Distraction

Chapter Five

Libby hadn't seen anything but dry stone walls, mountains and sheep since she left the M6. The walls were endless, mountains surrounded her in three directions and sheep lurked around every corner - twice she'd had to brake to avoid running over the little buggers.  

But then, there it was. Gosthwaite.  

She sat a little straighter as her battered Mini followed Zoe's BMW into the village. They crawled past walkers in hiking boots and old ladies chatting outside the Post Office until finally, they arrived in the Square. 

On Google Maps the Georgian townhouses looked elegant but bland. In reality they were painted pale olives, sky blues and the subtlest of dusky pinks, their facades creating a pastel rainbow around the square. Even Great-aunt Maggie's cottage looked passably cute with pink clematis covering half of the pebble-dashing.  

Was this it, the place she'd finally find a distraction that worked? A new man? The perfect job? 

As Libby parked up, Zoe hovered at the garden gate. A garden, they had a front garden. Okay, it was only about six feet in depth from the house, but none of the townhouses had one.  

'Just so you're aware,' Libby said as they wandered between the fat lavender plants lining the path, 'I've never wielded a lawnmower in my life.' 

'I'm hoping there's some fit young gardener guy we can employ.' Zoe's hand hesitated as she turned the key in the lock. 'God knows what it's like in here. Maggie was a scatty woman, clutter everywhere.'  

Libby held her breath. Someone died in this house. 'There won't be any, you know... evidence, will there?' 

'Lib, she fell down the stairs and broke her neck. She wasn't bludgeoned to death.'  

But Libby wasn't fooled by her friend's overly chipper smile. Sure enough, when the door opened into a long hallway, they stood on the threshold, staring at the foot of the stairs, neither of them admiring the black and white Victorian tiles. 

'So is that where...' Libby wrapped her arms around herself. 

The stairs were wooden, the floor ceramic. She winced imagining poor Great-aunt Maggie's final moments. How long had the little old lady lay there, dying? Minutes, hours? Hopefully, less than a second.  

Zoe looked up to where the staircase turned to the right, disappearing from view. 'She had this big, fat old cat and he used to sleep at the top of the stairs. Mum said she probably tripped over him. The amount of times, I'd nagged her about him. I nearly broke my neck last time I stayed here.' 

'What happened to the cat?' 

Zoe shrugged. 'A neighbour, Sheila, I think, came to feed him after they'd found Maggie but he'd gone.' With a little shake of her head, Zoe flashed a real smile. 'Okay, maudlin over. Want a tour?' Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door to their left. 'Welcome to the Eighties.' 

'Wow.' Libby stared at the flowery sofa, matching curtains and coordinating striped wallpaper, a riot of burgundy and cream. 'I've never seen so much chintz in one place.' 

Knick-knacks covered every occasional table, books were stacked against the walls, but Libby just discerned an upright piano from the CDs stacked around it. She squeaked in delight. 

'Please, please, please, can we keep the piano?' 

'If we must.' Zoe peered at the label on a tassel-cornered scatter cushion. 'Back in the day, Maggie liked quality. This is a Laura Ashley vomitorium.' 

Libby cleared the CDs, lifting the lid and stroking the keys with reverence. Without hesitation, she pressed middle C. When had she last played? A pub in Cornwall?