Free Demon on a Distant Shore by Linda Welch

knew him for how long?”
    She mumbled something.
    “What was that?”
    “Two weeks!” she repeated irritably.
    “And you had how much money on you?”
    “Two thousand pounds,” she said in a lower voice.
    I peaked my brows and flipped my hands out in a told you so gesture.
    She pouted. “For two thousand pounds? I don’t believe it.”
    “People have been murdered for less.”
    She presented me with her backside. I looked elsewhere.
    I pressed on relentlessly. “Did he give the alarm? Did he wait for the ambulance and police?”
    “He was in London on an expired visa. They would have sent him back to Italy.” She whirled to face me “We didn’t even do it ,” she huffed. “He wanted to jump right in bed, but oh no, I had to take a shower, get myself all fresh for him.”
    Okay. Didn’t need to hear that. “When did it happen?”
    “Twenty years ago, before Sally Short came here to take over from Dolly Short, she who ran The Hart and Garter back then. They came from Wales.” Her voice hushed. “Take my advice, stay away from Sally Short. She’s a witch.”
    “Witch as in bitch, or witch as in witch?”
    She tittered. “Ooh, I like that. The spells and broomstick kind, though I’ve not seen her on a broom. Yet.”
    “What makes you think she’s a witch?”
    “As I said, dear, I’ve been here twenty years. I see and hear everything. All the Short women are witches.”
    Interesting . I’d think on that later. “Do you know what happened to Alfonso? Someone must have seen him with you. Was he apprehended?”
    She spat out a bitter chuff . Until I saw dead people, I didn’t realize how much we rely on facial expressions to interpret speech. I hear a shade laugh, or chuckle, or sigh, and it’s not always possible to tell if they do so in pleasure or pain. But I didn’t read amusement in her posture.
    “I never heard anything from the guests or on the radio, or read it in the newspapers, so I imagine he went on his way and had a lovely time with my two thousand pounds.”
    I softened my voice. “You know what really happened, don’t you.”
    “You didn’t know him! Call me a stupid, useless old baggage, but I refuse to believe he meant me harm.”
    She could be right. She died violently, but need not have been murdered.
    With back hunched, shoulders pressed to her neck, frizzy hair and hands spasmodically clenching and unclenching, she looked like a furious kitten about to pounce. My lips twitched. “You’re not . . . old.”
    Her body relaxed and she tittered. She patted her hair again. “I’m Carrie.”
    “Hi, Carrie. I’m Tiff.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Tiff.” Her shoulders went up again. “I shouldn’t say that. My mum would have a fit. You do not say you’re pleased to meet someone, because you don’t know you are, do you?” She put out her hand and moved it up and down as if shaking hands. “ How do you do, that’s what you say.”
    “I’m sure you - ”
    “A stickler for etiquette was my mum. Dinner times were worse. Don’t read at the table. Put your knife and fork side by side just so on your plate when you’re done. Don’t ask for more than you can eat, and if you do by golly you’d best finish it. I saw the Queen at a fancy banquet - well I didn’t see her in person, but on the telly - pick up her chicken leg and chew on it, and everyone else trying to tackle theirs with a knife and fork. Using your fingers is the proper way to eat chicken legs. My mum knew. She had a fancy upbringing, did my mum. Went to a school for young ladies.”
    She paused as if for breath and I jumped in. “Excuse me. That’s all very interesting, but - ”
    “Do you think so? How nice of you to say! I have been known to waffle on given half a chance. My friend Sarah said I could drive any sane person up a wall. I wonder what she’s doing now. She was a lovely girl when I knew her. I could not understand her working in an abattoir, all the blood and guts. Tiff - that’s an odd