Aunt Bessie Believes Page 10

“So what happened to Moirrey?” he asked when he’d finished. “I mean, I thought her heart just gave out. I assume she wasn’t shot or stabbed or something. It wouldn’t have taken the doctor until now to spot that, surely.”

  “They think some of her medication was swapped for something that killed her,” Bessie explained.

  “That probably wouldn’t be hard,” Andy remarked. “She was always leaving her handbag full of bottles all over the place. When I was pretty little I remember her coming to visit my mum one day. She left her bag on a table and I got into it and started playing with all the pretty tablets. Luckily mum caught me before I swallowed any, but I messed them all up and Moirrey was furious.”

  “I’ll bet she was, but she was totally irresponsible leaving them where a small child could get to them.”

  “She told my mum that childproof tops were too tricky for her to open,” Andy remembered.

  Bessie thought back to the last time she’d seen Moirrey. She visualised Moirrey’s row of bottles. “You’re right,” she said after a moment. “She didn’t have safety caps on her bottles. I don’t know if that’s significant or not, but it’s interesting.”

  Andy’s phone let out a burst of cacophonous noise. “That’ll be mum,” he told Bessie. He punched a button on the phone and then turned away slightly. That did nothing to prevent Bessie from hearing his end of the conversation, though.

  “Hey,” Bessie heard.

  “I’m at Aunt Bessie’s.” There was a pause, and then, “I told you I was going to visit her and get some shortbread.”

  Andy listened for a moment and then sighed. “Can you save the lecture for tonight, please? I asked you to call for a reason.”

  This pause was a long one and Bessie could see the tension increasing in Andy’s shoulders as his mother spoke. Finally, he sighed deeply. “Look,” he said, “I was just calling to warn you that people might be talking. It turns out Moirrey was murdered and I didn’t want you to find out when someone said something weird to you about it.”

  Another long pause had Andy shaking his head. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered. “I’ve gotta go.”

  Bessie smiled encouragingly at him as he disconnected the call and sank down at the kitchen table. For a moment Bessie thought he might cry and she was reminded of the young boy who had haunted her spare room that one hot summer. She moved towards him, but he took a deep breath and then looked up at her.

  “I’m okay,” he told her. “It just seems like mum and I can’t talk without arguing at the moment. I know she’s really worried about money and upset about Moirrey as well, but she won’t talk to me about that. All she’ll talk to me about is how disappointed she is that I haven’t made a fortune yet.” He sighed.

  “I thought you were planning to go back to school,” Bessie questioned.

  Andy shrugged. “I don’t know. Everything costs so much money, and I’m not sure what I really want to do.”

  “I know what you should do,” Bessie said.

  “You do?”

  “I do. You should help me make some shortbread.”

  Andy laughed. “That sounds like a plan.”

  Bessie got out the measuring scales and utensils while Andy gathered the necessary ingredients. He’d helped in the kitchen a lot during his frequent stays with Bessie, always happier cooking or baking than talking about his problems. Now he expertly combined flour, butter and sugar in a large mixing bowl.

  Bessie preheated the oven and then set the kettle on while Andy shaped the shortbread on a metal tray. Once it was safely in the oven, he and Bessie sat down and enjoyed their tea.

  “This will taste even better with the shortbread,” Andy said as he sipped his drink.

  “Patience,” Bessie laughed. “It will be ready soon.”

  “It already smells fabulous.”

  “It really does,” Bessie agreed. “You did a great job.”

  Andy flushed. “I love to bake,” he said sheepishly. “It always reminds me of staying here with you. Those were the happiest days of my childhood, you know?”

  Bessie sighed. “I’m sorry things were so difficult at home. I wish I could have done more to help.”

  “More?” Andy asked. “You let me stay as often as I liked. You taught me to cook and bake and you helped me pass my GSCE algebra exam.”

  Bessie laughed again as she remember long nights at the table struggling to explain math that she’d never actually learned to a frustrated teenager. “I’m glad I could help,” she told Andy. “I thoroughly enjoyed all of it, except the algebra.”

  Now Andy laughed. “Aye, I am sorry about that,” he told her. “I’m just not that good with numbers, like. And mum and dad were no help. Mum was too busy trying to keep a roof over our heads and dad, well, he was just drinking.”

  Bessie sighed. “Things haven’t changed much for your mum and dad, have they?”

  “Well, from what I can see, dad’s moved out, so that’s a change.”

  “Really?” Bessie asked in surprise. “Your mum said he’d gone across, but she didn’t say he’d moved out.”

  “Um, I guess I’d rather you didn’t mention it to anyone,” Andy said, looking embarrassed. “I guess mum doesn’t want folks to know.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Bessie told him. “I won’t tell anyone anything.”

  “Thanks,” Andy grinned.

  A few minutes later Bessie’s oven timer rang. Andy quickly grabbed an oven glove and carefully removed the tray of shortbread from the oven.

  “Can we eat it hot?” he asked Bessie.

  “We should let it cool, at least a little,” Bessie answered. “And we should have something healthy to eat before we fill up on shortbread.”

  “How about if I pop to the chippy?” Andy suggested. “I can grab dinner for us both and be back before the shortbread has cooled.”

  “That sounds delicious,” Bessie told him. “It’s been ages since I’ve had fish and chips.”

  While Andy was gone, Bessie quickly ate an apple. Her lunch had been indulgent, but having fish and chips tonight was almost too much. She hoped the apple would provide a few of the nutrients her meals that day had been missing.

  As much as she enjoyed her dinner, Bessie was eager to get to pudding. The cooling shortbread made the cottage smell buttery and sweet.

  She served generous portions on her very best china, smiling as Andy took a huge first bite. Her own bite was only slightly more delicate. “This is delicious,” she told Andy. “I think it’s better than mine.”

  Andy laughed. “It is yours,” he told her. “It’s the one recipe I never change when I bake. I love to experiment with different ingredients and the like, but I never do that with your shortbread recipe.”

  “I’m sure it tastes better than mine ever did,” Bessie insisted. “You could open a bakery with this.”

  Andy shrugged. “I thought about going back to school to study baking, like, but dad reckons real men don’t make their living baking cakes. Mum wants to help, but dad won’t let her pay for anything like that.”

  Bessie sighed and chose her words carefully. “Your father is entitled to his opinion,” she said. “But I think you’re really talented.”

  “Thanks,” Andy smiled. “Mum’s going to see if she can get me a job where she’s working, actually. Just bussing tables, like, and washing dishes. I’m hoping that eventually I might get to move up to like prep work and whatever. If I can manage it, maybe I can take a few classes on the side as well, learn about catering and things like that.”

  “That sounds like a plan,” Bessie grinned.

  “Yeah, I’d much rather bake than cook, but cooking is better than loading and unloading container lorries all day, anyway.”

  “I’m sure,” Bessie laughed.

  Bessie divided the remaining shortbread into two containers, one for herself and one for Andy to take home. “It was so wonderful to see you,” she told the man, wrapping him in a huge hug before he left.

  “It was won
derful to see you as well.” Andy hugged her back tightly. “If I decide to stay on the island, I’ll come and visit again soon.”

  “And if you decide to head back across, you’ll come and say goodbye,” Bessie said sternly.

  “Yes, ma’am, I will,” Andy promised.

  Bessie’s little cottage felt lonely for a moment or two after Andy left. She’d forgotten how much she’d enjoyed his company when he used to stay with her. And he seemed to have grown into a lovely young man in spite of his difficult childhood. She tidied up the kitchen and then grabbed her latest novel. Tonight she felt like reading in bed, she decided.

  Upstairs, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. She propped herself up in bed with a pile of pillows and read until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. Then she turned off her light and snuggled under the covers, falling into her usual deep sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Wednesday was sunny yet again, but Bessie kept her walk fairly short. She had a lot she wanted to get done.

  Dave picked her up at nine as planned and drove her into Douglas. She spent a happy half hour poking around the various charity shops there while she waited for the Manx Museum to open. Her paper was coming along nicely, but as usual, once she’d started writing it she found little odds and ends that she needed to double-check. An hour in the museum’s library proved hugely productive. Then, since she was there, she decided to pay Marjorie a quick visit.

  “Moghrey mie,” she greeted her friend.

  Marjorie looked up from behind a desk covered in papers, books and odd pieces of rock. “Moghrey mie,” she responded. “Kys t’ou?”

  “Ta mee braew, kys t’ou?”

  “Ta mee braew, gura mie ayd,” Marjorie replied with a smile. “But what brings you here?”

  “I needed to do some extra research for next month,” Bessie admitted. “No matter how careful I think I am when I take notes, I always seem to miss one or two little things. I guess they didn’t seem important originally, but then, when I’m writing, they suddenly seem to matter a great deal.”

  Marjorie grinned. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Anyway,” Bessie smiled, “at least if I’m here and not at home I’m not fielding endless phone calls about Moirrey.”

  “Are people still talking about her death?” Marjorie asked. “I would have thought something else interesting would have happened by now.”

  “Murder is always pretty interesting,” Bessie replied.

  “Murder?” Marjorie gasped. “I thought she died of natural causes.”

  Bessie shook her head. “The police think it might have been murder. Some of her medication was tampered with.”

  Marjorie frowned. “I’m having trouble getting my head around this,” she said. “People get murdered in books, not real life.”

  “If only that were true,” Bessie sighed.

  Marjorie flushed. “Sorry, Bessie,” she said. “I forgot about last month.”

  “No worries,” Bessie told her. “The experience hasn’t done any lasting damage, except that I’m even less surprised at how people behave now.”

  Marjorie nodded. “I guess I can understand that.”

  “Anyway, I came into town as much to do research as to get away from my telephone. It’s been ringing constantly and I’ve simply nothing to tell people. I can’t imagine anyone killing Moirrey, no matter how much they might have wanted her dead.”

  “She was rude and nasty, but that usually isn’t enough of a reason to kill someone,” Marjorie remarked.

  “She was rich, though, and money often is more than enough of a motive.”

  Marjorie’s phone rang. Bessie waited patiently while she answered it and had a brief conversation. Once she hung up, she got to her feet.

  “I’m awfully sorry, but I have to go,” she told Bessie apologetically. “A group of researchers are over from Scotland and I’m scheduled to spend the afternoon taking them through the archives. You’ll have to fill me in on the rest on Monday night, okay?”

  Bessie grinned. “Of course,” she replied. “As long as I can do it in English.”

  Marjorie laughed. “If you insist. Slane lhiat.”

  “Slane lhait,” Bessie answered.

  As it was just about lunchtime, Bessie took herself down to the promenade and bought herself lunch at one of her favourite Italian restaurants. She ate crunchy flatbread dripping with garlic and olive oil and then a huge plate of spaghetti bolognese. She felt full to bursting when she met Dave for the journey home.

  “Oh, I love it there,” Dave told her when she mentioned her lunch. “But I always eat too much. It’s always so delicious that I can’t seem to stop myself.”

  “Exactly,” Bessie laughed. “But now I feel like I won’t want to eat for a week.”

  Back at home, Bessie spent an hour adding her new research notes into the draft of her paper. Then, feeling guilty about her lunch, she took a long walk along the beach, enjoying how different it felt in the late afternoon compared to her usual early morning excursions.

  She smiled and shared casual greetings with several families who were sprinkled across the sand, dodging sandcastles and badly organised games of catch as she went. As she passed the new cottages, she was startled to see someone walking down the cliff side path behind the Pierce cottage. The path was set with multiple short sets of stairs and the person seemed to be negotiating them cautiously. Bessie couldn’t resist getting a better look.

  She reached the bottom of the last flight of stairs at almost the exact same time as the man she’d seen. “Matthew Barnes?” she said in surprise. “What on earth are you doing at Thie yn Traie?”

  The advocate looked startled and not terribly pleased to see Bessie. He smiled uneasily and then tugged at his suit jacket, pulling it back into place after the descent. He frowned at Bessie, his grey complexion giving his thin face an almost cadaverous appearance in the light of the slowly setting sun. Everything about the man was grey: his hair, his eyes, his suit and tie, and his personality.

  “Yes, well, good afternoon Mrs., er, Ms., um, I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name.”

  Bessie bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. The man had no more forgotten her name than she had forgotten his. She could only assume that his pretense was meant to be a snub of some kind. As if she cared in the slightest what he thought of her.

  “What are you doing at Thie yn Traie?” she repeated herself.

  “If you really must know,” he relied haughtily, “I’m getting it ready for sale. I’m acting as Daniel Pierce’s advocate here on the island, handling the sale on his behalf.”

  Bessie raised an eyebrow. “Will the house be going on the market soon, then?” she asked.

  “It won’t be long,” he told her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  Bessie watched as the man turned and slowly made his way back up the steps. When he got to the top of the final staircase, he turned and looked back down at her. Bessie felt like she could feel the frown on his face, even though he was too far away for her to actually see it.

  Feeling devilish, she waved merrily at him, laughing when he, seemingly reluctantly, gave her a small wave in return. She turned and made her way home, around the sandcastles and the families packing and unpacking picnics. Once back at her cottage, she made a phone call.

  “Is it possible that Doncan has time for a quick chat?” she asked Breesha Quilliam, who’d been Doncan’s secretary for many years.

  “I’m sure he does, for you, Miss Cubbon,” Breesha replied. A moment later Doncan’s voice was booming in her ear.

  “Bessie, what can I do for you today?” he asked.

  “I just have a quick question for you,” Bessie told him. “I was out walking and I ran into Matthew Barnes. He was coming down the stairs behind Thie yn Traie. He told me he’s acting for Daniel Pierce in selling the property. I just wondered if you’d heard anything about it.”

  Doncan sighed. “Actually, I had a call this m
orning from Mr. Pierce’s solicitor in the UK,” he told Bessie. “He wanted to know if I’d be interested in handling the sale and, if so, what sort of fee I would charge. I’m guessing he contacted Matthew Barnes as well, with the same questions.”

  “And Mr. Barnes was happy to undercut your fee,” Bessie concluded.

  “Maybe,” Doncan told her. “I’ve not heard back from the man one way or the other as yet. I would expect him to call and let me know whatever was decided, as a professional courtesy.”

  “So maybe Mr. Barnes is jumping the gun by stomping around the property uninvited,” Bessie suggested.

  “He might be,” Doncan told her. “But equally he might have been given the job and be there for good reason.”

  Bessie sighed. “I really hope you get the job,” she told her friend.

  “It’s always good to have more work,” Doncan replied. “But to be honest, I’m quite busy right now. I won’t mind if Mr. Barnes gets the job. I can’t see it leading to more work, at least not for the Pierce family. I can’t believe they’ll ever come back to the island.”

  After the call Bessie pottered around her kitchen, making herself a simple evening meal. She reheated some vegetable soup from the freezer, reminding herself that it was a much healthier option than her admittedly tastier choices from the previous day and today’s lunch.

  She’d just tidied up and taken herself into her sitting room to read when someone knocked on her door.

  “Inspector Rockwell? What brings you here?” Bessie said in surprise when she saw the man on her doorstep.

  The tall man with the gorgeous green eyes grinned at her. “It’s nice to see you again, too,” he teased.

  “Oh, sorry,” Bessie blushed. “I was just so surprised to see you. I wasn’t expecting anyone this late at night.”

  The inspector smiled at her. “I was just driving by and I thought you might be able to spare a biscuit for an old friend,” he said.

  “Really?” Bessie said incredulously. “I thought you lived in Ramsey? Never mind, come in and have some tea and shortbread and tell me what’s really on your mind.”

  Rockwell smiled as he followed Bessie into the kitchen. “What makes you think I’ve something on my mind?” he asked.