Keeley walked away with her heart beating faster than was comfortable in spite of her efforts to use her breathing exercises to calm her central nervous system. The truth was, she had to admit to herself, that there was a nastiness in Raquel that really quite scared her, and what had seemed a wild theory now seemed more than fitting: that her old school friend was indeed capable of a gruesome act of violence. Although she tried to tell herself her questions had obviously hit a nerve, confirming that Raquel indeed knew Terry Smith a good deal better than she was letting on, Keeley also had to admit that her questioning technique left more than a little to be desired. In fact, she had been downright clumsy, and had made even more of an enemy of Raquel.
Although it hadn’t been her intention, she found herself going into Crystals and Candles, seeking a friendly face and a comforting cup of herbal tea. The heavy smell of incense and various aromatherapy oils hit her as she went in, the flickering candles casting sinister shadows around the brightly colored shop. Keeley gave herself a mental shake; she really must get a grip on herself.
Megan, at least, seemed pleased to see her, enveloping her in a patchouli-scented embrace and waving her to a seat.
“What’s happened? You do look pale.” She peered at Keeley in concern. Keeley hesitated, wondering how much to tell her, reflected that she didn’t really know her all that well, and then recounted her conversation with the Glover brothers, leaving out any mention of her plans to discover what she could about Raquel and Terry’s murder. Megan listened with a sympathetic expression, then leaned over and patted her hand.
“Try to ignore them. People are set in their ways here, they don’t like anything that’s different or new. Especially if you’re a newcomer like us.” Megan had told her before that both she and Duane originally came from Derby, which might be their nearest major city but was worlds apart from the closed-in community of Belfrey.
“But I’m not a newcomer,” Keeley said with a sigh, “I was born and bred here. I know I’ve changed, but even so, I expected to fit back in more easily than this.” All the time she had lived in London and New York, she thought of herself as quintessentially a country girl, even though she had embraced city life, and she had imagined settling back into Belfrey would be as natural as a duck sliding back into water. To not feel welcome was disconcerting, for if she didn’t belong here, then where would she, ever? She gave Megan a weak smile.
Megan gave a sharp nod, as if deciding something, and went over to a small segmented box of crystals on display by the till. The sort of cheap lucky charms Keeley had never set much store by. Nevertheless, she tried to look grateful when Megan handed her a small mud-colored stone.
“Keep this by you at all times, preferably close to your skin,” Megan directed her with a sudden air of authority that seemed unlike her. This was her domain, of course, just as yoga and nutrition were Keeley’s, and police work was Ben’s. Keeley squashed that thought before she could acknowledge its obvious conclusion—that detecting should be left to the experts. She may not have known Terry Smith, but his murder was becoming personal, and Keeley needed to be proactive.
It was either that, or be terrified.
“Bitten off more than you can chew,” Megan said, causing Keeley to blink with guilt and confusion before she went on, “is that how you feel? Moving back here? You should have more confidence in yourself—you have a very capable aura, you know.”
“Do I? Thank you. Is that what the stone is for?” She looked down at the stone, which had warmed in contact with her skin.
“Oh no. That’s a smoky quartz. It’s for protection.”
Keeley felt herself grow cold, as though the stone in her hand were leaching all the warmth from her body.
“What makes you think I need protecting?” She also wanted to ask from whom, but instead Megan answered solemnly:
“There are dark forces around you, trying to attach themselves to your energy flow. This will help strengthen you.”
“Oh. Right.” Keeley slipped the stone into the back pocket of her jeans, then remembered Megan’s advice and took it back out, tucking it inside her bra instead. It didn’t hurt to be careful, and the gesture certainly made Megan happy, judging by the beaming smile she now wore on her face.
“I could get my spiritual circle to go to your house—or perhaps the café—and do an energy-clearing and protection ritual, if you like. It could do a world of good. Things like murder, they leave an imprint on a place.”
“Er, maybe. I’ve got the decorators and kitchen fitters coming over the next few days, so I might be a bit busy. But we’ll see after that,” she added as Megan looked crestfallen. The shopkeeper was so eager to help that turning her down was rather like kicking a puppy. Keeley wondered for a brief moment if Megan really was psychic, and if it would be worth showing her the poison pen letter. But if that were the case, then she would have been able to deduce who killed Terry Smith. Keeley could just imagine Ben’s face if she asked him to give her the letter back before it had even been processed for fingerprinting and whatever else the police did with such evidence, so that Megan could read its “aura.”
“How did things go with Duane?” Megan asked, changing the subject. “He wants to get in touch with you, I saw him this morning.”
Duane. With everything else going on, he had been the last thing on Keeley’s mind.
“He’s a lovely guy,” she said, feeling awkward now, “but I’m not sure I’m ready to start dating.”
Megan gave her a sympathetic look. “Still pining for an old flame? I have crystals and even spells that can help with that, you know. But I think he wanted to ask you about the yoga class tomorrow, if you were still going to take it over? The usual instructor has been cutting her hours, and the center really needs someone to take the Saturday lunchtimes—they’re absolutely full. He said you seemed really keen, and of course, it might help you feel more welcome.”
Keeley blinked and nodded, trying but failing to recall when she had apparently had this conversation with Duane. It must have been on their “date” at the inn, when she had tuned him out. Obviously, he hadn’t just been talking about himself. She should have given him more of a chance, she thought, trying not to think about Ben and the way he had questioned her about Duane’s walking her home.
“Yes, I’m looking forward to it. It’s the twelve o’clock class, isn’t it?” She had no idea, of course, but Megan didn’t seem to notice.
“One o’clock, actually. It’s the beginners, so it should be simple enough for you. I might go myself, I’ve heard yoga is brilliant for opening up your spiritual pathways.”
“It is good for body and soul,” Keeley agreed, thinking she shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Megan’s off-the-wall beliefs. Not everyone had understood her need to take herself off to India and do two hours of yoga postures every day before dawn, after all. Each to their own. Plus, it would be nice to have a face she knew at her first class here.
The wind chimes that served as a door alert went off behind her, and Keeley looked over her shoulder as Megan rose to greet her new customer. She obviously knew him, and in fact, seemed to know exactly what he had come to purchase, as she went straight over to a small cabinet on the far side of the shop, next to the tarot cards. It was filled with mysterious-looking jars and pots with handwritten labels wrapped around them. Megan reached inside for one of them and placed it into the newcomer’s hands. He was a thickset man who looked to be in his early fifties or so, with thinning, sandy hair and the kind of face that could only be described as “jolly.” He would have been handsome in his youth, she decided, but that had been eclipsed by a love of good food and no doubt good wine. There was an air of affluence about him, not least because of his well-tailored blazer, adorned with rather flashy gold buttons, and slacks, but a nervous air too, as if he were agitated about something. He beamed at Keeley as he moved toward the counter with the pot of lotion clutched in his fleshy hands, but it was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“This is Gerald Buxby.” Megan introduced the man in the tone of voice that suggested Keeley should recognize the name, but it didn’t sound familiar to her. “The mayor of Belfrey,” Megan clarified as Gerald reached a hand for Keeley to shake. It was a surprisingly firm shake, she thought, as she realized that for some reason, she had expected it to be limp. He gave Keeley another broad smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.
“This is Keeley,” Megan continued her introductions, “she’s opening the vegetarian café I was talking about the other day. Where that awful murder happened, of course.”
Gerald’s smile wavered for a moment on his face, sliding over his features before settling into a wider beam than before.
“Of course, you’re George Carpenter’s girl. I knew your father well, he was a wonderful man.”
Another apparently known-to-her-father person whom Keeley had no recollection of whatsoever. She tried to remember if Buxby had been the mayor before she moved away, but it wasn’t the kind of thing a seventeen-year-old girl paid attention to.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I remember you.” As she said that, she could have sworn she saw a hint of relief in his eyes.
“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to, my dear. You were a slip of a thing when I saw you last. I didn’t live in Belfrey then, you see, I’m a Bakewell boy born and bred, but I used to see your father on a weekend for the bowls. Quite the player, old George.”
Keeley nodded in fond recollection. Her father had always said bowls was a “proper country sport,” along with fishing and foxhunting, the latter of which thankfully, to her vegetarian sensibilities at least, was now outlawed across the land.
“Your mother too, she was an amazing woman. How is Darla?”
Keeley wasn’t sure which struck her as the more odd: the fact of anyone who knew her mother well describing her as amazing, or the idea that Keeley would have any real idea of whether her mother could currently be described as “well” or not.
“She’s the same as ever,” she said, settling for an evasive truth.
“Good, good. Well, listen, if there’s anything I can do to help you get yourself started up in business or settle back in, just let me know. I live just up the road from here, the big white house, you can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.” Although Keeley should have been gladdened by his offer of help, for being on good terms with the town mayor couldn’t do any harm to her rather dismal social standing, something about his offer felt hollow.
Or perhaps she was just being paranoid, after the open hostility of both the Glovers and Raquel. Keeley fancied she could feel her “protection” stone growing warm where it nestled at the side of her bra. She watched as Gerald handed his pot of cream to Megan, who wrapped it in hemp paper and began to ring it through the till. Her curiosity about its contents distracted her for a moment from Gerald.
“Is that something you’ve made yourself?” She was so certain Megan would tell her it was a potion designed to ward off evil, or commune with the fairies at the bottom of the garden, or something, that she felt almost disappointed when Megan said, “Yes, it’s a foot lotion.”
“My feet swell something terrible in the hot weather,” Gerald explained, looking a little shamefaced to be discussing the state of his feet with her, “and Megan’s cream is the only thing I’ve found that soothes them for any length of time.”
“I’m trying to develop my own line. Moisturizers, hand creams, that sort of thing, using herbs and natural ingredients, locally sourced where I can.”
Keeley was impressed, again thinking she had been too quick to write Megan off as flaky. Herbs and ethical ingredients—now, that was something she could understand. Not to mention the fact that it dawned on her Megan might well be able to offer her some useful business advice, for she was an outsider and had managed to successfully run a small business in Belfrey that may seem rather “different” to some of the locals. She had the town mayor as a regular customer, no less.
“I’d like to try out some of your products one day, they sound great,” she said honestly. Megan looked happy.
“They’re doing really well, actually. Even Gerald’s housekeeper has some of my soothing headache balm, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, Edna gets quite overwrought sometimes, tends to suffer terrible migraines. She swears by your balm; in fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was needing some more soon, she seems more agitated than usual lately.” As the words left Gerald’s mouth, he closed his mouth almost comically quick, as though he thought something may escape without his meaning to, then flushed. Odd, Keeley thought, and even more so when his color deepened as Megan went on, oblivious to his sudden discomfort, “I’m not surprised. Terry being killed has the whole town feeling out of sorts. It’s not a nice thought, is it, knowing there’s a murderer in our midst.”
Gerald’s color went from red to a sickly white in an instant. “Yes, yes, it’s really quite awful. Well, I’ve got a lot to do, girls, so good-bye, now.” He gathered up his hemp bag and rushed out of the shop, setting the wind chimes off loudly. Keeley watched him go, puzzled.
“Well, that was odd.”
“Yes, I thought so too.” Megan looked thoughtful. “But it is an unsettling subject and he must feel sort of responsible for it all, being the mayor. There’s the food festival coming up next week, and it’s not good publicity.”
“That’s true.” Keeley remembered the annual food festival, held in the Town Hall, where various stall holders showcased some of Amber Valley’s traditional and best cuisine. Pies, battered fish, and the finest sausages abounded. Her father had always done a roaring trade on food festival weekend, and it did pull in people to Belfrey for the day. Even so, the possibility of some bad publicity didn’t warrant the man’s demeanor. She had thought him nervy even before Megan explicitly referred to it.
“Did he know Terry well?” Keeley tried to sound as casually interested as she could.
“Well, I suppose he knows everyone, it’s his job. But I wouldn’t have thought he knew him on a personal level. Maybe he did, and that would explain why he seems so upset.”
“Maybe,” Keeley echoed, still looking at the doorway from which he had so quickly made his departure.
She left Megan with an invitation to share a bottle of wine with her at the weekend, and went to the local supermarket before catching a cab back to the cottage to stock up her all-but-bare cupboards. She hadn’t been feeding herself very well, and also wanted to practice a few recipes. It was high time she started concentrating on menus, or she wouldn’t leave herself time to get in all her stock. Although she hadn’t had a formal word from Ben yet regarding her being able to start work on the café, she couldn’t see what else the police were going to find from the scene that they hadn’t already. She should have asked him about it yesterday, but of course had been distracted by that horrible letter. The altered date for the decorators and shop fitters to come in and work their magic was close, and so she should really make sure she had the all clear. Keeley thought about calling him but didn’t, remembering Raquel’s words and the way the other woman had sneered at her. Had implied she was one in a long line of women who had had a crush on the man.
Still, as Keeley squeezed an apple to check its firmness, or inspected a box of free-range eggs to make sure none were cracked, her thoughts kept straying back to both Ben and the killing of Terry Smith, which were now inextricably linked in her mind. Reason enough to stay away from the detective constable. As for her attempts at uncovering the truth, she felt as though she had uncovered something, but that something seemed to lead only to deeper mysteries. Raquel was certainly guilty of something, and her undisguised threat had shaken Keeley; even so, now that she was away from her and in more everyday surroundings, engaged in such an ordinary pastime as shopping, the idea that her old schoolmate could be behind arson and murder seemed far-fetched. The whole scenario, in fact, seemed so bizarre that it couldn’t be true—but of course, it was. Someone had done it. Keeley thought about the mayor, and the way his face had changed at the mention of Terry Smith and the way he had rushed off. But Gerald had seemed such a genial, amiable kind of guy. Not to mention the fact that he had offered her his support, which was hardly conducive to his having tried to burn down her business just a week beforehand. She hadn’t been convinced of his sincerity at the time, but given some of the other reactions she had experienced so far, Keeley thought she needed all the help she could get.
At least there was one area she felt sure of her own expertise, she thought as she unpacked her bags and surveyed her purchases stacked up on the kitchen side, and that was in providing her future customers with good food. If she could just get them through the door, she felt sure she could keep them returning. Cooking was something she enjoyed as much as her yoga practice, if not more; after all, any form of exercise could feel like a chore on tired days, but cooking she always found a pleasure. It was a character trait most definitely inherited from her father. Her mother preferred her food made for her, had even employed a cook to make use of the choice cuts of meat her father brought home.
Keeley’s interest in cooking for others came from the months she had spent in India, where the kitchens were communal, with all visitors expected to take turns serving everyone else, and supplies had consisted mostly of vegetables and rice. There are only so many things that could be done with vegetables and rice, but Keeley had found she enjoyed rising to the challenge and creating new recipes, and when her fellow travelers had started clamoring for her dishes, she discovered a new love: creating food for other people. Now, thank God, she had more to work with than vegetables and rice.
It had occurred to her too, thinking about local dishes and appetites, that she was going to need a good selection of hearty dishes if she was going to tempt the locals in, especially the older residents of Belfrey such as Jack Tibbons, a pie-and-potatoes man if ever she saw one. Smoothies, wraps, and salads weren’t going to cut it. But hearty stews with plenty of root vegetables, warming curries and casseroles, and traditional desserts, those might just do the trick. Although with it coming up to summer, she would need to think about lighter recipes too, perhaps some pasta dishes and omelets, and various summer fruit puddings. Perhaps she should have seasonal menus made up, rather than a standard “one size fits all.”
Thinking about food made her feel both happier and hungry, and she was soon humming to herself as she chopped an aubergine in preparation for one of her staple meals, vegetable moussaka. She would make a good amount, she thought, and then she could take some round to Annie to sample, and save some for Megan too.
The knocking at her door was so loud, Keeley nearly sliced through her own finger, instead just nicking it slightly so that a tiny bead of blood bubbled up. Pressing her finger to her lips and sucking on the wound, Keeley went to the front door, a little nervous. Whoever it was didn’t sound happy. She opened it just a few inches, even though she immediately felt cross with herself for feeling so apprehensive. Whoever had written her that letter, no doubt this was exactly the feeling they wished to instill in her. In defiance of her own fear, she then flung the door open, causing the man who stood there to step back rather than have the oak door hit him in the face.
“Oh! Ben, I’m sorry.” Keeley felt a smile spring immediately to her face at the sight of him, before she arranged her face into one of wary curiosity, an image of Raquel fawning over him at Mario’s coming unbidden to her mind. Even so, his unexpected visit made her hopeful.
“Have you found out anything about the café? Or the letter?” She stood away from the door as she spoke, motioning for him to come inside, but Ben shook his head and stayed where he was. Only then did Keeley notice how serious his face was, his mouth set in that grim line she recognized from her first day back in Belfrey. When he informed her that her café had so nearly been burned down. Keeley put a hand to her mouth.
“Has something else happened?”
“No,” he said, his voice curt, “but it will if you continue going around the town asking questions like you did today. What on earth did you think you were doing?” Although he didn’t raise his voice, fury was coming off him in waves. Keeley felt shocked. Yesterday he had seemed so attentive, had relaxed in her company for the first time, and now he was ruder than ever.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, although of course, that wasn’t strictly true. “I did talk to a few people about the man who was killed, but I don’t see how it could cause any harm.”
“Don’t you.” The way he said it, it was more a statement than a question, and so Keeley made no answer, but folded her arms and waited for him to speak.
“It could cause plenty of harm, Keeley, in fact, you could seriously impede an ongoing murder investigation, not to mention ruffle feathers in the community you claim you want to settle into. Like I said—and I would appreciate an answer—what on earth did you think you were doing?”
Chastened but also angry, Keeley wrapped her arms tighter around herself; whether to ward him off or contain her own hurt at his manner toward her, she wasn’t sure.
“I was curious. The man was killed at my shop, the same one someone tried to burn down, possibly the same someone who sent me that letter. Are you so surprised that I would want to know more about him?”
“No. But I would have thought your safety came before your curiosity. I don’t remember you being foolish, Keeley.”
No, thought Keeley, you barely remember me at all. And how dare he call her foolish? “If I’m in danger,” she pointed out, trying to keep her voice level, though she was gritting her teeth at his words, “then that’s already true. I don’t see how a natural curiosity about things makes it any more acute.”
Ben made a sound that was almost a snort. His derision was evident.
“Natural curiosity? Is that what you call it? You practically accused Raquel of being the culprit.”
“I did no such thing,” Keeley snapped, praying she wasn’t blushing, because this was exactly what she suspected had happened. Then the implication of his words washed over her. It was Raquel who had complained to him, who else? Reinforcing her hints that she and Ben were close, or at least friendly. Why else would she raise it with the local detective, who might otherwise think it suspicious? Keeley glared at Ben, angry that he either couldn’t or didn’t want to see Raquel’s obvious manipulation.
“That’s not the way I heard it. And I’d appreciate it if it didn’t happen again.”
His words were clipped and measured, dropping between them like stones, and Keeley sighed. It probably wasn’t a good idea to mention her theories about multiple culprits, or that she thought the town mayor himself had something to hide. As for the money Tom had seen changing hands, if Ben was so friendly with Raquel, he could find out for himself, she thought with more than a touch of spite.
“Duly noted, Detective Constable,” she said with no small touch of sarcasm, “I see freedom of speech is alive and well in Belfrey.”
Ben shook his head at her in seeming exasperation, the way someone might to a disobedient child.
“Just concentrate on doing your own job, Keeley, haven’t you got enough to worry about? And let me do mine.”
Keeley nodded, just once, unwilling to show that she indeed felt like a naughty child caught in the act. Her indignation slipped away as quick as it had come, leaving her feeling contrite. It must be difficult enough for him and his colleagues without her blundering around, making things worse. She wanted to say sorry, but Ben had already turned away. He got into his car and drove off without looking at her again, and Keeley went back into her house, shoulders drooping, still unsure whether she should feel angry or remorseful. She went back into the kitchen and picked the knife back up only to find her finger was still bleeding. Looking down, she saw she had smeared her top with blood where she had folded her arms. The sight of it made her think both of Terry Smith and her father with his carcasses, and she swept the food off the counter, her appetite having wholly disappeared.