Book Clubs Can Be Murder: A Saffron Weald Mystery (Saffron Weald Mystery Series 3) by Ann Sutton

Author:Ann Sutton [Sutton, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wild Poppy Publishing
Published: 2024-09-27T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

“I’m getting too old for this type of thing,” moaned Imogen as she pulled the black hat further down her head, wrapping her arms tightly around her torso.

“Sometimes the pursuit of justice entails personal sacrifices,” replied Ophelia as they hid behind an obliging bush at the back of The Dirty Duck. She looked at her watch. Half past eleven. The pub had closed half an hour ago and the temporary staff would be leaving at any minute. They just needed to be patient.

Ophelia shivered. Though her fingers were numb the adrenalin coursing through her veins waged war on the problem so that she hardly noticed. She reflected on her past, times when she had to put personal comfort aside for the greater good. The rewards were always worth it.

Another glance at the time showed that the workers would be leaving any minute.

Pierre had graciously loaned them his car which was parked half a mile away in a convenient layby. Imogen felt a squeeze of guilt as she recalled the fib they had spun about a dinner with friends in another village. Lying to friends was never a good idea, but she was more than grateful that even Ophelia drew the line at wandering around the countryside in the dead of night in the depths of winter.

She began marching on the spot. “I can’t feel my toes.”

“Shouldn’t be too long now.”

Even as Ophelia spoke, two people exited through the back door. One stayed to lock up, the other said goodbye and was immediately swallowed up by the night.

Ophelia's experience told her to err on the side of caution. “I say we give it another ten minutes.” Imogen's teeth chattered in response.

Sure that the coast was clear, they approached the door. No longer surprised at her sister’s breaking and entering skills, Imogen watched as Ophelia poked a thin piece of metal into the lock, minutely twisting her wrist while listening for the familiar thunk. Within seconds they were inside.

“Watch your step,” warned Ophelia.

Fumbling around in the dark, they found the stairs to the private apartment, and reaching the living room, Imogen hurried to close the curtains before they turned on their torches. Their beams revealed a welcoming lilac and soft green decor and a delicate lady’s writing table wedged into one of the corners. Neatly organized drawers suggested an ordered temperament. The second drawer contained mountains of correspondence. Ophelia withdrew the stack in gloved fingers and quickly split the pile in two.

Flicking through the pages, Imogen said, “This one's from the brewery offering their condolences about the fire. But there’s no mention of giving Ralph and Evelyn another pub to run.”

Ophelia held up another letter. “Here’s the one offering them this location. What date is yours.”

“June 19.”

“Mine is dated June 29. Edie was right. It was less than two weeks later which begs the question, what changed the brewery’s mind?”

Most of the other correspondence was bills or letters from family asking how things were going in Meadowshire.

Using her fingers, Ophelia felt around the edges and underside of the desk.

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