Page 31 of Beautiful Ugly
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
“Curiosity doesn’t only kill cats,” she says. “Amberly is the only place I’ve ever thought of as home.”
If Cora is Coraline, if she killed a man who raped her daughter and went to prison for it, then I need to be sensitive about what I ask.
“Maybe I’ll take a newspaper,” I say, picking up a copy of yesterday’sTimes. “Have you ever been interviewed by a journalist?”
Cora laughs. “Why would a journalist want to speak to me?”
“I don’t know... something you might have done in your past?”
Cora’s face looks very serious all of a sudden. “Well now, let me see. I did do aterrificjob of pricing up all the tinned food that was close to expiration date last week. I’m surprised that there wasn’t a gang of press on my doorstep, desperate to get an exclusive interview and ask me all about it!” She laughs again. I don’t.
“Do you have a daughter?” I ask, and the smile vanishes from her face.
“Are you okay, Grady? You’re looking a little tired, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Idomind. Patience comes with an expiration date too.
“I don’t blame you,” she continues. “I’d have trouble sleeping in an old haunted cabin in the woods, perched on the edge of a crumbling cliff, wondering if I’d ever wake up or whether I’d die in my sleep when the place fell into the sea. Which it will, it’s only a matter of time. You do know Charles Whittaker died in that cabin?” Cora hands me my bag of shopping but doesn’t let go when I try to take it. She has a surprisingly strong grip.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I say.
“Do you believe in tea?” she asks, still holding the bag. “Bog myrtle tea is wonderful for insomnia.”
“I didn’t say that I had—”
“The tea is made here on the island and it’sverypopular with visitors.” She reaches beneath the counter and puts a small floral cardboard box inside my bag. “Try it. On the house. You can’t write a bestseller if you’re dead tired.”
CLEARLY CONFUSED
Istart heading out of the village. Other than coffee, I feel like I didn’t get anything out of that visit. Why couldn’t Cora give me a straight answer? Is she hiding something? Maybe the sweet old lady running the corner shopisa killer. Or perhaps she is just a bit aloof in general? I don’t know what to make of any of it. Abby was so much better at reading people and asking the right questions.
Columbo stops outside the butcher’s, sniffs the air, and stares up at me.
“You’re quite right. We could do with a decent dinner after Midge’s cooking last night,” I tell him, and the dog wags his tail as though he understands. Also, I figure meeting a few more of the twenty-five residents will surely help me to figure out what is really going on here. One of them has to know something.
The shop stands out from the others with its traditional red-and-white Victorian awnings and old-fashioned signage. The door and window frames have all been painted a bright red color, and there are glazed tiles depicting sheep. Bill’s Butchers looks like something from an old film and also appears to be closed, so I’m surprised when I try the door and it opens. Another littlebell tinkles to announce my arrival—bells are obviously popular on Amberly—and a small woman with jet-black hair and olive skin appears behind the counter. Almost as though she had been crouching down, hiding beneath it, hoping that I wouldn’t come inside. She does not look like a Bill.
“Hello,” I say, feeling unwelcome. But then she smiles, and her whole face lights up as though someone just switched her on. I see she is wearing a necklace spelling out the name Mary.
“Good morning,” Mary replies with a Spanish accent I did not expect. She speaks as though on autopilot, smiling so much it is a tad unnerving. She’s a neat and tidy–looking woman with minimal makeup and not a hair out of place. A little younger than me, I think. She’s wearing a bright white, slightly bloody apron. I take in the steel rails on the walls and huge wooden chopping blocks, the oversize scales, and rows of large, shiny, extremely sharp-looking knives. “Is there anything I can help you with?” she asks, still smiling. The way she stares at me with her big eyes and bright white teeth makes me feel so uncomfortable I have to look away. I cast an eye over all the meat on display instead. There’s a lot of it for a tiny island.
“There’s so much to choose from,” I say.
She nods enthusiastically. “We do our best. At the moment we’ve got leg of lamb, lamb chops, lamb shoulder, lamb rack, lamb burgers, lamb cutlets, minced lamb, lamb shanks, lamb loin, and some lovely lamb cheeks.”
“That’s... a lot of lamb.”
She nods again. Beaming. “It is.”
“You don’t sell any other types of meat?”
The smile vanishes from her face. “No. We sell lamb.”
My eyes are drawn to the very sharp-looking knives again.