Pride prejudice and pois.., p.15
Pride, Prejudice and Poison, page 15
Steady on, old girl. The phrase her father used to say to her mother suddenly popped into her head, although she hadn’t thought about it in years. Hardly an “old girl,” her mother, dying before the bloom of youth had fled her cheeks.
“Let’s work on some balancing poses now,” Kira cooed serenely. “We’ll start with tree pose.”
Erin gritted her teeth. She was lousy at tree—not because her balance was bad, but because her joints were stiff, so she had trouble sliding her foot very far up the standing leg.
“Hands in prayer pose or over your head,” Kira continued, effortlessly tucking the heel of her foot into her crotch.
Erin grimly willed her foot to go higher. To her dismay, Jonathan was very adept at the pose, balancing easily on one leg, hands over his head. Show-off, Erin thought, angry at herself for caring. She tried to avoid comparing herself to the other students, to not judge herself or others. That was the yogi way, and it was liberating—but today she failed to live up to the ideal, and it made her grumpy.
They moved through warrior three and half moon, which Erin was very good at. It was satisfying to see Jonathan fail to lift his leg nearly as high as hers. Kira finished the class with a couple of bridge pose back bends, and finally inversions. A few people were advanced enough to do headstands, but Erin was content doing her usual shoulder stand. She noted that Jonathan did not attempt a headstand.
After the final Oooom, Erin bowed to the instructor and rose, gathering up her mat. As she stood in line waiting to put her mat in the big straw basket in the back of the room, she saw Rosita Selario, Sylvia Pemberthy’s housecleaner. Rosita was a good customer of the Readers Quarry, always in search of the latest cookbook. She was talking to a small, older woman with a long, lustrous black braid.
“She told me she was about to break it off with him, and he wasn’t happy about it,” said Rosita. She was a lanky Latina woman with a fashion model’s figure, smooth brown skin, and long, sharp fingernails. Erin had no idea how she did housecleaning with those nails.
The other woman shook her head. “I don’t like that man—there’s something not right about him.”
“So did she break up with him before she was—?”
Rosita leaned down to put her mat in the basket. “Querido Dios, I don’t know.”
“Did you tell the police?” asked the other woman.
“No.”
“They didn’t interview you?”
“Not yet,” Rosita said.
Her friend unraveled her long black braid as the two waited in line to return their foam blocks to a second basket. “You should go to them. Might help catch the killer.”
“I have a policy with the policía. They don’t bother me, I don’t bother them.”
The other woman said something in Spanish Erin couldn’t make out.
The two women walked toward the exit, speaking in hushed tones, their heads close. As Erin put her mat in the basket, her hair barrette came loose and clattered to the floor. She looked up to see Jonathan holding it out to her.
“I think you dropped this,” he said, a friendly smile on his absurdly handsome face.
“Oh, cheers,” she said breezily.
“I didn’t know you were a yogi.”
“I usually come to the earlier class.”
“Got stuck late at the office, eh?”
“‘Life seems but a quick succession of—’”
“‘Busy nothings,’” he finished for her.
“Well played,” she said, taking her mat to the bin in the back of the room.
“Sometimes this class is the only thing that keeps me sane,” he said, following her. “After all day with the kids, you need something like this to clear the mind.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, busying herself tidying the mats in the bin.
“Fancy a coffee?”
“It’s getting late, and I have to—”
“A pint, then?”
There was no dodging it.
“Why not?” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Like most English villages, Kirkbymoorside was not lacking in pubs. They decided on the George and Dragon—it was historic and homey, with hearty, unpretentious food. When they arrived, there was a fire in the grate and only a few other customers, so they settled in front of the fire. It was a raw, blustery night, and Erin was suddenly glad for the warmth and companionship as she sank into one of the armchairs.
“What’ll it be?” Jonathan said, rubbing his hands to get out the chill. “What would Jane Austen order? A Reverend Tom Collins?”
“A Claret Cup, I think,” she said, smiling.
“Living dangerously, eh?” he said, cocking his head to one side. “Do they even do that here?”
“I doubt it, but they should do a Pimm’s Cup, if you ask nicely.”
“Be back before you can say Georgian Romance,” he said, going to the bar.
Erin looked around the room, warm with the glow of firelight, and she could smell pine needles and nutmeg, as if they were already gearing up for Christmas, when it was barely October.
Her phone buzzed—it was her father. She hesitated before answering.
“Hello, Dad.”
“What are you up to on this blustery evening?” Since her mother’s death, her father had become obsessed with weather, even joining a Facebook group for like-minded people. He had several sophisticated weather apps on his phone and computer and was contemplating setting up a small weather station in his study.
“Just come from yoga class.”
“How very commendable. Are you fortifying yourself with nettle juice or something equally virtuous and repugnant?”
“Actually, I’m having a drink in the George and Dragon.”
“What a relief. I was beginning to wonder if you were my daughter after all.”
“I have your bad eyesight and short temper.”
“You inherited all your mother’s virtues and all my flaws.”
“Not quite. I don’t have your suspicious nature.”
“What about your interest in crime?”
She told him about meeting Hemming on the moors, and about Winton being attacked.
“I was thinking about that phone call you got over the weekend. Have you thought of asking the police to tap your phone?”
“They might need more reason than a nuisance call. Sorry, Dad, I have to go,” she said, spying Jonathan approaching with their drinks.
“Tell him I said hello.”
“Who?”
“Whoever you’re with. Bye for now, and please be careful.”
“I will.”
“One Pimm’s Cup and one pint of pale ale,” Jonathan said, placing the drinks on the table. Hers was decorated with an orange slice, a piece of apple, and a mint sprig.
“That was my father,” she said, tucking her phone into her jacket pocket, annoyed with herself for feeling she had to explain. Was she afraid he’d be jealous? But this wasn’t a date—was it?
“Checking up on you?” he said, smiling as he slid into his seat.
“Actually, he was checking up on the progress of the investigation into Sylvia’s death.”
Was it her imagination, or did he wince at her response? She thought she saw a shadow pass over his face, but couldn’t be sure in the dim light of the pub.
“Chin chin,” said Jonathan, lifting his glass.
“Cheers,” she said, raising hers.
The drink was more delicious than she had anticipated—the aroma of fresh mint mixed with spices and citrus flavors, the terse dryness of the gin. She resisted the urge to gulp it down all at once.
“I’d better get some water,” she said. “Didn’t realize how thirsty I was.”
“I can get it.”
“My turn. You want some?”
“Why not? Yoga is thirsty business,” he said, with that lopsided grin. And did he will that lock of hair to fall over one eye?
“Right,” she said, heading for the bar.
Sitting alone at a table on the other side of the room, nursing a pint, was Sergeant Jarral. He was writing something in a notebook, a look of concentration on his symmetrical, well-formed features. She stood watching him for a moment, about to turn away, when he saw her. He gave her a warm smile and waved. Taking it as an invitation, she approached him.
“How’s the case going?”
“Slowly. And now the boss is out of action for a while.”
She frowned and cocked her head to the side. “Why?”
“Came down with a nasty bug of some kind. Apparently he got caught out on the moors in that rainstorm.”
“Is he very sick?”
“He’s flat on his back in bed, so I’d say pretty sick, yeah.”
“Sorry to hear that.” She had an urge to go to him. She imagined turning up with homemade soup, soothing his feverish forehead with a cool cloth …
“Listen,” she said, “I don’t know if this is relevant or not, but I overheard something tonight.”
She told him what Rosita Selario had said in yoga class. Jarral nodded, listening carefully. “We haven’t interviewed her yet, but she’s definitely on the list. Thanks for the tip.”
“No worries.” Clutching the glass of water, Erin headed back to her table. When she returned, Jonathan’s smile looked a bit forced.
“I saw you chatting with one of our resident sleuths.”
“Trying to pick his brain a little,” she said offhandedly.
“Learn anything juicy?”
“You know how they are—can’t talk about an ongoing investigation, blah, blah, blah.”
“Right,” he said with a little chuckle, but it rang hollow. His hands fidgeted nervously with his drink, and his eyes darted across the room to where the sergeant sat.
“I did hear a rumor the other day, though it wasn’t from the cops,” she said.
“Oh? What was it?”
“I heard you and Sylvia were having quite the chat behind the barn at the fete last summer.”
He frowned. “Who told you that?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“It was nothing salacious,” he said, taking a long swallow of his drink.
“If you say so.”
“The cops don’t think Sylvia and I—”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so.”
“If I were going to get salacious with someone, it wouldn’t be Sylvia,” he said, looking down at his drink.
“Oh?” she said, her skin tingling a little.
“Are you … seeing anyone at the moment?” he asked, still not looking at her.
“Not at the moment.”
He nodded, and in the dim light, she thought she saw him blush.
“Sorry,” he said, laughing nervously. “I’m absolute rubbish at this.”
“Half the women in town would find that hard to believe.”
“You’re not half the women in town.”
“I find it hard to believe as well.”
“Seeing is believing,” he said, pushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “You know, all this talk of equality—which I’m all for, obviously—and yet the man’s still expected to make the first move. Not really fair, if you ask me.”
“I agree,” said Erin. Leaning forward, she kissed him on the lips. “There,” she said. “Is that better?”
“Much better. You are a socially progressive young woman, Ms. Coleridge.”
“Don’t tell my father. He would be horrified.”
“I won’t dream of it,” he said, leaning toward her.
“More social progressivity?”
“Yes, please.”
They kissed again. His lips tasted faintly of cherries, and were just soft enough, yielding without complete surrender, which made her want more. But they were in a public place, and Erin didn’t really approve of excessive displays of affection in public—or PDA, as her father called it.
“Any more of that and we’ll both turn into radicals,” he said, and she laughed.
They sipped their drinks, and for a moment he seemed lost in his own thoughts.
“I can’t believe it’s less than two weeks until the bonfire,” she said, to break the spell.
“I’ve been hearing so much about it since I arrived. I can’t wait to see it.”
“Where did you live before here?”
“Oh, here and there—I’ve moved around a lot.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Uh, the West Country—Devon,” he said, avoiding her gaze.
“Funny—you don’t have a West Country accent.”
“This town is my home now.”
“Speaking of which, I heard something a bit scandalous yesterday.”
“What was it?” he asked, leaning into her. She could smell his aftershave, a sharp, piny odor.
“I heard that there’s a monthly poker game in town. High stakes, very hush-hush and all that.”
“Really? Who told you that?”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell,” she said. “It was one of the regulars.”
“Just goes to show you never know about people, eh?” he said, downing the rest of his drink. “Care for another round?”
“Let me get this one.”
“Absolutely not—my treat,” he said, brushing his fingertips lightly across her cheek. It was an intimate gesture, perhaps even more than the kissing, she thought.
As she watched him head for the bar, Erin decided that charming, personable Jonathan Alder was hiding something. And even if she was a little bit in love with him, she was very eager to find out what it was.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Hiding something? What on earth could it be, I wonder?” Farnsworth said as she poured hot water into the cone filter over a blue-and-white coffee mug.
Sitting at the kitchen table in her friend’s farmhouse Tuesday morning, Erin inhaled the aroma of Arabica beans as the hot water coaxed out their flavor, filling the room with the dark, spicy scent.
“Obviously there’s the gambling,” Erin said. “But I have a feeling there’s more. He seemed interested in me, but he was very uncomfortable about it.”
“He would be, if he has a gambling problem,” Farnsworth said, swirling the water over the ground coffee as she poured.
Though she had watched Farnsworth make coffee dozens of times, Erin had never quite figured out how to replicate the magic of her legendary brew. Erin made decent coffee, but Farnsworth had something—a knack, a mysterious je ne sais quoi.
“You should open a café,” she said as Farnsworth handed her the steaming mug.
“And call it what—the Cat Lady Café?”
“Great idea! People could come for the coffee and to pet the cats. There are places like that in the States. They’re quite popular.”
“I can’t imagine anyone in this town coming to a place I own.”
“Now you’re just fishing for compliments. Your coffee is brilliant, and you know it. What’s your secret?”
“One thing I do is to make each cup individually.”
“But there must be more—what is it?”
“One must maintain an aura of mystery, even around one’s friends,” Farnsworth said, brewing herself a cup.
“Did Austen say that?”
“No, but perhaps she should have.”
“You know what we should do?” said Erin.
“Make up fake Austen quotes and watch Prudence try to figure out how she missed them?”
“I was going to say we should look up Jonathan online and see what we can find on him.”
“You don’t let up, do you?” said Farnsworth. Lumbering to the table with her coffee, she eased herself onto the chair opposite Erin. A woman of generous girth, Farnsworth never seemed the least bit self-conscious about it—if anything, she dressed to emphasize her size. She wore an electric-blue dress and matching scarf, her graying hair swept up in a simple chignon, highlighting her classically pretty face, strong cheekbones, and full mouth. Younger and thinner, Erin thought, she must have been a stunner.
“Almond biscotti?” Farnsworth said, holding out a chipped blue china plate.
“Cheers,” Erin said, plucking one from the plate. Farnsworth’s tableware looked old, like family heirlooms, expensive bone china yellowing at the edges.
“Now then, what about young Jonathan?” Farnsworth said as a sleek orange tabby leapt onto her lap. “Let’s have it, pet—mind you don’t leave anything out.”
Erin recounted her evening at the pub, leaving out the kissing.
“It does sound like our young Bingley may have something unsavory in his past,” Farnsworth mused, sipping her coffee while petting the young tabby with her free hand. The cat closed its eyes and stretched itself sinuously across her lap. “Mind you, no one knows anything about him. He’s the original man of mystery.”
“True—he just shows up here six months ago, lands a job at the middle school, and shows up at society meetings.”
“But surely he must have provided work references to get the job.”
“Those can be faked.”
Farnsworth swept a few biscotti crumbs onto the floor, drawing the attention of several felines, who sniffed at them and turned away, tails twitching. “Even these days, with the Internet and all?”
“I know of several instances where people lied about their backgrounds and got away with it for a long time.”
“And what about those money problems?”
“Maybe he’s running from creditors. But I think he’s gambling.”
“There could be an innocent explanation. Alfred Hitchcock’s father locked him in a jail cell to teach him respect for the law, leaving him with a lifelong fear of policemen.” Farnsworth was a fount of information, well read in many different areas.
“Jonathan definitely has a secret of some kind.”
“You can find out more about him now that he’s taken a shine to you, pet,” Farnsworth said with a sly smile.
“Maybe he knows about my interest in crime and is trying to enlist me as an ally.”
