Free Deadly Thyme by R.L. Nolen

to talk at first, but when they figured out she was friendly and interested in learning about Cornwall, th ose same villagers could become quite talkative. On the whole, the villagers were decent, hardworking people who were proud of their heritage, as well they should be. She and her daughter had loved living here.
    It had felt safe.

     
    9
     
    Jon cut his connection to the Internet and sat deep in thought. It was too hard to believe. But there it was. He had to think it through. Thirty years. Had this been going on all this time and no one had seen it before?
    The morning ’s search activity in the village grew at every turn. Dogs, police, searchers on horseback, and volunteers probed the countryside with poles. Parked vehicles crowded the roads and the air throbbed with two helicopters circling like blowflies. Like that scene from Frankenstein in Technicolor, the stick-carrying crowds were out for blood. He imagined that they would likely be wondering who would harm a child—and that they would not stop until they found him.
    Jon hadn’t joined in the search parties, but he hadn’t been inactive. He decided to take the opportunity to blend in and explore the village, from the church tower at the top, to where the river emptied into the sea at the bottom.
    He had taken the packages to the post office. The county combined courthouse also housed the post office and several administrative offices. The postmistress’s eyes glittered under thick brows. Stoop-shouldered and thin-skinned, she hulked over the smaller package, taking her time, sneaking a cold look at him every few seconds. Her actions were even more exaggerated with the larger package. That was fine with Jon. He didn’t like her either.
    While it was true, under the circumstances, that strangers would be regarded with suspicion, something about this woman did not seem right. She had two ears, a mouth, two eyes, a nose, all placed in the correct spots. But something about her left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.
    The postmistress took his money, wrote him a receipt, and carried the package s into a back room and set them on a table in full view.
    He called out a half-jolly “cheers” and left to do some more walking.
    Like an exhausted angel guarding the lives clustered below it, the weathered church tower perched above the village.
    Jon stood on High Street. Looking down, he could see a squat yellow building with the word “Pottery” splashed in purple across the slate roof. Farther along the slope and as the road turned sharply to the sea, there sat a narrow stone building. A black sign above the door proclaimed it “The Spider’s Web.” Up the other side of the road, various shops specialized in trinkets commemorating the legend of the disappearing pirate, or, more often than not, trying to cash-in on the King Arthur lore that bounded up and down this side of Cornwall. There was a prominent sign advertising the Museum of Witchcraft, behind which were a newsagent and a tea garden.
    He walked down the steep incline to the quay and decided to trace the dark car’s imagined path to see where it had come from. High Street ended in a car park. There was a narrow turn around. He climbed down to the beach. He noted how the steps the girls had taken went to the top of a short cliff. At the top was a gate. He took the steps up and went through the gate. It opened upon a narrow road, more like an alleyway. Originally designed for horses and carriages, roads around the village were unlikely to ever be widened. This road would barely contain a carriage. It led upward between buildings and then turned to skirt behind the village.
    He had included in his package for Bakewell the video that showed the car ’s movement on the morning the girl disappeared. Jon wondered what he would make of it.
    He would have to include that footage in an anonymous package to DCI Peter Trewe. No good deed will go unpunished, he thought. He was in for it, and quite soon, unless he