On Deadly Tides Read online

  “What? You can’t mean that. I’d have thought you’d be sleuthing all over the island and asking questions like nobody’s business.”

  “Well, the police are treating the death as accidental, and Bethan and the police have everything in hand, so I left them to it.”

  “That doesn’t sound at all like you.” Victoria tipped her head. “It looks like you’re having a hard time emotionally with this. But is there something you’re not telling me? Did something else happen?”

  “Yes,” said Penny, spooning a bit of foam off her latte, “I guess it did.” She locked eyes with her friend. “I might as well tell you. I met somebody. That’s why I decided to stay a bit longer. I was going to stay two more days, but then he had to leave today, so there wasn’t any point in my hanging about in Beaumaris.”

  “Oh, how exciting. What’s his name?”

  “Colin Campbell.”

  Victoria grinned. “Ah, the first bloom of a new romance. Just the way your eyes lit up when you said his name tells me everything I need to know. Well, not quite everything. What’s he do? Where’s he from? What’s he look like? How old is he?”

  Penny held out her phone so Victoria could see a photo she’d taken of Colin at Plas Newydd on the red squirrel walk. “That’s him. He’s Canadian, and he’s a couple of years younger than I am.”

  Victoria leaned across the table. “Oh, he’s quite nice looking. Tell me about him.”

  Penny described the days she and Colin had spent together and ended by saying she hoped to hear from him soon about his coming to visit her in Llanelen. “And then you can meet him for yourself.”

  “Well, I’m really happy for you, and I hope it works out the way you want it to.” They finished their coffees, gathered up their handbags, and were soon on their way.

  “I’ve got a couple of boxes of supplies to pick up at the Cash and Carry,” said Victoria, “so we’ll go into Llandudno on the way home.”

  “Fine with me.”

  The Irish Sea, blown into tight little waves by a friendly wind, sparkled in the morning sunshine. Penny allowed herself one last look over her shoulder as they drove past Puffin Island, then settled herself in her seat.

  “I’d still like to hear about that body you found, though,” said Victoria. “If you feel like talking about it, that is.”

  “How much do you already know?” Penny asked. “Alwynne’s husband heard about it on the news. Is that how you heard about it?”

  “No.”

  Penny smiled. “Ah, Mrs. Lloyd.”

  “Apparently Alwynne bumped into Mrs. Lloyd at the supermarket and told her all about it.”

  “And then Mrs. Lloyd told everybody.”

  “That’s about the size of it. She popped into the Spa to ask when you’d be back, and immediately changed her appointment so she could see you this afternoon instead of having to wait until tomorrow. She’s eager to hear every last detail, as you can imagine.”

  “Well, the body I found isn’t that of a local person, so I don’t know how interested Mrs. Lloyd will be. Jessica Graham was her name, and as I said, she was a journalist from New Zealand. This was her first time on an international trip, and she was just bursting with life and all its possibilities. Colin and I spoke to her in the bar on Friday night, and then I discovered her body first thing Saturday morning on the pebbly little beach at Black Point. Alwynne and I were there to paint the Penmon Lighthouse. Apparently she died from injuries suffered during a fall, but what on earth she was doing there—that’s the mystery.”

  “And Bill Ward, what was he like? Did he live up to your expectations?”

  “He was fine as far as the art went, but on the personal side, well, a little creepy.” Penny described what had happened while she was painting the Georgian terrace at Beaumaris.

  “He said that? He actually said, ‘Let’s have lunch and see where it goes?’”

  “He did.”

  “You’re right. That is so creepy.” Victoria kept her eyes on the road ahead but made a little moue of disgust.

  “And he’s not even all that attractive,” Penny said. “But he probably had women lining up when he was a big television star, and he still thinks he’s God’s gift.”

  “Could be. Is he with anyone, do you know? Has he got a wife or girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see him with anyone, and he was on his own for the weekend, as far as I could tell.”

  “Of course, you probably weren’t giving him your full attention, your mind being occupied elsewhere.”

  Penny took this with a good-natured smile. “You might be right about that. But Ward’s profile says he lives on Anglesey, and he seemed at home in the hotel. I wonder if he lives there. Or is at least staying there temporarily.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” said Victoria. “And did your Colin meet him? What did he think about him?”

  “He’s not my Colin!” protested Penny.

  “Well, maybe not yet, he isn’t. Give it time.”

  As they approached the Victorian seaside resort of Llandudno, Victoria suggested they have lunch there after they finished picking up their order at the Cash and Carry.

  “And then, we could leave all your gear in the car, go straight to the Spa for the afternoon, and I’ll drive you home after work.”

  “Sounds good. And how’s Harrison?” Penny asked, referring to her grey cat. “Behaved himself, did he?”

  “Oh, he was very good. I spent a couple of evenings sitting with him so he wouldn’t be lonely. We’re quite fond of each other, but I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

  * * *

  The Llanelen Spa is beautifully situated on the bank of the Conwy River in the picturesque market town of Llanelen. The two-storey, grey stone building had been abandoned and left to decay for decades until, against everyone’s advice, Penny and Victoria bought it, renovated it, and converted it into a light, bright, airy space offering a full range of relaxing and refreshing rejuvenation treatments, including facials, massages, manicures and pedicures, and hair styling. Their investment had proved wise, providing a profitable business, a sound real estate holding, and—for Victoria—a spacious flat on the first floor.

  After receiving a warm welcome back from Rhian, the receptionist, Penny made her way to the nail studio at the end of the corridor. Eirlys, her assistant, was taking a half day but had left everything laid out for Mrs. Lloyd’s manicure.

  A flurry of greetings in the corridor let Penny know that Mrs. Lloyd was on her way, and a moment later she entered the nail studio. The town’s former postmistress, now in her late sixties, she was a robust woman who took good care of herself. She had her hair and nails done every two weeks and dressed smartly in sensible shoes, pleated skirts, tidy blouses, and woollen cardigans. She prided herself on keeping up with all the latest news in Llanelen, which some townsfolk referred to as gossip, and some even went so far as to say that she relished every delicious morsel of other people’s troubles and indiscretions.

  “Penny, my dear,” she said as she eased her ample bottom into the client’s chair. “I’ve been dying to hear all about your time on Anglesey. You have so much to tell me. The painting excursions with a famous actor and, of course, discovering a body. How thrilling it all must have been for you! What dull little lives the rest of us lead in comparison to yours.”

  Penny placed a soaking bowl filled with lavender-scented water on the worktable and lifted Mrs. Lloyd’s right hand into it. Just before her fingers broke the surface of the water, Mrs. Lloyd gave Penny a steely look. “Now, it’s not too hot, is it? With you, the water’s always too hot. Eirlys knows exactly how I like it, and she always gets it just the right temperature.”

  “Try it and see. If it’s too hot, I’ll add some cold water. We’ll make it just the way you like it.”

  Mrs. Lloyd slid a tentative two fingers into the bowl, breathed a sigh of relief, and allowed the rest of her hand to follow.

  “It’ll do. Now then, off
you go. Tell me all about your painting holiday, and don’t leave anything out.”

  “Anglesey’s lovely this time of year. You really must go.”

  Mrs. Lloyd laughed. “You know that’s not what I meant. You’ll have to do better than that. Oh, and by the way, before I forget, Morwyn asked me to pass on a message. She wants to interview you for a story she’s working on for the Saturday edition of the paper. She’d like to speak to you this evening, if possible.”

  The local reporter, Morwyn Lloyd, was Mrs. Lloyd’s niece. Penny could only imagine how many stories she’d written over the years that had started with a tip from Mrs. Lloyd as a result of the keen interest she took in local affairs.

  Penny finished shaping Mrs. Lloyd’s fingernails, removed the wet hand from the soaking solution, and replaced it with the one she’d just finished working on.

  “I’m sure it was upsetting for you, discovering that young woman’s body,” said Mrs. Lloyd as Penny dried her wet hand. “Although to be fair, this isn’t the first time you’ve done that. Still, if you’d rather not talk about it, of course I understand. But I would like to hear all about your meeting that famous actor from Jubilee Terrace. I’ve watched that program since it began, and that must be, oh, forty years ago now. I’m sure every actor and actress in Britain wants to appear on that show, so really, only the very best make it. Tell me, what was he like?”

  “I didn’t think much of him personally, if I’m honest, but he is knowledgeable about painting, and I picked up a few useful tips in the critique sessions.”

  “You ‘didn’t think much of him personally.’ It’s always a shame when we meet someone who doesn’t live up to our expectations. What was wrong with him?”

  “I found him a bit creepy.”

  Mrs. Lloyd’s lips pinched together in a disapproving frown. “Did he pester you?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Lloyd made a little tsking noise. “Oh, Lord. Why do some men do that? Do they ever look at themselves in the mirror in a good light? How do men like that manage to convince themselves that women find them irresistible?”

  “I’m sure lots of women did find him attractive when he was younger, in better shape, and working on a hugely popular television show,” said Penny. “He would have been a real star back then, but his star is somewhat dimmer now.”

  “Well, other than that, though, and finding that poor girl’s body of course, you had a good time?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I thought so because Alwynne told me you decided to stay on for another couple of days.” She gave Penny a shrewd look through narrowed eyes. “I wondered what the attraction was.”

  “Squirrels. I decided I absolutely had to see the red squirrels at Plas Newydd.”

  Mrs. Lloyd let out a merry little peal of youthful laughter. “Oh, go on. Pull the other one! Alwynne’s already told me all about that photographer chap you met. Or as much as she knows, anyway. She said he was very keen on you and that you like him. You didn’t think you could keep that a secret around here, did you?”

  “Not for a minute, Mrs. Lloyd. At least, not from you. But it’s early days, so let’s wait and see what happens, shall we?”

  The manicure continued, and as she was preparing to leave, Mrs. Lloyd reminded Penny to ring Morwyn about that newspaper story.

  “She’s eager to hear from you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After ensuring her wrought-iron front gate was securely latched behind her, Cilla McKee unclipped the lead on her elderly brown and white boxer and followed him up the path that led to the front door of her modest house in Betws-y-Coed.

  She put the kettle on, and while she waited for it to come to a boil, she put away the few groceries she’d just bought, and tidied up the kitchen. Then, with a mug of coffee just the way she liked it, and a fresh cream bun from the local bakery beside her, she unfolded the local newspaper. A headline on the front page leapt out at her, and with her mug poised halfway to her lips, she skimmed the brief article. She took a tentative sip as she reread the item, this time taking in every word and occasionally going back to reread a sentence.

  Local artist describes finding murder victim on

  Anglesey beach

  by Morwyn Lloyd

  The local artist who found the lifeless body of journalist Jessica Graham, 27, on an Anglesey beach a week ago describes the experience as “shattering.”

  Penny Brannigan, 54, who was on a painting retreat with a group of other artists, made the grisly discovery Saturday morning whilst preparing to paint the iconic Penmon Lighthouse at Black Point.

  “You never expect to come across something like that,” Ms. Brannigan said. “I can’t tell you how shocked I was. I spotted the body from the cliff top, then scrambled down to the beach. But unfortunately, she was beyond help, so all I could do was stay with her body until the first responders arrived.”

  A postmortem determined that Ms. Graham died from injuries consistent with a fall from a great height, and although the police believe the death to be accidental, they urge anyone who might have information to come forward. The deceased woman was a visitor from New Zealand, and her family have been notified.

  Sarah Spencer, assistant manageress at the Beaumaris Arms Hotel, where Ms. Graham had been staying, expressed condolences. “We were shocked and saddened by the sudden death of one of our guests, and our thoughts and prayers are with her family.”

  The painting retreat was led by former Jubilee Terrace actor Bill Ward, now an acclaimed artist, who himself lives on Anglesey. Ms. Graham had been in the U.K. to work on a feature story about Ward’s mid-life career change, along with other stories, for the “Auckland Spectator.”

  Ms. Brannigan is co-owner of the Llanelen Spa and is becoming well known in the area for her landscape watercolours.

  A grim moue of distaste played at the corners of Cilla McKee’s lips as she pulled a pair of scissors from their slot in the knife rack.

  Who’d want thoughts and prayers from that nasty piece of work Sarah Spencer, as she calls herself now, Cilla thought as she cut out the article. She read it through one more time, then checked her watch and, letting out a little gasp of dismay, hurried upstairs to get ready for work. She’d dawdled this morning over the newspaper, and she’d have to get her skates on if the gallery was to open on time. Saturdays were the busiest day of the week, especially in summer with so many tourists visiting the area, eager to take home a painting by an established or up-and-coming Welsh artist.

  Dressed and back in the kitchen, she tucked the newspaper clipping in her handbag, gave her boxer an affectionate goodbye pat, and let herself out of the house. She usually walked to work, but because she was running late, decided to take the car. She liked to arrive at least twenty minutes before opening time to do a walk-through, making sure everything was clean and tidy and the staff were ready, set, and on their marks for the day.

  A few minutes later she pulled into the car park of the Oriel Snowdonia and locked her vehicle. On the short walk from her car to the gallery’s back door, she picked up two discarded coffee cups and, with a little grimace of disgust, dropped them in the bin near the rear entrance. She let herself in, entered the code on the keypad to switch off the security alarm, flicked on the lighting system, and unlocked the door to her office.

  She pulled the newspaper clipping out of her handbag, Googled a telephone number, and listened to the options. When there was no answer, she left a brief voicemail message.

  Excellent, she thought. That’s two birds with one stone.

  * * *

  It was lunchtime before Penny had a chance to check her voicemail, and when she had, she put the phone down and did an over-the-moon little twirl in her office. Cilla McKee from the Oriel Snowdonia had left a voicemail asking to meet with her the next day to discuss the possibility of including Penny’s paintings in an upcoming exhibit featuring local artists.

  As she walked home after work, rooting about in her mind for paintings she mi
ght include, she realized that the first person she wanted to share her happy news with was Colin Campbell. And besides, he had lots of experience showing his work in exhibits, so he’d be sure to have some good suggestions. She’d ask him about this when they video-chatted that evening, as they did every evening.

  Not so long ago, it would have been Victoria she rushed to tell.

  Chapter Twelve

  Colin advised Penny to choose paintings that evoked an emotional response in her and that she considered or knew to be technically good. And then, he reminded her to present them with confidence, as if she truly believed they deserved to hang in this gallery.

  So the following afternoon, with twelve of what she considered the best examples of her work tucked flat in her portfolio case, she walked up the rough lane that led to the main entrance of the Oriel Snowdonia. Built in the mid-nineteenth century as the summer home of a prosperous Liverpool merchant, the grand house had been a nursing home before being converted into its present use as an art gallery displaying the work of sought-after contemporary Welsh artists working in all media. Penny had visited the gallery many times over the years, as someone who enjoyed and appreciated art. Today, she was here by invitation, as a creator. She was here as an artist.

  She took a deep breath, practised a smile, squared her shoulders, and pushed open the door. She found herself in a cream-coloured hallway with flooring of brightly coloured Victorian Minton tiles. As Cilla had instructed, she followed the hallway to the centre of the house, crossed in front of the grand staircase, and then turned left. A solid wooden door marked PRIVATE stood ajar, and Penny tapped lightly on it.