Death in a Cold Spring (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 9) Read Free Page B

he reflected, what was the worst that could happen?
     

Chapter 2 When Art and Craft Collide
     
    Amaryllis still felt like skipping and jumping by the time they got to the Cultural Centre.  Jock and Maisie Sue and the wee white dog went on ahead to the Queen of Scots, where they could fill Charlie Smith in on what he had missed.
    ‘So what have you forgotten?’ said Amaryllis as Christopher unlocked the front door. ‘Anything interesting?’
    ‘Just wait out here,’ he said.
    She followed him into the foyer with a theatrical shiver.
    ‘It’s a bit chilly to hang about out there. Especially in a skirt.’
    She was slightly put out that he hadn’t noticed she was wearing a skirt, but then Christopher didn’t take much notice of that kind of thing. She didn’t think he had even seen her legs before – not that they were anything to write home about, in her opinion, being well-muscled and lacking in feminine curves.
    She followed him down the corridor towards the Folk Museum until he turned on her.
    ‘Do you have to come along here? It isn’t chilly in the foyer, is it?’
    ‘But what if there’s something scary waiting round the corner?’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t turn your nose up at the services of a highly trained special agent, you know.’
    ‘I don’t think you’ll be able to help with anything here,’ Christopher muttered. He seemed to be holding his breath as he opened the door of the Folk Museum.
    It was the smell that hit them first.
    ‘Don’t go in,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Let me go first.’
    Christopher took a step inside, reaching round the door frame to find the light switch.
    Amaryllis found she had risen up on to the balls of her feet – not an easy move in the high heels she was wearing - in readiness to act. Perhaps she would have been better to take off the shoes to use as a weapon. The room was full of the smell of blood.
    If there had indeed been some sort of violent incident, someone had tidied up afterwards. There was no sign of blood on the floor, walls, even the ceiling... No dismembered bodies lying carelessly around. No sacrificial goats inside mystical symbols chalked on the floor.
    Amaryllis sighed, almost disappointed.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ said Christopher, still peering round the room as if he couldn’t believe nothing had happened.
    ‘Nothing,’ said Amaryllis. She decided to take off her heels after all, just in case there was an armed intruder hiding behind the display cases or under the –
    ‘Eeek!’ she squeaked, stepping back from the table where she knew Maisie Sue taught people quilting on Tuesday afternoons. There was something underneath it.
    Amaryllis was annoyed with herself for reacting in such a silly, girlish way to the sight of blood. She stared at the shoe in her hand accusingly. Surely you couldn’t change your personality just by wearing the wrong shoes?
    Christopher came up alongside her and glanced under the table. ‘It’s all right,’ he said in the patient tone he might have used to soothe a child or small dog. ‘It’s just one of Maisie Sue’s – oh my God!’
    Within seconds patience had been replaced by horror as he surveyed the blood-soaked, crumpled quilt.
    Amaryllis, partly to prove something to herself, grabbed a black bin-bag somebody had left lying around, tore a hole in the top and pulled it over her head, smoothing it into places to cover up her light coloured clothing. Typical that this should happen when she was wearing light colours for once. She should have stuck to her trademark black. As an afterthought she dived into her bag and pulled out a couple of plastic shopping-bags she had taken to carrying with her everywhere since the supermarket bag charge had come in, and quickly improvised a pair of rather ugly gloves with them. She reached in under the table and tugged at the quilt. It slid out easily from under the table, leaving a smear of blood in its wake. The thing was still wet.
    ‘We should leave it where