Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(17)

‘I wanted you to come over early so we could talk.’ Lizzie’s expression is serious.

Moira braces herself. ‘Okay.’

‘But let’s get the coffee first.’

As Lizzie makes the coffee, it feels to Moira like every second lasts an hour. She wants to know what’s bugging Lizzie, and what she knows. She hates the suspense. Needs to think about mitigation and containment. She needs to find out if Lizzie knows her secret, and if she’s going to tell other people. She has to know whether things are going to get so out of control she’ll have no choice but to move again.

Still, she tries to act casual. Leaning against the island unit, she looks around. She hadn’t really taken in her surroundings when she was here earlier, and now she’s struck by how neat and ordered everything is. The white countertops are clear of clutter with just the coffee maker, toaster and a jug with spatulas beside the hob. The island unit has a spotted china bowl with apples and bananas at one end, and on the window sill behind the sink a vase of flowers – vivid purples, pinks and greens – is giving a splash of colour against the white cabinets, countertops and flooring. The whole thing is a far cry from her own scattergun approach to decor. She doesn’t even own a fruit bowl.

As the coffee brews, Lizzie unlocks the sliding door to the sunroom – an outside space screened by permanent rigid bug mesh. Then she turns to Moira and beckons her outside. ‘Have a seat, I’ll be with you in a minute.’

Moira does as she says, stepping out on to the patio and taking the seat at the outdoor table that gives her the best vantage point across the garden. She scans the space – there’s no sign of the blond guy in the garden or on the street immediately alongside it. Moira takes a deep breath. She feels slightly calmer out here where she can see her options for an easy exit. The outside is as stylish as the inside: white wicker garden furniture with generously padded seat cushions, the spotlessly clean plunge pool and hot tub and the neatly manicured lawn. Bright Moroccan-style lamps in turquoise, orange and purple give vivid splashes of jewel-like colour against the white furniture and natural greens. There’s a side gate at the end of the path that runs down the side of the house, and another on the far side of the screened-in patio; two exits that could get her free and clear fast if needs be.

Moira thinks of the rampaging plants in the unruly borders of her own garden, and the lawn that’s almost long enough to break the residents’ association rules, and resolves to take them in hand. She looks up as Lizzie approaches. Tries to get her onside with a compliment. ‘Your garden is lovely, the house is too.’

Lizzie smiles but it looks tight and forced. ‘Thanks. Nothing to do with me though, Philip’s the house-proud one. He loves doing all the home-design stuff. Likes everything to be perfect.’

‘That’s cool,’ says Moira, trying to keep the surprise from her voice. She’d never have pegged Philip as the designer of the couple. He seems far too stuffy and traditional to have created this outside space.

Lizzie hands Moira a mug of coffee, then puts some cookies on a plate on to the table and pushes them in front of her. ‘They’re oatmeal and raisin – the best cookies ever. If you won’t have a sandwich, at least eat some of these.’

Moira doesn’t feel hungry but, given how tense Lizzie looks, she takes a cookie to show willing. ‘Thanks, this is great.’

Lizzie sits down on to the chair opposite. She looks at Moira and frowns. ‘So how are you feeling? I know you said you were okay, but it must have been a shock to find the body.’

Moira isn’t sure how to respond so she says nothing. Maybe Lizzie is saying this as a test – she’s found out what she used to do for a living, and what happened in London, and she wants to see if Moira will mention it. I’m not falling for that, thinks Moira. She takes a sip of her coffee.

‘It’s unsettled me, if I’m honest,’ says Lizzie, filling the silence. ‘I know I should be hardened to this stuff from the years doing my job, but a murder happening right here in my neighbourhood . . .’ She shakes her head. Fiddles with the rings on her wedding finger again. ‘It makes me feel really uneasy.’

‘That’s understandable,’ says Moira, cautiously. ‘But I’m new here, and not long out of the job.’

Lizzie bites her lower lip and holds Moira’s gaze for a long moment.

That’s when Moira realises she’s messed up. Shit. Why did she mention her job? This is it, she thinks. This is the moment Lizzie tells me that she knows what I used to be and what happened, why I left, and who I really am.

But Lizzie says nothing. She just sits, holding eye contact and tracing her finger up and down the handle of her mug.

Moira’s heart rate accelerates. She can’t stand waiting. If what Lizzie is about to reveal is going to shatter her blank slate, she’d rather get it over with so she can get on with picking up the pieces and trying to glue them back together. ‘You said you wanted to talk?’

‘Yes.’ Lizzie slams her mug down on to the table with a bang that makes both of them flinch. She clasps her hands together in a death grip. ‘I do.’

‘So . . . what’s the matter?’ says Moira, trying to keep the anxiety from her voice.

‘Look, there’s no easy way to say this.’ Lizzie looks away across the patio towards the pool. ‘But what you did . . . it was . . .’