A Body in the Village Hall by Dee MacDonald (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

imprisonment. What sort of woman was Fenella Barker-Jones who would promise that money to save her own skin and then refuse to deliver? Until now she’d been inclined to feel sorry for Fenella, who’d been vilified by everyone, but now she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps she couldn’t help having a voracious appetite for sex, but breaking a promise of this magnitude…?

Why did Kate ever think she could solve this – believing herself to be some sort of Miss Marple – but getting absolutely nowhere? Why had she ever thought that, by getting to know them one by one, she’d be able to eliminate them one by one as well? Now she was sorely tempted to remove both Maureen and Jess from The List.

She was tempted, but she didn’t.

Kate walked up the garden to discuss her thoughts with Angie, who had locked herself in the studio, minus the saucepan. She was furiously churning out more canvases. Far from Kate being able to discuss what was uppermost in her mind, it was Luke this and Luke that, and what name should Angie give to her latest creation? Atlantic Sunset, perhaps?

Angie was keen for Kate to know that Indian Summer was displayed inside the gallery, and was determined that Kate should go to see how clever Luke was for positioning it just right and lighting it to its best advantage.

‘Presentation is the name of the game, Luke says,’ Angie explained. ‘Why don’t you come and see?’

As they walked down to the gallery Angie told Kate that Luke was expecting Lower Tinworthy to be swamped by tourists from now on, the more discerning of whom would be only too happy to part with two hundred and fifty pounds for the privilege of hanging Indian Summer on their walls.

‘Two hundred and fifty pounds!’ Kate stared at her sister in disbelief. ‘Are you kidding?’

When she arrived at The Gallery and saw Angie’s painting, Kate had to admit that Angie’s red and gold splashes of paint did look better when artfully displayed.

‘You look surprised,’ Luke said as he emerged from the workshop at the rear. He was clad in tight jeans and a black sweatshirt opened – artfully, of course – halfway down his chest to expose a chunky gold chain. His blond locks were carefully swept to one side and Kate suspected he was wearing mascara. No, she thought, I don’t think I need to worry too much about him and Angie.

‘I am surprised,’ she said, staring at the picture and trying to decipher any sort of design. She looked around the gallery at the variety of paintings on display and could only imagine a couple of them on her wall. There was, however, some locally crafted silver jewellery that she did like and some overpriced chunky pottery.

‘You won’t see much of me from now on ,’ Angie announced cheerfully. In honour of the occasion she’d tied her hair up into a messy topknot and was wearing a paint-splashed smock over her jeans. Every inch the artist.

But Kate was pleased. Angie had come alive and, even better, appeared to be spending less time at the pub.

And there was always the possibility, she supposed, that somebody might even buy Indian Summer.

Nineteen

Some things are meant to happen, Kate decided. She had a day off on the Thursday and decided it was time for a visit to Truro to buy some curtain material for her bedroom to complement her newly painted walls. The window latch still didn’t close properly and she planned to find someone to fix it before next winter as she didn’t fancy a cold draught now that her bed was directly in front of it.

‘Do you fancy a trip to Truro?’ Kate asked Angie.

Angie didn’t; it was becoming busy at The Gallery and wouldn’t it be awful if someone were to buy her painting and she wasn’t there?

Kate set off on her own and was halfway down the A39 when her mobile rang. She could see a layby a short distance ahead and prayed she’d get there before the caller rang off. It might just be Maureen.

‘Hi!’ There was that unmistakeable American accent again. ‘Woody here. I’m sorry to bother you but I wondered if you might do me a favour?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Kate replied.

‘I’ve got a feeling that I’ve left my kitchen window wide open and I wondered if – and only if – you might be walking the dog up to the coastal path today whether you might pop by and just push it shut? Thing is, I’m at a meeting in Truro and won’t be back until the evening.’

Truro! Kate took a deep breath. ‘Believe it or not, Woody, I’m on my way to Truro right now.’

‘You are?’

‘Shall I call my sister and ask her to close the window?’

‘No, don’t worry about it – it’s at the back of the house anyway so probably OK. What are you up to in Truro?’

‘Just hunting for some curtain fabric.’

‘Look, I’ve got meetings here all day but I’m free between twelve and two. How do you fancy some lunch?’

‘That would be lovely,’ Kate said with feeling.

‘How about we meet up at The Tarry Inn. Do you know it?’

Kate didn’t, so he gave her detailed directions. ‘It’s not too far to walk from Lemon Quay but it’s sufficiently out of the way that we’re not likely to run into half of Tinworthy.’

‘That’s great,’ Kate said, frantically scribbling with an eyebrow pencil on a crumpled-up receipt and vowing never to leave home without a pen again. ‘What time?’

‘Quarter after twelve all right for you?’

‘Absolutely,’ Kate said. She was unable to stop smiling as she pulled out of the layby.

The Tarry Inn was an ancient timber-framed building with low ceilings, black beams and woodwork, and old leaded-light windows. Kate wondered if it was Elizabethan. It was also renowned for its pies.

Woody was waiting at the bar clutching a half pint of lager. His face lit up when Kate arrived. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘isn’t this some coincidence!’ And he