Elizabeth J. Duncan - The Cold Light of Mourning

The Cold Light

of Mourning

For Lucas

Contents

T he idea for this story began with a wicked little item in the Toronto Sun newspaper. A few months later, friends Fred and Margot Parker kindly gave my son and me a lovely lunch in a small North Wales village, and with that, I had a starting point and a setting.

My deepest thanks go to the wonderful people of Llandudno and Llanrwst, North Wales, for their interest and help with the factual details.

Thank you to Harriette I. Sackler and the members of her committee, who awarded this work the 2006 William F. Deeck Malice Domestic grant for unpublished writers.

In Toronto, heartfelt thanks to Madeleine Matte for the chapter-by-chapter encouragement and to Carol Putt, who introduced me to Malice Domestic and went on to provide wonderful content editing, along with cups of tea and those nice little empire biscuits. Thank you, Carol, for your insight, expertise, and practical suggestions that made everything come right in the end.

I am grateful to everyone associated with the St. Martins MinotaurMalice Domestic competition for best first novel: Luci Zahray for short-listing the manuscript, Ruth Cavin for the phone call on a cold March afternoon that every writer dreams of, and Toni Plummer, who, with patience and good humor, turned a pile of paper into a book. It was lucky for me that New York literary agent Dominick Abel came along at just the right time and agreed to take me on. I know how fortunate I am.

Several established mystery writersnotably Carolyn Hart and Maureen Jenningshave been very supportive and I appreciate their kind words.

And finally, special thanks to dear Dolly for those endless lakeside rambles where we do our best thinking. I wonder how many bodies would remain undiscovered were it not for a local woman walking her dog.

The Cold Light of Mourning

E mma Teasdale had been ill for some time and on a cool evening in early June, alone and peacefully, she died.

Those who gathered at lunchtime to set the world to rights at The Leek and Lily, the local pub, were saddened to hear of the retired schoolteachers passing and remembered their long-ago school days with the reflective kind of nostalgia that is the gentle gift of time.

But one person, hearing of Emmas death, knew there was something to be done that only she could do.

Pulling on an ice-blue cardigan, Penny Brannigan turned the door sign to CLOSED, pulled the Happy Hands Nail Care shop door shut behind her, strode purposefully down Station Road, and turned left into Market Square.

A few minutes later, mildly out of breath, she arrived at the sedate faade of Wightman and Sons, the towns undertakers for more than a century. She paused for a moment to take in the familiar shop window that had been carefully draped in faded green velvet, framing a stiff arrangement of dried, dusty flowers.

Then, bringing her focus back to the purpose of her mission, she pushed the door open. As the overhead bell tinkled, Philip Wightman emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on a small yellow-and-white-striped towel.

Tall and slightly stooped, with thinning white hair, Philip was impeccably dressed in a sober black jacket and striped trousers. He smiled when he saw who it was and was just about to greet his visitor when Penny spoke.

Philip, Ive come about Emma Teasdale, she burst out. To get right to the point, Id like to do Emmas nails before she goes. Emma would have wanted me to do this for her. She always liked her manicure, Emma did, and was most particular about it. Ill use her favourite colour, Altar Ego. Its a light pink laced with lavender and it will be just right for the occasion.

With a sympathetic smile, Philip asked Penny to take a seat.

Hello to you, too, Penny. How are you, then? Holding up all right? No time for the pleasantries anymore?

Penny started to apologize, but he shook his head dismissively.

He thought for a moment as he carefully finished drying his hands and then nodded his agreement.

Well, now, I think youre right. Miss Teasdale would have liked that very much, he said. Why dont you come back tomorrow morning, after eleven, say, and bring your kit with you. Well have Emma, ah, Miss Teasdale ready for you then. Ill stay with you while you do it, if you like.

The visitation will start at two tomorrow, so that should give you enough time. He paused and looked at her sympathetically. And youre quite sure you want to do this?

Penny nodded. I am, Philip, but thank you for your concern. Ive never done a manicure before on someone who is... who has... Her voice trailed off, and Philip supplied the word she couldnt bring herself to say.

Died.

Penny thanked him, turned to go, and more slowly than she had come, made her way back along the narrow street to the small manicure shop she had opened more than twenty years ago.

The day, which had started out fine, was now threatening to rain. Low, dark clouds scudded across the sky, and the wind was picking up. Empty cups, plastic bags, and bits of paper blew along the street, washing up against the curb.

As she reached her shop, she paused for a moment to enjoy its unique setting. Hers was the third of three businesses in an old stone building; the premises beside hers had been empty for some time and a photographer had recently opened a studio in the third space. The charm of her shop lay in the small stream that ran merrily alongside it, bouncing over slippery, smooth stones to create the soothing yet energizing sound of rushing water. A curved wrought iron set of stairs led from the narrow pavement to her small flat on the first floor. She rarely used the stairs, though, because it was usually faster and more convenient to access the flat through the interior stairs tucked behind a discreet door at the rear of her shop. And, as she had learned the hard, bumpy way one rainy morning, the narrow steps could be very slippery when wet.

She unlocked the shop door and stepped inside, thinking as she often did when she turned the door sign from CLOSED to OPEN, how fortunate she was to be able to earn her living, small though it was, doing something she was good at, and which other people seemed to value.

Her manicure salon was clean, tidy, and well laid out. Bottles of nail polish, ranging from rosy pinks to vivid reds, and deep burgundies and browns through to vanilla creams and pearly whites were neatly arranged beside the small worktable where women, girls, and even the occasional man, always a tourist, sat to soak their nails, have their cuticles trimmed, and then their nails shaped, polished, and painted.