A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,5

to be careful with the mint or it’ll take over every inch of ground you’ve got. But there are ways to keep it under control. And I expect you’ll be wanting a barbecue.”

They talked for a few moments about their plans for the week. Penny and Victoria had recently learned that an attractive but rundown stone building situated on the River Conwy was coming up for sale, and they wanted to look it over. They had formed a business partnership and now that Victoria had received her divorce settlement, they planned to expand the manicure salon into a larger, more inclusive spa operation offering lots of additional services.

Gareth and Penny sat quietly for a few more moments, enjoying the late-afternoon sunlight that illuminated everything it touched, pricking everything with a soft, intense pinkish hue. Then, with a small sigh, he struggled once again to his feet.

He reached down a hand to Penny and pulled her up and out of her chair.

“Time for me to go,” he said. “Don’t you hate that time on a Sunday afternoon when the weekend starts to feel over?”

As they made their way into the kitchen, he glanced at the Welsh dresser. Made of solid, seasoned oak, it was decorated with carved sides and featured two plate racks over a base of three drawers and two small cupboards on the bottom. Carefully arranged on the plate racks was Emma’s favourite tea set in a feminine pattern called Sweet Violets. The pretty cups and saucers were dusty.

“Have you checked for a secret compartment in that dresser?” Gareth asked, pointing at it.

“No! I didn’t know there’d be one. Never even thought of it.”

“My grandmother had a dresser just like it. She was so proud of it. We used to go round to visit her on Sunday afternoon and stay for our tea, and my mum, bless her, would take away Granny’s laundry and bring it back all washed and ironed the next week. She showed me how it worked when I was about ten. Let’s have a look.”

He walked over to the dresser, removed the bread and butter plates from the lower shelf, and set them carefully on the counter. Returning to the dresser, he tapped along the back of it and then slid his hand slowly along the underside of the shelf where the delicate dishes from the tea service had been moments before.

“Ah,” he said softly, “hand me a knife, would you? One with a sharp point.” Taking the paring knife Penny gave him, he released a hidden clasp, then gently pushed on the rear section of the cabinet. A small piece of board gave way, revealing a pigeonhole. He groped about inside and withdrew a small packet, which he handed to Penny.

“Here you go,” he said, handing it over. “Probably the most valuable thing she owned.”

It was a bundle of about two dozen letters, tied in a purple ribbon with small white dots.

“Well,” said Gareth, “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got to get back to Llandudno, so I’ll ring you tomorrow. You can tell me all about them then, if you like.”

They walked together to the front door, where he lightly kissed her good-bye. She stood in the doorway and watched as he made his way to his car, turning to wave at her before setting off.

Still holding the packet of letters, she walked over to the sofa and sat down. Slowly, she untied the ribbon, withdrew the first letter from its envelope and gently unfolded it. It gave off a weak scent of lavender.

Liverpool, Sunday, April 15, 1967

My dear girl, she read. I couldn’t believe my great good luck when on a dull, boring Saturday afternoon, you appeared at my table in a crowded railway station buffet and asked if you might sit down.

She stopped reading, turned the letter over, and looked at the signature.

Yours,

Al J.

Could Al J. be A. Jones? She got up and walked over to the painting showing the couple at the picnic, gazed at the signature for a moment, and then returned to the sofa. Thoughtfully, she refolded the letter, placed it back in its envelope, and then tied everything back up in the purple ribbon. Wondering where to put the letters, she settled on the desk, placed the packet in the drawer, and closed it. She started back toward the sofa, but then stopped, turned around, and retraced her steps. Opening the desk drawer, she withdrew the Harrods’ pencil case, flipped it open, withdrew the photo, and looked