Page 33 of Honey Mead Murder

“Aside from the rifle pointed at your chest?” Murphy opened the car doors. He put his bag in the boot while George got Bumble secured in the back seat. “Still want to swing by the village and then your cottage before heading to Margo’s?”

“We can skip the village. I’ve got plenty of snacks. But Ella pointing a gun at me doesn’t prove she murdered her husband.” George believed her confession. It had been too raw to be a lie. She’d barely been aware of his presence, ranting about all of the reasons why Ronald had deserved to die. “Not sure the police can arrest her based on my saying she admitted it.”

“Probably not, but it may help them in their investigation.” Murphy pulled his phone out of his pocket. He began typing out a text. “I’m telling Sarah what you heard from Ella. If nothing else, she’ll want your statement.”

“Right.” He pulled on his seat belt. His fingers had finally stopped shaking like a leaf. “Not sure what frightened me more. The gun in front of me—or the knowledge she’d probably already killed you.”

“Just glad nothing happened to either of us.”

“Aside from having the life scared out of me.”

“Aside from that.” Murphy took his hand; his thumb rubbed over George’s knuckles. The touch was comforting. It soothed some of the rawness he still felt. “Right. Change of subject, because obsessing over Ella Donelson isn’t going to help either of our nerves. I’d really hoped to take you on a proper date.”

“What does proper even mean when it comes to dating or feelings? Sounds very much like when people say a ‘real’ relationship or use ‘normal.’ I’ve never been good at either of those things.” George stared out the window. He’d often analysed how his friends and family talked about their romances. “Is it weird how I feel like we’re deep in a relationship already because I’ve known you for so long and always felt so connected to you?”

“Not weird. Not at all.” Murphy squeezed his hand. “But I still want to go on a proper date.”

“After the wicked widow is dealt with.” George had never been overly tactile in any of his previous relationships. He could be finicky about it, but Murphy seemed to know when to ease back. It helped him relax even further. “Let’s just hope the police catch up to her quickly.”

“They’ll do their best.”

It didn’t exactly strike confidence in George. He wondered if maybe they should stay somewhere closer to the village. Maybe at a cottage not closely connected to either of them.

Everyone knew Margo.

They all knew she was his cousin.

“What if Darren discovered Ella had killed Ronald? He might decide to protect her instead of turning her in.” George thought their vandal was the former, not the latter. Something in the person's gait when they’d fled the scene didn’t strike him as Ella Donelson. “We’re missing part of the story.”

“Let’s just hope it doesn’t wind up being the end of our story.”

“Happy thoughts, Paddy.” George rested his head back against the seat. He felt drained from the events of the day. “Happy thoughts.”

NINETEEN

MURPHY

The evening had been subdued. Despite the snacks they’d picked up from his cottage, George hadn’t been hungry. He’d made his excuses and disappeared into Margo’s spare room.

“He’s going to watch one of his shows. It’ll help him after shutting down the way he did.” Margo cleared up the food. She carried things into the kitchen. “You’re good for him.”

“Oh?”

“Not many people are patient with him. They don’t have a good grasp of knowing when to give him the space he needs.” Margo went over to let Bumble and Treacle out into the garden. “I’ll let these two of run some of the energy off. They’ll probably sleep together in the bed by the hearth.”

“All right.”

“I imagine they’ll wake you up at least once. Poor Bumble’s an elderly wee bloke. He might need a walk.” Margo leaned against the door, watching the dogs race the length of her garden. “Murphy.”

He sat up quickly at the sharp, hushed tone in her voice. “What is it?”

“Someone’s out there.” Margo whistled for the dogs. She repeated it a few times. “It’s dark enough I can’t quite see, but a shadow moved down by the cluster of trees at the end of the garden. They must’ve walked up the lane, then come through the hedge.”

“You sure it wasn’t one of the dogs?”

“Not unless they suddenly began walking on two feet.” Margo gave yet another whistle. Bumble finally trundled into the cottage. “Treacle?”

Murphy had got to his feet. He placed a hand on her shoulder, pulling away from the door. “Call Sarah.”

---