Free Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) by Frances Evesham

glanced round to check she was alone, grasped the biggest hammer firmly, hooked the claw behind the first nail and twisted. The nail popped out. So did the second. The third was awkward, bending and sticking, and Libby’s hair stuck to her head with sweat by the time she wrenched it out.
    As she levered out the fourth and final nail, the door swung open and she stepped inside. The broken glass had been swept away. She tiptoed into the front room, stopped and straightened. No need to tread with such care; there was no one in the house to hear her. She let her gaze rove across the crowded tables and shelves. Nothing had changed since she’d been here with Mrs Thomson.
    The old lady’s presence seemed all around. Libby shivered and whispered, “I hope they didn’t scare you, before they shoved you down the stairs.” Maybe they took her by surprise, and she had no idea what happened. Or perhaps it was someone Mrs Thomson knew and trusted. Lonely, she would have let them in, just as she’d welcomed Libby. “I won’t mess up your house, I promise. I just need those photographs.”
    The album lay where she’d last seen it, among a pile of notebooks and scraps of paper. “I’ll find out who killed Suzanne,” Libby promised. She started to flick through the stack of papers, fingers fumbling. Her head flew up. What was that noise? Someone was outside.
    She grabbed the pile of papers and books, along with the album, and thrust them all into her shoulder bag. Just in time. The door flew open. “What the―” Detective Sergeant Ramshore slid to a halt, halfway between Libby and the door, arms folded. “Mrs Forest. I might have known. This is breaking and entering, you know.”
    Libby thought fast. “I’m worried about the dog. I came back to find him.”
    Joe hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Well, one of my men found him in the shed. Looks like he slept there last night, so you can go home again, Mrs Forest, and please, please, just stay away.”
    “I was going to take him home with me.”
    Joe’s face cleared. “Good idea. Make yourself useful. And don’t come back.” He stood aside and Libby slipped past, shoulder bag heavy. Sometimes, age and gender had its uses. He’d have spent longer talking to a pretty young girl, and he’d have been suspicious of a man, but a woman of a certain age, old enough to be his mother… Maybe he’d decided Libby was just a foolish, interfering older woman. She bit her lip to keep a tell-tale smile from her face.
    “Wait.” Joe held up a hand. Libby stopped, heart racing. She’d celebrated too soon. Was he about to search the bag? She’d have a job explaining the stack of stolen papers. “I’ve got some news. I suppose you’re entitled to hear it first, as you found her.”
    “About Mrs Thomson?” Libby stood sideways, her bag clasped under the arm furthest away from the officer, her body shielding it from view.
    “No, about Susie Bennett. The post mortem shows more bruising than we thought: more than the pathologist thinks would result from being thrown about in a storm.”
    “Bruising? What does that mean?” No harm in continuing to play the innocent woman.
    “It means you may be right, crazy as it sounds. Susie Bennett might, just possibly, have been murdered.”
    “Do you―do you know who did it?”
    He leaned back, legs set apart, every inch the bold investigator. “Not yet. I’ll be surprised if we ever find out. A body on the beach, in the storm. No evidence, you see. Still, don’t leave town, Mrs Forest.” Libby slipped out of the room, clutching the bag tight to her body.
    Joe had already lost interest in her. “Better get the door fixed right now, Evans, before the rest of the town comes to visit.”
    By the time she arrived home, Bear trooping, listless, beside her, Libby’s shoulder ached from the weight of books. Her mind raced. As she’d turned to leave Mrs Thomson’s sitting room, she’d glanced out of the window. From there, the widow