Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

She opened her eyes as a breath of air touched her face. Kincaid had turned away, his hand on the doorknob, face set in a tight scowl. Gemma reached out and touched his arm, attempting a smile. “You’re right, of course. Guess I did overreact a bit. Look… I know I’ve been an awful bloody cow lately.” She glanced away, bit her lip. “Duncan… I’m sorry.”

Tall and tanned, his close-cropped silver-blond hair molded to his finely shaped head, Malcolm Reid was a sight to make any woman’s heart flutter. He would make a perfect complement to Claire Gilbert’s fair, delicate prettiness, and Gemma could easily imagine why tongues would wag.

He’d greeted them pleasantly, offering coffee from a sleek, German pot plugged into an outlet at the back of one of the display countertops.

“I thought this was all just for show.” Gemma gestured at the kitchen area as she accepted a mug.

“Might as well make use of the facilities.” Reid grinned as he pulled up wrought-iron stools for Will and Gemma. “Actually, this is very much a working kitchen. My wife uses it for demonstration cooking classes, but she has nothing on just now. ‘Healthy Cooking from the Mediterranean’ finished last week, and ‘Italian Classics’ starts this coming Tuesday.”

The names of the courses conjured up exotic ingredients, warm climates awash with garlic-laden smells, and Gemma felt a little shiver of longing. Although her parents had turned out excellent baked goods, their business had left them little time or energy for anything but the most conventional of English cooking, and Gemma hadn’t had much opportunity to venture further afield. “Sounds lovely,” she said a bit wistfully.

“It is.” Malcolm Reid regarded her with interest. He’d propped himself against the countertop with an air of much practice, cradling his coffee in both hands. “You should give it a try sometime. Now how can I help you?”

Will shifted position on a stool seat not made for thighs the size of hams. “Mr. Reid, can you tell us what you were doing on Wednesday evening?”

Reid’s mug made an almost imperceptible pause in its journey to his mouth. He took a sip, then said, “Wednesday evening? Are you asking me for an alibi? I know, I know”-he held up a hand before they could speak-“I heard it from your… chief inspector, wasn’t it? Routine inquiries, just like the telly, not to worry. I must say I don’t find that reassurance very comforting, but I’ve no reason not to tell you. I’m afraid you may find it rather a disappointment, however.” He looked at Gemma, a gleam of humor in his eyes. “I closed up the shop at half past five and went straight home, where I spent the entire evening with my wife.”

Will nodded encouragingly. “Your wife will verify this, Mr. Reid?”

“Of course she will. Why shouldn’t she?”

“Mr. Reid,” began Gemma, wondering how she might ease into this tactfully, “does your wife get on well with Claire Gilbert?”

“Val?” Reid appeared genuinely puzzled. “Val’s known Claire longer than I have. That’s how Claire came to me as a client-she’d taken one of Val’s classes.”

“Were both your wife and Alastair Gilbert comfortable with your working relationship with Claire?”

For a moment Reid looked at her blankly, then his face hardened. “Just what exactly are you getting at?”

Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, thought Gemma, since her attempt at tact had not come off a resounding success. “Apparently, Mr. Reid, there have been some rumors in the village that your relationship with Claire Gilbert was a little more personal in nature and that her husband was made aware of that.”

“Bloody hell,” exploded Reid, his knuckles white on the coffee mug. “I hate bloody gossip. It’s so insidious, and one’s so bloody powerless against it. You’re damned as a sneak if you say nothing, damned even more if you speak out or challenge the whisperers-’methinks he doth protest too much.’

“It’s all nonsense, and nonsense about Alastair, too.” Suddenly he relaxed and sighed. “Oh, it’s not your fault, Sergeant. Sorry if I took it out on you. But tell me you don’t have to thrust this on Claire, too. Surely she’s had enough to deal with as it is.”

Painfully aware of its inadequacy, Gemma trotted out her stock answer. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Reid, and the truth must take precedence. I dislike-”

She was spared finishing by the opening of the shop door, and she recognized Claire Gilbert’s voice even as she turned.

“Malcolm, I-” Claire stopped in midstride as she took in Will and Gemma, but Gemma had the distinct impression that she had been about to rush straight into Malcolm Reid’s arms.

“Claire, what are doing here?” Reid crossed to her and took her hands, his face creased with concern. “You’ve no business being out.”

Letting go Reid’s hands after a brief contact, Claire recovered enough poise to greet Will and Gemma with her usual graciousness. “I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t seem rude.” She nodded at them, with a half smile for Will. “It’s just that I couldn’t bear it anymore. We’ve had the phone off the hook to stop it ringing, and the constable is still on the gate, but they’re waiting out there in the lane, watching us.” A shudder ran through her body and she clasped her hands together tightly.

“Here. Sit,” Reid instructed her as Will slid from his stool and positioned it for her. “Who’s watching you? What are you talking about?”

“Reporters.” Gemma made a face. “Like bloody vultures. But it will pass, Mrs. Gilbert, I promise you. They have relatively short attention spans-I’m surprised they’ve stuck it out this long, actually.”

“So how did you escape the siege?” asked Will.

The half smile flashed again. “I put my hair up under one of Alastair’s caps to complete the disguise.” Claire gestured at her clothes, and Gemma noticed she’d exchanged her usual elegant attire for jeans and an old tweed jacket. “Then I sneaked out the back and through Mrs. Jonsson’s garden, slouched across to the pub, and borrowed Brian’s car.” Her voice held a note of sheepish pride as she added, “It felt quite unexpectedly liberating, to tell you the truth.”

The clothes made Claire look younger, bringing out what Gemma had begun to recognize as her toughness, as well as emphasizing her fragility. Would she continue to shed her respectable-suburban-housewife trappings like a snake sloughs an old skin?

“But why are you here?” She turned to Will and Gemma as if the thought had just occurred to her. “I don’t know why you’d need to talk to Malcolm.” She hugged herself as if cold, and a note of fear crept into her voice as she added, “Has something happened? What’s go-”

“Routine inquiries,” Reid said with a grin before Gemma could answer. “Nothing to worry about. Right, Sergeant?”

“Mrs. Gilbert,” said Gemma, “could I have a word with you?”

Having suggested a walk, Gemma led the way across the bridge and took the path along the little Tillingbourne River. Birches grew right along the water’s edge, and their bare silvery branches reached towards the sky as if seeking the last of the pale sun.

Gemma wondered how best to frame her questions. Claire seemed at ease, content to walk in silence. She smiled at Gemma, then stooped for a stone and stood hefting it in the palm of her hand. Shaking her head, she bent and looked for another one. The wind parted her hair as she knelt, revealing a flash of pale and slender neck. The sight made Gemma feel oddly and uncomfortably protective, and she looked away.

Claire found another stone, stood, and skipped it expertly across the water. When the last set of ripples had stilled, she said, “I haven’t done that in years-I’m surprised I remember how. Do you think it’s like riding a bike?” Then, as if continuing a conversation, “Thank God for Becca. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’ll make all the arrangements for the funeral when… when they release Alastair’s body.”