Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) (10 page)

“She used to write, now and then.” Jack smiled. “Even sent me presents from America. T-shirts and sneakers: things you couldn’t get in England, then. Like an aunt, really.”

“Do you have any letters?”

Sutcliffe shrugged. “Threw them away. Anyway, they were private.” Libby held up a hand. “I’m not being nosy, Mr Sutcliffe. You see, no one knows exactly what happened. How Susie died, I mean. It seemed like she’d been drinking or taking drugs, and got caught in the high tide.”

Sutcliffe snorted. “Susie wouldn’t get caught. She grew up in Exham. Knew every inch of the beach. She’d never let the tide catch her, like one of those summer visitors. She drank like a fish, mind you, that’s true enough.”

Libby smiled. “You must have known her daughter?” She looked from one man to the other. “I heard Annie Rose drowned.”

Sutcliffe clenched his fists and hammered them on the table, rattling the mugs. “If I could get my hands on that man…” He pointed a finger at Libby. “Neglect. That’s what killed Susie’s little girl. Mickey Garston let her die because he was too lazy to look after her.”

“Dad.” Jack intervened, one hand on his father’s arm. “No one really knows what happened. Anyway, that was years ago. It’s Susie’s death we’re talking about. You’re saying it might have been suicide?”

Libby shrugged. “Or murder.” She let that thought sink in.

Sutcliffe clattered the mugs together and threw them in the sink. “Mickey Garston. That’s who’s behind it, you mark my words. Susie cursed the day she met that man. Just let me get at him…” Jack laid a hand on his father’s shoulder, but the older man shrugged it off. “Should have dealt with him myself, years ago.”

“Mickey was in America when she died,” Libby said. “Besides, why would he want her dead after so many years?”

“I’ll show you.” Sutcliffe left the room. Libby heard drawers opening, papers being shuffled. “Here it is.” He held out two pages of writing paper. He hadn’t thrown all her letters away, then.

Libby glanced at the signature.
Love,
Susie, xxx.
She read through the childish script.

Dear Jamie and Mary,

Thank you for the beautiful flowers you sent, and for remembering the anniversary of Annie Rose’s death. She would have been ten years old. I still can’t believe she’s gone.

I miss England very much, but I won’t come back. I have friends out here and the sun always shines. Most important, though, is I can visit Annie Rose’s grave to talk to her.

You probably heard Mickey and I split up. It’s been all over the news programmes. He wants me to divorce him, but I’ll never do it. Why should I set him free, after all he’s done? My mistake was marrying him in the first place.

I want him to be miserable
…”

Libby re-read the letter. “No divorce?” She let the idea take root in her brain. “That means Mickey isn’t her ex-husband. I suppose he’s her widower, now. But that can’t be right, surely. Everyone knows Mickey’s married to Jenna Fielding.”

Sutcliffe rocked his chair back. “Susie wouldn’t give Mickey a divorce.”

Libby was still thinking it through. “I don’t blame her. If she’d made enough money, she wouldn’t need to rely on Mickey for alimony, and divorces get messy. Anyway, who cares if Mickey and Jenna aren’t married? What difference does it make?”

Sutcliffe laughed, the sound sharp as a whip crack. “It matters when there’s money at stake.” He shook his head. “You have to understand Susie, you see. Most people don’t. At school, she was a bit of an outcast, because her parents were travellers. Her mother came from an old gypsy family. As for her dad, he was long gone when she was just a bairn.”

“Susie’s parents never bothered to get married. No one knows what happened to her old man: he’ll have died, long ago. Travellers live free as air, but they don’t live long. Her Ma died while we were in the states. Anyway, our Susie wouldn’t give that man a divorce.”

“She was more of a gypsy than anyone I’ve ever met. She didn’t care about money. She did things the traveller’s way: with a handshake. I’d be willing to bet my farm, she died without leaving a will. Probably didn’t even have a solicitor.”

“That means Susie’s money…”

Sutcliffe slapped the table with one hand. “It means, as they were still married, Mickey inherits the whole of Susie’s fortune.”

Mushroom Sauce

Libby’s bones ached as she turned into the town. It was getting dark. She longed to get home to her cottage, close the curtains to shut out the world, light the sitting room with the gentle glow of table lamps, collapse onto into the comfortable sofa and think.

If only Max were here, she could run today’s discoveries past him. Had he found out any more about Mickey? Susie’s husband had an alibi, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t mastermind Susie’s death from the other side of the Atlantic.

She yawned and drove onto the drive. She’d hardly had time to think about Mrs Thomson’s fall. Had the old lady been pushed: killed for something she’d seen through the wind and rain of Monday night? Libby shivered. Two women were dead and the local police weren’t bothering to investigate. She felt very alone. If she didn’t persist, Susie and Mrs Thomson would be forgotten.

Later, she’d look through the photos in the old lady’s album. Who knew what else she might uncover from Susie’s past? But first, she needed a large glass of wine. Her mouth watered in anticipation as she parked the car in the drive, fumbled in her bag for keys, and unlocked the door.

As it opened, a wave of noise erupted. Mandy, the Goth. Libby had forgotten all about her. Televisions blared from every downstairs room. Above the racket, Mandy was singing, tuneless but enthusiastic. Libby shouted. “Mandy.” She waited. “Mandy.” She clattered up the stairs to hammer on the door of Mandy’s room.

The door swung open. “Oh, hello, Libby.” Mandy, eyes wide, covered her mouth with one hand and pulled an earphone off one ear. “Sorry, am I too noisy? Mum thumps on the ceiling with a broom handle when she wants me to shut up.”

Libby’s exasperation dissolved. Having Mandy around reminded her of the recent, bitter-sweet days, when her own noisy teenagers lived with her, shoes and bags littering the hallway, damp towels everywhere and the fridge emptied as fast as she filled it. The angry retort died on her lips. “Is chicken and chips OK for dinner?”

“Wow, wonderful. With some of that special sauce you told me about?”

“Ready in half an hour.”

Libby opened a bottle of pinot noir. If Mandy was going to stay, it was time to wean her off sweet white fizz. Forgetting the tired ache in her back, Libby set about preparations with enthusiasm. She made salad dressing, sliced potatoes into chips, washed vegetables and fried a handful of chestnut mushrooms in olive oil. In a minute or too, she’d add some crushed garlic, a slug of brandy, a whisk of mustard and a dollop of cream, and the sauce would be perfect.

She breathed in garlic and olive oil, the scent of sunshine and happiness. Mandy burst into the kitchen. “Mm. Smells good.”

Libby handed over a glass, one third full. “Sit down, Mandy. You’re not to take a single mouthful yet.”

“What? Why not?”

“You’ll enjoy it more, this way. Trust me.” Mandy rolled her eyes, but waited, glass in hand. “Now, just circle the glass in your hand, so the air gets at the wine. That’s it. Be gentle,” as Mandy’s wine threatened to spill over the top of the glass. “Now, have a look at the colour. Gorgeous, isn’t it? OK, now get your nose in the glass and sniff.”

Mandy giggled and put on a fake, affected wine-tasting voice. “I’m getting peaches, brambles and a spot of manure.” Libby threw a tea towel at her. “Maybe I need another glass to be sure.”

“Wait a minute, here’s the food.”

Libby served the chicken breasts. Mandy spooned salad from the oversized wooden bowl onto her plate. “Mmm. Scrumptious.”

“Had a good day at the shop?”

“Your new recipe went down well. What about your day? Made any discoveries?”

“Not about Mrs Thomson, I’m afraid, but I found one or two things about Susie.”

Mandy’s phone rang. She bit her lip. “It’s Mum.” She pressed the button and her voice rose. “Calm down, Mum, I can’t hear you.”

The voice on the other end of the phone sounded scared. Mandy’s hand shook as she covered the phone. She hissed at Libby. “It’s Dad. He’s having one of his tempers―stomping around upstairs and shouting.”

“Tell your Mum to come over here. She mustn’t stay there. No, wait, I’ll go and get her.”

Mandy relayed the message to her hysterical mother. “No, Mum, stay there, but keep an eye out. Libby’s coming.” Her voice rose. “Mum, I can hear him. Get out of the house!”

Libby ran to the car and accelerated away, tyres screaming. The drive took less than three minutes. She screeched to a halt, just as Mandy’s mother, coatless despite the cold, ran out, fumbling at the car door. Libby leaned over to release the catch and Elaine half-fell into the car, shivering, cheeks wet with tears, teeth chattering so she could barely speak. “I s-sneaked out the back door when Bert went to get b-beer from the fridge.”

Bert burst through the front door, bottle raised, and Elaine screamed. Libby stepped on the accelerator. “It’s OK.” The Citroen roared away from the curb, heading for home. “Just in time.”

Home in minutes, Libby slotted the safety chain firmly in place on the front door while Mandy took her mother’s arm and settled her in the kitchen, still trembling. “Did he hit you?” A cut on Elaine’s forehead oozed blood.

She flinched. “No. I―I banged it―”

“Ran into a door, did you? I don’t think so.” Libby dipped cotton wool in warm water laced with Dettol, and dabbed at the cut. “It’s not deep. I shouldn’t think you need stitches, but you do have to ring the police.”

Elaine pushed Libby’s hand away. “No. Bert’s had too much to drink, that’s all it is. It’ll be fine when he sobers up.”

“Mum.” Tears started in Mandy’s eyes. “It won’t be fine. He’ll get drunk tomorrow and do it again, you know he will. Please ring the police.”

Elaine shook her head. “I know what’s best, Mandy. Just let him be. He’ll cool off.”

A heavy blow shook the front door. Libby leaped to her feet. “If Bert’s cooled off, then who’s that?” Another crash echoed round the house, then a third. A male voice bellowed, but Libby couldn’t make out the words. The three women were on their feet, searching for something―anything―they could use to defend themselves.

Mandy grabbed Libby’s arm. “He’s come after us. What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to tell him to go home.” Libby’s stomach lurched. Bert was well-built and strong. The bad back that kept him on sick pay was pure fiction. He could stop hammering on her door, though. How dare he? “Stay here, you two.”

Libby straightened her shoulders, strode to the front door and pulled it open a few inches, the chain keeping it safe. Bert thrust his head into the gap. Libby could make out every mark on the man’s red face: black, open pores on a bulbous nose, blobs of sweat above a mean top lip and deep lines on an angry brow. Spit flew from the thin mouth. “You little…”

“Don’t you dare speak to me like that, Mr Parsons. There are three of us here, and we’re phoning the police at this very moment.”

Mandy had followed, close behind, phone to one ear. “Yeah, Dad. Go home and sober up.” Bert Parsons swore and kicked the door. The chain rattled. Libby took a pace back, bile in her throat. She was vaguely aware of clattering from the kitchen, as Bert kicked again. Helpless, Libby watched as the screws holding the chain on the door sprang out, clinking as they hit the floor.

Chicken and Chips

The third kick burst the door open. Bert lurched inside and shoved Libby in the chest. “Get out here, wife,” he roared.

A growl echoed down the hall. Mouth open, teeth bared, Bear leapt at the intruder. Bert stumbled back. The dog growled again, and reared, enormous paws on Bert’s shoulders. Bert tried to turn, slipped, and fell. Bear dropped to all fours, panting and slavering above him.

Saliva dripped on Bert’s face. He struggled to get up, one arm ready to fend off the dog. “Get that animal away from me.” Bear planted both forepaws firmly on Bert’s chest and howled. The noise was deafening.

“Well done, Bear.” Suddenly, Max was in the hallway, hands on hips. He grinned at Libby, whose stomach performed a leap of relief. “But, it looks as though I’ve arrived too late for the excitement.”

Libby, heart still pounding, hauled the dog off Bert, and scratched Bear’s ears. “Good dog.” She slipped her fingers through the dog’s collar. “Mandy, why don’t you take Bear into the kitchen and find a treat for him.”

Elaine leaned on the doorway to the sitting room, watching in silence as Bert scrambled up, deflated and blustering. “That dog’s a menace. He needs putting down.” He shot a venomous look at Elaine. “And you just wait ’til I get you home.”

“I won’t be coming home, Albert Parsons. Not tonight, and not ever again.” Max gripped Bert’s jacket and turned the man to face him. He grabbed both lapels and tugged, forcing Bert on to his toes. Their noses almost touched. “You’d better leave, Parsons, or you’ll be the one that gets hurt.”

Bert looked from Max to Libby. “So that’s what you’re up to, Max Ramshore.” His words were slurred. “Got a new woman in town. Well, you’re welcome to the ugly cow.” He shook off Max’s grip and lurched down the path, stumbling and muttering.