Playing It Safe by Ashley Weaver

Author:Ashley Weaver
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mr. Hall had spotted us in deep conversation and had gone in the opposite direction—better to give us privacy, I assumed. Now I walked hurriedly in the direction he had retreated, trying not to appear as though I was following him.

I walked along the bluff, giving special attention to the birds that soared overhead. This really was a good spot for birding, if one was interested in such things. I saw a sanderling hopping along the shore below, if my memory of that wretched book served.

I went over a dip in the dune and saw him standing there. He saw me, too, so it was perfectly natural to wave hello and move in his direction.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

“Good afternoon.”

Mr. Hall was not what I had expected. I had assumed he would be a doddery elderly man, but this gentleman, while slightly stooped and of weathered complexion, had sharp eyes, and his manner and movements were animated. I realized that I would have to adjust my expectations of him. Never assume, Ellie girl. Uncle Mick had told me that often enough, and it would do me well to remember it.

“It’s a lovely day,” I said.

“Indeed.” He was looking at me expectantly, wondering, I supposed, what I was doing on this deserted stretch of beach.

“My husband and I are renting a little cottage back that way,” I said, pointing vaguely to the north. “He’s on leave from the RAF, and we’ve come here for a bit of privacy.”

“Well, I suppose a secluded spot like this is just right for privacy,” he said, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Young married couples like to be alone together, don’t they?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said, trying to muster up a blush.

“There’s a lot of good deserted beach along here,” he said. “And just half a mile or so to the south, there are some old smuggler’s caves worth exploring. Do be careful, though. There are one or two deep pits inside it, I believe. Where is the young man now?” he asked, his eyes moving from me to scan the beach behind me.

“Oh, I’ve left him alone to think,” I said. “He’s a writer, you see.”

“Ah!” His interest seemed piqued at this. “And what kind of books does he write?”

I tried to think of what Mr. Hall might be least interested in. The less interested he was, the less likely he would be to ask too many questions.

“He writes mystery novels,” I said at last.

“Ah.” I appeared to have chosen right. The flicker of interest evaporated from Mr. Hall’s expressive face.

“I would never tell him,” I said. “But they’re not much my cup of tea.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not much for reading. I like to be outside, in nature. I’ve been looking for birds today…” I held up the birding book and then wondered if I was laying it on a bit too thick.

His gaze was suddenly sharp, and I didn’t know whether I had roused his academic interest or his suspicion. I would have to tread carefully.

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