Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)

by Steph Broadribb

Moira doesn’t know how many acres lie between her and the trees, but it has to be a hell of a lot. Until just over a month ago she’d only ever lived and worked in London. The wide, open space here still seems alien.

The pool comes into view. ‘Oh Jesus.’ Her breath catches in her throat. Heart pounding, she rushes forward. At the last minute she sees the blood splattered across the stone patio, and just manages to stop before she treads in it.

The young woman is floating on her back in the middle of the water. Her eyes are open, and her long black hair has fanned around her head like a dark halo. There’s blood smeared over her chest and across the top of her pale yellow dress, but that isn’t the weirdest thing. The weirdest thing is she’s surrounded by thousands of floating dollar bills.

Philip’s been a detective in the Thames Valley for over thirty-five years. Wherever you are in the world, a turnout like this means one thing: a dead body.

No unauthorised personnel allowed beyond this point.’ Philip doesn’t appreciate the youngster’s tone. He’s a DCI; uniforms should do as he says. ‘I understand, officer, I’m law enforcement too.’ The cop frowns again. ‘You got a badge?’ ‘Well, no, not here in the US, but I’m—’ ‘Then I can’t let you any closer.’ Philip clenches his fists. ‘Now look here, I’m . . .’ He stops and puts telling this cocky kid just who he’s dealing with on hold, because there’s a woman emerging from the back of the ambulance and he recognises her. He’s good like that. Never forgets a face or a name. And Moira is a memorable kind of woman; tall and athletic with her black hair cropped into a pixie cut and a face that looks far younger than anyone else’s here at The Homestead. She’s a new resident. His wife, Lizzie, told him that before she introduced them the other day when they’d met in Publix doing the weekly shop. Moira and Lizzie had met at yoga a few weeks before. He doesn’t know why Moira’s in the ambulance, but he’s damn sure he’s going to find out.

It’s then that she sees someone is watching. On the other side of the street, half-crouched behind one of the parked cars – a silver VW Beetle – is a young, wiry-looking guy with short blond hair and black-framed glasses. He’s staring right at her. He’s wearing a navy hoodie and has a chunky maroon and gold knitted scarf around his neck even though the day is warming up and the temperature

As a CSI Lizzie saw the aftermath of every kind of crime. To see that stuff every day, and stick at the job until retirement, takes a certain type of person.

The back door flies open. It bangs against the wall, causing the glasses in the display cabinet beside the door to rattle. Moira flinches, and twists round towards the noise. ‘What the . . . ?’ A barrel-chested guy the size of a mountain strides into the kitchen. His white hair, deep tan and huge arms make him look like Popeye’s older, more muscular brother. When he speaks his voice is gravel deep, the accent Bostonian rather than Floridian. ‘I’ve called the troops to action. Meeting’s in half an hour.’ ‘Excellent,’ says Philip, gesturing towards her. ‘Moira here found the body, she’s going to talk us through what she saw.’ ‘Sounds good,’ says the man mountain. Pouring himself a mug of coffee, he moves across the kitchen to the space next to Moira at the island and leans his hip against the counter. Philip gestures towards the empty stool. ‘Take a seat.’ ‘I’m okay standing,’ says the big guy. He looks at Moira. ‘You go right ahead.’ Moira frowns. Who the hell is this guy? With him towering over her, the kitchen that had seemed so big and spacious moments ago now seems more like a hobbit house. ‘And you are?’ ‘I’m Rick, ma’am.’

‘I’m Moira.’ ‘Great accent,’ Rick says, grinning. ‘I guess you’re another transplant from England like these guys?’ He says the word England as if it has three syllables – En-ger-land. And his smile makes him look less imposing, more goofy, but Moira isn’t prepared to drop her guard. ‘I am.’ ‘You live here?’ He holds her eye contact. She gives a curt nod. ‘Moved in last month.’

Biting back the urge to tell him she’s been a cop herself and doesn’t need his patronising assurances, Moira looks at Rick instead. ‘That true about you being ex-DEA?’ ‘Sure is. Did forty-one years. Real long-timer.’

She was an attractive woman, for sure, although kind of tight-assed that way the English oftentimes are.

What an outdated stereotype

Moira feels a cold chill creep along her spine. She shivers again, and turns around. Her breath catches in her throat. Way in the distance, up on the hillside, beneath a crop of tall trees, something glints in the sunlight. She puts her hand to her face, trying to shield out the sun from her eyes and get a better view. She can’t see clearly, but there’s definitely something there. She takes a few steps forward. Squints harder. That’s when she sees it. Her heart rate accelerates. Someone is watching them through binoculars.

he stares at the woman who enters. She’s taller than he expected – around five foot ten at least – and despite her age there’s no sign of a stoop. She moves gracefully towards them, smiling. With her high cheekbones and short white hair teased into a style that frames her face, Miss Betty reminds him of two of his favourite actresses – Dame Judi and Helen Mirren.