Page 8 of A Very Bookish Murder (Ally McKinley Mystery #3)

‘Well, you can hardly blame him if Jodi was doing the same thing.’

‘I just hope that Jodi thought to make a will and keep him out of it.’

Ally didn’t reply for a moment, knowing full well that he’d most likely be able to claim anyway, but it was best not to agitate Desdemona any further. ‘So he’s having an affair then?’

‘An affair ! It’s all “free love” in his woodland paradise! Everyone shagging everyone else!’ Desdemona drained her coffee. ‘He’d be a definite suspect if you ask me.’

‘But he’s not arrived yet!’ Ally said, staring at her.

‘So far as you know,’ Desdemona said, standing up. ‘He could be hiding away somewhere for all we know, and he could have sneaked into the hotel and killed poor Jodi.’

‘I doubt he could have got into the ladies’ room at exactly the right moment, strangled her and then left without being seen or bumping into one of the women,’ Ally remarked.

‘I wouldn’t put it past him, slimy bugger. Just hope your Glaswegian detective is on the ball. Keep me informed, will you?’

Ally nodded as she accompanied Desdemona to the door. It was after Desdemona had left that Ally realised she should have questioned her about being at university with Jodi. She’d appreciate more information about Jodi Jones.

‘Della wants to move up here to stay with you,’ Joyce informed her later when the women came back in the late afternoon. ‘She says all the other women are horrible to her and she’s being ostracised.’

Rightly or wrongly, Della was, of course, the chief suspect, and Ally couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her.

She’d have liked to be able to offer Della a room but, she wondered, what was to stop her own four guests treating her in exactly the same way?

Particularly as they’d want to exonerate themselves. And anyway, Brigitte had asked first.

‘He’s good-looking though, that new detective,’ piped up Millie.

‘Yes, he is indeed,’ Ally agreed, trying to change the subject. ‘So, who had to talk about their lives today? I gather you’re doing life story sharing as part of the revised course?’

‘None other than Penelope herself!’ Joyce said.

‘She wittered on for a good hour about how brilliant she was with horses. Catching horses, riding horses, showing horses, horses jumping, horses racing, dressage – you name it! Horses, horses, bloody horses! How can you write a love story about a horse, for God’s sake? ’

‘Perhaps it could be about a lady of the manor falling in love with a stable hand?’ Ally suggested.

Joyce appeared unimpressed. ‘Perhaps,’ she muttered. She looked at Brigitte. ‘She went on a bit, didn’t she?’

Brigitte nodded. ‘Very horsey lady,’ she agreed, then quickly pressed a finger to her lips as Penelope reappeared.

As the others made their way upstairs, Ally took Brigitte to one side.

‘Apparently Jodi’s husband is on his way and will be clearing out her effects,’ Ally said, ‘so the room will be free when he has done so. Unless, of course, the husband wants to move in.’

Brigitte nodded. ‘George will be happy to pay anything extra, I am sure.’

At seven o’clock in the evening, the women walked down to the Craigmonie for dinner. The sun was still shining, the earlier breeze had abated and Ally was pondering whether or not to do an hour’s gardening when Jodi’s husband arrived.

He was, in a word, shaggy. He had shaggy, shoulder-length greying hair, a long shaggy beard, and even his eyebrows were shaggy. He looked to be about seventy, and he was wielding a large canvas bag.

‘Mrs McKinley?’

‘Yes,’ Ally replied.

‘Owen Jones,’ he said, by way of introduction, in a strong Welsh accent. ‘Jodi’s husband. I’ve come for her things.’

‘Oh, Mr Jones, I am so, so sorry about your wife…’

‘Yes, well.’ He didn’t look particularly distressed. ‘We’ve been apart for years.’

‘Do come in,’ Ally said. ‘I’ll get the key and show you up to her room.’

‘Thank you.’ He stepped into the hallway and looked around.

Ally darted into the kitchen to fetch the key, and then closed the door to the hall so that Flora was shut in. She joined him a moment later, indicating that he should follow her up the stairs.

‘How did you get here?’ she asked.

‘I’ve had to come in my camper van, all the way from Wales to this godforsaken place!

’ he said, looking morosely out of the window.

The view was spectacular from the windows in this room, with its panorama of the village, the river and even the sea loch in the distance, but Locharran’s charms were plainly lost on him.

Ally bridled. She didn’t like the village being referred to in that way, and, so far anyway, she didn’t much like him either.

As she ushered him into the bedroom, she said, ‘This must be very distressing for you, and you will let me know if I can help in any way?’

He looked round the bedroom, sniffed loudly and said, ‘Don’t worry – I’ll manage.’

Ally took this as her cue to disappear. ‘OK, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll make some tea – or would you prefer coffee?’

‘I won’t be hanging around,’ he said as he opened the wardrobe door, grabbed a handful of clothes, still on their hangers, and shoved them into the canvas bag.

Ally, feeling deflated, left him to it.

The grieving widower he was not . And he was borderline rude. At least he wasn’t going to need accommodation if he had a camper van. She peered out of the window to see the vehicle in question and saw a rather old model, extremely dirty. Still, he had come all the way from Wales.

She wouldn’t have paired him up with Jodi in a million years. She hoped that he wasn’t going to ask if he could park his scruffy van in her little car park at the side of the malthouse.

Ten minutes later, she heard him tramping down the stairs, and went out to meet him in the hallway.

‘I’ve got it all,’ he said as he marched towards the door. ‘Any chance I can park my van out there?’ he asked, pointing vaguely at her little car park.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Ally said firmly. ‘These spaces are for my overnight guests. But I can try to make other arrangements for you. I have a friend with some land who may be able to help you.’

‘OK, can you do it now?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Of course,’ Ally said, a little put out by his rudeness.

She telephoned Ross.

‘What can I do for you, my lovely?’ he asked.

‘You could do me a huge favour,’ Ally said, keeping her voice low.

‘I’m intrigued,’ he said.

‘I’ve got the murder victim’s husband here and he needs somewhere to park his camper van, so could he possibly come to you?’ As well as several upmarket holiday lets, Ross also had some acres of land down by the sea loch.

‘No problem,’ Ross said. ‘Just send him along.’

‘You’re a treasure – thank you so much.’ Ally quickly scribbled down the directions to get to Ross’s and handed it to Owen Jones.

Ally followed him out. ‘My condolences, Mr Jones,’ she said.

He walked down the path to where he’d parked his van, then slung the canvas bag into the passenger seat, got into the driving seat and nodded.

‘Thanks,’ he said and was gone.

Ally let the dog out. ‘You wouldn’t have liked him, Flora,’ she said before going upstairs to take a look at Room 1. It was completely empty.