A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,4

back, and they began shifting the boxes out the front door.

“You know,” he said as Penny locked the door, “this business of clearing away old stuff gets better as you go along. At first you don’t know what to keep, but once you start chucking things out, it gets easier to toss it than to keep it. At least, that’s the way it was for me when my wife died.”

Penny grimaced as she put her key in her handbag.

“Let’s not go there today,” she said. “Dealing with Emma’s death is quite enough for one morning.”

Two

They returned after lunch with a renewed sense of purpose and set about finishing the living room. If it’s neither useful nor ornamental, it’s got to go, Gareth had reminded her, and they were now making good progress. A lot of things had been removed, and Penny thought the place was looking better already. With the living room done, they started on the kitchen. Penny told him she was going to get a new kitchen put in but would keep the old slate floor.

“And you’ll keep the Welsh dresser, of course,” he replied.

“Of course!”

“Well, have we done enough for one day?” he asked a couple of hours later. “Should we open a bottle of wine, do you think? It’s cleared up nicely, so we could sit in the garden. I’ll make a few notes on what needs doing out there. We can tidy it up and get it ready for next spring. Plant some bulbs this fall, maybe.”

A few minutes later, wineglasses in hand, they plopped down into a pair of old striped deck chairs they had found leaning up against the wall.

“Listen,” said Gareth as he shifted in his chair. “I want to talk to you about something serious. Now that you’re in the cottage, and a little off the beaten path, you need to be careful about locking up at night and when you go out. It’s deserted here after dark, and with nobody about, anything can happen.”

Penny nodded.

“I mean it. We’ve seen an awful increase lately in rural crime. Lead ripped off churches, break-ins, you name it. Even sheep stealing.”

As Penny started to smile, he held up his hand and frowned.

“No, it’s serious. Farmers come out in the morning and their sheep are gone.” He shrugged. “It gets worse. Their dogs have usually been killed or badly injured. Really cruel, unspeakable acts. Mutilations. Awful.”

As Penny gazed into her wineglass, he reached over and touched her shoulder.

“I didn’t want to upset you, but do, please, be careful. There are some really nasty people about and I’d hate for you . . .”

His voice trailed off as her eyes widened.

“Well, you know what I mean. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to you.”

He struggled to his feet.

“God, these chairs are awful! Why on earth were they once so popular? You can’t set them up, they’re uncomfortable, and impossible to get out of! They should have all gone down with the Titanic—every last bloody one of them!”

Penny smiled as she held her glass up to him.

“I’m pretty sure the Titanic deck chairs were wooden. I saw one once at an exhibit in Halifax.”

“Halifax? Oh, right, Nova Scotia.”

A few moments later he handed her refilled wineglass back to her and then clattered about with his chair.

“Ooof,” he said as he lowered himself gingerly into it. “Look, as my housewarming gift, please let me get you a decent pair of garden chairs. And these ones will do nicely to start the fire on bonfire night.”

“Great,” agreed Penny. “Thank you.”

Gareth took a sip of his wine and grimaced. “Next time,” he asked, “would it be all right if I brought along a few cans of beer? I like a glass of wine with a meal well enough, but there are times when a glass of beer just seems to hit the spot.”

They leaned back in their chairs and examined their surroundings. Enclosed on two sides by a brick wall, the garden had become a wild tangle of neglect in the months before and after Emma’s death. Although badly in need of weeding and grooming, the space had wonderful potential, and Gareth had assured Penny that with her help he could soon have the gardens, front and back, knocked back into shape.

“Would you like a vegetable patch next summer?” he asked. “It’s become very trendy to grow your own. You can’t beat fresh peas right out of the garden, garnished with a bit of mint. Mind you, you have