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

could see right along the beach, to the pier on the left and the lighthouse to the right.
    What if Mrs Thomson had stood, looking out into the storm, on Monday night? She might have seen something unusual. More than the storm and high tide. Something that had got her killed.
     

Guy
    The faithful old Citroen was due for collection today. Libby checked the time. Yes, she could pick up the car and visit both band members today, as Mandy had volunteered to take over Shipley’s walk.
    Bear recovered fast, growing perkier every moment until he bounded up and down the hall with his usual vigour. How long could Libby keep a dog his size in this tiny cottage?
    Oh, well, she’d worry about that later. Meanwhile, she dug out an ancient apple crate from the cupboard under the stairs, dragged it into a warm spot in the hall and lined it with old blankets. “There you are, my lad.” She took a step into the kitchen and held her breath. Fuzzy lay curled by the door, in a spot where underground water pipes heated the floor. Bear loomed over her, panting.
    Was Libby about to witness an epic fight? Fuzzy stood and stretched. What was that noise? No. Surely not. Libby laughed. The cat was purring. “When did you two make friends?” The animals ignored her. Bear leaned over, touched his nose to Fuzzy, and settled down next to his new buddy.
    Libby stashed Mrs Thomson’s photo album in a drawer and walked to the garage. She’d spend the evening poring through the book for clues. Alan Jenkins wiped oily hands on a blue overall. “Ah. Mrs Forest, there you are. She’s just about ready for you.” Why did men always call cars, “she?”
    He still insisted on refusing payment. “Tell Max it’s a present.” He’d even topped the Citroen up with petrol. Was Max some kind of Godfather, around here?
    Tired of arguing, Libby held out a packet of shortbread. Alan’s eyes lit up. “You’re a good woman.” What was it they said about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach?
    The road to Bath twisted through tiny villages, along a road too narrow for more than one car. Marina told her it was quicker by train, but Libby needed the car. She’d made up her mind to visit both the other members of Susie’s old, defunct band, before Max returned. James the keyboard player lived just outside Bristol, and Guy the violinist lived in Bath.
    She’d thrown a ham salad into a Tupperware container before setting off, and she pulled over, by the side of the Chew Valley Lake, to eat. She took a bite and screwed up her nose. The dressing didn’t taste quite right. Maybe a little too much lemon juice? Or not enough honey? She’d make up another batch soon.
    It was days since she’d had time to potter around in the kitchen, experimenting. Once this business was over, she planned to lock herself in for hours and get on with the book. The publisher’s deadline was looming. Libby felt a twinge inside at the thought. She planned a series of excuses as she ate, opening the door to let a few rays of sunshine warm her. Dead husband: that would do it. At least it had the advantage of being true.
    She threw a crust of bread into the water. Excited ducks scrambled over one another. Libby took out a chunk of sultana cake. The ducks wouldn’t get any of this, her favourite comfort food.
    Every last crumb eaten, she climbed back into the car, crunching gears in sudden excitement. Maybe Guy would have some answers.
    His double-fronted Georgian house stood, white-painted, in a block of similar graceful homes. He flung the door open almost before she’d had time to drop the brass lion-head knocker, as if he’d been expecting her.
    The man’s appearance took her aback. She’d been prepared for aging hippy long hair, flares or tasselled waistcoat. Instead, his short, neat haircut, shirt, and the final touch, a silk tie with a Windsor knot, were conventional enough to please Libby’s parents. He was only a short step away from a cardigan.
    His lined