Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) (2 page)

“He’s comfortable. Sick as a dog in hospital, but not in any danger. His heart rate’s up, but the doctors say it’s not serious. They just want to keep him in until it slows. We left him there, to get some sleep.”

Claire, apparently deciding Libby would survive, returned to her car, hooted, and drove off. Libby fought back another wave of nausea as Max studied her face, his eyes narrow. She could almost see him thinking. “Did you eat or drink anything with the cyclists?” Libby let her eyes close, and the sickness receded. Max shook her arm. “Come on, try to concentrate.”

“No.” A memory surfaced, and her eyes opened wide. “At least, just one bite from an Eccles cake. But, there was nothing wrong with it. I should know. I made it myself.” She shuddered. The very idea of pastry tightened the knot in her stomach. “I feel better now.” That was a lie. She longed, more than anything, to crawl quietly into her own bed.

“We need to get you to the hospital. I want you checked out.”

“You think I’ve been poisoned, too?”

He leaned over to fasten her seatbelt. “Pretty obvious, I’d say, but we’ll find out for sure.”

Libby lay back, the chaos in her stomach subsiding. “I only had one small bite.”

“Just as well. Luckily, Joe only ate half a sandwich.”

“Poor Joe.”

“I thought you didn’t care for him.”

Libby grunted. “Well, of course I care. He’s your son, after all, and...” Exhausted, still nauseous, she couldn’t think of the right words. She let the sentence tail off, too weak to follow through. “You know what I mean.”

“He’s prickly, that’s the trouble with Joe. And a policeman, which makes it worse.”

They drove in silence. Libby felt better, so long as she kept both eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I don’t want to go to hospital.”

“Too bad.”

She tried again. “I was on my way to the police station. I want to find out what happened.”

Max snorted. “Did you think the police would tell you anything?”

“Probably not. They think I’m a busybody.”

“I’d call you interested and inquisitive. Can’t blame them, really, after the Susie Bennett affair.”

“It wasn’t my fault the police didn’t take her death seriously. Come on, Max. You were in it with me. You found out all sorts of things from your strange foreign contacts.”

Several seconds ticked by before he answered. “Libby, you’re talking about my other―er―responsibilities. You know I try to keep my distance from police work in Exham.”

“Yes, I know. You have very secret and important work for the government. I found out about it, remember?” It hadn’t been too difficult. All the signs had been there. Early retirement from high-level banking, regular sudden trips abroad, half-hidden links with the police, and easy access to foreign authorities. Everything pointed to a secret life. Max had to have been either a criminal or a government employee. Libby assumed she’d guessed right.

“Keep it to yourself, there’s a good girl.”

There it was again. Max’s unthinking arrogance. Was it just being a man that caused it? Whatever the cause, it never failed to rub Libby up the wrong way. “I’m not a child, Max. By the way, you never did say why you had to leave Exham in such a hurry.”

“I didn’t, because,” he drawled, “if I told you...”

“I know, you’d have to shoot me. Just tell me if your other responsibilities have anything to do with the dead cyclists, will you?”

He threw a lingering glance in her direction before he answered. “I hope not. I don’t think so, but I want you to be careful, Libby. Please don’t go poking your nose in where you shouldn’t.” He waited a beat. “I know you can’t resist a mystery, but at least, let me know what you’re up to.”

Max said no more, and Libby fell into a kind of hypnotic daze. Half-formed thoughts chased through her head. She’d love to unpack the mystery of Max. He was handsome, wealthy, and long divorced, but showed very little interest in local women. Or men, for that matter. Maybe there was a secret mistress somewhere else. Libby could imagine Max with someone exotic, all long legs and tanned skin, from South America.

Displeased with the idea, she turned her attention to their short relationship. For a while, she’d thought they were getting close, but long walks and longer evenings, with a meal and a bottle of wine or two, had ended in no more than a chaste peck on the cheek. Was that part of the reason Libby found Max so unsettling? Because he didn’t want to take things further? Although, of course, she didn’t either.

Maybe she should start something with Simon Logan. He seemed flatteringly keen. Would Max be jealous? Libby couldn’t decide. His eyes were fixed on the road, his jaw clenched. Libby’s eyelids grew heavy. She didn’t want any complications. She drifted into sleep.

Foxgloves

At the hospital, a serious young doctor with floppy hair and horn-rimmed spectacles, tie tucked between two shirt buttons, examined Libby, declared her out of any danger and decreed she could go home. “The hospital’s full to bursting, today, after the poisoning. No beds free at all.” He yawned. “We think we’ve pinpointed the poison, though. Digitoxin. It’s a compound made from digitalis.”

“I’m sorry? What’s digitalis? Or the other thing?”

The doctor nodded, brow furrowed in a scholarly expression, transparently gratified to have the chance to explain his newly acquired, expert knowledge. “Digitalis is found in the common foxglove,
Digitalis Purpurea.
That’s the Latin name. You can find them easily in woodland.”

“Or in people’s gardens?”

“Exactly. You’d be surprised how many everyday plants have serious toxic effects. Foxgloves can be both poisonous and beneficial, especially the leaves. Digitalis affects the heart rate.”

He thrust his hands into the pockets of crumpled trousers. He looked hardly older than Robert, Libby’s son. Did doctors not wear white coats any more? “Digitoxin must have turned up in the sandwiches or cakes. I believe you only had a small bite, Mrs Forest?”

“From an Eccles cake.” Libby shivered. She’d never eat one again.

A bleep interrupted. The doctor pulled a small device from his pocket. “Sorry, have to go. Just take it easy for a few days, and you’ll be fine. Your heart’s steady enough.”

Max took Libby’s arm and walked her to the car. “I suppose you realise what this means for the bakery?”

She closed her eyes. “I’ve been trying not to think about it, but it’s going to be the first place the police look. How could foxglove leaves get into the cyclists’ food? Was it deliberate, d’you suppose, or a terrible mistake? Oh dear, I can’t seem to think straight.”

“Leave it for now. Get a good night’s sleep. Things might seem clearer in the morning.” Max drove her home.

Mandy was in the kitchen, eyes on stalks, bursting to gossip, but Max cut her short and steered Libby upstairs. “Do you need help getting to bed?”

“I can manage.”

“Oh.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Sleep well.”

***

It was the hammering that woke her. Surfacing from a dreamless sleep, Libby groaned and rolled over. Early light filtered through the curtains. The noise started up again, thudding in her head. Someone was banging on the bedroom door. “What is it?”

Mandy’s head appeared. “Sorry to wake you, but your daughter’s here.”

“Ali?” Libby sat up. That was a mistake. Her head thudded harder. She grabbed the water glass by the bedside table and sipped. Empty. She must have drunk it in the night. With care, she slid one foot out of bed, feeling for the floor. Her stomach lurched.

“Here’s the bucket.” Mandy was by her side. “Max said this might happen. He said you’re to stay in bed. I wasn’t going to wake you, but Ali...” Ali was away at Uni, wasn’t she? It couldn’t be the holidays already.

“Hi, Mum.” Her daughter’s head popped round the door. “Your friend, Max, rang. He said you’d been poisoned.”

Libby lay back against a pile of pillows. “It’s not serious. He shouldn’t have worried you.”

Ali, eyes wide, hair tousled, grinned. “Of course, he should. I’ve come to look after you. By the way, who was that girl? Why is she dressed like that, with all those studs?”

Guilt crept over Libby. She’d meant to tell Ali about the lodger sleeping in her old bedroom. Somehow, the time had never seemed right. “Mandy works at the bakery with me. She’s staying here for a while.”

“And when were you thinking of telling me?” Ali raised an eyebrow and leaned over to plump her mother’s pillows.

Libby pushed her hand away. “We haven’t spoken recently.” Ali’s eyes avoided her mother. That last phone call had been heated.

Ali heaved a familiar, exaggerated sigh. “OK, I know I should have rung at the weekend. I was busy.”

“With John?” Libby tried to sound non-committal, but the words arrived laced with disapproval. She winced, as Ali’s eyes narrowed. It was so easy to say the wrong thing.

“Busy, actually. John’s been away in Dubai, if you want to know.”

“Oh.” Libby said no more. Was she being unreasonable? John was a wealthy, sophisticated man, more than twenty years older than her daughter. Ali met him when he lectured at the University. He was an expert in philanthropy, apparently, which seemed to be an excuse for the rich to get even richer, without feeling guilty.

“Look, Mum. I can see you’re feeling lousy. We won’t argue just now.” Ali bustled about the room, straightening curtains, smoothing the duvet, dusting a mirror with a tissue.

Libby closed her eyes. “I think I’d like to go back to sleep.”

“Dry toast. That’s what you need.”

“Lovely.” Anything for a moment’s peace. Drowsy, Libby twitched awake as the bedroom door clinked shut. She sighed, closed her eyes and drifted away.

***

Hunger kicked in and she woke. A tray on the bedside table held a slice of cold toast. Libby took a bite. Delicious. Just what she needed, after all. Ali was right.

Libby looked at the clock and threw back the covers. What was happening at the bakery? She reached for her dressing gown and stopped, eyes fixed on the hugely expensive silk pyjamas she wore. She’d bought them a few Christmases ago, as revenge when Trevor gave her a wok. Had Mandy undressed her?
Oh no. Not Max, surely?

She winced, struggling to remember, and then tugged open a drawer, shuddered at the jumble of clothes inside, and slammed it shut. Max had seen this muddle? And undressed her while she was asleep? She’d never look him in the face again.

Tying the dressing gown tightly, Libby set off downstairs. “Watch out!” The marmalade cat, who offered daily evidence of despising Libby, shot out of the living room and up the stairs, disappearing into the airing cupboard. “That was deliberate, Fuzzy.”

A vacuum cleaner hummed as she approached the living room. Ali had wasted no time in getting to grips with the cleaning. Resisting the temptation to tiptoe past, into the kitchen, Libby opened the door and planted a kiss on the back of her daughter’s head. “Thank you for coming home.” She took a breath. “Does your brother know about the―er―the accident?”

“I rang him. He’s going to phone you later.” Ali switched off the machine and wound the cable neatly. “I hear you poisoned everyone in Exham with your baking, yesterday.”

“Not me. At least, I hope not.”

“Of course, it wasn’t your fault. I was joking.”

“Not very funny, actually. Two people died.”

“How awful.” Ali’s eyes were huge. “Did you know them?”

“Not really. Don’t be a ghoul. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Her daughter pouted. “Very well. Did you know your vacuum cleaner needs bags? I’ll pick some up this afternoon. Now, what do you want for lunch? I can stay for a day or so to look after you.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’m going to work.” Libby sniffed the air, scenting coffee.

Mandy arrived, holding the door open with one foot, balancing three mugs on a tray. “You’d better have this before we go to the bakery. I’ve got a bad feeling about this morning.”

Cocoa beans

The small yard behind the bakery heaved with police. Libby recognised a middle-aged, overweight constable, all pudding face and small eyes, as one of Joe’s team. He held up a hand the size of a dinner plate. “You can’t come in, Ma’am, I’m afraid.”

Frank handed keys to a tall woman in white overalls. He looked terrible, with red-rimmed eyes, his brow furrowed. Mournful, he shook his head at Libby. “They’re going to search the bakery.” He’d aged overnight. He’d become an old man, and his voice quivered. “This will put us out of business.” His lip was trembling. “I’m sorry, Libby. Just when you were about to get started.”

It was true, then. The police were blaming the bakery for Kevin Batty’s death. Frank’s business, built up over dozens of years, had hit the dust, and both Libby and Mandy were out of a job. A shock of reality punched Libby in the chest. A closed bakery meant the end of the chocolate project. Her wonderful new career had died before it even came to life. Mandy’s eyes, lined with black kohl, were enormous in her white face. “What will we do?”

The constable―Ian Smith was his name, Libby remembered―looked vaguely sympathetic. Frank was well known and popular in the town. “We need to ask you some questions at the police station, sir.”

Frank’s body slumped. Libby forced a cheerful smile as she patted his arm. “Don’t worry, we’ll find out what happened.”

Constable Smith’s concern failed to extend to Libby. “Don’t go interfering, Ma’am. We’ll be talking to all of you, and you’ll be better off waiting quietly at home until then.”

“Last time...” Libby bit off her words. Reminding the police officer how badly they’d failed before would just antagonise him. “Are you suggesting we’re all suspects?”

“We can’t discuss it yet. We’ll talk to you later today. Now, let me have your phone number and go on home.”

Mandy’s mouth hung open as the police hustled the baker away. “They can’t think it was Frank?”

“It looks like it. Come on, let’s go. We need to find out what really happened.”