Read Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) for Free Online Page A

Western Daily Press?” Her voice rose. “Anyway, I’ve nothing to say to you, so you’d better be getting off.”
     

Photographs
    Judging by the unhealthy, deep red in Mrs Thomson’s face, the elderly lady could be on the verge of a stroke. Libby held out her hands. “No, no. I’m not a reporter. It’s just that―well, I found Susie’s body, Mrs Thomson. Suzanne’s, I mean. I was walking my friend’s dog on the beach.”
    “Hm.” Mrs Thomson stopped in mid-gesture. She stared hard at Libby, suspicious. Satisfied, she sank back into the chair, the livid colour slowly ebbing from her face. “I suppose Maxwell wouldn’t have sent you round here if you were with the papers. He has his faults, that one, but at least his heart’s in the right place.”
    Libby hesitated. She didn’t want to risk hurting the old lady, but she needed to know more about Susie. “You must have been proud of Suzanne?”
    “Mr Thomson used to keep all the cuttings from the newspapers, when she went to the States. Who’d have thought little Suzanne would make such a big name for herself?”
    Libby took a shot in the dark. “Did she keep in touch after she left Exham?”
    “Oh yes, she used to send me all her records. Albums, they call them nowadays, of course. She sent a card at Christmas, as well, every year, regular as clockwork. All except for that one year.”
    “Which one was that?”
    “The year the little girl died. It must have been, let me see, the little girl was seven, so that was back in the early 90s. She wrote and told me about it, but no cards that year. Not surprising. Poor Suzanne, it broke her heart.”
    Coffee scalded Libby’s throat. “Little girl? She had a daughter?”
    “Oh yes, she had a daughter in America. With Mickey what’s-his-name. Big record executive, he was, or some such. Annie: that was the little girl’s name. Annie Rose. Pretty little thing, she was, just like her mother. Here, wait, I’ve got a photo, somewhere.”
    Drawers opened and closed in another room. Mrs Thomson returned, clutching a red photo album, old green slippers soundless on the patterned carpet. Libby shifted along on the sofa, making room. Heads together, they flipped through pages of photos: babies, houses, older children. “Here we are.” Mrs Thomson pointed at four photos behind a filmy, plastic sheet.
    A neat, handwritten date and caption accompanied every image. “My Eric put all our photos in an album, labelled and everything. He was like that. Always neat and tidy.” Mrs Thomson peered round the room, maybe half-hoping to see the late Mr Thomson in his usual chair. “The farm was the best in the county. Our Herefords won prizes.” Her shoulders slumped. She sighed, misty-eyed. “All sold, now.”
    Afraid the old lady was slipping into reminiscence about the farm, Libby tapped a finger on the photo at the top left of the page. “Is this Suzanne?”
    “That’s her. Still at school, then.” Libby caught her breath, shocked to see a young Susie smiling in the photo, very much alive. Under the lighthouse, she’d been wet, bedraggled and dead. Nevertheless, this was the same person, no question. There was no mistaking the neat nose and arched eyebrows.
    Mrs Thomson moved on to the other pictures. “Here she is, on stage in America.” Two tall youths, one bowing a violin, the other behind a keyboard, each young face taut with concentration, dwarfed the singer. Despite her tiny stature, Susie’s personality sprang from the photograph. She glowed, alive with the joy of performance, an enormous guitar slung round her long, white neck.
    “This one’s her wedding photo.” Mrs Thomson’s voice jerked Libby back to the present. “And this―” one gnarled finger touched the last photograph, light as a caress, “is little Annie Rose.”
    Libby let her eyes slide down to the image of Susie’s little girl. The child was a miniature of her mother. Hair so fair it was almost white, she struck a dancer’s pose,