A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,9
I mean, really, what would be the point?”
She paused for a moment.
“And, you know, Emma was such a private person, I think she’d be horrified to think that someone was reading her letters. Maybe I should just destroy them.”
“Or,” said Victoria, punctuating her sentence with a little nod, “maybe she left them there for you to find because she wanted you to read them.”
A thoughtful silence descended between them.
“Well, what about this, then,” said Victoria a few moments later. “I’ll make dinner and you can have a good old think about what you want to do about the letters.”
“I like the dinner part, but I’ll leave the letters. To be honest, I think I should be alone when I read them. That is, if I read them.” Penny took a sip of wine and settled further into the sofa, the letters resting on her lap.
Victoria nodded, made her way to the kitchen, and clattered about in the cupboards looking for a large pot.
“Mmm, this is really good,” said Penny about half an hour later, turning over a forkful of pasta tossed with butter and freshly grated parmesan cheese. “You’re a genius at making something from nothing.”
Victoria smiled her thanks.
“You know, there’s something I’ve been wondering about . . .” She fell silent.
“Yes?” prompted Victoria. “What? What have you been wondering about?”
“Well, what kind of person would kill someone in a hit-and-run? How could you drive away, leaving someone injured and lying in the street? How could you not stop and try to help?”
“Or what if the person was drunk and afraid of the police?” Penny mused. “How would that person feel when he woke up the next morning with a bad hangover and realized he’d killed someone? Or, even worse, what if the person wasn’t dead, and died later, but might have been saved if the driver had stopped to help?”
“I think it would depend on the person,” Victoria replied. “I reckon some folks would get themselves down to the nearest police station right away and others would live out the rest of their days as if nothing had happened. And maybe others would be somewhere in between.”
Penny nodded slowly.
“There’s something else. Richard Jones didn’t seem all that upset. If your sister had been killed, wouldn’t you show a bit more emotion?”
“Penny,” said Victoria gently, “this is news to you, but for him it happened a long time ago. She died more than thirty years ago. He got on with his life. He moved on because he had to. He’s learned to live with it.”
Penny nodded.
“And anyway,” Victoria added, “we don’t know how he reacted at the time. He might have been really cut up. But remember, too, he’s of that generation. They don’t show much emotion. They just accept things the way they are and get on with it.”
“I guess you’re right,” Penny agreed. “But I want to find out everything I can about this artist Alys Jones. She and Emma must have meant something to each other or they wouldn’t have corresponded. I’m starting to get very curious about that accident, and I’d like to find out what happened to her.” She shrugged. “So I guess that’s the point of reading the letters. It’s a place to start, and maybe the letters will shed a bit of light on what happened.”
She wiped her lips on her napkin and set it down beside her plate.
“I wish I had the Internet so I could look something up.”
“Well, that’s not a problem,” said Victoria. “You can stop into the library in the morning and use the computer there.”
“I know I can,” said Penny with a touch of impatience and petulance, “but I want the Internet here so I can look things up whenever I want. Like right now.”
“Well, if it’s really bothering you, maybe I can help. I’ll call Bronwyn’s cousin—you know where I stayed that time and where the kids are. Teenagers can’t go five minutes without the Internet. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know where a street is. Here, I’ll write it down for you.”
Victoria placed the call on her mobile and spoke for a few moments. She gestured to Penny to hand her a pen, scribbled a few notes, and then rang off.
“He Googled it and the street came up right away. It’s in Liverpool. And you’ll never guess who lived at number two fifty-one Menlove Avenue.”