Read Online Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) by Frances Evesham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Frances Evesham
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the tiny back room beyond the kitchen, emptied a tin of dog food into Bear’s bowl. “And you’ve already fed Fuzzy,” Libby approved. “I can smell it. You’re trying to steal their affections.” She’d let yesterday’s pot-smoking go. Mandy was obviously on her best behaviour.
Bear finished his breakfast in three gulps and turned his attention to Fuzzy’s. In the kitchen, toast popped up from the toaster. A pan on the cooker held scrambled eggs. “You’ve made breakfast for me, too?”
“I found a recipe on line.”
Libby sniffed the air, catching an enticing whiff of herbs. “Oregano?” Mandy nodded. “Smells good.”
Mandy pushed across a piled plate, face pink. She watched, face screwed up, as Libby took a mouthful, chewed and pronounced her verdict. “Perfect. Did you have a nice evening with Steve?”
Mandy’s cheeks glowed. “I’ve said I’ll go with him to his Aunt Angela’s place today. The quintet are meeting to practice, though Steve says I have to call it a rehearsal.”
“Geoff Miles’s long-lost work. So, you’re getting a taste for classical music. Is Steve playing the saxophone?”
“Clarinet. He plays that too.”
“Talented young man. I’m going over to the garage to see if the Citroen’s fixed.”
Mandy spent an hour in the bathroom, finally leaving the house wearing a faux leather jacket. It was a size or two on the big side. Libby was sure she’d seen it on the back of a chair in Steve’s house.
***
Alan Jenkin’s garage appeared quite empty, except for a single old vehicle whose pointed wings were an especially glaring shade of pink. Seeing no sign of Alan, Libby was about to leave, when a spanner clattered on the floor, accompanied by loud and heartfelt curses. A long, grimy arm reached out from under the Cadillac, groped for and failed to find the offending tool. Alan Jenkins slid out, blowing on his left hand and muttering under his breath. He caught sight of Libby. “Sorry about the language, Mrs F. Scraped my hand.”
“Do you want me to clean it up?”
He grinned. “Nah. Happens all the time, when you’re around cars. Reckon the grease stops any infections.” His hand, filthy with oil, was a mess of old scabs. A new cut slowly oozed blood.
“Shouldn’t you have one of those pits so you can get underneath the cars?” Libby asked.
Alan grinned. “Where’s the fun in that? There’s one in the workshop, of course.” He jerked his head towards an adjoining building. “That’s where I work on your car. When I’m tending to this old lady, I like to do it here. You know, a bit hands on, you might say.”
Libby struggled to find something complimentary to say about the car. “It’s very―um―American.” What did people see in these old wrecks?
Alan patted the wing of the Cadillac. ”1969. She’ll be at the Show next week, if I can get her on the road by then.”
“Is it―er―she your only old car?”
He wiped a greasy hand over his face, leaving a trail of oil, his face screwed up as though in pain. “She’s not an ‘old car’, Mrs Forest, she’s a classic.”
“Sorry. She’s lovely, of course. I just wondered if you’d had time to look at my Citroen?”
The frown deepened. “Course I did. First thing after I brought it in, I gave it the once over.” Libby enjoyed special treatment at the garage. Alan owed Max a debt; something to do with legal advice when the garage owner stepped too close to the line. His gratitude extended to Libby. “What’s Max up to at the moment, then?” Alan rubbed his hands with an old rag and stuffed it back in the pocket of his overalls.
“He’s away. He’ll be back tonight.”
“Planning something special, are we? Going out for a meal?” Libby knew Alan’s idea of a night out was a few jars in the pub and a kebab, from the Greek take-away on the High Street.
Over in the workshop, the Citroen was buffed to a shine. “I can see my face in the bonnet.” Libby sniffed, detecting the
Bear finished his breakfast in three gulps and turned his attention to Fuzzy’s. In the kitchen, toast popped up from the toaster. A pan on the cooker held scrambled eggs. “You’ve made breakfast for me, too?”
“I found a recipe on line.”
Libby sniffed the air, catching an enticing whiff of herbs. “Oregano?” Mandy nodded. “Smells good.”
Mandy pushed across a piled plate, face pink. She watched, face screwed up, as Libby took a mouthful, chewed and pronounced her verdict. “Perfect. Did you have a nice evening with Steve?”
Mandy’s cheeks glowed. “I’ve said I’ll go with him to his Aunt Angela’s place today. The quintet are meeting to practice, though Steve says I have to call it a rehearsal.”
“Geoff Miles’s long-lost work. So, you’re getting a taste for classical music. Is Steve playing the saxophone?”
“Clarinet. He plays that too.”
“Talented young man. I’m going over to the garage to see if the Citroen’s fixed.”
Mandy spent an hour in the bathroom, finally leaving the house wearing a faux leather jacket. It was a size or two on the big side. Libby was sure she’d seen it on the back of a chair in Steve’s house.
***
Alan Jenkin’s garage appeared quite empty, except for a single old vehicle whose pointed wings were an especially glaring shade of pink. Seeing no sign of Alan, Libby was about to leave, when a spanner clattered on the floor, accompanied by loud and heartfelt curses. A long, grimy arm reached out from under the Cadillac, groped for and failed to find the offending tool. Alan Jenkins slid out, blowing on his left hand and muttering under his breath. He caught sight of Libby. “Sorry about the language, Mrs F. Scraped my hand.”
“Do you want me to clean it up?”
He grinned. “Nah. Happens all the time, when you’re around cars. Reckon the grease stops any infections.” His hand, filthy with oil, was a mess of old scabs. A new cut slowly oozed blood.
“Shouldn’t you have one of those pits so you can get underneath the cars?” Libby asked.
Alan grinned. “Where’s the fun in that? There’s one in the workshop, of course.” He jerked his head towards an adjoining building. “That’s where I work on your car. When I’m tending to this old lady, I like to do it here. You know, a bit hands on, you might say.”
Libby struggled to find something complimentary to say about the car. “It’s very―um―American.” What did people see in these old wrecks?
Alan patted the wing of the Cadillac. ”1969. She’ll be at the Show next week, if I can get her on the road by then.”
“Is it―er―she your only old car?”
He wiped a greasy hand over his face, leaving a trail of oil, his face screwed up as though in pain. “She’s not an ‘old car’, Mrs Forest, she’s a classic.”
“Sorry. She’s lovely, of course. I just wondered if you’d had time to look at my Citroen?”
The frown deepened. “Course I did. First thing after I brought it in, I gave it the once over.” Libby enjoyed special treatment at the garage. Alan owed Max a debt; something to do with legal advice when the garage owner stepped too close to the line. His gratitude extended to Libby. “What’s Max up to at the moment, then?” Alan rubbed his hands with an old rag and stuffed it back in the pocket of his overalls.
“He’s away. He’ll be back tonight.”
“Planning something special, are we? Going out for a meal?” Libby knew Alan’s idea of a night out was a few jars in the pub and a kebab, from the Greek take-away on the High Street.
Over in the workshop, the Citroen was buffed to a shine. “I can see my face in the bonnet.” Libby sniffed, detecting the
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