A Watery Grave (Karen Cady Book 1), Penny Kline [book recommendations for young adults txt] 📗

for an instant, just in time to see the two of them going into the house. Mrs Pearce swinging her empty basket, and the baby pushing a black and white dog on squeaky wheels.

 

 

Chapter Three

 

Karen’s mother worked in a gift shop, the kind of place that sells wildly expensive wooden animals and exotic wall hangings imported from all over the world. Her friend worked there too. She was called Judith but a year ago she had dyed her hair orange and changed her name to ‘Jude’. At least Karen’s mother hadn’t done anything quite that stupid. Not yet.

When Karen pushed open the door the Tibetan goat bells jingled loudly but neither Jude nor her mother looked up. They were unpacking china, huddled together at the far end of the shop, both laughing their heads off, probably telling each other filthy jokes.

‘Mum?’

‘Love!’ Her mother sprang up and dashed towards her as though the two of them had been separated for a year. ‘How nice to see you.’

‘Is it?’ Her mother’s bear hug was for Jude’s sake, to demonstrate what a good relationship they had. No, that was bitchy. Her mother was always asking her to call in at the shop. It’s such fun, love, and the new Brazilian flower pots are selling like hot cakes. What on earth were hot cakes?

‘Hi,’ said Jude, using the sleepy, sing-song voice that was meant to make her sound cool, laid back. She was wearing a dress made out of some soft, glittery material. It made her look even fatter than she actually was. Her hair had grown a little but still stood up in spiky bristles. Round her neck she had three strands of grubby looking beads, one mustard-coloured, one sickly green, and another made of what looked like hundreds of dried up baked beans.

‘I just wanted to ask you something,’ said Karen, taking a few steps back from her mother and picking up an ashtray in the shape of a hippopotamus. ‘I thought you disapproved of smoking.’

‘That’s not an ashtray, love. It’s for . . . What is it for, Jude?’

Jude shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ she said, smiling insincerely.

Karen pretended to cough, then cleared her throat noisily. ‘Mum, I was just thinking. If I had a baby and I wanted to go out to work how would you feel about looking after it for me?’

Her mother screamed. The noise was ear-splitting and for a moment Karen thought she must have stepped on a drawing pin. Then it dawned on her that she might have put the question rather badly.

‘No, I’m not that stupid. I just meant if I had one.’

With a deep sigh her mother collapsed into a Malaysian basket chair. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Karen, no of course I didn’t think . . .’

‘It’s my course work. The changing role of women.’

‘Your History assignment?’

Karen nodded vaguely. Actually the work that had to be in by the end of next week was about Child Labour in the Nineteenth Century. She had a feeling she had lost her notes but if she left it to the last minute something would come to her. It always did. In any case she had far more important things to think about. Finding the evidence that would prove Liam Pearce had killed Natalie Stevens. Or that Liam was innocent. After all, the killer could be someone no-one had suspected so far. Just because Liam seemed the obvious person . . .

Jude offered her a cup of decaffeinated coffee but Karen explained that she had to reach the library before it closed.

‘Oh, I thought you’d have your own library at school,’ said Jude, twisting her beads until she looked in danger of strangling herself.

‘We have.’ Karen had her hand on the shop door. ‘But there’s something I need to look up in the archives.’

Archives. It sounded very scholarly. Her mother would be beaming happily – proud of her hard-working daughter – and Jude, who had two teenage boys, one of whom had been suspended from school for writing obscene messages in the bogs, would be insisting girls were so much easier, much more mature.

*

The man behind the information desk had a round face and a thin, straggly beard. When Karen said she wanted to look at old copies of the local paper he kept his eyes firmly focused on a list he was checking and asked what date she needed.

‘I’m not sure. April. The end of April.’

‘Last April?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Did they keep newspapers going back for years and years? If her History course involved looking up the original sources it might be a whole lot more interesting than the boring notes they had been given so far.

‘Don’t go away.’ The librarian disappeared for a few moments, then returned with a heavy pile of newspapers and started walking towards a table over by the photocopier. ‘Bring them back when you’ve finished.’

‘Thanks.’ Karen sat down and checked the date on the paper on top. April the eighteenth. Too early. Now that she thought about it she was certain the murder had taken place on the twenty-first. That was Tessie’s birthday and her parents had paid for a big party, with a disc jockey and flashing lights. Glen had poured vodka into several people’s drinks but Tessie’s parents had blamed another boy so, as usual, Glen had managed to keep his image untarnished.

Karen pulled out the paper dated the twenty-second, and the headline said it all. BODY FOUND IN RESERVOIR. Underneath was a short paragraph about how the body of a young woman had been found but as yet the police had not revealed the name of the victim. Relatives had been informed.

The victim’s name was in the following edition, together with a photograph of Natalie Stevens, dressed in a bikini and dark glasses. Perfect figure, perfect face. Gleaming white teeth.