Breaking Point by Frank Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

it. The trouble was, with Wisteria Cottage being on its own half acre at the very end of the village, there weren’t many houses in the immediate vicinity, so it was hardly surprising that no one had seen or heard anything that might be considered suspicious.
    But they loved to talk, and Molly had found it very hard to get away without giving offence. She’d had three cups of tea, the last one so hot and strong that she felt her mouth would never be the same again. She craved something cool – anything to put the fire out. Purposefully, she set off down the narrow street bordered on both sides by an unbroken line of houses and small shops. It had been many years since she’d been in Whitcott Lacey, but if memory served, there used to be a café about halfway down the street. They sold ice cream in the summer, and she and her father used to stop in there before leaving for home. She hoped it was still there.
    It was. Same old sign above the door:
Breakfast, Lunches, Teas
and in faded lettering along the bottom,
Ice cream.
    Molly mounted the worn steps and went inside to the warm and welcoming smell of fresh baking. It was like going back in time. The wooden floor was just as scrubbed and uneven as she remembered it; the long counter looked exactly the same; even the heavy cast-iron tables – the ones that wobbled and slopped your tea if you weren’t careful – hadn’t changed.
    Five tables, but only two were occupied, both by women shoppers. Coats open, handbags hanging from the back of their chairs, shopping bags on the floor beside them or on a vacant chair, and tea and scones in front of them.
    â€˜Yes, love, what can I do for you?’ The woman behind the counter was short and very, very fat, but she had a warm and friendly smile. ‘Tea or coffee is it? Scones are fresh made. Came out of the oven less than half an hour ago.’ She raised her voice. ‘All right, are they, ladies?’
    There was a murmur of approval and nodding of heads.
    â€˜They do smell good,’ Molly agreed, ‘and I’ll have one, but –’ she hesitated – ‘I’d like something cold as well. I suppose it’s too early in the year for you to have ice cream?’
    â€˜Sorry, love, we don’t do that till May. But if it’s cold you want, I could do you iced tea.’
    â€˜That would be lovely,’ Molly told her. ‘Shall I pay you now or . . .?’
    The woman shook her head. ‘You might decide to take something home for your tea,’ she said, and chuckled. ‘No, it’s all right, love, pay me when you leave.’
    Molly sat down at one of the empty tables and set her bag on it. It wobbled dangerously. She tried to turn it, but it was far too heavy and wouldn’t budge on the wooden floor.
    â€˜That’s a bad one, that is,’ one of the woman called to her, indicating the table. ‘Anyway, there’s no need for you to sit over there all by yourself. Come and sit here.’ She moved a shopping bag off a chair. ‘There’s room.’
    Molly hesitated. She had the feeling that everyone there knew who she was, or at least
what
she was, and they saw a golden opportunity to find out what was going on in their tight little community. On the other hand, perhaps she could learn something herself.
    â€˜That’s very kind of you,’ she said, picking up her handbag and moving to join them.
    â€˜Joyce Chandler, Ivy Sloane,’ the woman said, introducing herself and her friend. She was a tall, angular woman with deep-set eyes and a friendly smile. Grey hair, fiftyish, Molly guessed, and reasonably well off if her clothes were anything to go by. Her friend, Ivy, was a smaller woman, probably about the same age, but she looked younger with her dyed blonde hair and plumper face. ‘And you are . . .?’ Joyce Chandler enquired pleasantly.
    â€˜Molly Forsythe.’ Molly placed her handbag on the floor