EXCERPT
Chapter 1
ARRIVAL
My aunt lay dead and I was lost in her
life. It came complete with auntie’s beloved bed and breakfast fully booked and
brimming with guests. Too bad, since I slung a mean tea bag but was a hopeless
cook. Instead, I was a murderess. Well, okay, call it guilty of failing to
render assistance, but it felt worse.
Yesterday, Aunt Eve had rung me, panic
vibrating in her voice.
“Myrtle, I need your help. This is
getting out of hand.”
“What is? Listen, I’m so sorry, but
there’s a faculty meeting in two minutes and—”
“I can’t do this on my own.”
“Daisy—”
“Not for this. I need you. I won’t let
him win.” The last bit came out as a wail and triggered my monumental mistake.
Aunt Eve was the most rational person on Earth, though she had her wild
moments. I decided this was one of them, made soothing noises and promised to
ring back.
I never made that call.
Now, on a deceptively pleasant Tuesday
afternoon, I found myself standing in the kitchen of my aunt’s bed and
breakfast, caught in a haze of loss and anguish, assaulted by the lingering
aromas of fry-ups gone by. To make matters worse, the Witch’s Retreat was also
overrun by the police in their size elevens.
Bang on cue, a copper tramped in from the
corridor and pushed his way through the saloon-style swing doors, his helmet
under his arm.
He beamed at me. “Hi there, any chance of
a cuppa?”
Such a simple request. Aunt Eve would
have had the kettle boiling in no time. Why was I still standing there, the
strap of my purse cutting into my shoulder, the industrial-sized fridge humming
away
“Give me a moment.” I dumped my suitcase
onto terracotta tiles as immaculate as the cupboards with their glossy eggshell
finish.
Illuminated by ceiling spots so bright
they out-dazzled the watery April sunlight, the doors of the cabinets reflected
my haggard face, colorless and distorted as if I were a specter haunting
auntie’s world.
Everything looked like it did in November
when I visited this place for the last, and first, time. My scruples had
nothing to do with the old house. The renovations did the Georgian elephant
proud. The village it stood in was a different matter.
Don’t be such a Moaning Myrtle, my inner voice scolded.
True, this mawkishness was not my style.
I heaved a shuddering breath and searched my surroundings. In a corner, close
to the steel double sink, I spotted a toaster and the kettle. Tea bags were
nowhere in sight, but then the blasted tears were once more blurring my vision.
I searched my pockets for a tissue, wiped my eyes and blew my nose. All the
time, my uniformed companion was tactful enough not to comment.
Trying to calm my breathing, I focused on
the flowerpots lining the windowsill from the back entrance to the sink, their
occupants the only sign something was amiss and must have been for a while.
Aunt Eve took good care of her green boarders. These plants, primulas from what
I could make out, were as shriveled and dried as last autumn’s leaves.
Fabric rubbing on fabric reminded me of
the young police officer still waiting, his helmet now parked on the quartz
countertop. His eyes narrowed and he cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m sorry. You’re
Mrs.
Coldron’s older daughter, correct? Or
would that be niece?”
The bloke was as well informed as he was
nosy. “Take your pick,” I said.
“Ah. Put my foot right in it, then.
Thought you might be another helper. My apologies. The ladies who do the
cooking are ever so good with the drinks and sandwiches.”
Had this place turned into a police
canteen?
“You seem to be familiar with the
arrangements, officer.”
Policeman Plod snapped his heels together
in a mock salute and bowed. “Constable Alan Hunter, at your service. Actually,
I’m one of
the houseguests. Just
transferred to Swindon. I’m still looking for a flat, so I booked a room here
for the time being. It’s a great place.”
His gaze slipped aside. “Well, it was.”
The bloke was easy on the eyes in his
natty uniform, and his voice sounded genuinely contrite and well educated, so I
forgave him.
When he spoke again, he addressed his
helmet rather than me.
“I’m sorry about…what happened. You must
be in shock.”
Polite despite the thing with the helmet,
“shock” was not the word I would have used. One moment all I had to worry about
was a mountain of essays for English Lit and A-grade German that needed
correcting, wondering what the girls might be commenting on. It didn’t sound at
all like the set novels. Moments later, the headmistress had called me in, the
lines in her sourpuss’s face distorted by what I only afterward identified as
concern. She had passed me the phone and my world went black.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Coldron met with a fatal
accident,” the female voice on the other end of the line said. “In fact, we are
treating this as a suspicious death. Can you come?”
I packed my case in a daze and spent a
tortured hour in the teachers’ wing, the headmistress having stopped me from
belting up the motorway to Avebury. Instead, a colleague was to drive me in my
car and return by train. The headmistress had been surprisingly compassionate;
she granted me a week’s leave and had given me tea and a pat on the back before
I set out. I understood this to mean the job that meant so much to me—despite the
crappy essays—might still be waiting once I escaped from this nightmare.
Auntie was my anchor, the one person who
had always been there for me. She took me in when my parents died in an awful
accident.
Now I was grieving for her.
My vision wobbled, and I sagged onto the
rubber gymnastic ball auntie used instead of a kitchen chair. She insisted it
did wonders for her spine and, whenever excited, bounced up and down on it like
a toddler. Tears burned the back of my throat.
No more bouncing.
“You all right?” The copper’s voice
dragged me back to the present.
“Need some tea?” That was the UK for you.
If in distress, stay calm and switch the kettle on. To tell the truth, I was
thirsty. And hungry.
My body craved sustenance,
no matter what was going on and whether or not I liked it.
“No, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’ll
unpack in Number Seven and then…”
No idea what to do then. My aunt was
gone. Neither tea nor tears could bring her back.
“Room Number Seven?” my police officer
asked. “I thought it stood empty?”
“It’s a spare, for emergencies,” I said.
“It suits me.”
That had been an odd thing to say, so I
changed the subject. “Any suggestions where my cousin might be?”
The constable shook his head. “The other
Ms. Coldron suffered a breakdown when she heard the news, and the doctor gave
her a sedative. She’s not in the house for sure.”
Yup, that sounded like something Daisy
would do. If she was not at my aunt’s place, she had most likely returned to
her room in the pub where she tended the bar. Running a B&B was beyond her,
coping with emergencies was beyond her—in a way, life was beyond her.
As usual, it was all up to me. Not that
she would appreciate my efforts.
The ball hurt the small of my back, and I
dragged myself up. “Can I talk to your superior? I still don’t understand what
happened. Is he around somewhere?”
Constable Hunter pushed the blond fringe
from his face and twinkled his baby blues at a point somewhere over my right
shoulder, which was an improvement over the helmet.
“She,” he said. “The Sarge is upstairs
with the SOCO. They should be done soon. I’ll tell her you’ve arrived.” He
bounced a smile in my general direction and trooped off, the doors swinging
shut behind him.
Upstairs with the what? SOCO sounded
ominous. And where upstairs? At least he didn’t mention pathologists. That was
the last thing I needed now. What I needed was a porter, but even if the
Witch’s Retreat was reasonably upmarket, it was no five-star hotel.
With every step I took up treads carpeted
in midnight blue, my battered suitcase got heavier. The big three-oh was
recent, so I shouldn’t wheeze like this. Not that I did, usually. Back at the
school,
I bounced up and down
stairs along with the girls. Here, I felt like I was climbing Mount Everest
without a Sherpa.
The first landing gave me an excuse to
let go of my luggage and catch my breath. The silent corridor, with the pine
doors mirroring each other on both sides, seemed to have slipped out of the
time stream and I with it. No creaks, no groans, none of the noises old
buildings tended to make. Even the guests remained mum. The result was an oddly
appropriate otherworldly stillness. Aunt Eve’s brilliant mind had created this
place. Here, her memory would live on. I could almost see her smiling, her tall
figure striding along the passage.
The phone at reception downstairs rang
once, twice, then stopped.
The spell was broken, and I loosened my
death grip on the blond wood of the handrail.
Something, probably a window, banged shut
in the bedroom closest to the stairs, telling me the guests were awake after
all.
Perhaps the police had forced them to
stay, and those innocent-looking doors hid a killer.
Despite the plushy comfort offered by my
favorite moss-green fleece jacket, a breeze sneaked along my spine. I was
overwhelmed by an urge to scamper back down and keep running. Instead, I forced
my unwilling legs to hoist myself and my luggage to the top floor.
Whoever had so diligently vacuumed below
had capitulated here.
Footprints marred the dark blue of the
carpet leading up the steps and into the upper corridor.
The cold spread from my spine to my arms
and drew goosebumps.
I must be close to the crime scene. No
sooner had the thought chilled my brain than I heard voices on the draft coming
from the door at the end of the corridor. It led to a little landing with Aunt
Eve’s room on the left and Daisy’s on the right. Both door and landing were
half-hidden by a curtain featuring tiny mauve roses. Where the furnishings
chosen by my parents had been all about angles and squares, Aunt Eve’s taste in
interior decoration had leaned toward the floral, although she restrained
herself to her private sphere. Her Wiccan spleen she had vented openly when she
chose this village, of all places, for her business, naming the bed and
breakfast “Witch’s Retreat” and hanging kitschy ceramic tiles displaying the
room
number and a witch motif
on the doors to the rooms.
When I reached for the brass knob of
Number Seven, featuring a teal-colored seven and a broomstick, I caught
movement from the corner of my eye. A blue and white plastic band,
unnecessarily labeled “POLICE,” barred access to the private part of the
corridor.
Had my aunt been killed in her bed?
The carpet was even dirtier up here,
showing the evidence of many a booted foot trudging to and from the makeshift
but ominous barricade. For a moment, I considered searching for another place
to stay. Unfortunately, apart from the Witch’s Retreat, Avebury offered little
choice of accommodation. Next on the list was the Crystal Dawn, a quixotic New
Age B&B down the road, a flat over the Magic Mushroom Café, available only
during the summer months, and the few rooms at the Whacky Bramble, the pub
where my cousin worked.
If I had any home in this village, this
would be it, crime scene or not.
At least my aunt’s remains had been
removed. The disembodied voice on this morning’s phone call had told me that
much.
When I entered Number Seven, the room
welcomed me with the sweet perfume lilies release into the summer skies. Aunt
Eve must have refreshed the potpourri before she died. Sobs tickled the back of
my throat, but I slammed the door before they escaped. I dumped my luggage to
fumble for a box of tissues on the nightstand of the nearest twin bed.
Several sniffles later, I opened the
suitcase. My packing had been hurried, and it showed. I could only hope the
motley collection of charity rejects would yield some useful items of clothing.
First things first: I needed a shower before confronting Constable Hunter’s
sergeant.
The moment I entered the bathroom, a
knock sounded on the door to Number Seven. I cracked it open and beheld the
same lantern-jawed face and roving gaze I had encountered earlier.
“Sergeant Widdlethorpe can talk to you
now if you like. She’s got to leave soon to attend the—eh, never mind. She’ll
be back tomorrow.
You can meet her then if you prefer.” He
looked at my ear expectantly. We were making progress.
I opened the door farther. “For how much
longer will I have the pleasure of a police presence?”
“You mean the on-site
investigation? They’re almost done, don’t you worry.”
The urge to talk to Constable Hunter’s
superior became overwhelming, so I stepped into the corridor. “If your sergeant
is ready, I wouldn’t mind having a word with her now.”
Hunter nodded and led the way. Ever the
helpful neighborhood bobby, he lifted the plastic strip for me to bend under
and pushed the curtain aside so I could enter the landing. Fluorescent lamps
threw their glare into what used to be such a cozy place, illuminating a figure
in a white hooded suit next to an aluminum stepladder lying on its side. A
young woman in street clothes leaned against the wall opposite the entrance,
her neck craning toward a trapdoor in the ceiling. The tips of her shoes rested
inches away from the chalked outline of a person with one arm reaching out,
knees pulled up.
My stomach lurched.
Dried red rose petals lay strewn about
the grisly smear, flattened and crumpled in places. They clustered in the part
marking the splayed fingers.
Bile rose in my throat. Those dark
splotches half-hidden by the wilted and crushed petals could only be blood.
My aunt had not died in her bed.
She had plummeted from the attic.
Killed by a bouquet of roses?
