Murder at the Laurels by Lesley Cookman Page B

it?’ Fran sat back to make room for another mouthful.
    â€˜That and the fact that Barbara and Paul live near there.’
    â€˜So I understand. And my friend Libby knows them. Or of them, anyway.’
    â€˜Really? Coincidence.’
    â€˜Isn’t it?’ Fran pushed a pea around her plate. She didn’t want to get in to Libby’s descriptions of the Denver family.
    â€˜Yes.’ Charles put his knife and fork neatly together. ‘So now you’ve caught up on the situation you can tell me what’s been happening to you since you grew up.’
    Fran told him. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, despite the fact that he looked more like a typical city gent than the sort of person she normally consorted with. And older. She was used to younger people. Chrissie would approve of him, she thought. Chrissie had always hoped that she would suddenly morph herself into the blue rinse and Barbour jacket suitable for a putative grandmother and Charles matched that image.
    â€˜So.’ They had ordered coffee and Charles sat back, stirring his thoughtfully. ‘You’ve told me everything except the reason for these suffocating feelings. Presumably you’re a – what, a psychic?’
    Fran bridled. ‘I’m nothing of the sort. I don’t know what all that was about.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And it was very embarrassing, let me tell you.’
    â€˜Then how do you explain this suffocating feeling? Or how you knew I was the genuine article when I called you?’
    â€˜Intuition?’ She looked up. ‘Instinct? I don’t know. The children always called them “Mother’s Moments”.’
    â€˜So you’ve had them before?’
    Fran shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘Sort of. Just – you know – telling the children to be careful just before something happened. Or knowing who was on the phone before I answered it. Sort of thing that happens to everybody.’
    â€˜Hmm.’ Charles was still stirring his coffee. ‘And it was because of one of these “Moments” that you went hotfoot off to The Laurels.’
    â€˜Sounds silly, doesn’t it?’ Fran laughed, embarrassed. ‘I expect it was guilt, like that Mrs Headlam said.’
    â€˜Nice woman, Marion Headlam.’
    â€˜Nice?’ Fran frowned. ‘I suppose she was all right. Terribly mercenary, I would have thought.’
    â€˜Oh, undoubtedly. But good at what she does. Attractive, as well.’
    Fran hitched a shoulder. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked coolly.
    â€˜Oh, yes. Very well-groomed.’ Charles gazed up at the Peasants again.
    Fran put her coffee cup down sharply and realised that he was staring at something distinctly Rabelaisian behind a haystack. He looked back at her and quirked an eyebrow. She blushed.
    â€˜Yes, well,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘You’ll see her again at the funeral. Apparently she attends all clients’ funerals.’
    â€˜I suppose I’ll have to sort that out, won’t I?’ Charles looked worried. ‘I think it’s my job, isn’t it? As executor?’
    Fran stared. ‘How would I know? I’ve never been one. I organised my mother’s funeral, but that was simple. She was living with me when she died.’
    â€˜Perhaps I’d better go down there. Oh, God, I knew this wasn’t going to be simple.’ He scowled and called for the bill.
    â€˜When will you go?’ Fran picked up her bag and dropped the complimentary mint chocolates inside.
    â€˜Tomorrow, I suppose.’ Charles sighed and signed the check with a flourish.
    â€˜Could I come with you? I’d like to meet Barbara.’
    Charles looked surprised. ‘Why?’
    â€˜I don’t know. We could ask about the bureau.’
    â€˜We?’
    â€˜Well, you could, then. Find the will.’
    Charles laughed and stood up. ‘Well, perhaps you can have one