Read Online The Ambleside Alibi: 2 by Rebecca Tope - Free Book Online
Authors: Rebecca Tope
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Sagas, Mystery, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Contemporary Fiction, Family Saga
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about forty, probably never properly employed, in and out of mental hospitals or inadequately supervised in the community. Then, looking at him again, she discarded all these automatic stereotypes and experienced a sudden wish to know the real story.
‘So, what do you do – on Christmas Day, I mean?’
He lifted one shoulder in a boyish show of unconcern. ‘Nothing much. Just carry on as usual, if I can. There’s always something to be fired, or glazed, or a new pattern to play with. I do tiles mainly – did I mention that?’
‘No, but I heard about it on the grapevine. What sort of tiles? I mean, for bathrooms or kitchens, or what?’
He laughed. ‘Anywhere you like. In Portugal they put them on the outside of their houses. They’re mad about tiles over there. And there’s always floors, of course.’
Simmy had never taken much interest in home decorating, although as a florist she knew she ought to think about it rather more than she did. Flowers were part of the whole business, after all. She found herself picturing a kitchen floor covered with ceramic tiles on which were painted roses and tulips. It really wouldn’t work, she decided.
‘And you do pots,’ she reminded him. ‘Vases.’
‘A new line,’ he nodded. ‘Can I bring you some in? How about tomorrow? You did say I could.’
She couldn’t remember exactly how she had left it with him the day before, but it all seemed to be moving rather rapidly. They’d been interrupted by Mrs Weaver, and then Julie had turned up, quickly followed by DI Moxon, and the vases had been forgotten. ‘Did I?’ she said.
He pouted reproachfully. ‘Have you forgotten?’
‘Not entirely. Yes, bring me some nice big ones. Maybe someone will get one for a Christmas present. You never know.’
‘Thanks! I’ll see you tomorrow.’ And he walked away, with an uncoordinated gait that reminded her oddly of Mr Kitchener.
Chapter Six
Friday morning was generally not one of Melanie’s days at the shop. Her college course in hotel management included a busy timetable of lectures and tutorials on that day. The end of term also fell on this particular Friday, with none of the whirl of excitement and relaxation of schedules that Simmy remembered. ‘There’s a lecture in the morning, and a meeting with one of the lecturers after lunch. He’s going to give us the project for next term,’ she told Simmy. ‘And talk over our progress so far.’
‘You’ve got good marks, haven’t you?’ Simmy had occasionally helped with a piece of coursework, noticing with some concern the girl’s shaky grasp of spelling and punctuation. At the same time, Melanie showed real determination to do well, regarding the eventual qualification as a reliable route out of the limited world inhabited by her family.
‘Pretty good,’ had been the modest response.
So Simmy juggled unaided with two new orders, five customers, decisions about the wholesale delivery and a fresh display in the window for the weekend. Every time the shop doorbell rang, she expected to see the detective inspector, or Mr Kitchener, or someone accusing her of getting something wrong. She felt jumpy and defensive, but unable at first to account for these feelings. She couldn’t readily identify any cause for guilt, other than the very vaguest sense that she had overstepped a mark with Mrs Joseph on Wednesday by asking too many questions. This led to a slow realisation that she had stepped across it even further by telling Melanie and Ben about the unknown granddaughter. She had betrayed a confidence, and at the time never even noticed. The fact that an old lady had been murdered in the same small town had somehow lifted the prohibition against talking about customers’ personal business – and that was senseless. No wonder she felt so uneasy, she told herself, having finally niggled out the reason for it. If Mrs Joseph had heard the three of them, the previous afternoon, she would inevitably have been upset.
‘So, what do you do – on Christmas Day, I mean?’
He lifted one shoulder in a boyish show of unconcern. ‘Nothing much. Just carry on as usual, if I can. There’s always something to be fired, or glazed, or a new pattern to play with. I do tiles mainly – did I mention that?’
‘No, but I heard about it on the grapevine. What sort of tiles? I mean, for bathrooms or kitchens, or what?’
He laughed. ‘Anywhere you like. In Portugal they put them on the outside of their houses. They’re mad about tiles over there. And there’s always floors, of course.’
Simmy had never taken much interest in home decorating, although as a florist she knew she ought to think about it rather more than she did. Flowers were part of the whole business, after all. She found herself picturing a kitchen floor covered with ceramic tiles on which were painted roses and tulips. It really wouldn’t work, she decided.
‘And you do pots,’ she reminded him. ‘Vases.’
‘A new line,’ he nodded. ‘Can I bring you some in? How about tomorrow? You did say I could.’
She couldn’t remember exactly how she had left it with him the day before, but it all seemed to be moving rather rapidly. They’d been interrupted by Mrs Weaver, and then Julie had turned up, quickly followed by DI Moxon, and the vases had been forgotten. ‘Did I?’ she said.
He pouted reproachfully. ‘Have you forgotten?’
‘Not entirely. Yes, bring me some nice big ones. Maybe someone will get one for a Christmas present. You never know.’
‘Thanks! I’ll see you tomorrow.’ And he walked away, with an uncoordinated gait that reminded her oddly of Mr Kitchener.
Chapter Six
Friday morning was generally not one of Melanie’s days at the shop. Her college course in hotel management included a busy timetable of lectures and tutorials on that day. The end of term also fell on this particular Friday, with none of the whirl of excitement and relaxation of schedules that Simmy remembered. ‘There’s a lecture in the morning, and a meeting with one of the lecturers after lunch. He’s going to give us the project for next term,’ she told Simmy. ‘And talk over our progress so far.’
‘You’ve got good marks, haven’t you?’ Simmy had occasionally helped with a piece of coursework, noticing with some concern the girl’s shaky grasp of spelling and punctuation. At the same time, Melanie showed real determination to do well, regarding the eventual qualification as a reliable route out of the limited world inhabited by her family.
‘Pretty good,’ had been the modest response.
So Simmy juggled unaided with two new orders, five customers, decisions about the wholesale delivery and a fresh display in the window for the weekend. Every time the shop doorbell rang, she expected to see the detective inspector, or Mr Kitchener, or someone accusing her of getting something wrong. She felt jumpy and defensive, but unable at first to account for these feelings. She couldn’t readily identify any cause for guilt, other than the very vaguest sense that she had overstepped a mark with Mrs Joseph on Wednesday by asking too many questions. This led to a slow realisation that she had stepped across it even further by telling Melanie and Ben about the unknown granddaughter. She had betrayed a confidence, and at the time never even noticed. The fact that an old lady had been murdered in the same small town had somehow lifted the prohibition against talking about customers’ personal business – and that was senseless. No wonder she felt so uneasy, she told herself, having finally niggled out the reason for it. If Mrs Joseph had heard the three of them, the previous afternoon, she would inevitably have been upset.
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