Cars Just Want To Be Rust (Kitty Lockwood Crime Mystery Series Book 1) by Tony Glover

Author:Tony Glover [Glover, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kitty Lockwood Crime Mystery Series
Published: 2021-10-21T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

As long as Dorian kept moving she was able to fend off the gloom. The way to stay positive was to fill the empty hours with work. There must be no drop in standards. Richard found that sort of thing very upsetting.

She emptied the dishwasher and stacked the dishes. She dusted and hoovered the rooms on the ground floor. Every now and then she thought about the call that had woken her in the early hours. It was not Richard’s voice. It was not Kevin either. There was something about the sound of that voice that troubled her. She made a mug of coffee and carried it through to the stables. She stroked Halloween’s muzzle, gazing into his soft, dark eyes.

‘Beautiful boy.’

Dorian turned the horses out into the paddock. She watched them kick their heels as they cantered across the hillside.

At eleven she sat in the kitchen, reading Elle. The washing machine chugged and gurgled as she sipped her coffee. The radio burbled in the corner of the room. The sound of a human voice was comforting. She wondered about Richard, seeing him at the wheel of his car, the image so vivid, it was as if she was sitting by his side. It was unusual not to have a call from him.

When her housework was done, she filled a flask and climbed the stairs. She paused at the top, tilting her head to one side. The house seemed silent, yet she could hear a noise – a faint susurration, like the whisper of a baby breathing. She screwed her eyes shut, shaking that idea from her head. Today there would be no visits to the ‘nursery,’ no glass of red to go with her lunch. She had cut down, a little, since that awful afternoon. It was fortunate that the cellar was such a dark, unsettling place. The fear of it helped her fight temptation.

She climbed the staircase to her studio, tucked beneath the eaves. The floor was stripped pine and the room was filled with the scent of new wood. The window gave her a view all the way down the valley. The room was a clutter; her desk buried beneath cards of buttons, fabric swatches and scraps of material. Drawings and sketches were tacked to the walls and a dressmaker’s dummy stood in one corner of the room.

Dorian kicked off her shoes, took a pencil from the jar and opened her sketch pad. She slid her bare feet onto the table. The pencil point hovered over the paper. She was ready.

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