A Date With Death: Cozy Private Investigator Series (Flora Lively Mysteries Book 2)

by Joanne Phillips

  ‘Just that I gave it to him. You know, the note you left for him. I found it in the letter rack in the main hall. I gave it to him after breakfast.’ He picked up a glass, polished it with his sleeve, then said, ‘It did seem a bit odd at the time.’

  ‘Well, that’s probably because I didn’t leave him a note. What did it say?’

  Sidney turned around, his mouth tipped down at the corners. ‘It had your name on it, Miss. Said something about meeting him in the storeroom. Well, what you lot call the props room. It said it was important, and he was to go there right away.’

  Flora’s pulse began to race. ‘Sidney, that’s where Marshall was arrested – that’s why they arrested him. He was in the props room holding the … the scabby-something. What they keep swords in.’

  ‘Scabbard?’

  She nodded. Her eyes couldn’t stay still in her head. ‘Bloody hell. Someone lured him there. I bet it was the murderer. Do you have the note? Oh, no –’ she bashed the side of her head with her palm ‘– of course you don’t. You just said you gave it to him. But that’s okay, isn’t it? It means he’ll still have it. He’s probably shown it to Jack by now.’

  In which case, why wasn’t he already back here?

  The butler crossed the room and picked up a round silver tray. He held it to his body like a shield. ‘I didn’t actually show him the note itself, I just gave him the message.’

  ‘You mean, verbally?’

  Sidney nodded.

  ‘Well, what happened to the note?’

  ‘If I remember rightly, I put it in my pocket. I had a lot to carry,’ he added, a touch defensively.

  ‘That’s okay,’ Flora said, thinking fast. ‘Do you still have it?’

  He shook his head. ‘I put it in the bin, Miss.’

  ‘Which bin?’

  ‘It would have been the one in the kitchen.’ Sidney’s face took on a pained expression. ‘The kitchen bins were emptied at lunchtime.’

  Flora’s shoulders sagged. ‘If we had that note, we might be able to tell who the murderer was. Was it handwritten?’

  Sidney nodded. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, then. Do you think you could look for it? I know you’ve got enough to do, running this place and all, and I know it’s a long shot …’

  ‘I’ll try.’ He straightened his shoulders and tapped the tray to his chest. ‘If it’s still around, I’ll find it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Flora started to leave, then had a thought. ‘Have you mentioned this note to anyone else?’ Sidney shook his head. ‘Then I think we should keep it just between us for now. I don’t mean Jack, of course – I’m going to tell him about it right away. But I don’t think we should tell the others. I think it will be safer that way.’

  She left him in the dining room, standing with his back to the bank of dusty windows, the low sun turning his nearly bald head bright orange. She just hoped that she was right about it being safer that way. Poor old Sidney had enough on his plate.

  ***

  ‘I’d like to speak to Detective Jack Harding, please.’

  Flora realised she didn’t really know his official title, only that he worked for CID. Right now, she couldn’t for the life of her think what those initials even stood for. She looked around the small reception area, wondering where in the building Marshall was being held. The green painted blockwork walls and the orange vinyl seating were depressing enough – she couldn’t imagine what an actual cell might look like.

  The small police station at Ashton Castle was about fifteen minutes from Hanley Manor, situated in the middle of the town on a roundabout and opposite a rough-looking pub. Flora had borrowed Celeste’s hire car – a small white Citroen, so full of empty water bottles and crisp packets and discarded sweet wrappers, Flora could barely see the pedals. Celeste had always been a slob. Or maybe the mess was Eduardo’s doing. As she drove, Flora had reflected on how little she knew about Celeste’s new boyfriend, and wondered whether her friend knew him much better.

  The desk sergeant gazed at her implacably. ‘He’s busy,’ he said, resting his thick hands on the counter.

  ‘Okay.’ Flora felt flustered, but she wasn’t going to give up so easily. ‘Could you … Could you tell him it’s very, extremely important. That it might be a matter of life and death.’

  ‘Life and death,’ he repeated, sounding as though they were the two most boring words in the universe. ‘Right. Leave it with me.’

  She perched on the edge of one of the sticky chairs and chewed on a nail. The desk sergeant disappeared, and a female officer took his place. She stared at Flora, her expression completely blank, then dropped her gaze to an old-style computer monitor that sat on a desk to one side. Flora let out a breath. Police stations – horrible places. She’d spent some time in one last year, writing up her account of the attempt on Joy’s life, and of her own pretty bungled investigation into the charity scandal that had rocked the aged population of Shrewsbury for months after. She’d hated every second of it. Marshall might have joked about her becoming a private detective, but Flora knew she didn’t have the disposition for it. Detective work – real detective work – was carried out in places like this, in airless holes and sitting at computer screens, or else hounding people for information. She preferred to read people, to follow a hunch. Which was what she was doing now, of course. And she could only hope it would pay off.

  After about ten minutes, Jack came out to see her. He looked strained, with the pallor of someone who hadn’t seen fresh air for a while. He sat on the chair next to hers, stretched out his legs, and sighed.

  ‘He’s fine. He’s not cooperating, which is why it’s taking a lot longer than I’d hoped, but he’s not being beaten up or anything.’ He looked at Flora and raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s why you’re here, right? Make sure I’m treating him okay?’

  Flora was just waiting for him to stop talking. She said, ‘First of all, have you spoken to Celeste?’

  He shook his head. Annoyance pricked at her, like a needle slipping under a nail.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘we’ll come back to that. Has Marshall told you about the note I’m supposed to have sent him?’

  ‘Supposed to have sent?’ Jack sat up, alert. Flora was nodding furiously.

  ‘I’ve just come from Sidney. There was a note, a message, left for Marshall this morning. It had my name on it, but it wasn’t written by me. Jack, listen – the note said to meet him in the props room. Don’t you see? Whoever sent that note was trying to set him up.’ She was practically panting, trying to get it all out.

  ‘Come on,’ Jack said, standing. He held out his hand. ‘We need to do this somewhere more private.’

  She followed him through a coded door, and down a short corridor with offices on either side. The offices were visible to anyone passing, screened only by windows. He spoke to someone at another desk, this time in the corner of a sort of waiting area, empty except for the three of them, then led her into a small room.

  ‘Is this a cell?’ she asked, looking around. There were no windows, just two chairs and a long table that could have doubled up as a bed, she supposed.

  Jack laughed. ‘There are no cells here. You’d have to go into one of the main towns for that. This is just an interview room.’

  She touched the wall nearest to her. ‘Is Marshall in one of these?’

  ‘He is. Now, sit down and tell me what you know about this note.’

  Jack was more forthcoming than Flora had hoped – after she’d shared everything that Sidney had told her, he confirmed that Marshall had indeed mentioned the message himself.

  ‘And you didn’t believe him?’ Flora said, giving Jack a challenging glare. ‘You thought he was making it up?’

  ‘Not at all. At this stage it’s not my job to believe or disbelieve. We’re merely gathering information.’

  She allowed her expression to soften. He sounded so pompous, so like the Jack she remembered from university, it almost made her smile. He caught her eye a
nd gave a self-deprecating half-shrug. He said,

  ‘You’ve saved us some legwork, anyway. Now we have Sidney’s corroboration of your friend’s story we can probably let him go.’

  ‘Probably!’

  ‘There’s still the material evidence, Flora.’ His eyes darkened. ‘And he hasn’t been what you’d call helpful.’

  ‘He’s American,’ she said, leaning across the metal table. ‘They do things differently over there.’

  Jack grimaced. ‘Well, he’s over here now. And over here we have some respect for the law.’

  Flora suppressed a smile. She could imagine what Marshall’s behaviour had been like. She had been on the receiving end of his belligerence enough times, hadn’t she?

  ‘You said there was something else,’ Jack said, sitting back. He tapped the table with his long fingers. ‘Something about Celeste.’

  It was the moment she’d been dreading. Celeste wouldn’t forgive her, Flora knew that. They’d been friends for nearly ten years, but who knew if that friendship would survive what Flora was about to do. She swallowed. Then she told Jack about Celeste’s dismantling of the evidence in Alberto’s room.

  As she spoke, his face grew sombre. By the time she finished he was on his feet, pacing back and forth across the cramped room.

  ‘The stupid, stupid woman! What the hell did she think she was doing?’ His voice bounced around the walls just as he fairly bounced with anger.

  ‘She was trying to protect the man she loves, I guess,’ Flora said, putting her hands to her ears. She peered up at him. ‘Do you think you could sit down? You’re making me dizzy.’

  ‘Protecting. Huh. There’s a lot of it about, isn’t there.’ He looked at her meaningfully. Flora felt her face redden.

  ‘I don’t … I mean, we’re not exactly –’

  ‘Forget it. It’s none of my business, anyway.’ He looked past her for a moment, considering. ‘So, do you have the note? The message you – someone – sent to Marshall.’

  ‘No. Not yet. But Sidney is looking for it. He’s fairly confident he’ll find it,’ she lied.

  ‘And he’ll tell you when he does?’ Jack said. ‘You have his confidence?’

  She nodded. ‘I do. I … well, let’s just say he thinks he owes me a favour. Although he doesn’t at all … It’s complicated.’

  ‘It always was with you, wasn’t it, Flora?’ Jack’s voice had softened again, had reverted to the non-policeman tone she’d become accustomed to these past few days. She glanced up at him, then looked away, embarrassed by the intensity in his eyes.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Anyway.’ And then she couldn’t think of another thing to say.

  Jack moved to the door. He held out his hand for Flora, and she took it, aware of the slight pressure he placed on her palm with his thumb. ‘Let’s go and get your friend,’ he said, putting just a little too much emphasis on friend.

  ‘He is, you know,’ Flora said. ‘He is just a friend.’

  ‘And an employee.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So, will you have dinner with me? If you and he are just friends.’

  The invitation came out of the blue, and in such incongruous circumstances, Flora was momentarily speechless. Jack waited, holding the door open for her. Then he thinned his lips into a rueful smile and shook his head. ‘No worries. I only meant as friends, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Flora followed him back to the reception area, looking at the stiffness of his back and his neck, and at the way his hair was already starting to thin. Blonde hair often thinned young, she thought. And then she realised that Jack wasn’t really that young anymore. None of them were.

  ‘Jack.’

  He was about to return to the interview rooms, but Flora took hold of his hand. It was dry, and quite slender. Not like Marshall’s rough and ready hands. The policewoman behind the desk stared at them.

  ‘Jack, it’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just, all this – Celeste, Alberto’s death – I don’t feel it’s the right time. You do understand, don’t you?’ He nodded, was about to speak, but Flora hadn’t finished. She lowered her voice, mindful of the listening policewoman, the potential for Jack to feel embarrassed. ‘And there really isn’t anything between Marshall and me. We work together, we get on well, although we never used to. But he’s never shown … that is, I haven’t … What I’m trying to say is, I am single. Very much so. And I would like for us to get together. When all this is over.’

  ‘As friends,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Definitely.’

  He nodded, then squeezed her hand. She returned to the hideous orange chairs and picked up a magazine. Then she put it down and stared up at the walls, suddenly exhausted.

  ‘Marshall-bloody-Goodman,’ she said under her breath, ‘you had better be really grateful for all this.’

  Chapter 9

  They didn’t talk until they got back to the Nook. Flora suggested stopping off for fish and chips on the way, and Marshall nodded his agreement. She didn’t press him, knew him well enough not to. The whole time she stood waiting in Tim’s Plaice, the takeaway she’d spotted on the high street in Burton Edge the day before, she’d watched Marshall’s profile through the window. Familiar, and yet somehow not so familiar anymore. He had family members he’d never even told her about; passions and prejudices she couldn’t have guessed at. Suddenly he seemed more complex to her than ever before, and – she had to admit it, if only to herself – more attractive than ever before.

  Because it had been growing, this strange attraction between them. He was still maddening, infuriating – he still challenged her authority at every stage. She’d told her Uncle Max only a week or so ago that working with his stepson was like walking a tightrope. A year ago she’d been ready to walk away from Shakers, to leave Marshall to run it as he liked, never mind her father’s legacy. And yet, here she was. Yes, she’d sold her parents’ bungalow and bought herself a flat; yes, she’d looked into college courses to inspire a change of direction. But so far there had been only talk, no action. If she thought about it at all – and she didn’t think about it all that often – she told herself it was because of her dad, because he had wanted to pass the family business on to her. Marshall, after all, wasn’t actually family, had only been brought in to help out when her mum had cancer. And Shakers was in trouble, even though every day the newspapers talked of coming out of recession, of property prices rising and the market booming again. In London, maybe, but in Shropshire? Not so. Not yet.

  ‘Penny for them?’ Marshall said as she turned into the long driveway to Hanley Manor. It was an expression he’d picked up from her father. It always made her smile to hear it spoken with Marshall’s American twang.

  ‘Not worth a penny,’ she replied, as she always did.

  They ate their fish and chips out of the greaseproof paper, perched on Flora’s bed with their backs propped against both sets of pillows. With the fabric coverings tied back at the doorway, Flora could see only trees, with the very tips of the hills peeping up beyond. She was glad to be away from the main house, glad to not have to see Celeste or Nick or any of the others.

  ‘I guess I need to say thank you.’ Marshall spoke with his mouth half full, which would have annoyed her any other time.

  ‘You’re damn right you do,’ she said.

  ‘And I guess I oughta say sorry.’

  She nodded. ‘That too.’

  Marshall sighed. It was a long-drawn-out sigh, full of emotion. ‘Jack told you about Ellie, I bet.’

  Flora said nothing. She pulled a piece of fish away from the batter with the useless little wooden fork, then popped the fish into her mouth.

  ‘Well, it was a long time ago now. She’s over it, pretty much. Got herself straightened out. But it was –’

  ‘Marshall.’ Flora laid her hand over his and swallowed. ‘You don’t need to talk about it. I’m sorry that coming here, taking on this job, brought it all back to you. And I’m sorry that the thought
of me taking a part in that stupid film caused you to go and see Alberto. You wouldn’t be in this mess if not for that.’

  ‘Ah, Flora.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not your fault. I was mad at him, not you. And it wasn’t his fault either. He didn’t deserve to die, anyway.’ He put the rest of his meal aside and turned to face her. ‘I mean, the kinds of movies he used to make are disgusting and all, but it seems he’d left all that behind him. Apparently he was trying to be kinda mainstream now.’

  ‘Do you think A Date With Death was shaping up to be a good film?’ Flora said. ‘A mainstream film? Maybe a candidate for an Academy Award or two?’ She looked at him and smiled.

  ‘Hm–m. Hard to say. Those backdrops, they’re sort of cheesy, aren’t they?’

  ‘Cheesy, yes. And the script … It’s not exactly Academy Award material.’

  Marshall’s face broke into a grin. ‘You know, I’m not sure the acting’s up to much, either.’

  They began to laugh, the tension easing away into the night while they found more and more aspects of Rojo Productions to pull apart.

  ‘Call themselves a film company?’ Flora said, her eyes twinkling. ‘They have to hire in most of their talent – they don’t even have their own sound engineer.’

  ‘Their costumes look like they were made by five-year-olds.’

  ‘Don’t they? And the story – does anyone actually know what the story is?’

  Marshall shook his head. He was up on his knees now, looking more animated than he had all week. ‘No, but I tell you what – Alberto’s wasn’t the only murder. If your friend keeps murdering her lines, Jack’s going to take her in for questioning next.’

  Flora flopped back on the bed. Too good to be true that they were getting on so well. He always had to spoil it. She said, ‘Celeste isn’t so bad. It’s not her fault it’s such a bad script.’

  Marshall got up and deposited their empty wrappers in the bin just outside the yurt. Then he stood in the doorway, looking in. ‘I don’t know why you stick up for her at every turn, Flora. She’s mean to you. Can’t you see it?’