Free Murder Comes Calling by C. S. Challinor Page A

pudding.
    “They’re all pretty at that age,” Rex said, “or at least know how to make themselves so.”
    “That Charlotte was charming, I thought.” His friend scooped up a spoonful of banana and ice cream. “Took a fancy to you,” he added when he received no comment from Rex.
    “Aside from the fact I’m engaged to a woman who is perfection personified, I make it a habit not to let charm blind or bedazzle me in an investigation.”
    “Weren’t you supposed to be married in the spring?” Malcolm asked.
    “That was the plan. But it came around so fast we decided to postpone until we were less busy. Helen wants a big wedding. It’s her first and she wants it to be perfect. It’s going to require a lot of organization.”
    Malcolm nodded. “It’s difficult when you’re both working and live in different parts of the UK.”
    “Aye, but we make it work.” Rex set down his spoon. “Why don’t you pursue the charming Charlotte? She’s divorced and you’re a widower. It’s been three years. Charlotte might have flirted with you had you been the one not wearing a wedding ring.”
    His friend twisted the gold band on his finger. “Not sure I’m ready to move on yet. How long was it before you got over Fiona?”
    Rex sighed heavily. “It was a long time,” he conceded. He had lost his wife to breast cancer when his son was fifteen. It had been an excruciating period in their lives.
    “But now you have Helen,” Malcolm said on a more cheerful note.
    “And we have four murders to solve,” Rex said in like vein, throwing down his napkin and looking around for the server so they could settle their bill. It was time to call on Walker’s office and see what they could find out about the mysterious couple who had expressed interest in the property belonging to the late Ernest Blackwell.

nine
    Rex managed to find on-street parking in front of the firm owned by Chris Walker. Photos of properties surmounted by brief descriptions lined the window. None, he noted, were located in Notting Hamlet. Those must have been taken down. In a bare space in the glass, he saw the blurry reflection of a solidly built man with reddish hair and beard, his neck swaddled in a scarf. He blinked at his image and caught Malcolm’s beside him, greyer, thinner, and shorter. A lot of time had passed since their university days.
    The door chimed brightly as they entered. Behind a partition at the far end of the office bobbed the heads of a couple of people whom Rex took to be sales associates. From a reception desk angled in the narrow space in the foreground, a buxom bleached blonde enquired in an ingratiating voice whether she could be of assistance. Her nametag, pinned to a ruffled crimson silk blouse, read “Lea.”
    “I hope so,” Rex replied with what he hoped was his most amiable smile. “It’s regarding the homes for sale in Notting Hamlet.”
    The woman’s face darkened around her creased blue eyeshadow. “Are you reporters?” she demanded, casting a look at Malcolm. Her hand reached for the desk phone.
    “No, nothing like that,” Rex assured her, assessing the lay of the land. He surmised the office had been besieged by the media and nosy members of the public in weeks past. “I’m trying to locate my daughter.” This was the story he had concocted with Malcolm on the way to Chris Walker’s premises in the event they encountered resistance, a story designed to elicit sympathy and the most information possible. Rex’s inherently honest nature rebelled at resorting to subterfuge, but an innocent man’s freedom might be at stake and he had to help his friend out of a legal jam.
    “I don’t see how I can assist you there,” the receptionist said in a relenting tone, her assumed one of formality failing to disguise her broad country dialect. Then, unable to contain her curiosity, she asked, “Is she missing then? I have an adult daughter myself.”
    “Aye,” Rex said, sighing deeply into his muffler. “The