Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(7)

Lizzie’s still packing away her paints when she hears Philip’s key in the door. Popping into the bathroom, she washes a paint smudge from her cheek then hurries out into the hallway. Philip and Moira are already inside. Philip’s putting his coat into the hallway closet. Moira’s standing, arms crossed, and looking uncomfortable.

Lizzie switches into host mode; it’s a role she enjoys. ‘Moira, welcome.’

‘Been slaughtering a rainbow?’ says Philip, eyeing her paint-splattered dungarees. He plants a kiss on Lizzie’s cheek as he drops his keys into the bowl on the dresser.

‘Something like that.’ Lizzie wipes her still-damp hands on her dungarees and turns to Moira. ‘Sorry I’m a bit of a mess. I tend to lose track of time when I’m painting.’

Moira looks unsure. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’

‘You’re not intruding at all. Now, would you like tea, coffee, maybe something stronger?’ Lizzie glances at her husband then back to Moira. Usually bold and confident, now Moira looks pale and subdued, and Philip seems to be supporting her under the elbow. ‘Are you doing okay?’

‘She had a bit of a funny turn,’ says Philip. ‘Needs some sweet tea and a couple of biscuits to sort her out.’

‘I’d prefer coffee if that’s okay.’

‘Of course.’ Lizzie smiles as she appraises Moira again. Her eyes look oddly unfocused and her voice has a tremble to it, nothing like it’s been before. ‘I think you need a sit-down.’ She gestures through to the kitchen and the stools on the other side of the island. ‘Come, sit. And tell me what happened.’

Philip helps Moira to a seat at the island and then sits down opposite her. Lizzie collects three white mugs from the cabinet and sets them down on the white granite countertop. Taking the flask from the hot plate on the coffee maker, she pours each of them a strong coffee and adds three lumps of sugar to the mug for Moira. She sets the coffees down in front of Moira, Philip and the spare stool beside him, then takes a packet of shortbread out of the cupboard and tips them on to a plate. She puts the plate in front of Moira.

As Lizzie climbs up on to the nearest stool, Moira picks up a biscuit. She nibbles the corner off, then sets the rest down on the counter beside her coffee mug. Lizzie hopes Philip doesn’t notice. He hates crumbs.

Philip’s tapping away one-fingered at his phone, his lips pursed in concentration. He glances at her as she sits down. ‘I’m messaging Rick, we need to call a meeting of the community watch – see if any of the patrols saw anything last night.’

‘Good idea,’ says Lizzie. The community watch is Philip’s new obsession – his way of doing something good for the neighbourhood. Lizzie knows how important it is to him. He’s always needed a purpose or to be leading a crusade of some sort, and since handing over the captaincy of the Tall Grass Golf Club earlier in the year she knows he’s been feeling rather adrift. Ideally she’d prefer his crusades to be non-law-enforcement related, but as crime goes she reasons that burglaries are towards the less violent end. She looks across at Moira. ‘Philip said something about a crime. Were you burgled?’

Moira shakes her head. ‘There was a dead body in the lap pool this morning.’

Lizzie inhales hard. Feels her chest tighten. There’s never been a murder on The Homestead. Until about a month ago there’d never really been any kind of crime. It’s one of the reasons they’ve chosen to live here; they’ve both seen enough in their careers to last several lifetimes. They chose The Homestead to forget about all that. Lizzie frowns. Tries not to show Moira that the news has unsettled her. ‘Really? That’s . . . unexpected.’

Moira takes another nibble of shortbread. ‘I thought so too.’

Lizzie glances at her husband but he’s still typing, all his attention on his phone screen. It’s just as well because the crumbs are spreading out from the half-eaten shortbread in front of Moira. Lizzie tries not to look at them. ‘Philip said you were in an ambulance. Did you get hurt?’

‘No, nothing like that, the paramedics were making a fuss about things, saying I should go to the hospital, but there was no need.’

Lizzie says nothing for a moment. She’s seen the way Moira’s nostrils flared when she asked if she was hurt, and the way she broke eye contact when she mentioned the paramedics. Lizzie’s pretty sure Moira’s hiding something. Leaning across the counter, she lowers her voice. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine, really. I just started feeling really light-headed. I get low blood sugar sometimes.’ Moira pauses, and takes another bite of shortbread. ‘This is helping though, thank you.’

Lizzie doesn’t say anything. She’s not convinced.

Moira gives her a forced-looking smile. ‘Look, you don’t need to worry about me. I don’t scare easily.’

Lizzie wonders what Moira used to do for a job. If she’s not shocked by a dead body maybe she was a nurse or paramedic, or a doctor; something where death was part of the job. As a CSI Lizzie saw the aftermath of every kind of crime. To see that stuff every day, and stick at the job until retirement, takes a certain type of person. ‘Yes, of course. Still, it must have been a shock? Crime scenes are pretty grim.’

‘True. It was strange leaving, though. I felt like I should stay and help out or something, because I found her.’