Free A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall by Hannah Dennison Page A

later.”
    To my dismay, my stomach gave a lurch. “Find out what?”
    Mum stood up and retrieved a newspaper from behind a cushion on the wingback chair. It was the dreaded Daily Post and was folded to Star Stalkers, a celebrity column written by David’s estranged wife and my nemesis, Trudy. A photo of Trudy accompanied her byline.
    â€œShe really should do something about her hair,” said Mum. “She always looks like she’s going to kill off a few puppies.”
    I had to agree. With her sharp chin and black bob with a white streak, Trudy resembled the Disney character Cruella de Vil from 101 Dalmatians .
    â€œI’m really not interested in what Trudy has to say, Mum.”
    â€œBut you are over David,” Mum insisted.
    Despite my earlier protestations that I was, my heart began to hammer in my chest. “Is this about David?”
    So David had gotten divorced after all. Charming, sophisticated, wealthy, and as one of the world’s leading art investigators, I knew he wouldn’t remain single for long.
    Mum patted my knee as she passed me the newspaper. “I am so sorry, dear.”
    I stared at the headline in disbelief:
    RENEWING OUR VOWS UNDER THE HAWAIIAN SUN
    A color photograph showed David and Trudy standing arm in arm on a sandy beach with the ocean crashing behind them. They were wreathed in flower garlands. Trudy wore a sheer white dress and David was in white shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. On either side of them stood their two teenagers—Chloe and Sam—also dressed in white. They were one big happy family.
    I was so shocked I couldn’t say a word. After all the years of promising his heart to me, he had stayed with Trudy, after all. It was a double blow.
    â€œI do think his legs aren’t his strong point,” said Mum. “They’re like a chicken’s.”
    I handed the newspaper back in silence, went over to the window and stared blindly out.
    Mum joined me and put her arm around my shoulders.
    â€œI’m fine,” I whispered. And in a strange way, I was. Whatever feelings I had left for him had died right there. For good. Forever.
    â€œI know you are,” she said gently.
    We stood looking out at Cromwell Meadows where frost glittered under an inky night sky full of stars—something I never saw in London. To my left a roped-off square marked the entrance to the underground tunnel; to my right stood Eric’s scrapyard. A pyramid of tires and discarded pieces of farm machinery joined the many “end-of-life” vehicles that littered the field, coated in crystals. The car crusher machine, a forklift truck and a stack of pulverized cars stood next to the battered caravan that Eric called his “office.”
    A light shone in the window. Eric’s Massey Ferguson tractor, his old Land Rover and an unfamiliar green-and-white VW camper van were parked outside nose to nose.
    â€œWhat on earth is Eric doing working so late?” said Mum. “Looks like he has company.”
    â€œI think I’m going to go and talk to him,” I said suddenly.
    â€œWhatever for?” Mum exclaimed. “You won’t make David jealous now by throwing yourself at those eyebrows.”
    â€œYou don’t think so?” I smiled. “No, I just want to ask him something.”
    â€œMaybe he’s entertaining a lady friend.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “I’ll knock before I enter.”
    â€œBut why do you want to talk to him?” Mum persisted.
    I wracked my brain. “I’m just curious about his mother-in-law and her Alzheimer’s. You never know. Maybe Joan might remember something.”
    â€œI doubt it,” said Mum.
    â€œBut isn’t it true that sometimes people who suffer from the disease remember the past far more clearly than the present?”
    â€œMaybe.” My mother gave a mock sigh. “So I assume that means I’ll be cooking