Screaming Yellow. Rachel Green
Simon’s shoes on top. She passed him his slippers. “What happened to give you such a horrid day?”
“I don’t know if I should say.” Simon worried his feet into the slippers, picked up his battered old briefcase and carried it into the living room. “I don’t want you spreading it all over the bloody internet as soon as my back’s turned.” He poured himself a scotch and drank it in one swallow.
“I don’t know why you’d say that.” Jennifer took a seat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her. “I never say anything you don’t want me to.”
“Ha!” Simon poured himself a second drink and sat. “Like that time I found Mrs. Westman and the verger going at it like hammer and tongs in the belfry? ‘I won’t tell a soul’ you said, but the following Sunday there was a lynch mob outside the church doors.”
“I’m sure that was nothing to do with me.” Jennifer picked up a Homes and Garden and began flicking through it. “I didn’t tell anyone other than Marge.”
“Yes, exactly. Marge at the grocer’s. I’m surprised the bishop didn’t turn up to re-sanctify the church.” He sighed and leaned back against the horsehair stuffing. “Well, it’s not as if you wouldn’t find out soon anyway. Grace Peters is dead. I’ve just had to identify her body.”
“Oh, that was you, was it?” Jennifer turned away to reach for a glass.
“What do you mean, ‘that was me?’” Simon stared at her. “Do you mean to say you already knew about it?”
“Of course.” Jennifer smiled and poured herself a gin. “Margaret told me. She works on the emergency ward at the hospital and dispatched the ambulance.”
Simon threw his hands in the air. “I should have guessed you’d already have all the gossip. You and your webcam cronies. I bet if I wanted to know Sergeant Davies’s cock size you’d be able to tell me.”
“Don’t be so crude.” Jennifer smacked his arm lightly as she sat. “What did she die of?”
Simon rubbed his eyes, the third finger of each hand digging into the corners to wipe away the grit. “Suicide. They found her hanging from a beam, the rope through the trap door to the loft. The poor soul. I shall say a prayer for her.”
“Nonsense.” Jennifer put the glass down on the coffee table, careful to use a coaster to avoid leaving a ring. “She took a long drop because couldn’t take the guilt anymore.”
Simon sat forward in his seat, frowning. “What guilt? What are you on about?”
“Henry, her husband. Everybody knows she killed him for the insurance.”
Simon shook his head, unable to stop a bark of laughter. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jennifer. Everybody knows that was an accident. The inquest cleared her of any complicity as I’ve told you before. I’d know if it was anything else, wouldn’t I?” He stood, leaving his glass on the wooden surface.
Jennifer moved it onto a coaster, her face pinched in irritation, then turned away to stare at the painting of Jesus baring his heart on the wall. “She wouldn’t have confessed a murder to you, would she? How many times has that happened? I bet that even when you had the parish of St. John’s Wood you never got a ‘Bless me Father, I’ve strangled my husband and made it look like an accident.’”
Simon scowled. “Of course not, and Henry’s death was an accident as well you know. Besides, if she was such a cold-blooded killer, she’d hardly be likely to commit suicide, would she?” He pulled off his white collar and unbuttoned his shirt.
“Just because she didn’t confess doesn’t mean that she wasn’t wracked with guilt.” Jennifer was unfazed by the double negatives. “What about all those sleeping pills she took? She couldn’t sleep for the guilt eating her up inside.”
“She didn’t take sleeping tablets.” Simon shook his head. “Really, Jennifer. Where do you get all these ideas?”
“Was there a suicide note?”
“Why would there be?” Simon stood. “She was obviously very depressed.”
“What makes you so sure there wasn’t?” Jennifer held out a hand and Simon pulled her to her feet. “Have you seen the crime scene?”
“Of course not. I haven’t been to her house, only the hospital. The police called me there to identify her.”
“Why you?” Jennifer led the way into the kitchen and took the oven gloves off the hook. “Who found her?”
“The police. Susan Pargeter dropped in to see her and when she didn’t get a reply she called the police. My name was in her wallet on the ‘in case of accident’ card. The Lord knows why.”
Jennifer smiled. “She liked you. You were the only person in fifty miles who didn’t think she’d murdered her husband.”
“That’s because she didn’t. It’s a moot point, anyway. Whatever she did or didn’t do in her life is between her and God now. That smells good.” He nodded toward the lasagna Jennifer was pulling out of the oven. “I’m famished.”
“It’s a bit overdone,” she said. “It’s gone crispy on the top. I had the oven set to ‘flames of Hell’ for the first forty minutes.”
“Now who’s being disrespectful?” Simon smiled. “Shall I put the plates out?”
“Please.” Jennifer carried the dish to the small table. “Have we got any of that pinot blanc left? It’d go well with this.”
Simon put the plates on the work surface and checked the wine rack. “We have, yes.” He took the bottle out and ferreted in the cutlery drawer. “Where’s the corkscrew?”
Jennifer blushed. “It’s probably next to the computer. I’ll go and get it.” She trotted back to the study, pulling off the oven gloves.
“Straight back, mind.” Simon rattled the cutlery. “No chatting to your friends. I don’t want this conversation spread all over Laverstone.”
“As if I would,” Jennifer called, stealing a glance at her contacts list. Margaret was still online as well as Catherine from The Larches. She couldn’t wait for dinner to be over so she could log back on. She returned to the kitchen and gave the corkscrew to Simon. “Shall I be Mother Superior?”
“That got old the first time you said it.” Simon opened the wine, holding the bottle between his knees for leverage. “I wish you’d give it a rest.”
“Why should I when it needles you so?” Jennifer laughed and patted his arm. “How will the bishop react to a suicide in your parish?”
“He’ll give me one of his hard stares and a lecture on the saving of souls.” Simon broke into a grin. “I just hope she left something to the Church in her will, else he’ll probably demote me to St. Jude’s.”
“That’s Anglican, though.”
Simon laughed. “My point exactly.” He carried the plates and cutlery through while Jennifer took a loaf of garlic bread out of the oven and sliced it up. She arranged it in a bowl and went through to find Simon already dishing up two generous portions of lasagna. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the bowl. “Don’t let me have too much of that,” he said. “My parishioners would never forgive me.”
“Nonsense.” Jennifer put three of the twelve slices on his plate. “Garlic is good for you.”
“Not when it’s swimming in butter it’s not.” Simon held out his hand and Jennifer took it while he said grace. As soon as she repeated his “Amen” Simon bit into one of the pieces and chewed, a line of grease speckling his upper lip.
“What did she look like then?”
“Who?”
“Grace Peters.”
Simon