Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) (4 page)

Breakfast

Mandy and Ali gossiped in the kitchen, next morning, brewing coffee, eating breakfast cereal and giggling. “Morning, Mum. Did you have a good evening?” Cue more giggling.

“Hangover, Mrs F?” Libby heaved a heavy sigh, feeling like a visitor in her own house. She’d rise above it. She kissed Ali on the cheek, smiled at Mandy, grabbed a mug of coffee, scooped up Fuzzy and retired to the sitting room. Bear padded behind, tail wagging.

The house had seemed quiet when Libby first arrived, a year ago, but then Mandy moved in as a lodger and brought it back to life. Now, with Ali home and Bear visiting, the tiny cottage seemed full to overflowing.

Ali joined her mother on the sofa. Fuzzy jumped down from Libby’s arms to rub herself against Ali, purring, orange tail flicking in the air. Bear, making himself at home, stretched out across the floor, filling the room from door to window. Libby watched her daughter stroke the side of Fuzzy’s face and wondered how she’d ever managed to produce a child so unlike herself. Where did that ash blonde hair come from? It was cut short and spiky, emphasising Ali’s round cheeks and full lips. Her daughter had turned into a beauty. “What’s wrong, Ali?”

Instead of answering, Ali wrinkled her nose and pouted. Libby recognised the expression. It had first appeared when Ali, aged three, struggled with an early drawing of a house. It came back whenever she was anxious, or faced with a difficult challenge. “Was there another reason you came home? Apart from the need to look after your sick mother?”

Ali looked guilty. Libby had hit the nail on the head. “I was worried about you, Mum, truly. Dad always said you can’t look after yourself.”

“Well, that’s what he thought.” Libby shrugged. No need to dump her feelings about Trevor on their daughter. She kept talking, giving Ali a chance to collect her thoughts. “Anyway, I’m glad you get on well with Mandy, though she’ll be moving out soon, I expect. She’s only staying here until she can afford a flat of her own.”

Ali’s eyes were suspiciously shiny. Libby stepped over Bear and dropped on to the sofa, one arm round her daughter. For once, Ali didn’t shrug it off or move away. “Tell me what’s going on. Is it boyfriend problems?” That older man. She’d known he’d break Ali’s heart. “Is it John?”

Ali raised a watery laugh. “No, Mum. We broke up ages ago. I told you.” She hadn’t, but Libby let it go. Ali grabbed Fuzzy and buried her face in the cat’s fur. “John wasn’t really that interested in philanthropy. At least, not for himself. He just liked to give lectures about it. Well paid lectures.”

“Good job you saw through him, then. But, if he’s not the problem, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t think I’m doing the right thing.”

“You mean, at Uni? Is it the course?”

Ali blushed. “History’s all very well, but I want to make some sort of a difference. How’s history going to help when children are starving on the other side of the world?” She looked up, straight into Libby’s face, her own cheeks glowing. “I want to do something really useful.”

Libby chose her words with care. “I think that would be very worthwhile. You could get a job in the voluntary sector, when you finish your degree.”

Ali rolled her eyes. “I knew you’d say that. Just because you always did what people told you to.” Her words struck home. She was right. Libby had always expected good behaviour to lead to happiness. What a shame she’d believed it for so long.

Ali spoke slowly, as though Libby was very old or deaf. “I’m nothing like you. I want to do things that matter, while I’m still young enough. Not live a boring life, like you and Dad, and then die. I won’t waste any more time doing something I don’t care about.”

Was that truly how Libby’s life seemed to Ali? Boring and useless? Libby counted to ten and kept her voice level. “Why don’t you carry on at Uni to the end of the year, then see what you want to do?”

Before the words left her mouth, she knew it was the wrong thing to say. Ali’s face flamed. She pushed her mother’s arm away. “You don’t understand. You never have. Anyway, it’s too late. I’ve already left Uni.”

Libby stared. “Left? Officially?”

“That’s right.” Ali was defiant, eyes blazing. “I can’t go back, even if I wanted too. And I’ve got a job.”

“A what?”

“That’s right, a job. I’m going to help build schools in the rain forest. I’ve come home to pack and then Andy’s coming to pick me up.”

“You mean, you’re leaving the country? And who’s Andy?” Libby was struggling to take it in.

“Just a friend. Why shouldn’t I go? I’m not a child any more.”

Before Libby could gather her arguments, Ali dumped the cat on the floor, flounced out of the room and stamped upstairs.

***

Libby needed time time to think. “What am I supposed to say, Bear?” The dog whined and nuzzled her legs. “She’s just throwing away her life.”

Libby would never have defied her own parents. Things were different, in those days. She’d gone to University, taken a degree in social science, met Trevor and slipped into a quiet domestic life. She’d never even used that degree. Maybe Ali had a point.

Bear was pacing round the room. Fuzzy had disappeared, probably sulking in the airing cupboard. Libby longed to talk to someone. She needed advice, but there was no one around to help. Libby shooed Bear out into the garden, following behind, hoping fresh air would bring inspiration. She snatched weeds from the border, tossing them on the compost heap.

The breeze blew hair into her eyes, and she pushed it away, irritated. Of course, she didn’t want Ali to turn into a doormat. Libby kicked a stone. She’d wasted a lot of her life. The only things she didn’t regret were her children. Bringing up Robert and Ali to healthy adulthood, with strong minds of their own, were the only achievements she would always think of with pride.

She needed to make peace with her daughter. She wiped her hands on her jeans and went back indoors, to tap on Ali’s bedroom door. Ali, red-eyed, blocked her way.

“Maybe I’d better help you pack.”

Ali stared, frowning. “Seriously?” Libby nodded. “You’re not going to try and stop me?”

“Ali, I don’t want you to spend your life trying to please other people. If you’re determined to do this, and you’re doing it for you and not for this Andy, I’ll give you my blessing.”
And worry about you every moment you’re away.

Ali wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Good.” She muttered. “I thought you were going to cause a fuss.”

An hour later, Ali sat on her rucksack while Libby eased the zip round the lumps and bumps of t-shirts, earphones, boots and the other essentials of life in the wild. It turned out Ali’d been planning this for weeks, if not months, ever since she met Andy. “He’s very quiet. Thoughtful, you know, Mum. He’s from Canada, and he got me the job.” She showed Libby the paperwork. Tickets, letters of introduction, a signed contract.

Libby couldn’t find anything wrong. “I just wish you’d told me sooner.”

“You’d have tried to stop me.”

“Will I see him?”

“Soon. He’s coming here, then we’re catching the train at midday.”

The doorbell rang. Ali gave Libby a brief kiss on the cheek, hoisted up the huge rucksack, waved to a stunned Mandy, and disappeared.

Libby climbed the stairs, head reeling, back to the room her daughter had slept in. It had happened so fast, she couldn’t take it on. Slowly, painfully, she tidied away the few remaining bits and pieces they’d failed to stuff into the rucksack. A lump of iron seemed to have stuck in Libby’s chest, making it hard to breathe. When was she going to see her daughter again?

She blew her nose, determined not to cry. All that cleaning, the fussing over curtains, had all been Ali’s way of saying goodbye. If only Libby had understood. She stretched, relieving the ache in her back.
What’s that?
A drawer in Ali’s bedside table was stuck, half open. One corner of a brown envelope, peeking out at an angle, stopped it sliding shut.

Libby pulled the drawer open and pulled at the envelope, turning it over, registering Ali’s name on the front. It was unsealed, the contents still inside.

Mutton

Libby recognised that writing. She held the brown envelope in one hand, eyes on Trevor’s familiar neat, precise pen strokes, unsure. She should leave it alone. It wasn’t addressed to her. Everyone knew no good came of checking your children’s private papers, but how could any mother resist a peek inside a package sent by her dead husband to their daughter?

At least the envelope wasn’t sealed, so Libby didn’t have to steam it open. With one guilty glance back at the bedroom door, she tipped it up and let the contents slide onto the bed.

Just two sheets of paper fell out. One was a handwritten letter, the other, an estate agent’s advertisement for a house. A house in Leeds. Libby stared. The house was nothing special; just the kind of lofty Victorian building often divided into flats for students. But in Leeds? The family had no connections there.

Libby dropped the advertisement and picked up the letter, curiously reluctant to read anything written by her husband. It was short, and dated two years ago.
Dear Alison,
it began. He always used his daughter’s full name.
Before you go off to Uni, I want you to have this, in case you ever need it. The house is in your name. Robert owns another, just like it. You must keep the house for five years. You can sell it then, if you like, but please use the agent mentioned on the enclosed document.

This is between you and me. Your mother will have my estate should I die, which I have no intention of doing at present, but this is for you alone.

You may need a bolt-hole one day.

With love,

Dad.

Libby pored over the letter, but subsequent readings made no more sense than the first. There was no reason why Trevor shouldn’t buy a house and put it in Ali’s name. Perhaps it was a thoughtful thing to do, making sure his daughter had a foot on the housing ladder. But why bother to keep it a secret? And why buy a house so far away, in Leeds? They’d lived in London all their married life.

Libby shook her head, perplexed by yet another shock from the grave. Who would have thought it of rigid, respectable Trevor? Six months ago, she’d discovered he’d emptied his bank accounts and left nothing but debts. It meant Libby couldn’t redecorate the ghastly bathroom, but she’d survived. Now, this? What else had Trevor hidden from his wife?

Libby sat on the bed, legs crossed, thinking. Trevor was a control freak. He’d kept her under his thumb, refusing to discuss work, or anything else, for that matter. As a result, she had little idea what his job entailed, except that he was an insurance agent. How had he managed to acquire a couple of houses his wife knew nothing about?

It seemed strange, finding the letter sticking out of a drawer. Why had Ali left it behind? She hadn’t really tried to hide it. Maybe she’d wanted her mother to know, but wouldn’t directly disobey her father. Libby made a thumbs-up sign.
Good solution, Ali
.

She folded the two sheets of paper, replaced them in the envelope and took the package to her room, sliding it into her handbag. She straightened. Were there any more surprises from Trevor? She still had a few of his things.

She opened the door to the third bedroom, the room she used as a study. She kept some of his old clothes here. Full of shocked guilt at her husband’s sudden death, she’d left them in the wardrobe in the London house, to deal with later. When she came to Exham, the removal firm had bundled them up and hung them straight in the wardrobe. She hadn’t touched them since. Maybe there were more clues to the Trevor she’d never known, among his old clothes.

She caught her breath, smelling the faintest trace of Old Spice that clung to an ancient corduroy jacket. Trevor had worn that old brown favourite every weekend, refusing to let Libby throw it out, even when it grew old and shabby. She’d bought a new one, identical, once, as a birthday surprise. Trevor told her to take it back to the shop.

Pictures flashed behind Libby’s eyes. She remembered Trevor one Sunday, complaining the roast potatoes were cold, retiring to his study, and shoving papers swiftly into his briefcase, as she brought his coffee. The image lingered. He’d looked annoyed, his cheeks unusually flushed. Did the papers belong to his insurance clients, as she’d always supposed, or were they something less innocent?

Libby tossed the jacket on a chair. It was going out, along with anything else that reminded her of her husband. She grabbed one item after another, shaking them, feeling in the pockets for any stray clues to a secret life.

When the solicitor had told Libby she was broke, she hadn’t thought to investigate. She’d just accepted that Trevor had indulged himself, while at the same time complaining about every penny Libby spent on anything he called a selfish luxury, like new clothes. Now, she had to know more.

Slowly, a pile of old receipts and train tickets grew on the desk. She’d found nothing unexpected, so far. She smoothed out a crumpled slip of paper, a receipt from a hire car company in Leeds. More evidence of that secret life Trevor had lived?

Libby’s head buzzed with questions. Why had Trevor bought houses in Leeds, when they lived in London? Who lived in the house he’d passed on to Ali and why had he told Ali not to put the house up for sale for five years?

Maybe he was having an affair. Did he have a mistress, living up in Leeds? He would want her to keep the house for a few years after his death, for security. The thought made Libby burn with fury. He hadn’t cared much about his wife’s security.

She bundled the pile of clothes into a charity plastic bag and dumped them beside the front door. A plan was forming in her head. She had clues, now. All she had to was follow them to find out what Trevor was up to. She’d give it a few days, until she had her car back, all serviced and ready for a trip to Leeds. Then, she’d make the trip and surprise whoever lived in the house.