A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,6

at the back: 1967.

“Nineteen sixty-seven,” she said softly. “I wonder.”

Holding the photo by the lower right corner, she tapped it against the palm of her left hand. I wonder, she thought, who took the photo. That’s always the interesting bit. There’s the person in the photo, and then there’s the unseen presence of the photographer. There were at least two people there that day. And then there’s the fox terrier, Winnie. Penny knew that Emma had liked dogs, but she had never mentioned this pretty little terrier with her adorable black-and-white face and a few freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose.

Yawning, Penny set the photo down on the desk and glanced at her watch. It was early evening, much too early for bed, but she was tired and the wine was making her sleepy. I’ll just lie down for an hour or so, she thought, then get up, have some soup or something light to eat, and then perhaps make a start on sorting out that spare bedroom. As dusk began to settle over the room, she reached for the banister and slowly climbed the stairs.

Three hours later, she awoke in darkness and groaned. Although the room was shrouded in the velvet blackness of night, she felt that morning was still a long way off. Cold and stiff, she stretched out to switch on the bedside lamp, looked at the clock. Oh God, she thought. Eleven. There goes my night’s sleep. Sighing, she touched the button on her clock radio and lay there in the dark, embraced by the intimacy of the unmistakable, sweet voice of John Fogerty.

Clouds of mystery pouring

Confusion on the ground

It’s no good, she thought, realizing she was famished. I might as well go downstairs and see what there is to eat.

A few minutes later, a glass of water in one hand and a cheese and onion sandwich in the other, she plunked herself down on the sofa and switched on the television. She slumped back and idly changed channels until she found herself watching a news item about a shopkeeper who had been fined for putting out his rubbish in the wrong-coloured bin bag.

“What next?” she asked the screen, and then suddenly sat up straight.

Moments later she slipped out the back door and headed for the pile of boxes she and Gareth had set out earlier for the rubbish. She opened one and, not seeing what she was looking for, closed it up and moved on to the next box. In the fourth one she found Emma’s old notebooks and journals and, grabbing the box by the cardboard flap, dragged it inside. She left it on the kitchen floor, glanced at the dresser, and then reached back to lock the door.

On Monday afternoon she had arranged to meet Victoria outside the office of Jenkins and Jones to finalize the legal details of their business partnership. When Victoria was ten minutes late, Penny wasn’t sure whether she should be annoyed or worried. And then she saw her hurrying around the corner, her dress billowing slightly in the breeze.

“I am so sorry!” Victoria wailed. “I got held up with a phone call just as I was leaving. Bronwyn called and it seemed rude to cut her off. She wanted to know if, oh, never mind, it can wait. We’d better get in there.”

Victoria was now living in Penny’s old flat above the manicure salon. She had arrived in Llanelen for what had been meant to be a bit of rest and relaxation several months ago but, for many reasons, had decided to stay on. She and Penny had found they had much in common, and as their friendship deepened, they had started working together.

The smell of fresh paint greeted them as they entered the office of Richard Jones, the senior partner.

A small, tidy, bald man in his sixties, who favoured a three-piece suit, he had looked after many of the townsfolk’s legal affairs for decades. It was he who had handled the execution of Emma’s will, including turning over the cottage to Penny.

The receptionist greeted them politely but coolly, sending a mildly reproving message for their lateness. They were the last appointment of the day, and it was obvious from her manner that she had better things to do than hang about waiting for them.

“He’s been expecting you,” she said primly, nodding in the direction of a closed door. “You’re to go right in.”

Richard Jones stood up to greet them as they entered his office. Here,