You’re retired, she tells herself. You are not the person you used to be. Investigating isn’t your job, and that’s not your crime scene. You have a different life now. You have to walk the hell away.
4
LIZZIE
Standing in front of her easel, paintbrush in hand, Lizzie squints at the photo clipped to the top of her canvas. The light on the screened-in patio is always perfect at this time of the morning, but today it isn’t helping. Capturing the likeness of Dolly, the ageing spaniel of their neighbour two doors down, is proving a challenge. The dog’s slightly crossed eyes are tricky to get right.
She shakes her head and puts her brush into the turps pot. There’s nothing more to be done about the eyes right now; she’s out of time. Philip and Moira will be here any moment. It must be almost five minutes since Philip messaged. There’s been a spate of burglaries over the past few weeks. From what Philip said, it seems Moira is the latest victim.
If she’s honest she’s surprised Moira’s coming here. Lizzie had liked her immediately when they’d met, laughing about the awkwardness of downward dog together, and the unfeasibly stretchy yoga teacher who must be at least ten years older than them. They’d gone out for coffee a couple of weeks ago, promised to do the same after the next yoga class, and then . . . nothing. Moira hadn’t been back to class, and hadn’t given Lizzie her address or her mobile number. Then they’d bumped into each other in Publix and Lizzie had got the distinct impression Moira was desperate to escape from them as soon as she could. It’d been weird.
Lizzie’s still packing away her paints when she hears Philip’s key in the door. Popping into the bathroom, she washes a paint smudge from her cheek then hurries out into the hallway. Philip and Moira are already inside. Philip’s putting his coat into the hallway closet. Moira’s standing, arms crossed, and looking uncomfortable.
Lizzie switches into host mode; it’s a role she enjoys. ‘Moira, welcome.’
‘Been slaughtering a rainbow?’ says Philip, eyeing her paint-splattered dungarees. He plants a kiss on Lizzie’s cheek as he drops his keys into the bowl on the dresser.
‘Something like that.’ Lizzie wipes her still-damp hands on her dungarees and turns to Moira. ‘Sorry I’m a bit of a mess. I tend to lose track of time when I’m painting.’
Moira looks unsure. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’
‘You’re not intruding at all. Now, would you like tea, coffee, maybe something stronger?’ Lizzie glances at her husband then back to Moira. Usually bold and confident, now Moira looks pale and subdued, and Philip seems to be supporting her under the elbow. ‘Are you doing okay?’
‘She had a bit of a funny turn,’ says Philip. ‘Needs some sweet tea and a couple of biscuits to sort her out.’
‘I’d prefer coffee if that’s okay.’
‘Of course.’ Lizzie smiles as she appraises Moira again. Her eyes look oddly unfocused and her voice has a tremble to it, nothing like it’s been before. ‘I think you need a sit-down.’ She gestures through to the kitchen and the stools on the other side of the island. ‘Come, sit. And tell me what happened.’
Philip helps Moira to a seat at the island and then sits down opposite her. Lizzie collects three white mugs from the cabinet and sets them down on the white granite countertop. Taking the flask from the hot plate on the coffee maker, she pours each of them a strong coffee and adds three lumps of sugar to the mug for Moira. She sets the coffees down in front of Moira, Philip and the spare stool beside him, then takes a packet of shortbread out of the cupboard and tips them on to a plate. She puts the plate in front of Moira.
As Lizzie climbs up on to the nearest stool, Moira picks up a biscuit. She nibbles the corner off, then sets the rest down on the counter beside her coffee mug. Lizzie hopes Philip doesn’t notice. He hates crumbs.