Jigsaw by Anthea Fraser

guest room. This morning he was all white and po-faced and I told him to leave.’
    â€˜And did he?’
    â€˜Eventually, but he made it clear this isn’t the end of it. He says he’ll be a laughing stock, having moved heaven and earth, as he put it, to get back here. Go on – tell me it’s my own fault.’
    â€˜Well, you did want to have your cake and eat it,’ Rona reminded her, aware of sounding pious.
    â€˜And what’s wrong with that?’ Lindsey demanded rebelliously.
    â€˜Nothing, if you can get away with it.’
    They looked at each other for a minute then, unwillingly, Lindsey smiled.
    â€˜That’s better. In the meantime you’ve sent him packing, and at least he’s not in any doubt any more.’ She paused. ‘When’s he moving back?’
    â€˜The end of the month. But suppose he turns up as usual next Friday? What should I do?’
    â€˜Arrange to be out,’ Rona said crisply. ‘Better still, go away for the weekend.’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜Oh, for heaven’s sake, Linz! Stay with a friend, go to a health spa – anything to be out of Marsborough.’
    â€˜But I can’t go away
every
weekend,’ Lindsey said plaintively.
    â€˜At least it will give you time to decide what to do.’
    Lindsey nodded and slowly got to her feet. ‘OK. Thanks for the advice.’
    â€˜There’s no need to rush off. Come down and have some coffee.’
    She shook her head. ‘Max doesn’t want interrupting with my woes. I’m all right. There’s some work I could be doing, anyway. Don’t worry, Ro, I’ll survive. I just wanted a bit of TLC, that’s all.’
    Rona gave her a hug. ‘Any time, you know that. I’ll ring you this evening and see how you’re doing.’
    â€˜OK. Are my eyes red?’
    â€˜Not very, but as your car’s at the gate you’ve only got to get down the path, and I doubt if any film directors are hiding in the bushes.’
    â€˜Hugh?’ Max asked resignedly, without looking up from his paper.
    â€˜Hugh,’ Rona confirmed.
    â€˜What now?’
    â€˜He’s moving back, and Linz has taken fright.’
    â€˜She should have thought of that before.’
    â€˜Not much help telling her that, is it?’
    â€˜I guess not. Ah well, no doubt they’ll sort it out between them.’
    â€˜What a convenient philosophy,’ Rona commented, and started to clear the table.
    Beth Spencer reread the paragraph in the
Courier.
    Rumours have reached us that biographer Rona Parish will be adding to the wealth of material already commissioned for next year’s celebrations. Parish made headlines earlier this year during her aborted biography of thriller writer Theo Harvey, when she uncovered the fact that, appropriately enough, he had himself been murdered. It will be interesting to see what skeletons she can unearth in our cupboard!
    Beth raised her head and stared unseeingly through the window. This woman had apparently solved one murder. She was a journalist, and no doubt had contacts not available to herself. Was there, Beth wondered, the slightest possibility that she would listen to her insistence that Alan was innocent, and help her to prove it? It had to be worth a try.

Five
    R ona had left home at eight thirty, but heavy traffic in and around Marsborough caused the usual delays, and it was almost eleven when she arrived at Buckford.
    She had arranged with Nuala Banks that on arrival she would, if possible, claim a parking space and drop off her suitcase at the house. Nuala herself was out at work, but her father, leaning heavily on a Zimmer, answered her ring and, having left the case in her room, Rona went straight out again. Max had warned her that B&B owners did not want you in their homes between nine and five. In any case, after speaking to Catherine Bishop she’d phoned the local schools and arranged a series of