The Cold Light of Mourning - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,91
next day. A photo of him, looking glum and despondent, appeared in the next edition of the newspaper.
“I wouldn’t be feeling too confident, either,” said Penny, “if the best I had going for me were two middle-aged women with no resources or experience in this kind of thing.”
“There’s that,” Victoria replied, “but he did seem genuinely touched by our belief in his innocence.”
“And it’s not just us,” agreed Penny. “No one in the village thinks he did it.
“You know, it’s going to be hard not to say anything to Gareth about this on Friday night, but I sort of promised not to go there. He just wants a nice night out, without any of this rearing its ugly head.”
“Well, you can understand that,” said Victoria. “To him, it’s just his work. He wants to forget about all that and enjoy himself with you.
“Have you thought about what you’re going to wear, by the way?”
“No, not really. Any suggestions?”
“I was thinking … have you got a little black dress? You can’t go wrong there. With the right shoes, maybe some pearls—”
“You’re right!” said Penny. “I feel a trip to Marks and Spencer coming on. Maybe get a sexy new slip to go with it. I’ve got shoes and a bag that’ll do. Great!”
As her last customer left on Friday afternoon she heaved a sigh of relief and made her way upstairs for a bath. She dressed slowly and carefully. Her new dress, on a pink satin hanger, hung on a hook on the back of the door. She liked the way it draped easily from the shoulders, with a small cap sleeve to just cover the upper arms. Feeling excited about the evening ahead, she held it against her face and breathed in the newness of it. It had been a very long time since she’d had the right occasion and the right man to justify a new dress.
She liked her sexy new black slip, too. Do young women still wear slips, she wondered. Goodness knows, she’d seen lots of them about who should have been wearing one. Maybe that was just her, showing her age and generational thinking.
She glanced at the clock and realized she’d better get a move on. Gareth would be here any minute.
She walked over to the closet and reached up to the top shelf to bring down the little black handbag she rarely used. In fact, the last time she’d had it out, she realized, was Emma’s funeral. The bag was wedged in between a couple of boxes and as she tugged on it, the boxes shifted and threatened to fall. She dropped the handbag to grab the heavier, bigger box and steady it. As she touched the box, the unzipped handbag fell to the floor, turning over in mid-air and spilling its contents. A packet of photographs tumbled out and several of them slipped out of the envelope and skittered across the hardwood floor.
Oh no, thought Penny as she bent over to pick them up. Those were the photos Alwynne from the sketching group wanted me to look at and I completely forgot about them. What was it she wanted to know? Something about different views of the high pasture and sheep and a dog and how she could blend the two views into one picture, was it?
Penny glanced at the photos and slowly sank to the floor, where she sat, legs tucked under her. She looked closely at the photos and then, holding her breath, pulled the others out of the packet.
“Penny! Gareth’s here,” called Victoria.
“Tell him to come in!”
“Are you decent?” Victoria asked as she pushed the door back and showed Davies in.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Penny. “He needs to see these,” she said.
“What do I need to see?” he asked.
“These!” she said, handing him the photos. “They’re those old-fashioned ones with the date stamp on them. Look at the date. It’s the Saturday that Meg Wynne disappeared. Look at where it is and look,” she said, pointing to the photo, “look there. It’s Trixxi, Emyr’s dog. Not just any old black Lab. She’s wearing that red bandana. It’s definitely Trixxi. She was up on the high pasture that morning. And look at this one,” she said, fumbling to find another photo. “Down here, in the corner. There’s a figure. See? You can get it enhanced and that’ll tell you who was there, with the dog! And I’ll bet you anything, it’s David Williams.”
Davies nodded, gathered up the photos, and put them in