Too Bright for Murder (Ruth Finlay Mysteries Book 2)

Book summary

Ruth Finlay's relaxing weekend in the picturesque town of Bright takes a dark turn when a murder occurs during her stay. As she investigates, she unravels secrets and faces suspicion herself. A second mysterious death and the disappearance of her friend add to the intrigue in this Australian cozy mystery, "TOO BRIGHT FOR MURDER."

Excerpt from Too Bright for Murder (Ruth Finlay Mysteries Book 2)

‘Hold this right here, Ruth.’

Doris pointed at an old wooden fence post and then shoved the end of the tape measure into my hand. She was giving me no choice but to crouch down beside the barbed wire fence and hold the tape measure in place. The grass was thick and damp, and there was a faint odour of dog pee, the ground underneath my boots boggy. I felt myself sinking a little. This stretch of the walking trail was always a soggy spot, the creek prone to flooding even after just one inch of rain.

‘It’s a waste of time, Doris,’ I said, watching her stretch out the tape measure as she left my side. It was certainly a waste of time me saying that. She was never going to take any notice. I heard her mutter, ‘Nonsense,’ under her breath. As far as she was concerned, someone needed to do something about the long row of thistles which she termed Thistle Row, and she intended forcing the issue.

‘Just be quick in case anyone comes.’ I could picture the catastrophe, a cyclist bombing down the slope from the street, not seeing the tape measure until it was too late, toppling off the bike.

Doris, decked out in a bright red tracksuit, ambled across the paved concrete of the Wattle Creek trail, headed into the long grass on the other side, and on past Thistle Row to the creek bank. The thistles were about a metre high, unattractive, and a weed. The guy who mowed to either side of the trail made sure to mow as close as he could to the barbed wire fence on my side but left much of the strip of ground beside the creek unmown. And where the edge of his mower met that unmown section, there was Thistle Row. I waited, anxiously keeping an eye on both directions of the path in case anyone approached, ready to let go of my end of the tape measure to prevent a catastrophe.

‘There,’ she said at last. ‘Ten metres. Now, we need to measure the distance between Thistle Row and the creek bank. Come over here.’

I obliged, keeping hold of my end of the tape measure as I got to my feet.

On Doris’s side of the trail, I had to crouch down between two tall thistles, scarcely managing to avoid getting spiked while she took an age fighting her way through a patch of dense shrubs, then threading the tape measure between two woody trunks in amongst a tangle of low branches.

I waited, anticipating the pull at my end of the tape measure. When I felt it, I looked over at Doris, decked out in black joggers and a blue and white striped hoodie. Toned-down attire, for her. I guess this was her way of being incognito.

‘Three metres,’ she said, standing up.

I let go of my end a little too soon, and she yelped as the tape measure rocketed back into its casing.

‘Oops,’ I said with an inward chuckle.

We went and stood on the concrete path. A cool breeze blew up from the south and I shivered despite the thickly lined jacket I had on. I rearranged my scarf and pulled the jacket zip a little higher. It was May, and autumn was never warm in Myrtle Bay, even in the middle of the day. This part of Australia, thanks to the cold waters of the Southern Ocean, cooled down quickly at the end of March and didn’t warm up greatly again until late December. Anyone would think I would be used to the climate having grown up here, but my body had other ideas.

A shrill ring, and we stepped backwards off the path as a cyclist whizzed by.

‘Him again,’ Doris said, eyeing the cyclist critically as he disappeared around a bend. ‘We timed this poorly. A few minutes later and we would have had him. Would have served him right, the speed he goes. What do you reckon that was? Forty kilometres an hour, I bet.’

Not quite, but he was definitely going much too fast. It was an ongoing issue. Cyclists shouldn’t be sharing trails with pedestrians. As president of Friends of the Trail, or FOTT as some liked to call us, Doris had taken up the matter with the local council many times, and the only result was a few small and easily missed signs at the various entrances to the trail.

A gust of wind and I thrust my hands in my pockets as we stepped back on the path.

‘You’re cold?’

I was hoping that small recognition would mean she’d start heading back. Instead, she extracted a small black notebook from her jacket pocket and wrote down the measurements.

‘If I’m right, the water authority is not responsible for this outrage and the local council is. Which means that lazy oaf Carl Carter needs to pull his finger out and mow closer to those lovely dogwoods the school children planted.’

‘Yes, Doris.’

‘Stop with the sarcasm. You need distractions, and now you have one.’

‘I do?’

She gave me one of her raised-eyebrow looks as if to say she couldn’t believe I could be that dim-witted.

‘As secretary of Friends of the Trail,’ she said a touch pompously, ‘you’ll have to draft the letter.’

She was right on both counts. It was my responsibility to write that letter. I began to regret taking on the role of secretary after Delia Simmons had decided to stand down. And life in Myrtle Bay hadn’t been the same since I got back from Phillip Island to find my dear father had passed away in his sleep that very morning. The aged care home said I had missed him by two hours. The only comfort was knowing he died on a full stomach, having made short shrift of a large slice of my lemon and almond tart, which I had taken to Peaceful Rest along with a three-day supply of culinary delights before I set off. Those two things were a comfort. He had also lived a rich and interesting life and reached a good age. What more could anyone ask? Those left behind had a simple answer. They, like me, wanted to turn back the clock and have their loved ones alive and kicking, at the very least to be able to say goodbye.

The walk back was pleasant. Once we rounded the first bend, the path meandered on its way between tall gum trees. We had the creek to one side of us and the grand back gardens of large houses on the other. The owners of those houses kept the grass along the trail mown right to the creek bank. It was all very charming and pleasant.

That section of the trail ended at Amber Street. We left the trail, passed by the tennis courts and then headed up the steep section of road beside Myrtle Bay Park to Boronia Street. We had both used the same route to and from the trail just about every day for years. We knew every paving slab, every tree, every fence paling.

The park had a timeless feel, the towering trees, mostly cypress and pines, elegantly arranged in clipped lawns, the pond near the bottom with its pretty stone bridge and its ducks, the fountain in the park’s top corner, the rotunda in the middle of a sweep of clipped lawn. The park even had a fernery. Nothing represented the kind of place Myrtle Bay was better than this park, with its marked lack of native plantings, the whole given over to what Australian horticulturalists would call the exotic. Doris and I were fortunate to own houses that looked out over this terribly European feeling park and the low hills beyond. Neither of us could imagine living anywhere else.

The moment we reached our respective homes, Doris headed straight down her driveway to her back door. Normally, she would find a reason to join me for coffee, but she was a woman on a mission. I felt relieved to a degree, but mostly disappointed as she was the only person in my life right now who could fill the hole that Dad had left inside my heart. It was a need I felt most strongly whenever I opened my front door.

In need of a bigger distraction than a letter to the local council, I went straight to my office and checked my inbox. Along with the usual junk, there was an email from my editor Sharon sending me on another assignment for Southern Lifestyle. This time, she wanted me to head to Bright.

Bright?

It would be a terrific chance to get away from it all and move on, she wrote.

Thanks, Sharon, I thought. You don’t move on from the death of a loved one. It wasn’t like that.

Still, geographically speaking, Bright would involve getting away. The pretty town was a good eight hours drive away, nestling in Ovens Valley in Victoria’s High Country on the fringes of two national parks. The parks were popular among skiers and bushwalkers alike, thanks to the spectacular mountain views.

Sharon was right about something else. As far as destinations in Victoria go, Bright was an excellent spot and so different from Myrtle Bay that the two towns might just as well be in different countries. If Myrtle Bay spoke to the senses of northern Europe, Bright was quintessentially Australian without being the outback.

Attached to the email was the budget. My eyes widened when I saw the amount. Either Southern Lifestyle was enjoying a boom or Sharon was being generous. Thinking of what I could do with all that money, I didn’t care which was true. I would be able to enjoy a very pleasant all-expenses paid week in Bright and receive a handsome payment for the piece. I replied to Sharon’s email accepting the offer and started exploring accommodation options.

It was getting dark when Doris called out to me from the back patio. She always entered my house through the rear. She had probably tried the kitchen door and found it locked. I hadn’t got further than my office since getting back from the trail, there being so many luxurious accommodation options in Bright. The town was beginning to feel to me like its own ray of sunshine filling my head and heart with light and warmth. For the first time since I lost Dad, I felt excited.

I left Bright sitting there on my computer screen. As I headed through the living room to the kitchen, I decided Doris must be hungry. I was feeling that way myself. I opened the back door and found her standing in the autumn chill in a yellow ochre fleece covered in tawny red splodges over burnt-orange culottes, her hair wrapped in a matching burnt-orange headscarf. She looked like maple leaves in autumn. I stepped aside to let her in and crossed the room to the fridge.

‘I’ve still got some of that pumpkin soup you liked yesterday,’ I said, reaching into the depths of the top shelf.

‘Ruth.’

‘Although that’s more a lunch thing,’ I said, more to myself than my neighbour now sitting at the table facing me.

‘Ruth.’

I closed the fridge door. ‘I can make a creamy pasta dish with mushrooms and slivers of chicken breast. How does that sound?’

‘Great, but will you shut up and listen.’

‘I’m all ears.’

I started pulling what I needed out of the fridge.

‘I need you to be all eyes.’

‘Then you need to hang on a bit.’

I set a large pan on to boil for the pasta. Nothing could be simpler than this Italian-style meal and I even had some fresh basil sprigs needing using. I went out onto the patio and came back in with a few tips of thyme for an extra lift. Fresh cream, sliced mushrooms, the chicken, plenty of garlic, a little condensed chicken stock and lashings of freshly ground black pepper and shaved parmesan. As I went about the preparations, my tummy started waking up in anticipation.