Snow Angel

by JJ Marsh

  Matthew stirred his coffee, his gaze over her shoulder at the garden. “As I say, all part of the persona. He couldn’t stop acting his role, especially after he’d had a drink. Just to set the record straight, I am not excusing his rampant chauvinism. I took him to task over several instances. He’d been thrown out of The Lazy Toad twice, was permanently barred from The Star and I believe he was only tolerated at The Angel because of his friendship with the landlord. Gordon is part of the card-playing contingent. Is that a cat on the doorstep?”

  “I think so. Probably belongs to one of the neighbours so don’t go feeding it. I know what you’re like. So Heather, the dismissed lover, would have a motive. Her son, a forestry worker, would have both motive and means. The card games – were they playing for money?”

  “Oh yes. They took it awfully seriously, and one chap got into such debt he declared himself bankrupt. I recall the police became involved, suspecting a gambling den and all that. Vaughan smoothed it over as a gentlemen’s gathering with a civilised game of cards.”

  “Hmm. I’d like to talk to Gordon and some of the other attendees. Thank you for the pancakes and the intelligence. Now I need to hit the beat. Just one last question. If I asked you, from sheer gut feeling, who you think might have wanted to kill Vaughan, which one single name would you give me?”

  Matthew’s brow creased horizontally, vertically and relaxed. “I couldn’t give you a single name.”

  “Really?” Beatrice’s tone was incredulous. “Not one single name?”

  “No. But I could make you a shortlist of half a dozen.”

  Chapter Six

  As predicted, the crematorium was packed. Vaughan Mason’s funeral was the event of the year and the village showed up en masse. Absentees were conspicuous, one of whom was Gabriel Shaw, the schoolteacher’s son. Heather herself was present, in velvet layers of black and red, with a dramatic veil over her face.

  Matthew and Mungo took on the role of hosts as none of the relatives had offered, and stood in the porch, shaking hands and conversing with each mourner quietly. Beatrice seated herself near the back with Tanya, both feigning expressions of sorrow while gossiping in whispers.

  “See that one with the red feather in her hat?” hissed Tanya. “Vaughan’s neighbour, Demelza Price. She’s on the parish council and she hated his guts. He deliberately annoyed her by sunbathing nude when she was gardening or playing Eminem out of his bedroom window on her book club evenings.”

  Beatrice sighed. “He really went out of his way to upset people. I’d say a good half of this congregation is secretly celebrating.”

  “Probably more than half. Look at all these publishing luminaries. There’s Whatsisname. You know, the bloke with the teeth. Vaughan trashed his comeback novel in a review for The Guardian and called his agent ‘an undiscerning vampire’. And those two beside him are the presenters of ArtScene on Channel Four, which Vaughan always referred to as Asinine. Tell you what, the pub is going to shift some champagne today.”

  Beatrice watched the room fill and her eye was caught by a pair of older ladies, whom Matthew escorted to the front pew, directly below the pulpit. Their white heads looked familiar, but without seeing their faces, she had no idea where she’d seen them before. They crossed themselves as they faced Vaughan’s floral-clad coffin and settled themselves to the left.

  Whispers rustled like sea grass through the crowd as a woman strode down the aisle. Short and plump, she wore huge sunglasses, and black glossy ringlets framed her face. Her shimmery black dress seemed more appropriate for an awards ceremony than a family funeral. Draped over her arm was a large handbag with chains instead of seams. Each hand twinkled with rings, bracelets and slick dark nail polish and her feet were clad in black high-heeled ankle boots. She acknowledged no one as she sat on the first pew on the right, opposite the old ladies.

  Beatrice, like everyone else in the crowded church, was staring.

  Out of the corner of her mouth, Tanya whispered, “Bet you that’s his daughter. She just flew over from New York, where she works for a lifestyle magazine. Doesn’t she just ooze glamour?”

  “She reminds me of a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig,” said Beatrice, with total honesty. “Well groomed, certainly, but with little trotters and a snout.”

  “Ssh!” Tanya snorted as the organ struck up and the vicar ascended to the pulpit.

  As funerals go, it was on the brief side. The eulogy touched on Vaughan’s youthful fame, the undeniable contribution he had made to literature and the number of friends he had made in the second phase of his life, in his adopted village. He regretted the loss borne by the family, gesturing to the front pews. Rose was Vaughan’s ex-wife, and Grace their only daughter. The fact that the white-haired lady and glamour puss sat on opposite sides of the aisle seemed to confuse him as much as everyone else. Nevertheless, he assured the assembly that Vaughan Mason had been dearly loved and would be greatly missed.

  Beatrice thought it a good thing that people were not given the opportunity, as they were at weddings, to stand up and object. Speak now or forever hold your peace. No, in church people would hold their tongues and go along with the vicar’s airbrushed version of Vaughan. Only once the first wine glasses had been emptied in the function room at The Angel would vengeful knives come out. And Beatrice intended to be all ears.

  No one cried as the curtain hid the coffin from view, not even Heather, who was infamous for her theatrics. Beatrice kept her gaze on Matthew, who sat on the second pew behind the family. He sat still and stoic beside Mungo, his gaze resting on the space where the coffin had been, saying his goodbyes. Her heart ached for him. She’d never understand their friendship but his loss was real and genuine. As was his pain.

  The widow and daughter gave no indication of their feelings, facing front and ignoring each other. On an impulse, Beatrice reached over and gave Tanya’s arm a squeeze.

  An hour later, the upstairs function room at The Angel was heaving with black-clad mourners. Beatrice flittered about with sandwich trays and canapés, ostensibly giving Susie and her staff a hand. Her intention of eavesdropping was easily disguised in the role of waitress. It took a while to hear anything juicy and she began to get bored. As usual at these kinds of events, one had to wade through all the conventional bullshit to get to the truth of the matter.

  “Ground-breaker, forerunner, rebel, game-changer, nonconformist, old school, unapologetic, icon, trailblazer...”

  Beatrice sniffed. Blah, blah. Are you people devoid of original thought?

  She put down her tray and snatched a glass of white wine. It was warm and overly sweet, but it was wine. And even if she was caught drinking on duty, she didn’t give a...

  “Beatrice Stubbs?”

  The white-haired widow stood in front of her, with a disbelieving smile. “It IS you. I thought my eyes were playing tricks. Do you remember me? We met in Greece, on The Empress Louise. Rose Mason.”

  Beatrice set down her glass in astonishment. “Rose? I don’t believe it! I thought you looked familiar, but ... oh my God, Rose Mason? You were Vaughan’s ex-wife?”

  “Small world, eh? C’mere!” She opened her arms and Beatrice embraced her thin frame with heartfelt warmth.

  “It is so lovely to see you again. I’m just totally thrown by the circumstances. How, what, who, why?” Beatrice gazed into the bright blue eyes before her.

  “You’re not the only one with questions. Come over and sit with us. Maggie’s over here, complaining about the food as usual.”

  Maggie looked exactly as Beatrice remembered. The three of them met on a cruise ship where Beatrice was investigating suspicious deaths. Both had proved to be useful allies and loyal friends. But realising the compartments of her life were not as discrete as she’d imagined made Beatrice feel exposed and vulnerable.

  “You’re here too!” She hugged Maggie with a respectful gentleness. “I’m so delighted to see you both again, but completely confused. I may need another glass of wine.”

&n
bsp; Rose hailed a waitress with the air of a Roman empress and accepted three glasses of Chardonnay. “Cheers, Beatrice! A pleasure to see you.”

  They toasted and looked from one to another as they drank.

  Rose spoke first. “Kindly explain why a detective from Scotland Yard is attending the funeral of my ex-husband, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “No detectives at this funeral, apart from the official one over there.” She indicated DI Axe, who stood near the door with a cup of tea. “I’m retired. The only reason I’m here is because of Matthew, my partner and long-suffering companion. Vaughan Mason was one of his best friends. But when I met you, as Rose Mason, I had no idea of the connection.”

  Maggie and Rose exchanged a glance.

  “Not something I used to shout about,” said Rose.

  “Nor something to shout about in the future,” said Maggie, her eyes hard. “We just keep our heads down, quiet little old ladies, and go about our business.”

  Her words struck a chord with Beatrice and a strategy unfurled itself as if someone had unrolled a map. “It is such a pleasure to see you both again. How long are you staying?”

  Maggie shrugged and jerked her head towards Rose. “Ask her.”

  “The reading of the will is tomorrow and we have been invited to attend. I also want to try to have a conversation with...” Rose looked across the room at the black-clad woman with the piggy eyes, laughing with a cluster of publishing folk.

  “Your daughter?” offered Beatrice.

  “We’ve not spoken for years. This might be a chance to repair some damage.” Rose’s voice was faint but raw. “So I thought we might stay on a few days.”

  Beatrice grabbed her chance. “Listen, now is not the time, but what do you say we have drinks before dinner this evening and catch up? I think we have a lot to discuss and if you’re interested, I could use your help.”

  Rose and Maggie’s faces wreathed into smiles.

  Take that, DI Axe. This old dog can still follow a scent.

  Chapter Seven

  The Moor Hall viewing had been scheduled for weeks. Adrian and Catinca, giddy with excitement, waited in the pub foyer for Will, anticipating and second-guessing every aspect of how the venue’s reality would meet their expectations. Having pored over the webcam on its site and studied all the images available online, they were as familiar with the layout as they were with Harvey’s Wine Emporium.

  At last, Adrian had the project back on track. The funeral was over and now was the time for everyone to focus on the big event. Six more days till the most important day of his life. Catinca’s enthusiasm buoyed him. Her obsession for detail matched his. Together, they would make it work. All he needed from Will was the bare minimum, such as showing up. Which he still hadn’t done, after ten minutes of waiting.

  “Where the hell is he? We have an appointment for six o’clock and it’s a good half an hour’s drive. I’m going to call him. I am getting sick and tired of trying to get him interested. It’s like he couldn’t actually give a shit.” Adrian exhaled his frustration.

  He hit speed dial and heard Will’s ringtone come from the bar. He opened the door to see him sitting with Beatrice and two old ladies at a table in the corner. Will winced, held up an apologetic palm and said his goodbyes before hurrying towards his fiancé.

  Adrian folded his arms, jaw set. “I understand why Beatrice and Matthew lost interest for a few days. Bereavement does that to you. But you, the person who proposed to me, are showing less enthusiasm for our wedding than I could muster for an episode of Top Gear. If you have better things to do than marry me, William Quinn, maybe we should save ourselves the effort and expense.”

  Will sighed and closed his eyes for a second, then opened them to direct an imploring gaze at Catinca.

  She shook her head. “Nah, don’t get me involved. He’s right. Pull the finger out, mate. Can we get in bloody car already?”

  Will put on his coat. “Yes, let’s get in the bloody car. Come on, I’m sorry, and from now on I will devote all my attention to this stuff. Promise.”

  Adrian opened the front door and faced the cold. “This stuff?” His tone was as icy as the wind.

  “This lovely, weddingy, marriage stuff. I am on it. Quick, it’s freezing out here!”

  The approach to Moor Hall, even in the dark, took Adrian’s breath away. The building itself looked like a wedding cake, spotlights illuminating the fabulous façade. Catinca grabbed Adrian’s shoulder and he returned her excited grin. Even Will seemed impressed.

  “Wow. That building is the perfect backdrop for photographs. Good choice.”

  “That’s one of the main reasons Catinca and I chose it. Plus the bridal suite is to die for. I hope we can get to look at it this evening. But if we can’t, it will be an extra surprise for you on our wedding night. The most important thing today is to confirm the menu, discuss decorations and finalise the timing. At least we’re not late for our appointment. God, I’m so nervous, my pulse is racing.”

  Will parked the car and squeezed Adrian’s leg. “Stop worrying! After all the time and effort you two have put into this, it will run like a military operation.”

  They entered the main door with expressions of wonder and delight. Moor Hall was opulent, dramatic and the most photogenic building Adrian could imagine. Catinca was almost breathless at their surroundings. “Mate! Look!” she whispered, pointing to the grand staircase leading up from the foyer.

  Two blonde women looked up from computer screens as they approached, and Adrian smiled warmly. Always important to get staff onside from the get go.

  “Good evening. My name is Adrian Harvey. This is my fiancé Will Quinn and my assistant Catinca Radu. We have an appointment with Mr Roper to view the ballroom and discuss the wedding arrangements for Sunday.”

  The women exchanged a glance Adrian could not decipher. Surely theirs was not the first gay wedding the hotel had hosted?

  “Just one minute, sir, I’ll give him a call,” said the blonder of the two.

  It took all of thirty seconds before a man appeared from a door beside the reception desk, with a folder under his arm. His handshake was weak and his expression apologetic.

  “Mr Harvey, a pleasure to meet you and Ms Radu in person. And this must be Mr Quinn. I’m the general manager of Moor Hall, Gerald Roper. Delighted. Please come this way.” He led them to an L-shaped sofa in the foyer and seated himself on the shortest arm.

  “Before we begin, I want to say that I fully understand the importance of your wedding day. It should be filled with memories you will treasure for the rest of your life. Nothing should spoil your celebrations. Which is why I am so very distressed at what has happened and will put every effort into finding a solution. The fact of the matter is that our drains became blocked yesterday evening, leading to the flooding of our ballroom. This is not simply a matter of mopping up as it is a sprung floor, designed for professional dancers. The plumbing company came out first thing this morning and their estimate is that a full repair will take four to six weeks. Quite apart from the disruption to your wedding celebration and our schedule of Christmas events, the smell has forced us to close our main dining room, which requires our current guests’ meals to be accommodated in either our bistro café or the bar.”

  Adrian could not speak. He couldn’t trust his voice. Will appeared equally dumbfounded. So the silence stretched until Catinca cleared her throat.

  “That’s shitty for you, mate.”

  To everyone’s surprise, the manager snorted with laughter. “You hit the nail on the head there, young lady. The cause of the blockage and subsequent flooding was nappies. Rather than dispose of them properly, someone simply flushed their child’s soiled nappies down the toilet.”

  Catinca wrinkled her nose. “Nappies? Some people are disgusting. But sympathy an’ all that not gonna solve our problem. Sixty people coming to Devon on Saturday to celebrate a marriage and we got nowhere to go.”

  Roper shook his head. “We
will not let you down. I meant what I said. We will make your day special.” He opened his folder. “The way I see it, we have three options. The ballroom is unusable, so we can offer you a marquee in the grounds. Obviously it is December so we would provide outdoor heaters and the catering would remain more or less the same. Option two would be to relocate the entire event to our sister facility, Silverwood Manor. It is some distance from here, closer to Crediton, but a five-star location which can meet all your needs. They are willing to host you and your party for the same price we quoted. Thirdly, we can refund you in full and offer you first choice of a rescheduled date next year at a twenty percent discount. I am genuinely sorry this happened and will do anything I can to make this work.”

  Will and Catinca accepted the brochures showing example marquees and the Whatever Manor, discussing pros and cons with the manager. Adrian sat still and mute, all his elation draining away. This wedding was doomed to failure. It was not meant to be. He’d never call himself superstitious, but when portents throw themselves in your path like potholes, it’s time to take note. The death of Matthew’s friend, Beatrice preferring to play Miss Marple than matron of honour, Will’s lack of enthusiasm and now his dream venue wrecked by a dirty nappy. Oh, the irony. He wanted to a) cry and b) call the whole thing off.

  The manager shot Adrian a furtive glance. “What say I leave you to discuss preferences? Can I get you any drinks at all?”

  Catinca ordered a Coke and Will asked for a still water. Adrian looked up at the man’s watery grey eyes and said, “I’ll have a Bloody Mary, please.”

  He nodded and headed towards the bar. Rage bubbled in Adrian like lava and he refused to look at either of his companions. They continued to flick through advertising material but both had the good sense to keep quiet and not attempt a positive spin on the greatest let-down of Adrian’s life.