Free Cat Burglar in Training by Shelley Munro

of self-protection for both of us. Even now, in my world, an unmarried mother was treated as something dirty. Abortion was an acceptable means of contraception, especially if it meant keeping the gene pool free of undesirables. That was part of the reason I’d resisted returning home. In France, no one judged me.
    “That’s right.” I left my answer short, keeping to the facts.
    “What were you doing in France?” Simon asked.
    “Looking after my godmother.” I shrugged in dismissal. “This is a terrible business. I hope they catch the murderer soon.”
    “I haven’t seen you for years, not since the Christmas ball. Your godmother must have been very sick.” Simon persisted with his questions.
    “That’s right.” A casual glance across the surrounding area made the breath freeze in my lungs. Kahu’s displeasure seemed to leap across the distance separating us. I was left in no doubt he’d witnessed the kisses. Fury followed swiftly on the heels of shock. Kahu didn’t own me. No man owned me.
    Breaking the connection, I turned back to Simon and Tristram. One look at Simon’s blond hair and blue eyes and my brain jolted into fifth gear. Exactly why was Simon so interested in my missing years? I wasn’t so bigheaded to think I was truly that memorable. In heart-stopping horror, I tried to superimpose my memory of Amber’s features over those of Simon Grenville. The hair was a different color. But the eyes were right.
    No, it couldn’t be.
    But the facts remained. It was highly possible. Shoving aside distaste and loathing, I placed Simon Grenville on my list for future investigation. It felt good to have a name, but I didn’t intend to go off half-cocked with my revenge. I’d waited years—a few more days or weeks made little difference in the scheme of things.

Chapter Six
    The Rose and Crown is your traditional English pub, set in the middle of the mainly Victorian village. As befitting its name, the pub had a royal theme with low beams and lots of paraphernalia to attract dust. I frowned when I stepped into the main bar and debated where to sit. I’d decided to arrive early to scope out the place and jot down my thoughts on paper while the funeral was fresh in my mind. After ordering a latte, I chose a recently vacated seat in a small alcove facing the door.
    If Beauchamp wanted privacy, he’d chosen the wrong place for our meeting. The pub was doing a roaring trade since market day fell on Wednesdays. I’d had to fight my way past men three deep at the bar.
    I stirred a sachet of sugar into my coffee while I organized my thoughts. The teaspoon clinked against the thick white china mug when I dropped it on the table. I rifled through my handbag searching for paper and a pen. My bank statement was the only thing at hand in the paper department. The money in my account came to ten pounds, fifty-three pence. I figured I didn’t need the reminder.
    I wrote, 1. No children. Niece or godchild? Need to search archives at library.
    I chewed the top of my pen, and the plastic taste fueled a brainwave.
    2. Search the archives at St. Evelyn’s House.
    3. Find out if Perdita or James Moning have brothers and sisters. Do they have children?
    At this point, I bashed the side of my head with my right palm. I’d been that rattled about finding the photo I hadn’t taken it from the frame and looked at the back. Stupid! It might bear an inscription, or at the very least, I’d learn which photographer had taken the portrait. With this information, I could question the photographer or, if he or she proved stubborn about privacy, search their premises after hours.
    Under point 4, I wrote, Suspects . Simon Grenville .
    The slimy man deserved a place on my list. I tried to recall the Christmas party and attempted to picture the faces of the men who’d been in our group. My mind came up blank. I suspected I didn’t want to remember.
    “There you are.” Beauchamp slid into the seat beside me, an accusing note in his