Murder in Style by Veronica Heley Page B

thin white cheeks. ‘How ridiculous! Gerald has no right to take Juno off like that. It’s her duty to look after me. She’s my wife, for heaven’s sake!’
    â€˜She’s worn out,’ said Clemmie. ‘She needs a rest.’
    â€˜And I need looking after, don’t I? Well, I suppose, if she’s back in the morning … Oh, yes! She’ll be back. Or else! Now, who’s going to help me out to the car? You know I can’t manage the step without assistance.’
    â€˜I’ll do it,’ said Clemmie. She reached for the wheelchair and he struck her hand away – not pettishly, but with some force.
    Ellie blinked. Clemmie’s eyes went blank but she made no sound. Ellie had seen children who’d been hit react like that before. The scene conveyed a certain message, but for the moment she couldn’t think what it was. Clemmie made as if to rub her arm, but refrained. She said, ‘Celine, can you get home on your own?’
    Celine rubbed her eyes. ‘Yes, of course.’ She sounded exhausted. ‘I’ll fetch my jacket. It’s somewhere …’ She looked around, vaguely.
    Ellie got out her mobile and pressed buttons. ‘Celine, I’m ordering a cab to take me home. I’ll drop you off first, if I may?’
    Celine nodded. She didn’t seem very aware of what was going on. She plucked a jacket from a pile in the hall, saying, ‘Juno gets ear infections when she’s run down. Ever since I’ve known her, almost sixteen years. I manage the shop, you see.’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Ellie. ‘I do see. It’s a mess, isn’t it?’ She walked with Celine to the front door. ‘Would it help to talk it over with me?’ Immediately, she wondered how she’d dared to issue such an invitation. She must be mad.
    â€˜No one can do anything,’ said Celine. ‘It is what it is. I’m opening the shop tomorrow. It’s been closed for a week. Juno may not be up to it, but I have to open.’
    Ellie nodded. Yes, she could see that. Well, she’d put in a spot of prayer about the situation, and see what happened.

FOUR
    W hen her taxi came, Ellie gave Celine a lift, and dropped her off at an upmarket block of flats. As she’d never learned to drive, Ellie kept a monthly account with a local cab firm, and had fallen into the habit of praying when she was being transported from A to B. Now was a good opportunity.
    Ellie was worried. Her policewoman friend, Lesley, had been right. Something was deeply, seriously wrong in the Cordover family, and yes, if the situation were not dealt with, Ellie believed that there could indeed be more violence.
    Ellie’s mind buzzed with questions. Clemmie: she couldn’t be Gordon’s child, could she? The colour of her skin, the colour of her eyes …
    Her cousin Trixie: overindulged brat, who might possibly have talent, but … How did anyone break into films, anyway?
    Ray, her father. Deep in debt. Threatened with divorce by his wife, Poppy. An unpleasant character, but if he did have an alibi then he couldn’t have killed his wife.
    Juno: heartsick. Grief-stricken. Query, sickening for something?
    Gordon, her husband. An invalid; poor man, Ellie had to feel sorry for him, even if he were somewhat self-centred and not exactly her idea of a caring husband. Perhaps he couldn’t be loving and caring, confined to a wheelchair.
    It was all very well acknowledging that something was wrong, but what could Ellie do about it, except worry?
    To be fair, Ellie Quicke could worry for England. She worried about her husband Thomas; though, if challenged, she had to admit that he could perfectly well take care of himself. She worried about being found inadequate as the chair of her charitable trust fund, even though other people thought she made an excellent job of it. She worried about finding herself in all sorts of situations, some imaginary and some