“And just look how that ended,” Phyllis muttered to herself,shaking all thoughts of romance out of her head. With one last glance around the office, she opened the door and stepped back into the hall. She began to make her way toward the stairs and then stopped. To her left was another door, slightly ajar, and through it she could see a double bed, fully made. Was this Cynthia and Michael’s room? If so, it might well contain clues. Glancing around her to check the coast was still clear, she slipped inside.
It was indeed the principal bedroom. There was a large double bed, fitted wardrobes along one wall and a dressing table overflowing with pots and bottles. In the far corner was a door, which Phyllis assumed led into an en suite bathroom; she’d read about those in books but never seen one in real life. For a second, she considered having a look but resisted. To the right of the bed was a chest of drawers and she crossed to that and opened the top drawer. It was filled with men’s underpants, and she quickly closed it. The next one contained socks; and the one below, T-shirts and sweaters. Wherever Michael had gone, he hadn’t taken much with him.
On top of the dresser were two framed photos. The first was of Michael and Cynthia on their wedding day: she was wearing a puffy wedding dress, and he was in top hat and tails, both with the look of rabbits caught in the headlights. The second photo was black and white and clearly much older. Phyllis picked up the frame to take a closer look. It showed a woman and a small boy standing in front of a stone cottage, the sea stretching out behind them. The cottage looked vaguely familiar, like the ones that used to stand on the coastal path to St Piran’s, until the erosion got so bad they had to be pulled down. Phyllis immediately recognized the woman as Eve Watkins, as she had the same eyebrows and jawline as the photo in the order of service. The child looked about five or six, with dimpledcheeks and pudgy legs sticking out from his shorts. This must be Michael outside his childhood home. Both he and his mother were looking at the camera, grinning at whoever had taken the photo as the wind whipped their hair. There was something about their happy, carefree faces that made Phyllis’s chest ache, and she was about to put the photo down when she heard a creak from outside the bedroom door.
Someone was coming up the stairs!
Phyllis’s heart started to pound, and she looked around for somewhere to hide. There was the en suite, but what if this person wanted to use the toilet? The footsteps were getting louder, and Phyllis opened the nearest wardrobe door and climbed inside, pulling it shut behind her. A second later, she heard the bedroom door click open.
Phyllis held her breath so as not to make a sound. She could hear footsteps moving round the room and the opening and closing of drawers. It must be Cynthia, looking for something. After a minute or so, Phyllis heard the footsteps moving back toward the door. She allowed herself to breathe again; this must mean Cynthia was going downstairs. And then there was another creak and a male voice.
“Ah, here you are, love. I was wondering where you’d snuck off to.”
From her position in the wardrobe, Phyllis let out a silent gasp. Michael was here!
“What are you doing up here?” Cynthia said. “Did anyone see you?”
“Of course not, I crept up. Besides, everyone’s too busy fighting over the buffet.”
“It’s still too risky. Imagine if word got out? Everyone’s gossiping enough as it is.”
Phyllis inched forward and pressed her eye up against the crack in the wardrobe doors. There were only a few millimeters of space, but it was enough to see Cynthia standing by the bed next to the man. His back was to the wardrobe door, but it was definitely the same person as in the church. So, Michael really had dared to return to the scene of the crime, and on such a public occasion! Phyllis felt a flicker of admiration, before she remembered that he’d murdered his mother and stolen ten thousand pounds from the community center.
“Relax, they’re just a bunch of bored pensioners,” Michael said. “What are you doing up here, anyway?”
“Hiding from my sister. She’s been trying to get me on my own all day and I knowexactlywhat she wants to talk about.”
“You think she’s panicking?”
“Of course she is. That Goody Two-shoes is terrified someone will work out I wasn’t really at hers on Wednesday night.”
“You don’t think she’ll tell the police, do you?”
“No, she’s not that stupid.”
Aha, so Cynthia hadn’t been at her sister’s the night of the murder! Phyllis had known the woman was lying about her alibi. For a second, she was tempted to burst out of the wardrobe and tell the pair she’d caught them red-handed, but Miss Marple would never have done something so brash.
“I just want this all to be over so we can get out of here,” Cynthia said, her voice weary.
“Not long now, love. Once the house has been cleared, you’ll never have to come back here again. I was thinking, maybe we shouldgo somewhere hot? We both deserve a bit of sunshine after all of this.”
Phyllis felt a stab of panic. Michael and Cynthia were fleeing the country! Perhaps they were going to hide out in the Caribbean? Miss Marple had gone to St Honoré inA Caribbean Mystery, and it sounded wonderful, serial killer aside.
Phyllis heard feet moving across the carpeted floor, and the pair stepped out of her line of vision.
“I know this past week has been hideous, but it might all work out for the best in the end.” Michael had dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “With Mike out of the way, we can finally be together.”
Wait, what?Had she just misheard that? Phyllis leaned forward and very gently pushed the door ajar to get a better view.
Few things shocked Phyllis Hudson. But the sight of Cynthia Watkins being kissed passionately in the arms of a man—a man who was most definitelynother husband, Michael Watkins—took her breath away. She recoiled, and as she did her head knocked against a coat hanger, causing it to clatter against the rear of the wardrobe.
“Did you hear that?”
Phyllis pushed herself into the coats and dresses, trying to disappear, but it was no use. A second later, the door was yanked open and there stood Cynthia and the man who wasn’t Michael, both glaring at her.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my wardrobe?” Cynthia demanded, as the man grabbed Phyllis’s arm, pulling her out. She stumbled but his grip was strong, and she didn’t fall.
“Were you just spying on us?” His face was red.
