Murder in the Cotswolds by Guthrie A. B.;

Author:Guthrie, A. B.;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media

Chapter Thirteen

After Chick and Perkins left her that morning, Geeta set out for Mr. Ebersole’s store. She thought she looked good in her tweeds. It was still cool enough for them, though the sky was unclouded.

She felt the moist air on her face. It made her skin feel fresh and young, as if every wrinkle were smoothing out. Unlike Montana, she thought, feeling disloyal, where wind and aridity dried out the skin and made hair hard to manage.

An antique shop she hadn’t visited stood just across the street from Ebersole’s, and she dropped in there for a minute to inquire about flow-blue. No luck, as she had expected.

At the store she said, “Good morning, Mr. Ebersole.” He was arranging fruit in the front, wearing his black suspenders and white shirt. A man was stocking shelves in the rear.

“Well, Mrs. Charleston, it’s a pleasure to see you,” he answered. “Some more of that good French wine?”

“Yes, Mr. Ebersole, after a while.” She gave him her smile. “Do you have time to talk this morning?”

“Plenty of time. I even had time to stand still and look out the windows and watch people passing. I saw you entering the antique shop across the way.”

“I was looking for china, flow-blue china. I can’t seem to find much of it, and what there is is so expensive.” She drew a breath. “But I really came to finish our talk about the Hawthornes.” She went on to say, “It surprises me that you know my name.”

He smiled his old man’s smile. “It shouldn’t. In the real tourist season, with crowds in the village, I wouldn’t have known. But in the slack season we take note, especially of women good to look at.”

She returned his smile and waited.

He backed up to a stand of vegetables and rested against it. It struck her that he was tired and maybe not well. “But perhaps you’d rather tell me another time?”

“Oh, no, no. I’m all right. You said you were interested in your ancestry, and I told you about the Hawthornes, the old Hawthornes. You could go to Scotland to inquire.”

“I wish I could, but I can’t. We’re here on vacation, my husband and I, and the time is nearly up.”

“I see. Then there’s old Mr. Steele here in the village. He knew them and might be able to tell you more.”

“I’ve seen him.”

Mr. Ebersole shook his head.

“But you mentioned a Hawthorne woman from a later time.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Can you tell me more? Were they related?”

“That I wouldn’t know. I doubt it. She lived here just a few years and kept pretty much to herself.”

A customer came in, and the man in the rear came forward to wait on him. Mr. Ebersole looked on with little apparent interest. He shifted against the vegetable display and breathed out a sighing breath.

Should she question him further? Geeta asked herself. He looked tired to death, but he waited for her to speak.

“You knew her?” she dared to ask.

“Not to say knew,” he answered. “She

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