The Inspector Walter Darriteau Murder Mysteries - Books 1-4, David Carter [diy ebook reader .txt] 📗

She shrugged her shoulders and rewarded herself with a hot herbal bath, and a cold bottle of Pinot Grigio, which she set on an old wooden tray that her father had made in the shed at the foot of the garden, and duly varnished, she remembered him presenting it to her mother as if it were made of gold, and the big kiss that was planted on his five o’clock shadow cheek, as his reward. Happy days, but days long gone, days of yore, days that would never return. She shook her head and tried to think of other things, for if she didn’t she knew she’d shed a tear.

Twenty minutes later, with the latest American bloodthirsty crime novel jammed under her arm, tray and bottle and wine glass before her, she was happy to prance up those dancers, as her mother always referred to the thirteen stairs, that took her to the first floor.

Ten more minutes slipped away and she was in bed, book in one hand, glass of chilled wine in the other, happy and content, seeking her place in four hundred pages, for she had forgotten to run down the corner, something that she knew was frowned upon by many, but a simple trick that did the job. Who cared anyway?

It was a particularly violent and bloody book, one of those blockbuster female American novelists who specialised in gory details, and ample murders and autopsies, and handsome men, and mentally damaged wicked murderers, and precisely the kind of thing she went for every time. She adored it, for it gave her a real thrill, and there were not too many of those in Belinda Cooper’s life.

She wasn’t the first woman to imagine that the world inside books was a whole lot more exciting and fulfilling than the real one in which she found herself; and she wouldn’t be the last either. Come to think of it, she wasn’t imagining it at all, it was a cold hard fact, and there was no doubt about it.

She slurped another mouthful of fine wine, and was surprised to find her overlarge glass already empty. Not a problem, she reached across and topped it up. The bottle was nearly empty too, though that didn’t matter, for she always kept ample supplies in the old pantry just off the kitchen. Those damned supermarkets gave a ten percent discount if you bought a box of six, an offer she could never refuse, though she didn’t really want to get out of her warm bed and go downstairs for another.

She had no mortgage, she’d never had such a thing, courtesy of her ma and pa, in fact she’d never even taken out a loan in her entire life, and being an only child there had never been any thought or possibility of sharing her inheritance with anyone else. She possessed a decent job, was good at what she did, so it was unlikely she would ever be fired, and she didn’t smoke, or spend too much cash on clothes.

She never bought expensive designer items unless she happened to come across something decent in a charity shop, so in Bel’s happy world there was precious little to spend her money on, other than holidays, and drink.

A huge flash filled the room.

Bel jumped in her bed.

Three seconds later and a thunderclap almost deafened her, so powerful was it she could have sworn the white wine waved and vibrated in the glass like a mini tide coming in and going out.

Another hefty gang of bangs came out of nowhere.

Boom – Bang! Bang! Tumbledown-Bang!

The old wooden floorboards vibrated.

Bel swore at the storm, as if that might chase it off.

There would be no point in settling down and trying to sleep, for that would be impossible to find, and anyway, the young doctor, in the book, had just found a severed woman’s arm in a barrel, loosely covered in hay, at the back of the barn, and there was a chestnut horse loose in the lane. Bel shivered and sucked her lips and couldn’t possibly stop reading now. Whatever had happened to the poor girl? Dreadful! And was she already dead when the arm was severed? Or was she mutilated whilst still being alive? Bel shuddered at the thought.

Another huge thunderbolt tore down the street, so much so the thick curtains danced and fell still.

Bel grimaced, and considered running downstairs for another bottle, but thought better of it, and then it happened. She heard the sound of breaking glass.

Nine

Karen had hurried home to run a bath. She tossed some perfumed herbal relaxant oil into the water, tested it wasn’t too hot. Slipped from her day clothes, blouse and tight slacks, and stepped in and let the water run as hot as she could bear, until the bath was full to the overflow, and leant back and closed her eyes. Why did she enjoy hot baths so much? She had no idea, but knew she always had, for as long as she could remember.

She had been thinking about what to wear. Over a hurried light lunch she’d read a woman’s mag. Dress to impress, was the definite advice for new or recently met dates, and with that in mind she’d settled on the tried and tested LBD. David hadn’t seen it before, and Gregory had always been excited by that little black dress, so much so that he couldn’t keep his hands off her, and if it had the same impression on Dave, though he didn’t like to be called that, well, the time was fast approaching where their relationship needed to be consummated.

‘Maybe tonight,’ she said aloud, and followed that with a wicked giggle. ‘If you are very lucky, Mr Baker.’

She wondered where they might go for dinner. She hoped it would be somewhere nice. She was sure it would be somewhere nice for David had a good job, and earned far more than she did. He wasn’t stingy with it too, or at least