Free Evans Above by Rhys Bowen

confronted her yet? Has she owned up to the tomatoes?”
    â€œI—haven’t had a chance yet, Mrs. Powell-Jones. I’ve been down at HQ on a big case all day.”
    â€œThen look lively and get to it, man,” Mrs. Powell-Jones commanded. “Who knows what she’ll try next. The woman is desperate, I tell you.”
    With Mrs. Powell-Jones watching his every move, Evan had no alternative. He knocked tentatively on the Parry Davies’ front door. Mrs. Parry Davies looked the part of a minister’s wife, but without the upper-class air of Mrs. Powell-Jones. Her tweed skirt and brownish twinset were well worn. Her face was devoid of makeup and topped with a sensibly short hairstyle. She also appeared to have a sense of humor and, to Evan’s relief, found the whole thing mildly amusing.
    â€œThat woman—I think she’s gone bananas,” she said when Evan, cringing with embarrassment, managed to explain why he was there. “As if I’d want to trample her tomato plants. If winning the local show is the biggest thrill of her year, then good luck to her. And as far as spying on her embroidery … I think she should examine her own conscience in that matter. Last year she came over here a couple of months before the show. I had already started on a tapestry of an old English mill. Do you know what she did?”
    â€œNo,” Evan said politely.
    â€œShe went out and got herself a tapestry with three windmills on it. Three, mark you. It only won because it was bigger than mine. That’s one-upmanship for you!”
    Â 
    Â 

    Evan left the Davies residence feeling as if he had gone two rounds in a boxing ring. He wished that the pub was open. He was just passing the front of the pub when he met Charlie Hopkins coming out of it.
    â€œI thought it was two hours to opening time, Charlie,” he called.
    Charlie grinned, revealing gaps in his teeth. “I was just making a delivery, Constable Evans. I went down to the cash-and-carry in Caernarfon today and I picked up paper napkins and towels for old Harry at the pub. Doin’ him a good turn, I was.”
    â€œAnd you came right out again without wetting your whistle, right?” Evan asked, spotting a telltale wisp of froth on Charlie’s upper lip.
    Charlie put his finger to his nose. “Them that asks no questions, don’t get told no lies, that’s what my old mother used to say,” he said. “What were you doing up there.” He nodded in the direction of the chapels. “Popping in for a quick prayer?”
    â€œMrs. Powell-Jones had a Peeping Tom,” Evan said.
    Charlie chuckled. “I can’t think why anybody would want to spy on her,” he said. “If I was going to peep anywhere, I can think of better windows—young Betsy, for example. I wouldn’t mind watching her undress.”
    â€œIt wasn’t undressing the peeper was spying on,” Evan said. “It was embroidery.”
    Charlie’s lean frame shook with amusement. Evan laughed too, but then he grew serious again. “All the same, Charlie,” he said. “There’s no denying there’s a bloody great footprint in her flower bed and a Peeping Tom is a Peeping Tom. Who’d want to do a thing like that?”
    â€œSounds to me like the sort of thing Daft Dai used to do,” Charlie said.

    â€œDaft Dai?” Evan was instantly alert.
    â€œThat was way before your time. He was well known around here. Used to go around peeping in windows and annoying people. I used to think he was harmless but they put him away in the end. He took to scaring tourists. He used to say the mountains belonged to him and nobody was allowed up there without his permission.”
    â€œIs that a fact?” Evan asked.
    Charlie nodded. “In the end he waved a knife at someone and that was that. They put him away.”
    â€œAnd where is he now?”
    â€œStill in the looney bin,