Keeley woke up wondering why her neck was so stiff and her bed suddenly so uncomfortable before a soft snore from her mother reminded her that she was, in fact, sleeping on the sofa. She sat up, rubbing her neck and stretching, and then jumped to her feet as she remembered the events of last night. Walking quietly into the kitchenette so as not to disturb her mother, she started to brew a pot of lemon tea, staring out of the window at her backyard without taking in the view.
Gerald Buxby, mayor of Belfrey, Matlock, and Ripley, was dead. Murdered. Ben hadn’t been able to tell her an awful lot; he had dropped her back at the café then hurried off, phoning briefly an hour later only to tell her that Gerald had been stabbed—information he warned her to keep to herself—and that he might need a statement from her concerning the mayor’s street argument with Raquel. Keeley wondered if Raquel would be the prime suspect; after all, partners were usually the first ones to warrant suspicion. There had been a time when Keeley had thought Raquel most definitely capable of murder, but now she wasn’t so sure.
She continued to muse over the fate of poor Gerald as she finished her tea, had her morning shower, and rolled out her yoga mat, again careful not to wake Darla, who was flat on her back, a silk eye mask covering most of her face.
Taking a few deep breaths, Keeley tried to clear her mind as she launched into a few Sun Salutations and standing postures, but images of Gerald and his angry face the day before found their way into her mind unbidden. When her unruly thoughts had her wobbling in one-legged Tree Pose, she gave up on the more strenuous postures and got down on the mat for a few forward bends and seated twists, leaning into the stretch and imagining her concerns flowing out of her, leaving her clearheaded for the coming day and whatever it might bring.
“You look like a pretzel.” Darla’s voice was strident in the small apartment.
“It’s good for the digestion,” Keeley murmured, closing her eyes.
“Breakfast would be even better,” Darla snapped, getting to her feet and going to the kitchen where she began to noisily open doors and bang utensils. “Don’t you have any coffee?”
“There’s lemon tea in the pot,” Keeley said, arching her back into Cobra Pose and trying to breathe in patience and tolerance.
“I’m not drinking that. It smells like washing-up liquid. Honestly, Keeley, you know I drink coffee in the morning.”
“Mum, I haven’t lived with you for eight years,” Keeley pointed out. She gave up on her practice, finishing by folding into Child’s Pose for a few moments and then standing up, feeling self-conscious with her mother’s eyes on her. Only when she was rolling her yoga mat and Darla was tentatively sipping a cup of lemon tea did she remember that her mother would have known Gerald. In fact, the mayor had always spoken highly of her parents.
“Gerald Buxby was found dead last night, Mum. They think he was murdered.”
Darla went very still, like a statue, then gave a little shudder as though she had mentally shaken herself. Her penciled eyebrows shot up her forehead. “Goodness! Are you sure?”
Keeley nodded. “I was with Ben when he got the call.”
“Well,” Darla said, for once seeming lost for words, “how terrible.”
Keeley nodded again, looking out of the front window at Belfrey High Street, with its cobbled stones and range of shops, from the vintage hairdressers to the key cutters, and the local pub, the Tavern, something of an eyesore in the picturesque street with its unkempt, dingy appearance. Belfrey looked so serene this early in the morning, the kind of place where bad things just didn’t happen. And yet this was the second murder of a local resident in just a few months, the first one coinciding with Keeley’s arrival. Morbidly, she couldn’t help feeling that she was somehow jinxed.
She finished getting ready in silence, watching Darla as she flitted around the small apartment, tutting at the lack of space and Keeley’s apparent lack of organization, obviously already recovered from her shock at the grisly news.
“What are you planning on doing with yourself today, Mum? I’ll be in the café until three.”
“Well, I thought I’d come and give you a hand. You were saying last week you could do with taking someone on.”
“Thank you,” Keeley said, surprised and more than a little pleased. Darla was right; Keeley did need an extra pair of hands around as the Yoga Café continued to get busier and busier. Megan, who opened and closed Crystals and Candles whenever she seemed to feel like it, often came in and helped out in return for a free meal and endless cups of chamomile tea, but Keeley didn’t like to take advantage and besides, she knew that, sooner rather than later, she really would need to employ someone.
“Well, I need something to do with myself,” Darla said briskly.
Keeley soon found herself regretting her gratitude for her mother’s offer of help when Darla proceeded to criticize the decor of the café, refused to tie her bobbed hair away from her face—“Darling, I spent a fortune having this styled yesterday”—and turned her nose up at Keeley’s breakfast menu. Keeley could feel any glimmer of tolerance slipping away fast, to be replaced with her usual feelings of utter inadequacy around her mother. She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore her sniping, but the last straw came when Darla tutted loudly about the dust—alleged dust, as Keeley couldn’t see any—on the table near the window.
“You’re going to have to keep things better than this, dear. We don’t want the hygiene people round.”
Keeley exploded before she could stop herself.
“Why do you always have to be like this, Mum? Why are you always trying to make me feel like I’m not good enough?”
Darla, leaning over the offending table, went very, very still, before she straightened up and turned to look at Keeley with a funny look on her face. It was a most un-Darla-like look, Keeley thought. In fact, it was almost like guilt. She noticed her mother was wringing the polishing cloth between her hands. She had actually upset her, she realized.
“Mum, I’m sorry…” Keeley went to apologize, and was shocked into silence when Darla cut in.
“No, dear, you’re probably right. I can be too hard on you. I just want the best for you, that’s all; I want you to have all the things I didn’t.”
Before a stunned Keeley could respond, Darla had bent back over the table and resumed her polishing.
“Mum,” she began, but Darla was already tutting over the bedraggled-looking vase of daisies on the windowsill. With a sigh, Keeley gave up and let her mother get on with refolding napkins and arranging the flowers in the center of the tables, feeling strangely emotional. That was the nearest thing to a genuine apology she had ever gotten from her mother, and she wondered if she, in turn, was being too hard on Darla in her opinions of her. Darla had never been someone who showed her affections easily; she had nagged and sniped at her husband too, but the jovial George had taken it in stride. Taking a deep breath, Keeley got on with preparing breakfasts.
At eight o’clock, she opened the café and waited. Her weekday regulars appeared first: Ethel, who owned the arts and crafts shop around the corner came in for her usual scone and homemade jam, and Lucy, who owned the local nursery, popped in for her usual before-work omelet. Keeley loved that she had regulars now, that her café felt like not just a business but a community.
She glanced at the clock. Tuesdays weren’t her busiest mornings, but news of Gerald’s demise would be winging its way around Belfrey by now and the gossips would soon be out in full force.
She didn’t have to wait long. At 8:34 Norma and Maggie came in. Both middle-aged women, they were nearly always seen together, and were notorious as village gossips. Although Keeley didn’t like to think the worst of anyone, the fact that the pair rarely frequented the Yoga Café but were staunch fans of Raquel’s Diner told her they were there for more than a breakfast smoothie.
“Have you heard? Isn’t it awful?” Norma said as she entered. Her eyes were wide in an expression of shock, but there was an eagerness to her voice that belied her words.
“Awful,” Maggie echoed. “Poor Gerald. It will be that woman he took up with, you mark my words.”
“Raquel?” Keeley asked, marveling at how fast they were to find a villain, at how Raquel, a resident of Belfrey and very well known to the women, had now become “that woman.”
“Well, who else? The diner isn’t open either; I wonder if she will have been arrested already.” The way Norma peered at Keeley, she knew it was a question rather than a statement of wonder. As the girlfriend of the local police detective, Keeley was used to being questioned about the particulars of any crimes that happened in Belfrey. As if Ben ever told her anything, really. She had been surprised at his disclosure of Gerald’s mode of death, putting it down to tiredness. Ever since Keeley’s involvement in the Terry Smith case, Ben made very sure to keep his work and their private life separate.
“I would imagine she’s grieving,” Keeley said.
Maggie snorted. “Grieving? Her? She’ll be on to the next one by the end of the week.”
Keeley went to defend Raquel again, then fell quiet as she remembered the way the other woman had thrown herself into Duane’s arms the day before. Still, Gerald had been alive then. Quite why she felt the need to defend Raquel at all she didn’t know; there was certainly little love lost between them, mainly because Raquel insisted on viewing Keeley as a rival. Nevertheless, they had been friends at school. If “friends” was the right word—Raquel had been happy to get Keeley to do her homework for her and be the obligatory plain, chubby friend to Raquel’s effortless beauty, but had dropped her like a hot potato when there was a better prospect on the horizon. Shy and awkward, Keeley had been grateful for the crumbs of Raquel’s friendship, not seeing it for what it was until her father had died tragically and Raquel had barely even asked how she was, never mind offered any support. They hadn’t kept in touch during Keeley’s ten-year absence, and when she had returned slimmer, more confident, and opening a café of her own, Raquel had gone out of her way to make Keeley feel unwelcome.
Although, Keeley thought with a twinge of guilt, the situation had hardly been helped by Keeley suspecting her of having been the one to kill Terry Smith. Perhaps that guilt was part of the reason why she felt the need to defend her now—that, and the secret Keeley had discovered about Raquel’s parentage.
There had been an awful moment when Keeley, having discovered that Darla had once been unfaithful to her beloved father, had thought it was her own parentage that was in question, and the relief when she had discovered the mix-up had been palpable. Ever since, she had felt a softening toward Raquel, and tried not to engage in the other woman’s antagonism. She wasn’t the nicest woman, but Keeley was almost sure she wasn’t a murderer either. Almost.
“I’m sure that’s not the case; I would imagine Raquel is very upset,” Darla said, straightening up in the corner where she had been organizing the morning papers. Norma and Maggie’s eyes went wide in genuine shock as they recognized her.
“Darla Carpenter? Well I never!” Norma gave her mother a large, insincere grin. Darla merely looked at her, then gave a tight little smile that looked more like a grimace.
“Norma. Maggie.”
“You look amazing,” Norma said with obvious envy, her small eyes sweeping over Darla’s immaculate appearance like lasers. The look Darla gave her in return made it all too clear that unfortunately, she wouldn’t return the compliment.
“Thank you. Are you ordering anything? Keeley’s very busy, I’m sure she doesn’t have the time to stand around gossiping.”
Keeley hid a surprised smile. Both Norma and Maggie looked taken aback, before Maggie said in a slightly haughty voice, regaining some composure, “No, no, we had better be off.” They mumbled good-byes in Keeley’s direction before bustling their way out of the door. Darla watched them go with pursed lips.
“Never could stand that pair. They were always in here when it was your father’s shop, spreading their poison and trying to barter with him on prices as if he were a market trader.”
“Thanks, Mum,” Keeley said, feeling strangely touched at her mother’s intervention.
Darla gave a graceful, one-shouldered shrug.
“You should be more selective about your customers,” she said, and turned back to the newspapers. Shaking her head in amusement, Keeley went back to preparing the fresh produce for the day’s salad bar. It had been an extraordinarily warm summer, and her salads, smoothies, and homemade ice cream had been selling like hotcakes. There were two pastimes that made Keeley happy: yoga and cooking. Sometimes, when she was in the middle of chopping or whisking or even dreaming up a new recipe, she found herself in that ultrafocused yet relaxed state that a good yoga practice gave her. To many people, her friends often among them, they seemed like mutually exclusive activities, but to Keeley one complemented the other perfectly. In yogic philosophy, food was more than fuel; it was a form of connection, both to oneself and others and the world around you. As far as Keeley was concerned, there was no better way to feel a part of the community around her than by sharing her love of tasty foods. Although her first few months as proprietor at the Yoga Café had been hard work, it had also been fulfilling, and given her the sense of purpose and grounding she had so desperately needed.
If it hadn’t been for a tendency to get herself involved in grisly murders, in fact, these first few months would have been perfect.
As she watched her mother bustling around, somehow managing to convey the impression of being busy without actually doing anything useful at all, she thought about how important it was to her that Darla understand, even be proud of, what her daughter had achieved, of the success she was making of George Carpenter’s old butcher’s shop. Her mother’s out-of-character comments this morning had given Keeley a glimmer of hope that it may not be such a hopeless wish.
“It’s rather cramped in here, isn’t it?” Darla said with a long-suffering sigh, making much of squeezing herself between tables to get to the bathroom even though, in Keeley’s opinion, there was ample room for her mother’s lithe frame.
Customers began to trickle in and Keeley was soon busy with breakfasts. Her vegetarian breakfast and summer fruit porridge had proved to be popular dishes over the last few weeks, and she was soon knee-deep in cooking and serving, and began to find herself grateful for Darla’s presence as her mother took over the till and serving drinks. Although her mother served people with an air of offended disdain, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was having to do so, she was efficient and organized. It certainly took off the pressure of the morning rush, and she thought again that it really was high time she hired someone to help her out on a regular basis.
As she had expected, the locals were full of talk about Gerald’s death. Jack Tibbons came in with his old wolfhound, Bambi, clutching the midmorning papers. A large picture of Gerald in full mayor regalia dominated the front page under the headline “MAYOR MURDERED,” which was certainly to the point if a little lacking in imagination.
“Seen this? Right bad business,” Jack said in his rough voice, putting the paper down on his usual table, in the corner near the counter. Then his eyes went wide as he spotted Darla, and his face softened into a wry grin.
“Darla Carpenter? It’s been a long time,” he said. Darla gave him a brusque nod.
“Jack. What can I get you?” Her voice was as briskly efficient as it had been all morning, but Keeley thought she detected just a hint of warmth in it, a slight softening of her mother’s stance. She watched the pair with interest. Jack had worked with her father and had carried on managing the butcher’s after George’s death and Darla’s departure, until his late wife’s ill health had turned him into a full caregiver and, later, a widower. Jack was the sort of taciturn older man that Keeley often thought of as typical of Belfrey: down-to-earth and with a keen eye for bullshit. Not really the sort of person one would expect Darla to warm to, but Jack had been loyal to their family, and Keeley suspected her mother was a deal more fond of him than she liked to make out.
“It is a bad business,” Keeley said softly, returning to the subject of Gerald’s death. Jack had known Gerald well, as had most of the long-term residents of Belfrey, and the mayor had been a popular character. His murder would be a shock to the whole village.
“Has anyone seen owt of Raquel?” Jack asked. Keeley shook her head just as Megan entered, smelling of lavender and looking the part too; her blond dreadlocks had been dyed lilac. A man was with her, with long hair and a beard and what looked to be a white dress over white trousers. Keeley blinked, before arranging her face into one of polite friendliness. Megan’s companions were often a little “out there,” and the impending art festival was bound to attract a few unusual types.
“She’s with my cousin,” Megan said, coming over and kissing Keeley on the cheek while Darla looked at the newcomer with barely disguised horror, taking in her unusual hair, hippie style of clothing, and the prominent nose ring. Then her eyes went to her companion, and she closed them, looking pained.
“This is David,” Megan said, “he’s here for the art festival.” Keeley smiled at the man, who didn’t speak but gave Keeley a serious look and then inclined his head in a regal motion that made Keeley almost want to curtsy.
“Mum, this is David, and my friend Megan.” Keeley introduced them before turning back to Megan and asking, “She’s with Duane? Is she all right? It must have been a shock.”
“I haven’t seen her; Duane phoned me earlier. He sounded in shock himself. Apparently Raquel was being questioned by Ben this morning.” There was a question in her voice, and Keeley shook her head in answer. “I haven’t spoken to him since the early hours,” she said. Megan looked around the café, where more than a couple of customers had paused mid-mouthful to look very interested in their conversation, and lowered her voice. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Keeley. I looked at the cards this morning, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”
Jack, next to them, gave a disbelieving cough.
“I don’t think them funny cards of yours will tell you anything, lass; best to leave that sort of thing to the police,” he said. Megan looked offended and Keeley, ever the peacemaker, cut in with an offer for Megan to try out her new smoothie recipe on the house. Megan followed her over to the salad bar as she began to whisk up a mango and cucumber smoothie, leaving Darla and Jack chatting in low voices. David sat by the window looking out onto the street, his face in a serene expression, seemingly oblivious to anything going on around him.
“Apparently Raquel turned up at Duane’s crying early this morning after the police had finished talking to her. He said she was in a right mess.”
“Did she have any idea what had happened?”
“You mean, who did it? No. She kept saying Gerald was a nice man and didn’t have any enemies. She said she hadn’t seen him since their argument outside here yesterday. That’s all Duane told me.”
He wasn’t so nice yesterday, Keeley couldn’t help thinking, remembering that very argument and the way Gerald had shouted insults at Raquel. Megan seemed to be thinking the same thing.
“So if he didn’t have any enemies, and Raquel was the last person to argue with him…” Megan said, letting her words hang in the air. Keeley looked around the café, sure that there were ears straining to hear their conversation even though nobody was looking their way.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Keeley said. “The police have spoken to her and clearly found no reason to keep her in.”
“I’ve always said she was a nasty piece of work, though. It’s her aura; it’s very draining. She’s like a psychic vampire.”
“I don’t know what that means. But whatever it is, it doesn’t make her a murderer,” Keeley said firmly. It wasn’t like Megan to be so hostile, but she had an aversion to Raquel, who had always been at best condescending and at worst downright rude to her, particularly since Keeley had become a close friend.
Megan shrugged. “Maybe not. Ben will sort it out, I’m sure.”
Keeley nodded, thinking about her friend’s statement. Ben was the only local detective, his superiors being based at the main station in Ripley, and there was every chance this case would fall primarily into his hands. If it did, and he solved it successfully, it might mean the promotion to Detective Sergeant he was looking for. A double-edged sword, then, made all the sharper by the fact that the victim was someone he had known well. Keeley felt a shudder go through her, as well as a wave of sympathy for Ben. Although he preferred not to talk about work, she knew a case like this would be hard for him. Ben loved Belfrey, and had preferred to stay and work his way up in the village even when the chance of a transfer to Derby would have upped his prospects, but the downside of working in such a close-knit community meant that cases inevitably hit a little too close to home.
“How are your guests?” Keeley changed the subject. It worked to lighten the mood, as Megan gave a chuckle at the mention of Suzy and Christian.
“Interesting, to say the least. I found Suzy making stone rubbings on the cottage wall at six this morning. Said she was getting a feel for the place, inviting her muse in.”
“I thought you liked all that sort of thing?”
“Well, I do, but she said it in such a patronizing way, basically implying that I would never understand because I’m not an artist. I tried to talk to her about spirits of the place and how Belfrey is a very spiritually rich place, and she said she didn’t care about any of that, all that mattered to her was her art.”
“I wonder how poor Christian feels about that?”
“Well, considering they kept me awake half the night in their throes of passion, I don’t suppose he cares,” Megan said, wincing.
“Oh, dear. That’s a bit rude, when you’ve been good enough to let them stay. Perhaps you should say something?”
“I know, but how do I bring that up? ‘Excuse me, can you keep your love-making down?’ It’s hardly over-the-breakfast-table conversation, is it?”
Keeley burst into laughter at her friend’s words. Megan could always cheer her up. She finished making the smoothie, to Megan’s appreciation, and was just clearing tables when the door chimed again. She looked up, feeling the flush in her cheeks as she recognized that familiar footstep. A few months in, and Ben still had that effect on her.
He kissed her cheek, his lips lingering just for a moment over her skin. Up close, she could see how tired he looked.
“How are you? I’ve still got plenty of breakfast left, if you want some?”
He shook his head.
“I’ve got to get back to the station and write these witness statements up properly, but I’ll have a quick coffee. Real coffee, not decaf.”
“Come into the kitchen. Oh, and this is my mum, Darla. Mum, you remember Ben?”
Darla looked up, and her stern features became a charming smile as she took in the grown Ben Taylor. Her mother was still very beautiful, Keeley thought.
“Well, look at you! You look wonderful. How are your parents?”
Ben exchanged a few pleasantries with Darla, his voice friendly but his eyes wary, before following Keeley into the kitchen.
“How has it been this morning?” he asked as he pushed the kitchen door closed behind him, and Keeley knew he wasn’t referring to business at the café or even the mood of her customers following the tragic news, but rather the presence of her mother.
“She’s actually been quite helpful in her own way,” Keeley acknowledged. “When she goes back to London, I’m going to have to get some help in. But enough about me, how has your morning been? You look exhausted.” She wound her arms around his neck, and Ben pulled her into him for a brief embrace.
“Busy,” he said, “and likely to get busier still. And it’s a strange one, Keeley; so far, no one seems to have seen or heard anything, not even that housekeeper of his. But there are no signs of forced entry.”
“So it was someone he knew,” Keeley said, feeling queasy. “I heard you had questioned Raquel?”
“Of course; she was the first person I spoke to. I’m going to have to take statements from everyone who witnessed their argument as well. I’ve already spoken to Duane. Raquel claims to have been with him at the time of the murder.”
Keeley raised an eyebrow. If Gerald had been killed early last night, that implied that Raquel and Duane had at least spent part of the night together.
“Megan’s here, she heard them. And the two art students.”
“I’ll get to it later,” Ben said, moving his mouth to hers and kissing her briefly before pulling away with a sigh.
“I’ve got to go.”
“I thought you wanted coffee?”
He gave her a tired grin, and she saw the dimples at the side of his mouth, making his face suddenly boyish. She felt a tug in her chest, felt the instinctive pull this man had on her.
“No, I just wanted to get you on your own for five minutes. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” He kissed her again before leaving, saying his good-byes to those in the café. He gave Darla an extra-charming smile, and Keeley was amazed to see her mother actually pat her hair in an almost simpering gesture. Ben winked at her as he left, and Keeley stifled a smile.
“He’s absolutely adorable, Keeley,” her mother said. She braced herself for the next comment about how lucky she was to get him and how it would be a miracle if she could keep him, or similar, but it didn’t come. Instead her mother busied herself collecting plates. Keeley raised her eyebrows at her mother’s back, wondering at this softening of attitude.
She had little time to wonder, as just as they had cleared away from breakfast, it was time for lunch. The next few hours blurred into a rush of cooking and serving, and thankfully left her busy enough to avoid questions from those locals who had heard about Gerald’s murder, which after the midmorning papers was more or less everyone, and who also knew she was the girlfriend of Belfry’s only detective constable—hopefully soon to be detective sergeant. As she had predicted, the café was a lot busier than it would normally be early in the week, and Gerald seemed to be the sole topic of conversation. Murder, it seemed, was good for business. Of course, there was the fact the diner was also closed, causing many of Raquel’s regulars to drift into the Yoga Café, swapping their pork burgers for tofu ones. Keeley marveled at the disloyalty being shown as they cheerfully echoed Norma and Maggie’s earlier sentiments. The general consensus of the village seemed to be that Raquel was the villain of the hour. Although instinct told Keeley that wasn’t true, nevertheless there was something nagging at her, something Ben had said, or maybe Megan, that she just couldn’t quite put her finger on.
It was midafternoon before the café slowed and Keeley and Darla were able to sit and enjoy a cup of tea and a meal. Or at least, Keeley enjoyed it. Darla’s unexpected and more open mood seemed to have evaporated over the course of lunchtime, and she soon proceeded to turn her nose up at every item on the menu.
“Don’t you serve any actual real food, dear? I’m surprised the café is doing as well as it is. I do hope this isn’t just a novelty and you don’t start struggling to keep customers.”
Keeley gritted her teeth at that to stop herself retorting. The café had a good base of regular customers, many of them also visitors to Keeley’s yoga classes, but the fact remained that it had always been a risky venture opening a vegetarian café in a traditional farming community like Belfrey, and her mother’s words only echoed Keeley’s own early fears. She had worked hard to make the café part of Belfry, making sure all of her dairy and eggs were sourced from local organic farms, as well as using local fruit and vegetables where possible, and getting involved with community events, such as the upcoming art festival. Her work had paid off, but she also knew she had been given a head start by the fact that she had been born and raised in Belfrey and her father, George, had been a popular local figure. Keeley shuddered as she remembered how she had even been accused of “betraying his legacy” by transforming his shop.
There was another reason Keeley bit her tongue at her mother’s comment; Darla still owned half the premises, making her in effect a sleeping partner. Her mother’s decision to visit had made her more than a little nervous; although Darla had no reason to complain about the way her daughter was running the business, given that it was already turning over a small and increasing profit, it would be out of character if her mother didn’t attempt to have some kind of influence.
Indeed, Darla was looking around the café, her eyes narrowed.
“Perhaps we should change things just a little? Give it more of a vintage feel, serve more cream teas and cakes? Those types of places are very popular, you know, and are less likely to be just a fad.”
“I don’t think people regard the Yoga Café as a ‘fad,’ Mum,” Keeley said softly, though her mother’s words had stung her, “and there are three of those teashop-type places in Belfrey already. This place is unique.”
“Well, it’s certainly different,” Darla said with what sounded like a long-suffering sigh, as if this was a quirk of Keeley’s she must endure. Keeley resisted the urge to roll her eyes, glancing at the clock.
“I think I might close up and pop into the Tavern for a glass of wine, if you’d like to join me?” Keeley asked, feeling mean as she knew she hoped her mother would refuse.
“Oh goodness me, no, I wouldn’t set foot in that dump, I never understood why your father liked the place. No, I’m going upstairs for a lie down, today has been absolutely exhausting, and my manicure is ruined.”
Darla left Keeley to tidy up, and Keeley found herself, after such a busy morning, glad of the solitude. Except it was hard not to think of the demise of Gerald Buxby without anything else to distract her. She tried to push the thoughts out of her mind, her natural curiosity warring with revulsion at the news of another murder in Belfrey.
After locking up, she walked over to the Tavern, blinking as she walked from the sunny High Street into the pub’s smoky gloom. The interior hadn’t changed from as far back as Keeley could remember, and it had been shabby then. Still, she had an enduring fondness for the place, remembering many an afternoon sitting with her dad and his friends after school had finished and the butcher’s had closed. She smiled to see Jack and Bambi at their usual spot, and pulled out a chair to sit next to them. Bambi laid his great head in her lap, looking at her with doleful eyes. Keeley scratched him behind the ears.
“Aye; the dog’s got a fondness for you. How was the rest of your afternoon, lass?”
“Busy,” Keeley said. Jack peered at her, taking a long drag on his pipe.
“And with your mother? She’s not the easiest woman to please.”
Keeley grinned at him, grateful for his astuteness. She never could get anything past Jack, and of all the older residents in Belfrey he had known and remembered her family well, having not just worked for her father but been one of his close friends also. He would have known Darla, and all of her idiosyncrasies, all too well. Even so, although he had always seemed to have the measure of her mother, he nevertheless always spoke of her with a kind of grudging respect. He had told Keeley, once, that he had never been in any doubt as to Darla’s love for her husband, and that seemed to be enough for Jack to hold her in higher esteem than he perhaps otherwise would have. He had been one of the few people Keeley had found herself able to confide in when she had discovered her mother’s infidelity before Keeley had been conceived.
“It’s not been quite as bad as I expected, to be honest,” she admitted, burying her hands in the fur around Bambi’s neck and being rewarded with a happy shudder from the dog. “I suppose having her around just puts me on edge. I always feel like everything I do isn’t good enough for her, and I so want her to be proud of what I’ve done with the café. Then earlier, she actually admitted she could be too hard on me sometimes, which isn’t like her. So now on top of everything else I feel guilty for feeling cross at her.” She stopped abruptly, embarrassed at her own openness. She had always found Jack easy to talk to, but even so she had barely admitted those feelings to herself all day, never mind anyone else.
“I’m sure she is proud,” Jack said with a wry smile, “just as I’m sure she’ll find it near impossible to tell you. She was as proud as punch of you as a kid, you know, always talking about how clever you were to people.”
“Really?” That was news to Keeley, who wasn’t sure how she felt about Jack’s revelations. She was beginning to wonder if she had her mother all wrong. “She was in a better mood than I expected. She seemed to like Ben. But then she started being all critical about the café again.”
“Maybe she’s a bit shook up as well. She knew Gerald quite well when you were young; it’s not good news to come back to.”
Keeley nodded thoughtfully. In all honesty she hadn’t stopped to consider how Darla might be feeling about her return to Belfrey, ten years after the death of her husband. It could be quite painful for her. Keeley felt a stab of guilt, realizing she had been so caught up in her own feelings she hadn’t acknowledged that her mother may be struggling with her own. That was Darla’s way: to be so guarded about her emotions it was easy to assume that she just didn’t have any. Other than contempt, of course, and irritation. She did those well enough. Defense mechanisms, Keeley thought with a rare wave of sympathy for her mother.
“Maybe I should do something nice for her; take her out to dinner. Ben suggested it too.”
Jack took another drag on his pipe. “Maybe you should. You can come to me one night as well if the pair of you would like to, and bring young Ben. My housekeeper does a lovely lamb casserole; I’m sure she can take the meat out of yours.”
“That would be lovely!” Keeley felt a rush of warmth for the older man, leaning over and giving him a brief hug. Jack flushed and puffed again on his pipe. Gently pushing Bambi’s head from her lap, Keeley got up to go to the bar and order herself that glass of wine. The barman, Tom, gave her a weak smile.
Tom was what was affectionately known—or perhaps with less affection from the older locals—as a “metal head” due to his love of heavy metal music, which he partially expressed with a tendency to wear all black, sport a long beard and hair, and have various pieces of metal adorning his lips, brows, and ears. Keeley remembered Tom from school as a shy, unassuming boy, and the transformation never failed to startle her.
“Heard the news?” he asked, reaching for a small glass and a bottle of house white.
“I was with Ben last night when he got the call,” Keeley confessed. “It’s a big shock.”
“Dunno who would want to murder the mayor.”
Keeley thought about that. Any murder of a resident would send shock waves through the local community, but even more so when that resident was such a prominent figure, the public face of Belfrey in a sense. And so close to the annual art festival too. Keeley wondered if the festival, which had been hugely popular until recently, would pull in more visitors this year as a result. Tragedy was good for tourism. As awful as it was, she knew it was only the truth, as the day’s influx of visitors to the café had shown.
“Me neither,” Keeley murmured, taking a grateful sip of the wine Tom handed to her, which was cool and sharp in her mouth. She smiled at him, glad that, unlike everyone else that day, he didn’t seem to automatically want to put Raquel in the frame.
Until his next words.
“Raquel will be in trouble, won’t she?”
Keeley frowned. “As they were going out, of course she would be one of the first to be questioned,” she said, aiming for diplomacy and wondering if Tom had heard about yesterday’s argument in the street outside the café.
“Yeah, but I mean because she was the last person to see him alive. She was with him last night, wasn’t she.” A statement, not a question. Tom picked up a glass and started cleaning it.
“I don’t think so.” Keeley thought about what Ben had said, that Raquel had been with Duane all night. Again she had the niggling feeling that she had missed something.
“Yeah, I saw her on the way home from here last night,” Tom said. “Coming out of the mayor’s. So if he was killed last night, then she must have seen him just before.”
Keeley felt as though a bucket of ice had been tipped down her back. As Tom’s words and their implications sank in, she remembered what it was that had been bothering her.
Ben had said Raquel claimed to have been with Duane last night. Which was at odds with Tom seeing her coming from Gerald’s house. But from what Megan had said, Raquel had turned up at Duane’s early that morning.
Which meant not just that Raquel was lying, but that Duane was providing her with an alibi. And innocent people didn’t need an alibi.