‘Why are you feeling down?’ Barney, the springer spaniel, was gazing hopefully at them both. ‘Couldn’t you have taken the dog for a walk and got some fresh air? That always helps to lift my mood.’
‘Well, it doesn’t do it for me.’
As far as Kate was aware, Angie had rarely, if ever, taken poor Barney for a walk. Kate sighed as she switched on the kettle.
The two sisters had pooled their resources and bought Lavender Cottage the previous year, enchanted by its nooks and crannies, the large kitchen extension, the panoramic views down to the river and to the sea. Kate, divorced twenty-eight years previously, and Angie, widowed for five years, had fond memories of idyllic childhood holidays in North Cornwall and it had seemed a brilliant idea to get away from the crowded South-East and head to the blissful peace and quiet of the South-West.
It hadn’t quite worked out like that, though. The kitchen needed a new floor, the cottage needed central heating and a log-burner, which meant Kate needed a part-time job. This was the reason why she spent Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays (plus occasional Thursdays) at the medical centre. And, on top of that, the sea breezes mentioned in the estate agent’s blurb morphed into Atlantic gales, showering salt horizontally on the windows and dulling the panoramic views into a grey haze.
There was also the myth of a crime-free existence. Within weeks of their arrival a brutal murder had occurred up in Middle Tinworthy, during a Women’s Institute meeting no less, followed by another within yards of their cottage, both of which Kate found herself involved in. But every crime has the proverbial silver lining, and in this case it was Woody Forrest.
Detective Inspector ‘Woody’ Forrest (she still only knew him by his nickname) had been born in California to an English father and an Italian mother. He had won a scholarship to study criminology at Oxford University some forty years previously, followed by years in the Metropolitan Police before being put out to grass in North Cornwall. Woody had admitted it had been his own choice to get away from London and crime, to enjoy a couple of peaceful years in his cottage, with his surfboard, before retiring. Instead he’d found himself in the middle of a double murder investigation, which, he said, caused some mirth among his ex-colleagues back in the Met up in London. He was still involved to some extent in the handover to the new detective inspector, Bill Robson.
Woody and Kate had both been involved in the Women’s Institute murder case and they’d become close. She’d fallen for his dark brown eyes and rapidly greying, close-cut black hair, never dreaming that the feeling might be reciprocated.
And tonight they were going out to dinner at The Edge of the Moor, a gourmet restaurant in an ancient, rambling stone building that had once been a coaching inn on the edge of Bodmin Moor. It was ‘their’ place, in that he’d taken her there on their first date and several times since.
The evenings were becoming chilly and Kate was glad he’d reserved a table close to the roaring fire. As she studied the menu she wondered if she should mention her visit to Seaview Grange and Edina Martinelli’s obsession that someone was out to kill her. She knew Woody would tell her to keep out of other people’s squabbles. ‘Look what happened last time’ was what he’d say. Still…
‘How was your day?’ he asked as he studied the wine list.
‘Oh, you know, quite interesting.’
‘Has the population started getting colds and coughs yet, or are we still on surfboard injuries and weever-fish stings?’
Kate laughed. She decided to tell him. ‘You know I’m doing a lot more home visits now that Elaine’s retiring? Well, I had to make an interesting call up to Seaview Grange today.’
‘The posh apartments for rich ancients?’
‘That’s the one. And I met a fascinating ancient by the name of Edina Martinelli.’
‘Italian?’ Woody asked.
‘I’m not sure. She did have a slight accent but it didn’t strike me as being particularly Italian. She was an opera singer in her prime, she told me, and Martinelli was her professional name.’
‘Was she nice?’ Woody signalled the waiter. ‘How about the Chablis as we’re having fish?’
‘Yes, lovely. No, she wasn’t all that nice. She’d broken her ankle because, she said, someone had left the vacuum cleaner flex stretched across the top of the stairs, and down she went. She’s convinced someone’s trying to kill her. Mind you, she’s a very dramatic type of person.’
Woody rolled his eyes. ‘Those recent murders have got everyone’s imaginations popping. Or else, like you, she’s glued to any crime drama they’re airing for the hundredth time on television.’ He ordered the Chablis.
‘Not only that,’ Kate continued, ‘she’d received a threatening note warning her that, if she didn’t stop, they would have to find a way to silence her.’
‘Stop what?’
‘Well, singing, I presume, as they wanted to silence her.’
‘It seems like a pretty weak motive for murder,’ Woody said.
Kate wasn’t about to be put off. ‘Then her stepson arrived while I was there and he seemed to want something from her which she wasn’t about to give. They had a right old row.’
‘Mystery solved then,’ Woody said. ‘He’s trying to kill her off to get at whatever it is, money most likely. Let me know if he succeeds.’
Kate had known he’d make light of it and she probably shouldn’t have mentioned the visit. But, for some reason, she kept thinking about Edina Martinelli and the stepson. What was his name? David? And the tiny little Hetty lady who came chasing out after him. She hoped there would be more occasions to make calls at Seaview Grange.
But then all thoughts of Seaview Grange were driven from her mind when Woody leaned across the table and said, ‘I’ve been thinking of making a trip home.’
The wine arrived and was poured. The waiter hovered, notebook at the ready.
Kate settled
