Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(8)

Lizzie nods like she understands, but really she doesn’t. She likes retirement. This is her time to relax and enjoy the simple pleasures. She’s had enough of dead bodies and bodily fluids to last a lifetime, and Philip really can’t be around that kind of thing any more. That’s why she likes The Homestead – it’s like a permanent holiday; a place where only good things happen. She doesn’t want to be reminded of all the dreadful things people do to one another. She thinks she’s earned that.

‘So tell us what you saw, Moira,’ says Philip, putting his phone on to the counter and picking up his coffee. ‘How did you find the body? Was there any sign of the killer? Did you notice anything out of place in the park?’

Lizzie keeps her gaze on her husband. She’s seen that animated expression before, so many times, and every time he’s worked a big case. Cases like that always consumed him. He’d work non-stop, obsessed like a bloodhound on a scent, and he loved it. Lived for it. Right up until the moment when a heart attack and sky-rocketing blood pressure forced him to give it all up.

She bites her lip. Now the expression’s back, and Lizzie knows the obsession won’t be far behind. She inhales, and gives a barely audible sigh.

Her relaxing retirement has been shattered. Her only move now is to try and limit the damage, and hope their peaceful life here won’t be forced to come to an end.





5


MOIRA


Moira doesn’t want to be here and she sure as hell doesn’t want to talk about the murder. The more they discuss it, the more likely she is to slip up and for them to realise she has a past in law enforcement. She doesn’t want that.

‘So, tell us, what was it like?’ Philip’s tone is more urgent, bossier this time. He’s looking at her all super-eager, like a cat watching a cornered mouse. ‘I want all the details.’

She doesn’t like his tone. If she were feeling better she’d tell him to get lost and then she’d leave, but she isn’t feeling better. She’s still feeling odd – a bit light-headed, and slightly detached. She doesn’t feel well enough to walk home yet, which means she’s stuck here for the time being, and it’s easier to go along with him and answer his questions than resist. She needs to be careful though. ‘There was no sign of the killer, but I think there were things out of place in the pool.’

‘How exactly?’ asks Philip, leaning closer. His eyes are bright, and his phone buzzing on the counter seems forgotten. His whole focus is on her now.

Lizzie on the other hand seems distracted, frowning as she twists her mug back and forth on the white granite.

Moira hesitates. She thinks about the scene – the blood on the victim’s chest, the floating dollars and the bag sunk to the bottom of the pool – not a death by natural causes, or an accidental death, but a violent and suspicious death, and the sort of puzzle that gets inside your head. She’s worked cases like this before in her old life, and she knows the danger of them; the need to know what happened can become a kind of mania.

She is supposed to be avoiding that mania. She’s left that world. Shed her old life like an outgrown skin and now she’s someone new. She thinks back to the police doc’s last words to her. How she emphasised again that Moira must stay away from violence and danger, her words a warning: You need to take the time to heal.

Moira looks from Philip to Lizzie. She can’t tell them any of this; they mustn’t know her secret. They’d been in law enforcement, so every moment she’s here is a risk. And the more she speaks about what she saw, the deeper they’ll pull her into their world. She needs to leave. Right now.

Gripping the countertop, she slides her feet to the ground. Her legs feel weak, like they won’t support her weight. She tries to stand but her knees give way and she sits back on to the stool with a bump. This is hopeless. She’s trapped here.

‘You okay?’ asks Lizzie. She pushes the plate of shortbread towards Moira. ‘Have another.’

‘Thanks.’ Moira hates how weak she sounds. ‘I’m not feeling great, to be honest.’

‘Best to stay here a while, and let us take care of you,’ says Philip. ‘And tell us all about what you saw. A problem shared is a problem halved and all that. Telling us about it will help you feel better. And don’t worry about telling us all the details – I know it’s hard for you as a civilian, but we worked in law enforcement so we can handle it.’

Moira’s sure that it won’t make her feel better, but she’s in no position to resist. She takes a sip of her coffee, and grimaces at the overload of sugar. Philip’s so keen he’s virtually salivating. He nods encouragingly. She fights the urge to tell him that she’s more than capable of handling the details of a crime scene. That she’s worked enough of them.

She opens her mouth to reply.

The back door flies open. It bangs against the wall, causing the glasses in the display cabinet beside the door to rattle.

Moira flinches, and twists round towards the noise. ‘What the . . . ?’

A barrel-chested guy the size of a mountain strides into the kitchen. His white hair, deep tan and huge arms make him look like Popeye’s older, more muscular brother. When he speaks his voice is gravel deep, the accent Bostonian rather than Floridian.

‘I’ve called the troops to action. Meeting’s in half an hour.’