Three Little Maids by Patricia Scott

‘You’ll soon discover that nothing gets by the locals here. Gossip spreads like a forest fire. Was she a local girl?’
    Viviane figured if she got her questions in while his mouth was drooling for the food that was sending out a mouth-watering smell, he might be a shade less cautious.
    He grinned. ‘Who are you kidding, Viviane? You know just as much as me. She was a local girl , as it happens, and it wasn’t an accidental death. I don’t suppose you’ve had that many murders here.’
    ‘Not that I can remember.’ She filled up the kettle automatically. And had to force herself not to sound too inquisitive. ‘So-o - how was she killed? Or can’t you say? Is it too early to tell?’
    His hazel eyes were giving nothing away except amusement so far. The microwave pinged and she served up the meal.
    ‘Was she sexually assaulted, Jon?’ she asked exasperated by his silence. ‘What was the motive? Do you know?’
    ‘Hard to tell so far,’ he said, drawing the chair in closer to the table. ‘We shall have the news hounds making themselves heard outside the station tomorrow. We’ve managed to contain it so far and it couldn’t have happened at the worst possible time,’ he groaned picking up his knife and fork. ‘High summer with the carnival week starting on Monday and everything geared up for the celebrations. Sounds like fun.’
    ‘It usually fills the place with covered floats, great features, fancy dress and fireworks.’ She nodded sympathetically. ‘You know who she is though - I heard from my last reader to come in that it was believed to be Maureen Carey. Is that correct?’
    ‘Yeah, it was. Just a kid, Maureen Carey, the fifteen year old daughter of the local undertaker, Joseph Carey. You’ve just mentioned him?’
    ‘Yes, I know him,’ she said, holding the kettle over the teapot with a shaking hand. ‘My God! It must be terrible for them!’
    She made the pot of tea automatically, bringing it over to the table with her thoughts whirling around in her head like a snowstorm in a glass bauble. ‘The Carey’s are neighbours of mine. They own that big mausoleum of a place, with the Gothic towers, down on the corner.’ He obviously knew this already. ‘How was she killed? You said it wasn’t accidental.’
    ‘She was choked to death. And the time of death was sometime between eleven and midnight last night.’
    ‘Choked!’ She poured out the tea. ‘What was a young girl doing on the cliff top at that time of night? Her father was so strict with Maureen and Gordon, her twelve-year old brother. They’re chapel goers and live under curfew rules in that household but Maureen might have felt like flouting them occasionally.’
    As she sipped her tea, she pictured the girl as she had last seen her. Maureen had distinctive silvery blonde hair like her mother, fair lashes, deep cornflower blue eyes, dimpled pink cheeks, pouting cherry lips. And practiced a vapid bored expression when speaking to adults.
    Her maternal grandmother was Danish, she’d been told by Paula Carey when Viviane commented once on her fair colouring. She’d reminded Viviane of a white mouse when she came into the library, usually accompanied by her friend, Susan Flitch who were as different from each other as chalk and cheese. Perhaps her father’s almost puritanical strictness had made her break out unwisely?
    Kent studied her closely. He sighed and shook his head. ‘I suppose you must know most of these people. You come in contact with them at work, don’t you?’
    She shrugged. ‘Some of them. I don’t know Mr. Carey that well.’
    He drank a mouthful of tea. Grimaced and added another spoonful of sugar and stirred it in with a frown. ‘This is not a case that is open and shut. It’s not easy to put it into so many words. It’s a feeling I’ve got. I think we’re looking for someone who is mentally sick.’
    Her spoon clattered in the saucer. ‘Really?’
    He was holding her attention deliberately. But would