Murder On Bwytheney by Elizabeth. Newby (adult books to read .txt) 📕

"Not today, no. Although tomorrow's a busy one, and I'm getting booked up for the next few weeks. Just think, one day, these shelves will be full of books you've written," said Pete.

"It's a nice thought. We'll see." I handed him his tea and made myself a coffee. "Please, sit," I said, waving my hand in the direction of my sofas.

My stone cottage was not big, but it was cosy and rustic. Some of the stone walls were painted cream, but here in the lounge, they remained their natural grey. Colour was added by the assortment of cushions scattered on the two small sofas and armchair. They were a mix of lime, fuchsia, mustard and aqua. The seats were arranged around the open fireplace, and rugs adorned the flagstone floor. Some were striped with bright colours, but a small sheepskin was situated in front of the fire. It had come from one of the farms up at Brynness. There was a couple of side tables as well as a set of wooden drawers in one corner, all of which were covered in books. I've never been the sort that can read one book at a time. I like to pick something based on my mood, and so quite a few of these books had bookmarks stuffed in them, marking my progress.

“Don’t you have a TV?” asked Pete.

"There's one somewhere in the attic, but I don't bother with it. It's a distraction. There are so many books I want to read, and if a TV was on all the time, they would be left to gather dust and get lonesome.”

“So, you don’t ever watch TV?”

"Occasionally, I do. I might binge watch something on my laptop, but it's rare. But between my books, writing and quiz night and everything else going on here, there's not much time for it. Island life changes you. You'll see," I smiled.

"Maybe, I can't imagine ditching the TV, though. There are some great shows on at the moment.”

“Is that what you were doing last night? You know, the Sunday night quiz is far more entertaining than any show. Last night, especially.”

"Oh, I headed over to the mainland last night. I needed a bit of escapism. Ended up bumping into one of my mates and visited one too many of Liverpool's bars. Got the first boat back this morning."

“Ah, that explains why you wanted to come over later, then,” I teased, “I bet that was an interesting boat journey back!”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“You missed all of last night’s drama, then.”

He gave me a small smile, "Sure did. I best get back to it, or I won't get finished today."

Back to work it was, then. Sitting down at my desk, I started trying to put together a post about Melissa's death. Something needed to go out that day, and it needed to quell the deluge of enquiries. Maybe there was no choice but to investigate what happened and write about it. I chose to write a short post on "what we know so far" hoping that would be enough for now.

Pete put down his drill and picked up a screwdriver. He climbed back up the small ladder and leaned over to the far side of the wall.

“What do you think happened to Melissa Palmer?” I asked.

The screwdriver fell to the floor, clanging against the toolbox and Peter half fell, half leapt from the ladder before it toppled over too.

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” I dashed over to where he was crumpled on the floor.

“Damn, sorry, Cara, I should know better than to try and stretch. I'm a bit out of sorts today." He stood up and brushed himself down. "I'm a bit sore, but I'll be okay. My ego's more bruised than anything else." He offered a little smile.

“We do not need any more mishaps on Bwytheney! An almost drowning and a murder are more than enough to last us a year. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“I’m sure. No damage done and I’m almost finished.”

“It’s my fault, distracting you with my questions. I have a terrible habit of thinking out loud. I’ll keep quiet now. I need to do a bit of research, anyway.”

I was putting it off, telling myself that I hadn’t made a decision yet. But who was I kidding? Of course, I was going to dig into this Melissa business. I could think of nothing else. Sitting back down at my desk, I opened a new window and searched “Melissa Harper”. Of course, the results were now full of newspaper articles reporting on her tragic death on a sleepy island and quotes from the police spokesman. There was nothing new in these. They simply confirmed that Melissa had died after a blunt force trauma to the back of her head. The whole of Bwytheney already knew this.

Next up, I headed to social media. We were friends on Facebook and followed each other on our Twitter and Instagram accounts. But much of Melissa's online efforts were directed towards the campsite. There was little on her personal accounts, although she had shared a meme a couple of days before about the past never being quite as finished with us as we think. Was there something in it? It wasn't unusual for Melissa to share the odd quote or musing on life. Or had something from her past cropped up? I pulled out a new notebook from my bottom drawer and opened it to make a note of the quote.

As Melissa had grown up on the island, I knew it wouldn't be too difficult to find out more about her past before I arrived on Bwytheney. There were plenty of people around who would have known Melissa all her life, and I knew just the person to help me out. I was overdue a visit, anyway.

Chapter 8

Beryl lived a mile outside Islethorpe, part way up the hills that overlooked the village and seafront. Her house was one of those double-fronted stone cottages you