The next day, Keeley plucked up the courage to attend the morning’s church service after an invitation from Annie after breakfast, and was grateful to see no one she recognized, especially Maggie or her friend Norma. There were only friendly faces, and the vicar’s wife seemed very interested in the possibility of Keeley holding an evening yoga class at the church hall. Although she had never been a regular churchgoer, she had always attended Easter and Christmas services with her dad, and the familiar smells of wood polish and incense evoked a pang of nostalgia. Although she didn’t take in all of the vicar’s sermon, his lilting tones soothed her and she emerged into the sunshine feeling comforted.
“I told you you’d soon be fitting in fine,” Annie said as they walked back up the hall. It was another nice spring day, the birds making a riot of sound, the hills stretching away into the distance, and Keeley felt a moment’s gratitude that she lived here.
“I saw a police car driving up and down the hill last night.” Annie gave her a tactful look out of the corner of her eyes. Keeley sighed, and decided it was time to let her landlady know what was happening at the cottage. Annie’s eyes went wide as Keeley told her about the letters.
“How awful. Good Lord, but there are some horrible people in this world.”
As they reached Rose Cottage, Annie peered up at the porch roof thoughtfully.
“Do you know, I could install CCTV here and round the back. That would deter whoever is behind it, I should think.”
“That’s a great idea,” Keeley said, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it herself. “But you shouldn’t have to worry about that.”
“Nonsense,” Annie said in her kind but brisk manner, “I’ll look into it this week. I’ve been meaning to get it alarmed for a while.” They said good-bye and Keeley went into the cottage feeling a little more secure, though she still locked the door behind her.
That night, after waking up from a fitful sleep for the third time, Keeley made herself a cup of chamomile and sat in her bedroom window. She saw a patrol car come up the hill, its lights sweeping the road in front of it, and felt her breath quicken for a second before she remembered it wouldn’t be Ben. He drove an unmarked car, being a detective rather than a uniformed constable. She gulped at her tea, swallowing down her disappointment.
Monday morning, however, she woke with a smile. Today work would finally begin on the café, and the place would be transformed over the next few days into her vision for it.
Armed with a large bag containing two tins of paint, brushes, and rollers, Keeley caught a cab to the High Street and got there a good half hour before the kitchen installers were due to arrive, letting herself through the front door and looking around. Although bare, it still had much the same layout as when it had been the butcher’s, and this would be the last time she would see it like this. In spite of her adult aversion to meat, the memory of her father standing behind the counter with his white butcher’s apron made her smile wistfully.
A sudden noise came from the direction of the kitchen and made her jump, nearly dropping her bag. She heard voices, then a sound like a bell ringing. Not quite in the kitchen, but very close. In fact, it sounded as if it were coming from her own backyard. Going through to the back, she saw the outline of a group of people through the windows. They began to talk at once in a strange monotone that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. What on earth were they doing? Then she realized they were chanting. She had heard chanting before, some of the more meditative styles of yoga used it as a technique to calm the mind, but it had never sounded quite like this. Keeley unlocked the back door, unsure whether she should be angry, bemused, or scared. Or perhaps all three.
Five faces turned to her, mouths open mid-chant. She recognized one of them.
“Megan? What are you doing in my yard?” Keeley looked at her new friend, incredulous. Megan and her companions were dressed in long white robes, standing in a small circle. One of them carried a bell, which explained the ringing, and another was waving around a censer on a chain, from which emitted a foul-smelling smoke.
Megan smiled at her, her expression sheepish.
“I didn’t think you would be here yet. Keeley, these are my friends from my light-worker circle. This is Merdyn—” she indicated a portly man with long, matted hair, “—and this is Lilith Redfeather.” A small woman with rather helmetlike gray hair gave her a little wave. Keeley held a hand up to stop Megan before she could introduce her other two friends, a woman with short pink hair and a young man with glasses and an earnest expression.
“I’m delighted to meet you. But Megan, what are you doing?” A gust of smoke blew into Keeley’s face, and she coughed as she batted it away with an angry swipe of her hand. She was sure she saw curtains twitching in one of the windows from the houses that overlooked her yard. Wonderful.
“We were just doing a little banishing ritual. Of any lingering dark energies from the murder.” She said the last word in a voice that, although hushed, somehow managed to sound incredibly loud. Her friends each gave a small shudder in unison. “I knew you were getting the café remodeled, and I thought it would give you an auspicious start. It’s better done at the site of the murder, of course, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Of course, now that you’re here, maybe we could go in?” Megan looked hopeful, but Keeley shook her head firmly.
“No, absolutely not. I don’t want you doing this in my backyard either. How did you get in?”
Megan looked crestfallen, but also guilty. The man with the glasses piped up; “I just reached over and undid the bolt.”
Keeley glared at him. “You weren’t aware that a bolt usually means you’re not permitted to come in?” She felt inexplicably furious at Megan, whether she had meant well or not. Her property had been invaded quite enough, and she couldn’t quite believe her new friend could be so thoughtless. The man looked down, and his friends looked at each other, obviously uncomfortable.
“Perhaps we should go, Megs?” Pink Hair said, giving Keeley a nasty look. Indeed, Megan looked as though she were about to cry. Keeley sighed, relenting, and waved her into the kitchen, shutting the door firmly behind her before the others got any ideas.
“I’m sorry, Keeley,” Megan sniffed, “I was just trying to help.”
“Okay, I know. I’m sorry I was so angry. But, Megan, I’ve just been broken into, the place set on fire and a man killed.” She stopped herself from automatically looking up at the ceiling. “The last thing I want is strange people coming into my backyard.”
Megan’s eyes widened. “Oh, Keeley, I just didn’t think. I really am sorry. We just thought it would do the place, and you, good.”
She looked so earnest, Keeley didn’t have the heart to stay angry at her.
“Well, maybe when all the work’s done, you can come and say a prayer or something? Just you. And no smelly stuff.”
“It’s only sage,” Megan said a little huffily, then threw her arms around Keeley and squeezed her before stepping back and looking around. Her eyes went straight to the ceiling as if looking through it. Seeing not white plaster but the room above. Where it had all happened.
“The site of a murder can leave an awful negative imprint, you know. If you change your mind, I’m sure the group will only be too happy to help you cleanse the place.”
“It’ll be fine,” Keeley assured her. She let her out the back door, giving her another hug, one that she instigated this time. Megan might be a little off the wall, but she was only trying to help, in her own inimitable way. Keeley hadn’t made so many friends here that she could afford to lose them. Nevertheless, she bolted her back gate firmly after her white-robed companions. Then found herself leaning against it, shaking with silent laughter as the ludicrousness of it all hit her.
A masculine voice calling “Ms. Carpenter” at the front of the shop brought her attention back to the physical, rather than auric, transformation of the shop into her café. The kitchen contractors were here. Keeley greeted them with a warm smile, relieved to see only tool kits in their hands, not bells and censers.
After Keeley had shown them in and they got to work banging and hammering, Keeley retreated upstairs with her tins of paint. Although she was paying for the café itself to be decorated professionally, she had decided to give upstairs a fresh lick of paint herself. She wanted to be involved in the whole process, and any attempts on her part to cut costs would no doubt appease her mother. The little flat felt lighter than it had done now she had cleaned and aired it, and if any “imprints” of the murder remained, then Keeley was sure they were the product of her own mind rather than any supernatural residue. Although she agreed with Megan insofar as that bad atmospheres could indeed linger in a place, she felt the best way to create a better atmosphere would be to create happier memories there, rather than waft around some smoke. A coat of fresh paint would work wonders too. She threw herself into the task with gusto, relieved to feel that her plans for the Yoga Café were finally coming to fruition and she had work to do, a blessed relief from sitting in the cottage and jumping every time the wind rattled the letterbox.
Or thinking about Ben. His revelation had left her with a feeling she couldn’t quite name. Pleasure, certainly, but also a tinge of regret that their apparently mutual interest in each other had never been made manifest. As she moved the roller up and down in continuous rhythm, she allowed herself to wonder how different her life would have been if Ben had been her first boyfriend.
And came up with the conclusion that any liaison would likely have consisted of little more than a kiss behind the proverbial bike sheds. She smiled wryly to herself at the thought of a teenage Raquel’s reaction to a plump Keeley walking hand in hand through the school corridors with the best-looking boy in their school year. She would probably have tried to scratch her eyes out.
As she knelt down to put a fresh coat of paint on the roller, something sparkly caught her eye. Keeley frowned as she saw what looked like a gold coin wedged in a gap between the baseboard and the wall. After setting the roller down carefully, she prized it loose, only to realize it wasn’t a coin at all, but a button. She stared at it glittering in the palm of her hand, a recent memory nagging at her consciousness. She had seen these buttons before. Then a thought struck her, bringing with it a throb of excitement. Could this have been left here from the night of the murder? Wedged into the skirting as it had been, it was possible the police would have missed it; they were searching for murder weapons, not buttons. Keeley stood up slowly, still staring at the button, her mind whirling through possibilities. It looked new, as though it hadn’t been here very long, so it could well have come from the clothes of Terry Smith.
Or the murderer himself. Perhaps they had struggled? Keeley tried to imagine what item of clothing it could have come from. A blazer, jacket, or cardigan, most likely. It didn’t look like the sort of thing Raquel would wear, she mused.
Keeley was so intrigued that when she heard Raquel’s voice calling her name up the stairs, it took a minute to register that the voice wasn’t just a product of her imagination. Then she heard the deeper voice of one of the workmen directing her upstairs and the insistent clip of Raquel’s stilettos approaching.
“In here,” Keeley called, slipping the button into the back pocket of her jeans. She drew her shoulders back and took a deep, fortifying breath, steeling herself against whatever vitriol Raquel was about to subject her to. Ben must have spoken to her by now. Keeley prayed that Raquel hadn’t managed to sweet-talk herself out of it. Not that Ben seemed a soft touch by any means, but she still wasn’t convinced there wasn’t some kind of relationship between them, and if anyone could sweet-talk a man, it was Raquel Philips.
Raquel entered the room with a thunderous look on her immaculately made-up face, stopping a few feet away from Keeley, directly opposite her like a gunslinger at a noon showdown. Keeley resisted the urge to pick her roller back up.
“Is something wrong?”
Raquel moved her mouth in what was definitely a snarl.
“Yes, there is. What exactly were you thinking, sending Ben round to accuse me of some kind of smear campaign?”
So he had spoken to her, then. Quite harshly, judging by Raquel’s reaction. Keeley swallowed and lifted her chin, looking the other woman directly in the eyes, determined not to be intimidated in the face of her anger. And she was angry—shaking, in fact, her curves quivering under her ultra-tight linen dress.
“I received some letters,” Keeley said in a neutral tone, “that we thought might have come from you.”
“We?” Raquel sneered. “A member of the police force now, are you? And why on earth would they come from me? You think I’ve got nothing better to do than harass you, Keeley Carpenter? Well, you’re wrong. You came questioning me, remember?”
Keeley nodded. “That’s why I thought of you. You were complaining to Ben that I was snooping.”
“Because you were!” Raquel shouted, taking a step toward Keeley. Keeley felt her breath catch in her throat, though she stood her ground. She glanced at the door that led to the stairs, relieved to see Raquel had left it wide open. The banging noises from downstairs had ceased, and Keeley guessed the workmen were listening in the hopes of catching a juicy bit of gossip. Embarrassing, but at least Raquel couldn’t try to hit her round the head with anything. She noticed how strong the other girl’s arms looked, how stocky her shoulders. Terry Smith had, by all accounts, been a weedy little man.
“I was just asking a few questions,” Keeley protested.
“About Terry. As if I had anything to do with it. And I suppose now the whole of Belfrey will know, won’t they? Who told you?”
Keeley felt confused, aware that the subject had been changed but not sure to which topic.
“Told me what?”
Raquel took another step toward her, her face growing redder by the minute.
“Don’t play dumb with me. You were always like that at school, with your big cow eyes, all innocent. But I know better. You told Ben about the money I was giving Terry, so who told you?”
Clarity dawning, Keeley shook her head.
“It wasn’t anyone. Just something I, er, guessed.”
“So you’re psychic now, are you? Like your silly friend with the dreadlocks that was dancing around the backyard earlier.” Raquel laughed, a cold and bitter sound with not a trace of humor in it. Keeley closed her eyes briefly, remembering the twitching curtain. Of course, the back of the diner would overlook her own backyard. Great.
“If you’ve got nothing to do with it, I don’t see what you’re so worried about,” Keeley pointed out. Whatever Raquel had been paying Terry for, it was clearly something she wanted kept very quiet. Although she wasn’t about to risk asking the irate woman in front of her directly, she couldn’t help wondering just what her secret was. A married lover? Some kind of scandal related to the diner?
“I don’t want the whole town knowing!” Raquel all but screamed. “How that horrible little man found out, I’ll never know. I paid good money to make sure they looked as natural as possible.”
Keeley frowned in confusion, then understood what Raquel was referring to as the woman gestured toward her own torso.
“You’ve had breast surgery,” Keeley said, trying not to stare at the offending area, “and that’s what you were paying Terry to keep quiet about?” The woman’s mad, she thought.
At Keeley’s words, Raquel gave a little moan and seemed to sag like a burst balloon. “You didn’t even know, did you?”
Keeley shook her head.
“I knew about the money, but not why. Is it really such a concern to you?” The idea that she had been paying Terry Smith good money to keep quiet about a bit of cosmetic surgery seemed beyond vanity. Keeley had seen plenty of enhanced bodies during her time in London and America, and although in her experience, women didn’t generally want to shout from the rooftops that they had had work done, she had never heard of anyone going to such lengths to hide it either. Although in a small town like Belfrey, any bit of gossip would no doubt become as overinflated as Raquel’s breasts.
“Of course it is,” Raquel snapped. “When I went away to uni, I had them done and never told anyone. I used the money Mum and Dad had given me to fund my studies.”
“They don’t know either,” Keeley guessed. Not just vanity, then, but the very real possibility of having access to Daddy’s money cut off. Mr. Philips was a rich man, owning properties and businesses all over Amber Valley. Keeley often thought that one of the reasons Darla hadn’t liked Mrs. Philips was pure and simple jealousy. That and the unfortunate sharing of their first name. A few times, Keeley remembered her mother introducing herself, only to follow it up with, “No, not that Darla,” with a touch of what sounded like regret in her voice, no doubt due to envy of her namesake’s richer husband and more glamorous daughter.
The glamorous daughter who was now glaring at Keeley, her anger banking its fires again.
“No, and you’re not going to tell them, do you hear me?”
“Of course not.” Keeley felt offended. “I told Ben about the money only because, well, it looked suspicious.” She wasn’t entirely convinced the other girl wasn’t behind the letters either.
“Suspicious!” Raquel hissed. “Says you, turning up the day after he was killed, and in your shop. You’re probably making it up about the letters to get some attention. I suppose it’s the only way you can.” Raquel looked her up and down with a deliberately disdainful look. Keeley felt her own temper flare white-hot, remembering each and every one of Raquel’s put-downs and malicious gibes over their formative years.
“How dare you!”
At that, Raquel stepped forward, closing the remaining gap between them, and pointed at Keeley.
“I had nothing to do with it, do you hear me? But if you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you, Keeley Carpenter.”
With that, Raquel spun on her heel and stormed out, her stilettos striking the stairs with even more force than they had coming up. After a pause, during which Keeley stared at the door after her, the workmen resumed their hammering and banging. She hoped they weren’t local, or the truth about Raquel’s impressive physique would be all round the town by teatime.
Keeley raised a hand to her head, let out a slow breath, and bent down to pick up her roller and resume her painting, trying to make sense of that strange interlude. The whole day was turning out to be the one of the most bizarre she had ever experienced, and that was saying something, given the events of the past two weeks.
Even so, alibi or no alibi, Keeley was far from convinced that Raquel should be ruled out as a suspect. Her threats certainly didn’t feel idle.
* * *
A few hours later, her shoulders and arms in need of a good stretch after a morning’s painting, Keeley once again braved the Tavern for a bite to eat. Although there were plenty of other, nicer places to eat along the High Street, she felt drawn to the Tavern, knowing her father used to drink there.
Thankfully, Jack was alone this time, apart from Bambi, who waved his tail and gave an enthusiastic woof when he saw Keeley walk in. Tom wasn’t in his usual spot, the bar being attended by an older woman with meaty forearms who leaned over the counter, looking bored. The Glovers were nowhere to be seen, for which she gave a loud sigh of relief. Jack nodded at her, and remembering Diana Glover’s words about Jack giving Ted a talking-to for being rude to Keeley, she gave him a warm smile.
“Do you want a drink, Jack?”
He looked pleased. “Aye, I’ll have a whisky and Coke, duck.”
Keeley ordered their drinks from the sullen-looking barmaid and went to sit with Jack, scratching Bambi under the chin. The dog lolled his huge head to one side and looked at her through half-closed eyes with an expression of bliss. If only humans were so easily pleased.
“Everything going all right with the shop, then?”
“The café, yes.” Keeley couldn’t help correcting him, now that her vision for the place was finally coming together. “The work should be done on it by early next week; I’ve got the kitchen fitters in today.”
Jack gave her a sage nod and took a slow drag on his pipe. It was hard to judge what Jack thought about anything, Keeley mused. Unless he chose to make his views plain, he was somewhat inscrutable. She got the impression that a lot more went on behind that closed countenance than people perhaps gave him credit for.
“It must be strange for you to see it being done up, after you worked there so long.” It often slipped her mind that Jack had taken on the butcher’s business for a while after her father’s death.
Jack just shrugged, obviously not in a nostalgic mood.
“Things change.” He took a long swig of his whisky. Keeley surveyed the menu and decided on the vegetable lasagna—the only vegetarian dish they offered. It had to be better than the sandwiches.
As she went back to the bar to place her order, the door to the Tavern swung open, letting some much-needed light and air into the dingy interior, and the mayor came in, a smile on his face that grew a little fixed as his eyes lingered on Keeley. Then he beamed and waved at her, as if only just remembering who she was. To her surprise, he pulled up a chair to sit with her and Jack, and the old man greeted him amiably. Keeley went back over and sat down, and Bambi looked at Gerald and gave a little growl low in his throat before edging closer to Keeley and putting his great head in her lap, looking at the mayor as if to warn him away. Keeley gave him a rub behind the ears, confused.
“The mayor here isn’t a fan of dogs,” Jack said, “and Bambi picks up on it, you see. Dogs don’t like it when they sense nerves.”
She wasn’t the only one to think there was a nervous edge to the mayor, then, who was now dragging his seat farther round the table, putting more distance between himself and the dog.
“All ready for the food festival?” Jack asked. Keeley leaned forward, remembering Annie’s advice. She had meant to find out today about booking a stall, but what with Megan’s chanting and Raquel’s confessions, it had completely slipped her mind.
The mayor was nodding, a touch of pride in his voice as he spoke. “Oh yes, most definitely. It will be up the High Street as usual, and as we’ve got extra stalls, there will be some in the community center also. We’ve got some extras too—workshops for the kiddies, that sort of thing.”
“Mr. Mayor?” Keeley cut in, feeling a little silly at her use of his role but feeling she should acknowledge it. “Is it you that’s in charge of organization? Only I was wondering if it would be too late to get myself a stall.”
“What a lovely idea!” Gerald exclaimed after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s a little late to apply, but I do believe there are one or two spaces. It’s organized by the local farmers and the church ladies mostly, but I’m sure I can pull a few strings to get you a spot. I’ll do it this afternoon, in fact. And do call me Gerald.”
“Thank you.” It was a start, Keeley thought, to making the Yoga Café an integral part of the High Street. The people of Belfrey may take a while to accept outsiders, but she also knew that once you were “in,” you were “in.” She wondered if it wouldn’t be too late to have a template of the shop sign made, just as a cardboard display for the stall. She would have to hope all her new utensils and pots and pans arrived on time too. Paper plates and cups would do for eating off, and they could always go into the recycling bin to save waste.
“What do you think, Jack?” she asked, turning to the older man, who was still puffing away silently on his pipe. “A vegetarian stall at the food festival.”
Jack gave one of his trademark shrugs.
“Hardly my sort of thing, lass. Some folks might like it, I suppose.”
Keeley felt deflated, but soldiered on. “I was speaking to Diana Glover on Saturday, she came to my yoga class. I was thinking I could have some eggs and milk off her to use in my dishes. It might appease Ted, anyway.”
Jack didn’t answer, just puffed away on his pipe, looking deep in thought. Gerald, on the other hand, seemed to think it was a great idea, nodding at Keeley so hard, his extra chins wobbled.
“Yes, that’s a fantastic idea. Community spirit, that’s what the food festival is all about.”
“We could do with some of that,” Jack said, “after Terry going and getting himself killed.”
An odd choice of phrase, Keeley thought, as if Terry Smith had had a foolish accident, or was somehow implicit in his own murder.
“Well, let’s not talk about that unpleasantness,” Gerald said quickly with a sidelong glance at Keeley. “I’m sure Miss Carpenter here has had quite enough.”
In a flash, Keeley recalled exactly where she had seen the gold button before. She had thought Gerald’s manner, and his reaction to the murder, odd the first time she had met him, in Megan’s shop.
When he had been wearing a cardigan with flashy gold buttons, exactly like the one she had found lodged in the wall above her café. Had one of them been missing? She tried to recall, her heart beating a tattoo in her chest, while she kept her face neutral, not wanting the mayor to sense there was anything amiss. Instead she gave Gerald a happy smile as though she were grateful for his apparent concern.
“I heard you were going on holiday not long after the Festival,” Jack said, changing the subject.
“Yes, to Australia to visit my brother and his wife for a few weeks. A holiday is long overdue, I’m afraid. I only hope Belfrey can tick along without me!” He gave an overloud laugh that neither Keeley nor Jack returned. Jack was tapping his pipe on the table, gazing at it intently.
“It’s blocked,” he announced to no one in particular, then said, still glaring at his pipe, “That will cost you a pretty penny won’t it, Gerald?”
Gerald looked less happy. Almost flustered, in fact.
“Very reasonable rates, actually. Very reasonable.” Gerald drank his pint in one long swallow and stood, smiling at both Keeley and Jack without looking directly at either of them.
“I must be off. See you soon, the two of you. Keeley, I’ll let you know about the stall, splendid idea.” And he was gone. Keeley looked at Jack, who was puffing on his now unblocked pipe. The button felt as though it were burning a hole in her back pocket.
“That was a bit strange, don’t you think?”
“What’s that, lass?”
“The way he rushed off then. As soon as you mentioned his holiday.”
Jack sat back in his chair, eyeing Keeley as though he were weighing her up. Bambi gave her a palm a little lick, a seal of approval, Keeley thought, as Jack then leaned over the table and spoke in a quiet tone.
“He was in here a few weeks ago, had a bit too much to drink and was all but crying into his pint. A sorry sight, lass. Said he was in financial difficulties. Then he clammed up and rushed off. Just like then, in fact.”
Keeley mulled that over, along with her surprise that a usually stoic Jack had repeated that bit of information to her.
“He must be doing better now, then, if he’s off to Australia. Or maybe you made him feel guilty about spending the money.” Or maybe, Keeley’s newly awakened inner sleuth reared her head, he’s not planning on coming back.
Maybe he had a secret too. One more serious than a bit of cosmetic surgery. One that he had been paying to keep quiet—hence the financial difficulty. Pieces of information came together in Keeley’s mind like a kaleidoscope, an image that would come into focus if she could just find the right way of looking at it. A little spark of excitement flared inside her, her curiosity sharpened. Gerald had cornered Terry and killed him in the flat—but why there? A thought struck her, one that would explain why her café had come into play at all. Perhaps Gerald had been planning some kind of secret liaison there, and Terry had followed him? Of course, that raised the possibility of another person who knew the truth about what had happened that night.
The author of the poison pen letters?
Keeley felt her mouth go dry with a mixture of excitement and fear. She felt sure she was on to something.
Debating whether she should attempt to question Gerald, she reflected that as she had already incurred the possibly murderous wrath of Raquel, she didn’t need to go making an enemy of the mayor as well.
Plus, she had promised Ben.
Nevertheless, the little button nagged at her all the way home, and later that night when she took it out of her pocket and placed it on the dresser next to her bed, it seemed to wink at her in the lamplight, as though daring her to find out its secrets.