Free Aunt Bessie Finds (An Isle of Man Cozy Mystery Book 6) by Diana Xarissa Page A

didn’t think it was wise to invite trouble.   If this sort of thing happened
regularly, it was less surprising that someone had found his way into the empty
flat.  
    It was quite warm in the small foyer, and Bessie could understand
why the building manager, who was once again sitting behind his small desk, had
propped open the door.   A very light
breeze coming in from the sea was the only thing that was moving the air around
the stuffy space.
    “Good morning,” she said politely to him.
    He looked up from his newspaper and squinted at her.   “Morning,” he said in a grumpy
voice.  
    Before Bessie could continue, a man rushed into the foyer.
    “For goodness sakes, man, there’s a prospective buyer coming
through in a minute.   What did I
tell you about propping open that door?” he shouted towards the building
manager.
    Bessie studied him as he bent down to move the wooden block.   He looked to be in his mid-thirties,
with a small amount of dark hair that he’d combed from one side of his head to
the other in an effort to disguise the fact that he was mostly bald.   He was wearing an ugly brown suit in a chequered pattern that he must have bought when he’d
weighed at least a stone more than his current weight.   Perhaps he’d been taller in those days
as well, Bessie thought, as she noticed that the trousers were considerably
longer than they ought to have been.  
    Now he straightened up, allowing the door to slam shut.   He wasn’t much taller than Bessie, and
he glanced at her through beady little eyes before turning his attention back
to Nigel Green.
    “I told you we need to make a good first impression,” he said
angrily.   “The flat’s been on the
market for three months and this woman definitely has the funds to purchase
it.   Not only that, I got told on
Friday that she’s friends with George Quayle.   Do you know what that means?”
    “It probably means you shouldn’t be talking about her right in her
face,” Nigel drawled, glancing at Bessie.
    The man flushed and looked from Nigel to Bessie and back
again.   “Isn’t this your mother?” he
hissed at Nigel.
    Nigel shook his head and then laughed.   “Mum’s tucked up having a nap,” he told
the man.   “I reckon this is your
prospective purchaser and I also reckon she’s none too pleased with you.”
    The man took a deep breath and then straightened his shoulders and
turned to face Bessie.   “Mrs. Cubbon ?” he asked.   “I’m Alan Collins.   I’m very
pleased to meet you.”
    Bessie forced herself not to laugh; instead she followed his lead
and pretended that she hadn’t just witnessed the little scene she’d thoroughly
enjoyed.   He was sadly mistaken if
he thought she wouldn’t remember it, though.
    “How do you do, Mr. Collins,” she said, offering her hand.
    “You must call me Alan.   And I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t shake hands,” he told her.   “I’ve a very weak immune system, you
see.”
    Bessie raised an eyebrow.   “Perhaps you’re in the wrong line of work,” she said dryly.
    “Oh, but I love my job,” he told her.   Bessie couldn’t detect any enthusiasm in
his words.   “But shall we have a
look at that flat, then?”
    “Yes, let’s,” Bessie agreed, eager to get things over with.
    Nigel handed Alan a key ring and then sat back in his chair with a
smile on his face.   “I hope you like
it,” he told Bessie politely.
    “This is the main entrance foyer, of course,” Alan told Bessie,
ignoring Nigel completely.   “As you
can see, it has a security door and a doorman on duty during the day.   Each flat has its own intercom that
connects to the system, so if someone rings the bell for your flat, you can
find out who it is before you unlock the door for them.”
    “How nice,” Bessie murmured.
    “The postboxes are all back here,” Alan continued, leading Bessie
across the small space.   Along the
far wall the two rows of metal postboxes were arranged at a