Free Death Comes First by Hilary Bonner

show her the letter, see whether she had any idea what could have prompted it. Henry’s driver wouldn’t have made it back to the office yet, so there was no way her father would be home before six. That left the coast clear for her to speak to Felicity alone.
    Galvanized by the prospect that some answers might be within reach, Joyce reached out, wrapped an arm around each child and pulled them close to her.
    ‘Thank you, my darlings,’ she said. ‘I’m not really sad. Well, no more than usual, anyway. It’s just that I need to see your grandmother about something, and she was out when I called by earlier. I thought if we ordered pizza I could pop over now for an hour. You can order, if you like, Molly. Four seasons for me. Choose anything you want for yourselves – but easy on the garlic bread.’
    ‘What time will you be back?’ asked Molly.
    ‘I shouldn’t be long. Have them deliver at five thirty, if you can wait that long. And look after the monster for me, darling.’
    ‘I’m not a monster,’ said Fred.
    ‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Joyce.
    It took two minutes for Joyce to walk to her parents’ house. Felicity was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to a steak-and-kidney pie – Henry’s favourite. She seemed surprised to see her daughter.
    ‘Shouldn’t you be getting the kids’ tea?’ she enquired.
    ‘We’re ordering in a pizza,’ said Joyce. ‘Molly’s doing it.’
    Felicity raised her eyebrows. ‘On a school day?’
    ‘Yes, on a school day,’ replied Joyce tetchily and without offering any further explanation.
    Was she really such a creature of habit that her entire family responded this way to the smallest change in the daily routine? She suspected that the answer was yes. Ever since she’d married Charlie and moved back to Tarrant Park, she’d clung to routine as a means of getting through each day, never deviating from her schedule during term time.
    It was as if she’d turned into a sort of Stepford wife, a far cry from the girl she’d once been. Remembering the old Joyce, that determination to be independent, to follow her dreams, she felt the spirit that had been subdued for so long flare up inside her. It was that spirit that had carried her to her mother, with the intention of coming straight to the subject of the letter and quizzing her about what Henry could have done to warrant the accusation.
    But the moment she was in Felicity’s presence, her resolve evaporated. What could she possibly hope to glean from her mother? There was no question where her mother’s loyalty lay: firmly with Henry. Felicity’s first instinct would always be to consult her husband, and then defer to him in whatever course of action he saw fit to decide upon. Anything Joyce told her mother would immediately be disclosed in full to her father.
    Since she had already eliminated the possibility of discussing the letter with Henry, Joyce was now at a loss how to proceed.
    Perching on a kitchen stool, she tried for a breezy, casual tone: ‘Hey, don’t I get a cup of tea?’
    ‘If you make it yourself,’ responded her mother, lighteningher words with a warm smile. ‘You can see I’m busy, can’t you?’
    Joyce stood up, filled the kettle from the sink and switched it on. Perhaps she could instigate a more subtle interrogation than she had originally planned. But the thought of deceiving her mother made her feel uncomfortable, and whenever Joyce felt uncomfortable she was inclined to blush. Already her cheeks were burning. Thankfully she had her back to her mother, and to keep it that way she took her time rummaging in the cupboard for the jar of teabags and selecting a mug.
    ‘What time are you expecting Dad back?’ she asked.
    ‘Sixish – same time he always comes home,’ responded her mother, puzzled.
    ‘Yes. Sorry.’ There was a long silence as Joyce searched for the right thing to say next. ‘I wish I was expecting Charlie home.’
    ‘Of course you do,