Bunburry--Death of a Ladies' Man

by Helena Marchmont

  “I’ll remember that,” said Alfie, calculating whether he could sneak out of Bunburry and lie low until they went back to London. “See you around. And, of course, dinner’s on me.”

  “Oh no, darling, we couldn’t possibly let you.”

  “No, really, I have to do something with all my squillions,” said Alfie, which set off another of Sasha’s trilling laughs.

  When he stood up, Betty got to her feet as well, picking up the drink she had scarcely touched.

  “Oh,” pouted Sasha, “I hoped you might stay for a chat with us, Betty. But of course, a new relationship, you only have eyes for each other.”

  “A new relationship? We only have eyes for each other?” hissed Betty once they were out of earshot.

  “Another innocent taken in by Edith’s fake news,” Alfie began when William’s voice cut through the noise of the bar.

  “I’ve just about had enough of you!”

  Mario was back at the bar beside Carlotta. William approached him, fists raised.

  Mario stood up, palms up in an appeasing gesture. “Sorry, my friend, is there a problem?” He was clearly much younger, fitter and stronger than his opponent.

  “You’re the problem,” snarled William. “Get away from my wife.”

  Mario’s response was drowned out by a scream of outrage from Carlotta.

  “Imbecille! Idiota.”

  This time, Alfie didn’t need to ask for a translation.

  As Carlotta, puce with rage and mortification, erupted from behind the bar, William took a swing at Mario who dodged nimbly out of the way. William’s hand crashed into the wall behind him.

  Alfie was about to intervene when Betty pushed by him. She deposited her drink on the bar and put an arm round William’s shoulders, keeping him facing the wall and away from Mario.

  “Let’s take a look at that hand,” she said soothingly, taking it in her own.

  There had been an initial collective holding of breath but now everyone was exclaiming and commenting. Carlotta ignored William and went up to Mario. They had a brief conversation that Alfie couldn’t hear. Mario shook his head at her, smiling, and headed down the pub, not to the outside door, but to the door leading to the guest bedrooms upstairs. So, he was staying at The Horse as well.

  As he went, various women rushed over to him, expressing outrage over William’s behaviour and demanding to know whether Mario was all right.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he repeated. “Don’t worry, bellissima, it’s nothing.”

  Carlotta had meanwhile dragged William away from Betty and sent him packing through the staff doorway. Then she dusted her hands and stood behind the bar scanning for customers as though nothing had happened.

  Betty picked up her half-pint and took a long draught. “Never a dull moment in Bunburry.”

  Oscar was convinced that nothing ever happened in the country, and Alfie had every intention of ringing him when he got home to tell him about Mario’s impact on the local populace. But once in the cottage, he felt so exhausted by his encounter with Sasha and Sebastian that he decided to go straight to bed.

  He didn’t know that when he got around to ringing Oscar, he would have very much more to report.

  4. A Run in the Park

  Debbie prepared carefully for her early morning run. It took skill to apply make-up so that it looked as though she wasn’t wearing any. Even at 6am, when it was unlikely that anyone would be about, she wasn’t going to risk being seen with a naked face. The owner of Deb’s Beauty Salon, Bunburry’s premier (and only) beauty salon, felt it was her duty to look her best at all times. She didn’t have a profession, she had a vocation. And that was to improve the wellbeing of the womenfolk of Bunburry. She took quiet satisfaction in knowing that every single one of her clients left the salon looking and feeling very much better than when they came in.

  And to get the full benefit of a hot stone massage, a manicure or a new hairstyle, they had to be able to relax into the treatment, to trust her implicitly. And how could they do that if she looked tired, peaky or slovenly? No, she must maintain health, energy and a groomed appearance to reassure her clients that they were in safe hands.

  Every morning on waking, she drank a glass of warm water laced with lemon juice before embarking on a full twenty minutes of yoga, starting with Salute to the Sun. Then, with her bio-energies rebalanced, it was time for her three-mile run, followed by a breakfast of muesli, fruit and non-fat yoghurt. She made sure she stuck to the proper proportions of protein, fats and complex carbohydrates. Not for her the tea shop’s popular cream tea or Liz’s famous fudge. The dusky eyeshadow, the bright lipstick, the blusher could wait until just before she opened up for business at 9am. Now all she needed was a light foundation, lip gloss, and a discreet darkening of her eyelashes.

  At the sound of his lead being lifted off the coat stand, Perro bounded down the hallway, eager for his walk. He was named by the dark-eyed Spaniard she met on holiday in Marbella. Felipe was everything she looked for in a man – handsome, funny, intelligent, well-dressed, and an excellent dancer. As the days (and the nights) went by, she found herself falling in love. When she mentioned that she was considering getting a dog, he suggested the name Perro, which she thought had a glamorous Mediterranean ring to it. When she brought up that she was considering relocating her business to Marbella so that she and Felipe could be together forever, he suggested that she think again, given that he already had a wife.

  Heartbroken, Debbie fled back to Bunburry and tried to console herself by acquiring a black poodle. Yearning for what might have been, she gave it the name Perro. She was shocked when one of her clients informed her that “perro” was merely Spanish for “dog”.

  She considered changing the name to something more appropriate: Caspar, perhaps, or Rufus. But by that time the poodle was used to his name, and she could only hope there were no other Spanish speakers in Bunburry.

  She attached the lead to Perro’s collar and checked their appearance in the hall mirror. Perfect. Jet-black dog, jet-black leggings and crop top. Pink sweatband round her platinum blonde hair, pink trainers, pink lead, pink collar.

  “Ready, sweetheart?” she asked.

  The poodle’s undocked curly tail wagged exuberantly.

  “Then let’s go.”

  She ran along the empty streets with Perro on the lead, the dog keeping pace with her. She made for the outskirts of the village and the Victoria Park. She had devised a route round the park’s gravel paths that was exactly three miles. It was the perfect workout before returning home, showering, feeding Perro, having breakfast, and opening the salon.

  She hoped Carlotta would remember her promise to recommend the salon to the London visitor. Carlotta had been so excited on the phone. “You should see her clothes, her jewellery, everything so beautiful, everything so expensive. I’m going to tell her she must visit your salon and have one of your wonderful treatments.”

  Debbie reached Victoria Park, and let Perro off the lead. He would follow her on her circuit, but he could also investigate the trees and bushes as they went along.

  She wondered what treatment the London visitor would go for. Debbie sometimes felt her talents were underused in Bunburry. The holiday in Marbella that had ended so tragically was one of the very few times she had spent money without benefiting the salon. She had started off as a hair stylist but had gone on to train in a range of beauty and therapeutic treatments and was now even qualified to give Botox injections. But, so far, the women of Bunburry had been reluctant to try them.

  The London visitor probably had these medical cosmetic treatments all the time. She was more likely to want pampering – an aromatherapy massage, a full-body paraffin wax, or a fruit facial. What if the bananas had gone off? Was there time to buy another bunch?

  Perhaps, she thought, her heart speeding up from excitement rather than the effort of
running, this was the time to turn her new dream into reality. She had been planning it ever since she read an article about its success in the States. The Blowtox: a combination of blow-drying the client’s hair and administering Botox injections into the scalp to prevent sweat from ruining the hairstyle. Not that she used such a word even in her private thoughts: Debbie adhered to the axiom that “horses sweat, and men perspire, but ladies merely glow.”

  She hadn’t read anything to suggest that the Blowtox had reached London. This would be a new and exciting experience. She would offer Carlotta’s sophisticated guest a special introductory rate. The background music would be classical rather than New Age. Liz was musical – she would know what would be suitable, without any sudden noisy bits. And it wouldn’t be the usual tea and coffee. What about petits fours? Petits fours and Champagne – no, Kir Royale. And the London lady would tell all her sophisticated friends, and they would come down to Bunburry for the weekend, having already made a booking with Deb’s Beauty Salon.

  As Debbie ran on, she realised that Perro was no longer with her. She called him, but he didn’t bound into view as usual.

  She stopped and called again. She could hear a faint whining.

  “Perro, sweetheart, what’s the matter? Mummy’s coming!” she called, running towards the sound.

  It seemed to be coming from the direction of the Indian pavilion, on the other side of the hedge. She ran around to see Perro lying flat on the ground beside the ornate marble steps quivering.

  “Here, boy!” she called, bending down and patting her knees encouragingly.

  But Perro didn’t move and gave another piteous whine.

  “Come on, you silly thing! I’ve got a salon to open.”

  Perro gave a half-hearted thump of his tail but remained where he was.

  With an exasperated sigh, Debbie walked towards him, unfastening the pink lead she had secured round her trim waist. He would just have to run alongside her for the rest of her circuit and miss out on all the interesting smells.

  As she got closer, she saw a pair of shoes, men’s shoes, fine brown leather shoes, then trousers, white trousers with an immaculate crease in them.

  She hesitated. She didn’t want to waken a potentially aggressive drunk. But he might be in need of help. Tentatively, she edged round the balustrade and gasped. The man was sprawled at the bottom of the marble steps, his eyes closed, but definitely not asleep. A trickle of blood from a head wound had run down his face – the most handsome face she had ever seen. One arm was lying defensively across his chest.

  She knelt down beside him. “Are you all right?” she whispered, stretching out her hand and shaking his shoulder.

  The arm flopped on to the ground. Debbie flinched. Then, very gently, she placed her palm over his nose and mouth. Nothing. No breath. The man’s skin was icy cold.

  She never took her phone on runs. She looked around, but there was nobody else to be seen. She had to get back home.

  She trailed her fingers down the tanned cheek and along the firm jaw.

  “Poor man,” she murmured. “Such a waste.”

  Perro had crawled over to huddle up against her.

  She stroked his head and clipped the lead on to his collar. “Come on. We’re going to have to run fast.”

  She sped home, Perro bounding beside her. First she rang the police. Then she rang everyone else.

  “Debbie, do you have any idea what time it is?” mumbled Marge.

  “Agnes was already up, so I thought you would be as well.” Debbie’s tone was apologetic. “Anyway, I knew you’d want to know. When I was out for my run, I found this unbelievably gorgeous man –”

  “Debbie, I really have no interest in your love life, and I can’t imagine why you would think I would, especially at such an ungodly hour. So, if you’ll just let –”

  “But the point is he was as dead as a doornail!”

  Marge was now fully awake. “Debbie, good heavens, have you told the police?”

  “Of course I have – I did that right away. And now I’m telling my friends. But of course, if you’re not interested –”

  “Of course I’m interested – you poor girl, what a terrible shock for you. If it helps to talk, tell me all about it.”

  “It does help a bit,” agreed Debbie. “Honestly, I still can’t believe it, the best-looking man there’s ever been in Bunburry, and he’s dead. And you should have seen his clothes – beautiful white trousers and a pink shirt – not many men could carry that off, but he looked wonderful.”

  “Oh dear,” said Marge. “Oh no. I know who it is.”

  “Who is it?” asked Debbie eagerly.

  “Mario Bellini. From London. Oh, this is dreadful. Liz and I were in The Horse with him only yesterday – that’s where he was staying.”

  “I wish I’d been there,” sighed Debbie.

  “The poor, poor boy. What on earth happened? Where did you find him? Was it a heart attack?”

  “I don’t know,” Debbie admitted. “It might have been. I found him at the bottom of the steps of the Indian pavilion.”

  “Poor boy,” repeated Marge, still struggling to take in the news that Mario was dead. “He told us all about how his parents set up an ice-cream parlour in Islington, and how he worked there when he was growing up and had all these plans for it. He transformed it single-handed, you know, turned it into a chain, Bellini’s Ice Cream Parlours – he was going to set up a shop in Bunburry. Oh dear, it was only last night – he had such wonderful plans – he was going to use Liz’s fudge. We were thinking of what to call it – Fudgetastic Fantasy, Fudge Funiculi Funicula.”

  The tone of Marge’s voice changed, as if what Debbie had told her had finally sunk in. “What do you mean you found him at the bottom of the steps of the Indian pavilion?”

  “I was on my run – it was Perro who found him. He must have hit his head. There was some blood on his face. He was wearing such a beautiful –”

  “Blood on his face?” Marge interrupted. “Had he been attacked?”

  “No,” said Debbie. “He had fallen.”

  “But his fall might not have been accidental.”

  “What do you mean?” Debbie asked.

  “I mean he could have been murdered,” said Marge grimly. “Debbie, I have to go – I must wake Liz and tell her what’s happened. Oh dear, this will upset her dreadfully.”

  “I have to go too,” said Debbie. “I’ve still got lots of calls to make.”

  She was getting ready to go to the salon when the police in the corpulent form of Sergeant Harold Wilson arrived at the door.

  “I believe you found the deceased,” he said. “We have some questions we need to ask you.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Delighted. I’ll give you all the information I have. But it will have to be at the salon. I need to open in five minutes.” She picked up two large shopping bags full of freshly laundered towels. “I’m glad you’re here. I was wondering how I was going to manage these and Perro as well. Would you prefer the washing or the dog and this bunch of fresh mint?”

  And so a disgruntled Sergeant Wilson followed Debbie to her salon, carrying a large shopping bag in each hand.

  Debbie unlocked the door, switched off the alarm, and installed the policeman on a pink-cushioned seat in the small reception area. She thought he looked rather ill at ease, so gave him an encouraging smile.

  “Thank you, that was a great help. Can you keep Perro on the lead while I put the towels away? Otherwise he wants to play a game of tug of war with them. You can leave the mint on the reception desk.”

  She picked up the shopping bags and disappeared behind a curtain to the salon area.

  “I can still hear you,” she called. “I just need to sort out the towels and put the wax on to warm for my first lady. Ask whatever you want.”

  “What tim
e did you find the deceased?” growled Sergeant Wilson.

  “I’m not sure – ten past, quarter past six, I think.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “It was actually Perro who found him. Poodles are very intelligent, you know, second after Border collies. He alerted me, so I came round to the Indian pavilion, and found the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen lying at the bottom of the steps. Hang on a minute, I’m just going to give this basin a quick swill round.”

  There was the sound of running water followed by splashing. Perro jumped up and ran towards the noise, jerking the lead out of the sergeant’s grasp.

  “No! Bad dog!” came Debbie’s voice.

  She reappeared through the curtain, dragging Perro behind her. “He’s playing you up. You have to show him who’s boss. Hold the lead tight. Poodles get very excited by the sound of water – they were bred in Germany to hunt ducks. I’ll be with you in a second.”

  She disappeared again.

  “He was lying at the foot of the steps,” Sergeant Wilson prompted.

  “Yes,” she called. “At first I thought he was drunk, but he was cold to the touch.” She hesitated. After her conversation with Marge, she was seeing the situation in a new light. “I mean, I could see he would be cold to the touch because he was very pale. Under his tan. And he wasn’t breathing. Obviously, I didn’t touch him because I know better than to contaminate a crime scene.”

  There was the sound of more running water. Perro leaped up and tried to head in that direction, but the sergeant roughly yanked the dog back.

  “A crime scene?” he called. “Why do you – look, do you mind coming back here? It’s impossible to interview you when you’re wandering around.”

  Debbie re-emerged with a full water jug, which she set on the reception desk beside half-a-dozen tumblers. She sat behind the desk, facing the sergeant across the counter. “I’m not wandering around,” she said with dignity. “I’m preparing the salon for my clients.” She picked up the fresh mint and added it to the jug. “Would you like some water?”