Unholy Rites by Kay Stewart & Chris Bullock

Author:Kay Stewart & Chris Bullock
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General, FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Police Procedural, FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths
ISBN: 978-1-927129-83-8
Publisher: Touchwood Editions
Published: 2013-03-12T04:00:00+00:00

Twenty

“Arthur,” Justine Clough called, sounding amused. “Here’s the young lady to see you.”

Immersed in the mindless, peaceful work of sticking privet leaves into clay, Arthur looked up, startled. In the open door of his mother’s garage a woman’s shape was silhouetted against the mellow afternoon sun. She was wearing a tailored skirt and loose jacket, with a briefcase slung over her shoulder. It couldn’t be Danutia. She always wore pants. Then he remembered. Today was Friday, the day of her presentation on her community policing project.

He hadn’t seen her since their trip to Leeds on Sunday. As they’d agreed on the way back, he had tried to follow up on the few slim leads they’d gathered from their talk with Violet Roberts. He’d begun with strong determination on Monday morning, combing his mother’s scrapbooks for references to Liz Hazelhurst and the bereavement group. After lunch, feeling discouraged about his slow progress, he had wandered into the garage to observe the petalling. It hadn’t taken long for Justine to draw him in. Since then, he’d divided his time between his investigations and the convivial group in the garage.

Today he was putting the finishing touches on the title board. As he stepped back for a final look, he could feel his anxiety about the investigation returning. He forced himself to turn away. He and Danutia had urgent issues to discuss, and they’d have little chance tomorrow, among the hurly-burly of Blessing Day. He washed his hands in a bowl of warm water.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he told Justine as he squeezed past the main panel.

“Hurry back,” she said. “If the well dressing isn’t ready to install at eight in the morning, our name will be mud. Isn’t that right, Hugh?”

“You’re always right, dearest.” Clough was poking holes in exposed clay with a tool that looked like a large toothpick. “We mustn’t let this dry out,” he said to Liz, working beside him in her paint-splattered coveralls. Arthur had watched the main features take shape—the river, the bridge, the anglers. Now came the race against time to complete the looming mass of Chee Tor, the surrounding trees, the distant sky.

“Sandwiches will arrive in half an hour,” called Beverley from the other side of the central panel, where she was pressing in peppercorns to create Liz’s thick dark lines. “Arthur, I asked Laura to include some roast beef and horseradish ones. I know they’re your favorites.”

“Save me some,” Arthur said to her, then turned to Danutia.

“It’s a lovely evening,” she said. “Why don’t we walk by the river?” Crossing the road, they chatted about her presentation until they were over the footbridge and safely out of earshot.

They stopped at a rough anglers’ bench beside the water. “I feel like I’m taking you away from a family work party,” Danutia said. “Should I come back later?”

“No,” Arthur said. “This is the best chance we have. Let’s get down to it.” His tone was more brusque than he intended, his grievance at having to carry on alone this week breaking through.

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