Read Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) for Free Online

readings made no more sense than the first. There was no reason why Trevor shouldn’t buy a house and put it in Ali’s name. Perhaps it was a thoughtful thing to do, making sure his daughter had a foot on the housing ladder. But why bother to keep it a secret? And why buy a house so far away, in Leeds? They’d lived in London all their married life.
    Libby shook her head, perplexed by yet another shock from the grave. Who would have thought it of rigid, respectable Trevor? Six months ago, she’d discovered he’d emptied his bank accounts and left nothing but debts. It meant Libby couldn’t redecorate the ghastly bathroom, but she’d survived. Now, this? What else had Trevor hidden from his wife?
    Libby sat on the bed, legs crossed, thinking. Trevor was a control freak. He’d kept her under his thumb, refusing to discuss work, or anything else, for that matter. As a result, she had little idea what his job entailed, except that he was an insurance agent. How had he managed to acquire a couple of houses his wife knew nothing about?
    It seemed strange, finding the letter sticking out of a drawer. Why had Ali left it behind? She hadn’t really tried to hide it. Maybe she’d wanted her mother to know, but wouldn’t directly disobey her father. Libby made a thumbs-up sign. Good solution, Ali .
    She folded the two sheets of paper, replaced them in the envelope and took the package to her room, sliding it into her handbag. She straightened. Were there any more surprises from Trevor? She still had a few of his things.
    She opened the door to the third bedroom, the room she used as a study. She kept some of his old clothes here. Full of shocked guilt at her husband’s sudden death, she’d left them in the wardrobe in the London house, to deal with later. When she came to Exham, the removal firm had bundled them up and hung them straight in the wardrobe. She hadn’t touched them since. Maybe there were more clues to the Trevor she’d never known, among his old clothes.
    She caught her breath, smelling the faintest trace of Old Spice that clung to an ancient corduroy jacket. Trevor had worn that old brown favourite every weekend, refusing to let Libby throw it out, even when it grew old and shabby. She’d bought a new one, identical, once, as a birthday surprise. Trevor told her to take it back to the shop.
    Pictures flashed behind Libby’s eyes. She remembered Trevor one Sunday, complaining the roast potatoes were cold, retiring to his study, and shoving papers swiftly into his briefcase, as she brought his coffee. The image lingered. He’d looked annoyed, his cheeks unusually flushed. Did the papers belong to his insurance clients, as she’d always supposed, or were they something less innocent?
    Libby tossed the jacket on a chair. It was going out, along with anything else that reminded her of her husband. She grabbed one item after another, shaking them, feeling in the pockets for any stray clues to a secret life.
    When the solicitor had told Libby she was broke, she hadn’t thought to investigate. She’d just accepted that Trevor had indulged himself, while at the same time complaining about every penny Libby spent on anything he called a selfish luxury, like new clothes. Now, she had to know more.
    Slowly, a pile of old receipts and train tickets grew on the desk. She’d found nothing unexpected, so far. She smoothed out a crumpled slip of paper, a receipt from a hire car company in Leeds. More evidence of that secret life Trevor had lived?
    Libby’s head buzzed with questions. Why had Trevor bought houses in Leeds, when they lived in London? Who lived in the house he’d passed on to Ali and why had he told Ali not to put the house up for sale for five years?
    Maybe he was having an affair. Did he have a mistress, living up in Leeds? He would want her to keep the house for a few years after his death, for security. The thought made Libby burn with fury. He hadn’t cared much about his wife’s security.
    She