you've done to my car.’
‘Forgive me, but you were driving. All Bear did was bark at that cat.’
Libby followed the pointing finger. Her shoulders slumped. Fuzzy crouched on top of the fence, fur fluffed out, laser beam eyes trained on Bear. The dog, tantalised by a tormentor so close, yet out of range, howled again.
If a cat could be said to smirk, that's what Fuzzy did. Libby groaned. ‘Oh. That's my cat,’ she blurted. ‘Well, my husband's. Late husband.’ The back of her neck was hot. She tried to smile. ‘I'm afraid Fuzzy's nothing but trouble.’
‘Fuzzy?’ The man grinned.
‘Her fur goes fuzzy in the rain.’
‘Well, I'm afraid there's not much we can do about the car. Your insurance will cover it.’ The stranger smiled, waved and went on his way. Bear barked once more, in a forlorn attempt to entice Fuzzy down from the fence.
Libby rubbed at the dent. The paint was intact, and it was only a tiny bump. A garage would knock it out in minutes. She straightened up. That man could have apologised a bit more, though. Who was he? Where had he come from? She hadn't seen him before but he looked familiar, nevertheless.
She glared at Fuzzy. ‘Last salmon you'll get from me.’
5
The Bakery
Frank Brown brought a tray of bread, steaming and fragrant, through from the kitchen at the back into the shop just as Libby arrived. ‘Morning,’ he grunted. ‘What's the latest on Susie Bennett, then?’ He scooped up a pile of baking trays, already on the way back to the kitchen. ‘They say her last album will be back in the charts, now she's dead. Too late for her, but it makes you wonder who'll get all those royalties.’
Libby had never heard him talk so much. His communication was usually limited to 'yes’, 'no’, and, 'those loaves need to come out of the oven’, but under the gruff exterior he had a kind heart. Marina had told her Frank was a staunch supporter of the Rotary club and its charitable work.
The shop's work experience teenager leaned on the counter, twirling a stud on her lip. Libby secretly called her Mandy the Goth. ‘My Dad went to school with her.’
Libby laughed. ‘So did half the town, I gather.’
‘I heard you found her. Was it gruesome? Was there much blood?’ The girl's eyes, black with layers of kohl and mascara, were enormous in the white-painted face. Two silver rings decorated one nostril above purple lips.
‘Mandy.’ Frank put his head round the door. ‘Get on with those sandwiches before the rush starts. Wash your hands and put some gloves on.’
Mandy sighed, rolled her eyes, hitched up a long, black lace skirt and went back to scraping egg mayonnaise into baguettes.
‘Dad said she was always asking for it,’ she muttered under her breath, glancing towards the kitchens. ‘Sexy but stupid, he said.’
The bakery did a roaring trade. Almost everyone in town dropped in, keen to look at the person who found the body. Frank beamed. ‘That's the most sandwiches we've sold since Jeremy Clarkson came down to drive off the pier.’
By eleven o'clock, Libby's feet ached. Her head throbbed from the effort of repeating, ‘I just happened to find her’, and, ‘The police say there's nothing suspicious’. When the queue no longer snaked out of the door and around the corner, but had shrunk to one or two stragglers, she retreated to the kitchen. Mandy could serve the final few High Street estate agents.
Frank removed his white hat, still unusually talkative. ‘Can you finish that new ginger and lemon recipe by this afternoon, Libby? I reckon it'll be a winner.’
‘Mmm. Just need to tweak the frosting. A bit over-sweet, I thought.’
‘You're the expert. It'll sell like hot cakes.’ Libby grimaced. Frank made the same joke at least once a week. ‘Funny thing,’ he went on. ‘Millions of people watch cooking programmes on TV, and half of 'em don't know how to turn on their ovens. Still, mustn't grumble. Where would the business be if everyone did their own baking, eh?’
Frank left to drive the van, loaded with filled rolls, to a nearby conference centre. Libby took a deep breath, drinking in the smell of freshly baked bread. She tied on a clean apron, and set about testing the new recipe, relishing the familiar, satisfying tasks of measuring sugar, beating eggs and sifting flour. She'd persuade Frank to let her put the new confection in her next book.
Mandy joined her. The teenager's earlier good humour seemed to have evaporated. Libby opened her mouth to tell her to stay in the shop, ready for new customers, but the look on the girl's face changed her mind. Mandy's lip trembled. Libby said, ‘We'll hear the bell if anyone comes.’
Mandy grunted, tipped a bowl of risen dough onto a bench top and pummelled it as Libby watched. Nothing relieved angry feelings better than making bread. It had been a favourite therapy during her miserable marriage. What had upset the girl?
‘Everything all right?’ Libby asked.
Mandy said nothing. Libby let it go. She recalled her own children as teenagers, not so long ago, grunting and taking offence at everything she said. At least that phase had passed.
For ten minutes, only Mandy's effortful gasps and the whirr of the food processor disturbed the peace of the kitchen. The corners of Mandy's mouth still drooped. She sniffed. Libby had an idea. ‘Why don't you make the frosting?’
As Mandy dumped the bread dough back into a stainless steel bowl for its final proving, she explained.
‘I've weighed everything out, but the sugar needs watching.’ The teenager scraped dough from sticky fingers, shrugged and picked up a wooden spoon. ‘Make sure it all melts before you turn up the heat. That stops the mixture turning into a gritty mess.’
Mandy, eyes on the saucepan, stirred. ‘Mrs Forest?’ She sounded hesitant.
‘Mm-hmm.’ Best not to sound too interested, and perhaps the girl would share whatever was worrying her.
‘Dad threw a knife at Mum.’
‘A knife?’ Libby stiffened, sugar spilling from the spoon.
‘It was only a knife from the table – not a carving knife or anything.’
Libby gulped. No wonder the girl was upset. ‘Is your Mum OK?’
Mandy nodded. ‘Think so. She says it's not the first time, nor the last. He missed, anyway.’
Libby lowered the spoon and took Mandy by the shoulders. ‘She needs to tell the police.’
The girl shrugged Libby's hands away and swiped a sleeve across her eyes, smudging black mascara across one cheek. ‘She won't. I've told her. She says he doesn't mean it. He's sorry, later.’
‘Mandy, that's rubbish.’ Libby closed her eyes, fighting memories. She took a long, slow breath. ‘Of course he's sorry afterwards. They always are, but it happens again.’ Fingernails bit into the palm of her hand. ‘Has he ever hit you?’
Mandy tossed her head. ‘He tells Mum it's her fault for making him angry, but anything sets him off. It was just about watching football on the telly, yesterday.’
Libby pulled out a chair and eased on to it. She'd had just such a stupid row with Trevor. They'd argued – shouted – about nothing, and she'd thrown his dinner in the bin. He'd cracked the TV remote control against her shoulder, all his strength behind the blow. His face, contorted with fury, sometimes appeared in Libby's dreams. She'd been terrified he'd hurt the children.
‘Mandy.’ She took a moment to control her voice. ‘Mandy, if your mother won't do anything about it, then you should leave the house. You're old enough.’
Mandy bent over the saucepan. ‘I think the sugar's ready to boil.’
Libby handed