Read Online Murder on the Tor: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 3) by Frances Evesham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Frances Evesham
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second-guessing Max’s motives and wondering what he was thinking, downed a gulp of wine and plucked up every scrap of courage. “Max, never mind Mandy and Steve.” She swallowed. “Don’t you think it’s time you and I decided whether we’re having a relationship?”
There, she’d said it. She clenched her hands tight under the table, so tense she could barely catch her breath, and waited.
Silence dragged on until she thought she might scream. At last, Max raised his head to look at Libby’s face, unsmiling. “Don’t ask me to answer that, Libby. Not yet.”
Professor
Max might as well have punched her in the stomach. I’m not going to cry. Slowly, she unclenched her fists, looking everywhere except at him. “It―it doesn’t matter. I thought―you know―I wanted to be sure.” She took a deep breath that made her head swim. “I was going to say, we should keep things strictly business. I don’t think either of us is looking for any sort of―er―arrangement.” She was talking too fast, struggling to hide the hurt. She shrugged into her coat. “It’s time for us to meet the professor.”
Max busied himself with the bill. “Your car, or mine?”
Libby glanced at her wine glass. How much wine had she swallowed? “Better be yours.”
“Look, Libby, let me explain―”
“There’s nothing to explain. Nothing at all. Let’s get going.”
The ride to the professor’s house seemed interminable, the atmosphere in the car claustrophobic. Libby clenched her arms tight to her sides, pressing her knees against the passenger door, terrified Max might touch her leg. She couldn’t bear him to think she’d engineered a contact.
In her head, she replayed the scene in the restaurant, each iteration more depressing than the last. She’d exposed her feelings for nothing. Max shared none of them. She shot a glance at his profile. A cheek muscle twitched, but his eyes stayed on the road.
Well, Libby could live without Max. What was it she’d said to the children, breaking the news of her move to Exham? “I’m starting a new life. I’m going to be independent. I can make my own living.” She’d meant it, too. She didn’t need a new man.
Max yanked hard on the handbrake as they arrived, climbed out of the car and walked to the professor’s house. He didn’t even come round to open Libby’s door.
The professor opened the door before they reached the halfway point on the path. His shapeless brown jacket had leather patches on the arms. Perhaps he bought it when he reached the starry heights of professorship, in an attempt to look the part. Under normal circumstances, Libby would have shared a glance with Max, but today, she couldn’t bear to look at him.
Instead, she focused on the Professor, picking up an overwhelming impression of an absent-minded academic, a kind of Einstein look-alike. The man’s wire-framed glasses teetered halfway up his forehead. Tufts of wispy hair stood out, like an electrified white halo. “Come in, come in,” he boomed, waving the visitors along a corridor to his study.
Stacks of students’ work overflowed every chair. A globe stood in a prominent spot on a side table next to a sherry decanter, and in one corner, a glass cabinet displayed misshapen pieces of pottery and metal. Libby peeked inside, noticing chunks of iron with sharpened ends, a lump of greenish glass and something that looked like a primitive saw.
“I see you’re admiring my artifacts,” the professor said, prolonging the word, emphasising every syllable, a technique most likely developed for the benefit of sleepy students. “They’re from the Glastonbury Lake Village. Over 2,000 years old. Can you imagine that?”
Libby and Max sat apart, awkward on a lumpy sofa, separated by a gap that felt as wide as Exham beach. They refused sherry, biscuits and coffee. “So,” the professor said. “How can I help you? Is it about the new excavations? You don’t look much
There, she’d said it. She clenched her hands tight under the table, so tense she could barely catch her breath, and waited.
Silence dragged on until she thought she might scream. At last, Max raised his head to look at Libby’s face, unsmiling. “Don’t ask me to answer that, Libby. Not yet.”
Professor
Max might as well have punched her in the stomach. I’m not going to cry. Slowly, she unclenched her fists, looking everywhere except at him. “It―it doesn’t matter. I thought―you know―I wanted to be sure.” She took a deep breath that made her head swim. “I was going to say, we should keep things strictly business. I don’t think either of us is looking for any sort of―er―arrangement.” She was talking too fast, struggling to hide the hurt. She shrugged into her coat. “It’s time for us to meet the professor.”
Max busied himself with the bill. “Your car, or mine?”
Libby glanced at her wine glass. How much wine had she swallowed? “Better be yours.”
“Look, Libby, let me explain―”
“There’s nothing to explain. Nothing at all. Let’s get going.”
The ride to the professor’s house seemed interminable, the atmosphere in the car claustrophobic. Libby clenched her arms tight to her sides, pressing her knees against the passenger door, terrified Max might touch her leg. She couldn’t bear him to think she’d engineered a contact.
In her head, she replayed the scene in the restaurant, each iteration more depressing than the last. She’d exposed her feelings for nothing. Max shared none of them. She shot a glance at his profile. A cheek muscle twitched, but his eyes stayed on the road.
Well, Libby could live without Max. What was it she’d said to the children, breaking the news of her move to Exham? “I’m starting a new life. I’m going to be independent. I can make my own living.” She’d meant it, too. She didn’t need a new man.
Max yanked hard on the handbrake as they arrived, climbed out of the car and walked to the professor’s house. He didn’t even come round to open Libby’s door.
The professor opened the door before they reached the halfway point on the path. His shapeless brown jacket had leather patches on the arms. Perhaps he bought it when he reached the starry heights of professorship, in an attempt to look the part. Under normal circumstances, Libby would have shared a glance with Max, but today, she couldn’t bear to look at him.
Instead, she focused on the Professor, picking up an overwhelming impression of an absent-minded academic, a kind of Einstein look-alike. The man’s wire-framed glasses teetered halfway up his forehead. Tufts of wispy hair stood out, like an electrified white halo. “Come in, come in,” he boomed, waving the visitors along a corridor to his study.
Stacks of students’ work overflowed every chair. A globe stood in a prominent spot on a side table next to a sherry decanter, and in one corner, a glass cabinet displayed misshapen pieces of pottery and metal. Libby peeked inside, noticing chunks of iron with sharpened ends, a lump of greenish glass and something that looked like a primitive saw.
“I see you’re admiring my artifacts,” the professor said, prolonging the word, emphasising every syllable, a technique most likely developed for the benefit of sleepy students. “They’re from the Glastonbury Lake Village. Over 2,000 years old. Can you imagine that?”
Libby and Max sat apart, awkward on a lumpy sofa, separated by a gap that felt as wide as Exham beach. They refused sherry, biscuits and coffee. “So,” the professor said. “How can I help you? Is it about the new excavations? You don’t look much
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