indicated they formed part of a matching set. I squinted. M&S
size ten—just like the bra found in the chalet that caught fire. I searched further through the pile and found a plain blue bra—Mrs Peppard struck me as the kind of woman who would wear matching underwear if at all possible, so the other half of the set must be missing.

Oh my days. It was her. Mrs Peppard, the scented candle, the burning sofa … She was one of the people enjoying a lovers' tryst. So who was her lover? Or did she and Mr Peppard get kicks from having sex in forbidden places? I shuddered at the thought of her critical, standoffish husband doing anything other than checking his shares in the paper or talking about golf. I pulled on my fifties halter-neck blouse and three-quarter-length cotton trousers. Before heading out of the changing rooms, I neatened Mrs Peppard's pile of clothes and slipped on my pumps.

In the reception area, Housekeeping were cleaning up black smudges from the walls near the storage room. The smell of smoke still haunted the air. Earl Jones sat in Donuts & Daiquris with his family and waved before I went over. I glanced at the reception clock. A quarter to ten.

‘Not having cocktails for breakfast, are you? How decadent!' I said and smiled. ‘You didn't fancy a Rocky Roadhouse fry-up?'

He grinned and patted his stomach. ‘Shirl wouldn't let me do that every day—although I suspect, calorie
wise, a couple of your doughnuts are no better.' He ran a hand over his receding hairline and clasped his hands together. He opened his mouth to talk and then closed it again.

‘Everything OK?' I said, and smiled at Pearl. ‘You and I really must have a singing session together. Do you like, let's think … the band 5 Seconds of Summer?'

The little girl nodded enthusiastically and took a big bite of donut.

Earl pointed to a couple of comfy chairs near the poolside window, away from the busy housekeeping staff. ‘Look, can I have a chat for a moment?'

Oh dear. You didn't often see a serious look on his face. Perhaps he had a complaint to make and would rather approach me than stressed Kensa. We went over and sat down opposite each other. He sucked in his cheeks and leant forward.

‘You know, I lost my job last month. That's why we took this discounted holiday. Normally, we would have gone abroad.'

‘Oh no. Sorry to hear that. I'd never have guessed.' I gave a half-smile. ‘You are one of the cheeriest guests we've had here this week.'

He shrugged. ‘No point wallowing, is there? Especially when you've got kids. Reality will hit when we get home. I'll have to find another job quick-smart.'

‘Is there much likelihood of that where you live?'

He shrugged. ‘Nope. We'd be happy to move, though, if it was the right job, with prospects—Pearl is young enough to change schools.' He exhaled. ‘But the reason I mention it is … Look, I don't want to speak out of turn, but—'

‘You've been nothing but supportive and helpful since arriving—please, go on.'

He cleared his throat. ‘That's kind of you—and one reason, I guess, is that I understand what White Rocks is going through. You see, until last month, I managed a hardware store. I've always been good with my hands—thanks to my dad, I grew up knowing about electrics and plumbing. It didn't take me long to work my way up to management and, a few years ago, I was offered a top position at one of the stores biggest outlets.' He shrugged. ‘But, as White Rocks has found, the recession hit us and we needed to rebrand to pull in new customers. I did a lot of research on the Internet, and on my feet, visiting the competition. I made lots of suggestions—like the company expanding into garden ware and perhaps opening a small café …'

‘Didn't they like your ideas?'

‘No, because someone else just beat me to putting the same solutions forward. Long story, but I eventually worked out it was my deputy, John. Good friends we were, or so I thought. He passed off my ideas as his own. He's a good ten years younger than me. No kids.
Not even married. The company saw him as a better prospect for managing the new-look store.'

‘That's awful!'

Earl's face flushed purple. ‘Yes, and I'm still trying to manage the anger, am trying not to let it eat away at me. Anger at John. Anger at my bosses. Anger at myself for being so naive. The recession has made everyone look out for themselves … All I'm saying is …' He lifted his hands in the air. ‘So many things have gone wrong here since we arrived, do you think someone could be ambushing the Maddocks' plans on purpose?'

‘No!' I said and let go of my holdall. I stared at Earl. ‘Seriously. Everyone here has pulled together as a team. Even Lucas …'

Earl raised an eyebrow.

I smiled. ‘Let's just say, after years of serving highfalutin food, he wasn't completely on-board for serving convenient kids' grub.'

‘Well, I'd never have guessed—he couldn't have gone to more trouble with our picky Pearl. One of the few meals she'll eat is fish-finger sandwiches. He made a special batch of his fish goujons just for her, with the cod shaped into perfect rectangles. Shirl was well impressed. She works part-time as a chef in a local pub, cooking food like Rocky Roadhouse's and said they'd never make that much effort.'

‘There you go! Also the housekeeping staff has worked extra hours and the local pool attendant even charged Kensa a discounted rate, until business improves. Why would anyone actively encourage White Rocks to go bankrupt?'

I was still asking myself this question, back at the chalet, an icy orange juice in my hand. I had an hour before my shift was due to start and couldn't think of anything else, not even my new song, which I was really excited about. Take those fireworks—apparently a candle had set them off. Been lit on the shelf above and fallen into the box. The storage-room light wasn't working, and Kensa thought a member of staff must have lit the candle to see what they were doing, and was now too afraid to own up that they had accidentally left it burning.

But what if it was part of an underhand plan to ruin the ABBA evening? I shook my head. It would have to be someone pretty ruthless—or stupid—to risk that. Or … I shifted in my seat. Someone, at the moment, a little off-balance. I mean, wouldn't it have been easier and more sensible to use a torch instead of the old-fashioned way of lighting wax? Perhaps Tremain had had enough of running White Rocks? Would it suit him better if the place actually failed? What if Izzy was right after all, and he'd maybe been in prison and had a track record of underhand behaviour? Yet I'd find it
hard to believe that he would risk anyone's safety, after the way he rescued me from the chalet fire. And he knew how much the family business meant to his mum. No. That theory made no sense at all.

So what if Earl was on to something and an outsider was trying to sabotage Kensa and Tremain's plans?

I put down my orange juice and headed into the kitchen. I grabbed a notepad and pen off the work unit. Carefully, I peeled off the sheets bearing my musical scribbling from last night, and darted into the bedroom to stash them in a drawer. Then I came back, opened the door and went out to the decking. I waved at children playing and then sat down, enjoying the warm glow spreading across my body, due to the sun.

Right. First up. Make a list of everything that has gone wrong.

The mike at the disco evening. I remembered enjoying the goujons Lucas brought over for me. Then when I went back to sing it didn't work. Eating those tasty morsels had distracted me and I wouldn't have noticed someone crouching down in the dark. Earl said the wiring was really messed up—surely the mike would have sounded faulty, over the time, if the wiring was wearing? It wouldn't just not work without a hint of something being wrong.

Next was the CD on that same evening the disco tracks suddenly turned to heavy metal. Talk about a mystery. Lucas said all my CDs had been fine when
he'd borrowed them—could one of the guests, an outsider, have switched it while I wasn't looking? Perhaps a teenager who hated cheesy music and wanted something more to their taste? No. It was definitely my disc.

I scratched my head and stopped writing for a second. So many questions and no answers. Deep breaths. OK next. The trip to the beach had been a total disaster. The weather forecaster Lucas had listened to had got it wrong about the storm moving away. We didn't know about the demo. Then Lucas's fisherman friend cried off ill.

What a day that turned out to be—in the evening, we had the fireworks, which set off the smoke alarm. Oh the irony—Kensa had been so grateful to Lucas for pointing out, a few days earlier, that the smoke alarm in the cupboard was flashing to indicate the batteries were low. Shamefaced, she said she'd always been proud of putting guests' safety first. Tremain then checked the whole building. Fortunately, it was the only one.

Anything else? I thought hard. Geoff's van had been a success and the kids loved Guvnah's paintings and the Rocky Rabbit toys. But then an image of Mrs Peppard's disapproving face popped into my head. Ah yes. Our cocktails. I recalled Lucas asking me how Donuts & Daiquiris had become so successful and my answer had been proved true. It was all down to quality. When it came to the little affordable luxuries
like cocktails, people didn't seem to mind paying a little more if the product was fab. Yet drinks had been left this last week. No one had seemed impressed. Just before I left Earl this morning Izzy had caught me to say she'd rung the drinks suppliers. They hotly denied any of their bottles were swapped for cheaper versions before sale and suggested she came over to examine their current stock for herself. So Izzy looked at some more of the bottles and worked out why they were so easy to open—the seals had actually been discreetly broken. Someone must have tampered with the bottles by pouring out some of the good stuff and watering down the rest. Thank goodness for Lucas letting us use his bar's supplies. They would last for a while until we sorted out this mess.

I put the pen down on the decking and stared hard at the list, trying to find a common element. But the harder I stared, the more impossible it became to find a link. I tossed the notebook down next to me, and got up to brush my hair and change. When I came back, it was almost time to leave for work. I shook my head.
Work?
How did this happen? I was supposed to be on holiday! Or at least be carrying out my mission to find the perfect plus-one for Saffron's wedding—yet that had turned out to be far less straight-forward than I thought.

With a yawn, I picked up the notebook again and stood up, pacing the wooden slats beneath my feet, only stopping to help turn over a ladybird that had got stuck
on its back. My eyes scanned the points I'd made and … Oh. I focused hard. This time one word jumped out at me. It appeared in each of my descriptions of things that had gone wrong. My stomach scrunched. No. I had to be wrong. It didn't make sense. What would be the point?

The hairs stood up on the back of my neck and I swallowed hard. You see the word—or rather the name—the common link … was
Lucas
.

My mind raced through the events of the last days … surely not … but, but … what if … ?

No. How could I possibly think the worst of my seductive charmer? Or was that smoothness all part of his guise? Tremain had never trusted his chef. Did his charisma shield an ulterior motive?

Briefly, I noted, once again, that I had no urge to message Johnny and ask his opinion. Instead I followed my guts, followed my heart. With a flourish, I tore off the sheet of paper and, holding it tightly in my hand, left the chalet. There was only one thing for it—I had to confront my Poldark lookalike.