“I drank it,” Mr. Whipple informed. “It shivered me timbers, but I liked it. Of course, my wife says I have a cast iron stomach and no taste buds to speak of.”
“Well, the whole lot should have been put down the sink.” Bridget lifted her brows. “I heard Ivy Butz had to ration the sugar because there were far more people than expected. Rather poor planning, I’d say.”
“Well, on the other hand, isn’t it wonderful that so many visitors came to our celebration?” Berdie worked at a smile. “That is what the church always hopes for, to gather the multitudes.” She nodded toward the nave fresco of Aidan and the peasants.
Bridget McDermott frowned, obviously not amused.
Hugh bounced into the nave from the front door. “It’s approaching elevensies, ladies and gentlemen, and you’re still here? I need my wife for a moment, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Mrs. McDermott sniffed.
“We really must get along ourselves,” Maggie piped with the authority of her co-chair position.
Berdie nodded to the committee and walked with her husband, heels clattering over the worn stone floors, to the church’s front entrance.
Hugh took Berdie’s hand. “Outside,” he directed with genuine concern in his voice.
“What is it, Hugh?” Berdie suddenly had the feeling his answer to that question may not be the best of news. She readied herself for whatever was ahead.
7
Once outside the church, Hugh spoke in a hushed manner. “When was the last time you saw or spoke to Lillie?”
“Lillie? I spoke with her last night. She came by the house before meeting Loren. Why?”
“Loren and Lillie did not get together last night. He left for a conference in London late afternoon yesterday.”
Berdie knit her brow. “She never said.”
“Apparently there’s quite a bit she never said.” Hugh’s left eyebrow rose. “I was just rung up by Dr. Avery who informed me that she would be the choirmaster while Lillie was away on holiday in Portugal.”
“Portugal? Oh, come, Hugh, Lillie would have said.”
“She called Dr. Avery from Madeira.”
Berdie gaped. “What is she doing in Madeira?”
“I was hoping you’d know.”
“This is so unlike her. Mind you, recently she has been a bit…well…off.”
“I’d say this is more than a bit. Among other things, she’s in charge of our special music at the Whitsun service Sunday. You’ve really got to speak with her.”
“Does Loren know?”
“No idea.”
“I’ll ring her up,” Berdie promised. “I’ll just go fetch my mobile, it’s in my coat pocket in the church.”
The words no sooner left her lips than Maggie stepped out the door and into their conversation. “Excuse me,” she offered hesitantly. “Mrs. Elliott, I just thought I should let you know that…” She looked at the ground. “Your mobile phone has been, umm.” She meekly looked up. “Ringing.”
“Ringing,” Berdie repeated, and then put a hand to her mouth as she recollected the downloaded music. “Ringing.”
“More a kind of loud guitar, really, and…” Maggie flushed.
Hugh opened the door. “Well, you had better see who it is. It could be Lillie.”
Berdie raced in and retrieved her coat amongst the giggles and stares of the committee.
Mrs. McDermott was almost indignant.
Berdie felt her face go red. “All a mistake,” she nearly bellowed. With great haste, she raced out. “I’ve got to change that ring tone.”
“What?” Hugh was still at the door. “Was it Lillie?”
Berdie looked at the missed call telephone number. She swallowed. It was a number withheld. The raspy voiced caller, possibly? “No, not Lillie.”
“Well, reach her and find out what’s going on. I need to push off. I’ll be home for tea.”
Berdie nodded as Hugh left. What on earth was Lillie doing? More specifically, what was she doing in Madeira?
****
Knowing Hugh’s appetite would be healthy by tea time, Berdie set off with her pantry shopping list to Mr. Raheem’s Greengrocers. As she clipped down the High Street, she tried to call Lillie twice and still got only the voice mail.
A faint memory danced through her mind, Lillie asking if they could call by Harriett Norman’s house the previous day when they were in Mistcome Green.
“Oh, no,” Berdie breathed as she paused in front of the produce store. “That postcard was from Portugal, but surely she wouldn’t be that silly.”
The loud blues guitar chords sounded from her coat pocket. “Lillie?”
“You haven’t gotten her yet, then?” Hugh sounded rushed.
“Still trying.”
“Listen, I have something I need you to do for me, love.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Dr. Avery is on duty at the surgery but needs some sheet music for tonight’s choir rehearsal. Linden Davies has it, well, his wife has it at home. I’m soon to start my hospital visits.”
“Yes, I’ll go get it,” Berdie interrupted.
“That’s splendid.”
“Mind you, I’m at Mr. Raheem’s store at the moment, but I’ll go as soon as I’m done here.”
“Thank you, Berdie. I know it’s a bit of an imposition.”
“Not at all.” Actually, she wanted to speak with Elise Davies and this gave her a wonderful excuse.
“See you at tea.”
“Bye, love.”
As she slipped her mobile in her pocket, Berdie caught sight of Joe Lawler, just down the street, unlocking his shop. Another opportunity. “Mr. Lawler,” Berdie called. She waved when he saw her. Her need for vegetables and a teatime ragout was trumped by Joe’s returned wave. “May I have a moment?”
“Please, come in,” he responded and made his way into the shop.
Berdie stepped lively past several store fronts to reach Joe’s DIY. The smell of rubber-handled tools and linseed oil greeted her upon entry.
“I’ll be right out,” Joe Lawler answered faintly from a back room.
Goods stacked on shelves, in bins, and on the floor conjured images of families plunging into home improvement projects.
“I’m surprised you’re open today,” Berdie yelled.
“We’ve had to extend our hours,” came from an unobservable space.
The business had started when Joe, who owned and operated Kirkwood Green B and B, decided on early retirement. He passed the guest home business over to his son and daughter-in-law, Jeffery and Cherry Lawler. Joe and retirement, as it turned out, were not compatible. And it wasn’t long until what had been a car boot sale consisting of building materials left over from his bed and breakfast maintenance, grew into a real shop, though quite small, on the High Street.
“No more driving into Timsley to get a nail or washer,” Berdie called out. She fingered the bag in her pocket. But why would someone in Timsley, with any variety of DIY businesses, come to Joe’s little place in Aidan Kirkwood?
“Thanks for your patience, Mrs. Elliott. What can I do for you?” Joe emerged from the back room, his grin complimenting the enthusiasm with which he pursued life. His work apron now in place, the large pockets bulged with pencils, tape measures, and a spanner.
“I have a few questions, actually.”
“Ask away.” Joe stuck a pencil behind his ear, just grazing the slightly-ginger close cut hair.
“I know the people here appreciate your shop so much.”
“Like I said, we’ve gone from three half days a week, to being open four full days, and half day Sundays, after church, that is.”
“Do you get much trade from Timsley?”
Joe scratched his head. “Not that much, but surprisingly, I do have a few.” He pulled a package of cinnamon gum from his large pocket, took a stick out, and unwrapped it. He extended it to Berdie. “Like some?”
“Thank you, no.”
“I suppose perso
nal service gives those big box fellows in Timsley a run for their money.” He popped the gum in his mouth.
“I wondered if a fellow has been in your shop, perhaps recently. Distinctive, pleasant features, a bit gruff: Sir Percival Barlow. He may have been wearing a coat with a Seabrook Marina insignia.”
“Oh, that fellow, gruff indeed.” He nodded. “Building a fence. A good cash customer.”
“Cash you say. When was he here?”
Joe scratched his head again. “Oh, the first time was well over seven, eight weeks ago. Put in a large order for my new, sustainable wood fencing.”
Berdie felt the wheels spin in her cognition. “The first time? He’s been here more than once?”
Joe nodded. “He just came in this past Sunday.”
“Did he?” Berdie tried to steady her voice.
“Needed galvanized nails.”
“Indeed. Well, there you see, Mr. Lawler. Personal service, as you say, brings them back.”
“I’d like to think so.”
Berdie wasn’t at all sure that Sir Percival cared one bean about personal service. So why did he come to Joe’s shop?
The sound of the door opening sent Joe’s gaze to the entering patron. “Pete, is your central heating still on the blink?” Joe tipped his head toward Berdie and moved to the man’s side.
“Thank you,” Berdie chirped as she passed the men, who had begun their conversation. Once outside, she took steps toward her original destination. Her thoughts spun.
Sir Percival planned to change that property line, to erect a new fence, weeks ago. And he was in Aidan Kirkwood on the day of Olivia’s disappearance.
“Motive perhaps, and opportunity, but the means?”
The now familiar and brashly loud blues guitar broke into her thoughts. The telephone number made her purse her lips, and she brought the mobile to her ear. “Lillie!”
“Now let’s not get on our high horse, Berdie.”
“Are you really in Madeira?”
“Oh, Berdie, it’s wonderful here. No wonder Livana chose to come here.”
“Who’s Livana? Lillie what are you doing?”
“Can you sit down, Berdie?”
“I don’t like the sound of this. Sitting down is not a choice at the moment. I’m standing in front of Mr. Raheem’s shop.”
“I’ll chat with you on video about seven thirty this evening.”
“What?”
“Be at the computer.”
“Lillie.”
“We’ll talk when you’re settled and calmed down, Berdie.”
“I am calm,” Berdie almost yelled into the mouthpiece which suddenly had no one at the other end. She took a deep breath. “Lord, have mercy.”
The shop door opened, and Dave Exton, the young Kirkwood Gazette editor, zipped out, just catching Berdie’s shoulder. An abrupt “Sorry,” flew from his lips. His youthful face peeked above the opened Timsley Times he held in his hands. “Just reading about a hit and run. Don’t want another, do we?” He chuckled. “You all right, then?”
“Fine.”
“Have you seen this news, Mrs. Elliott?” He shook the paper. “Say, you may know.”
Berdie tried to adjust to this new conversation as she mulled over her former one with Lillie. “Seen what and what might I know?”
Dave turned the paper around and held it in Berdie’s sight line. “There was a hit and run in Timsley last night. A witness says a vehicle went over the verge hit someone walking out of a restaurant, and then took off.”
“I certainly wasn’t the witness.”
“No.” Dave half smiled. He folded the paper and tucked it under his arm, took off his trendy glasses, and proceeded to tap them on his chin. “The victim lives here in Aidan Kirkwood, no name given.”
“Really?”
“I thought perhaps you, or your husband, may have gotten a call.”
“No. What’s the condition of the victim?”
“Not critical, overnight stay at the hospital. Bit of a miracle considering it was a Land Rover that hit them.”
Berdie felt her eyes grow large. “A rather attractive man, the driver?”
Dave tipped his head, the edges of his mouth turned upward. “I dare say the driver could have been handsome, or possibly quite beautiful, as the case may be. But no one saw them.”
“I do have a reason for asking that question,” Berdie defended.
“I’m sure you do, Mrs. Elliott. And I’ll let you attend to it.” The young man gave a quick nod. “Must rush.” He replaced his glasses.
“Wait.” Berdie took his arm. “I was hoping to talk to you about something, actually. I have a bit of a favor.”
“Do you?”
“It’s about Olivia Mikalos.”
“So it’s true.” Dave smiled. “I’ve heard rumors. Gone missing, has she?”
“Could you print her photo in the Gazette?”
Dave snapped his fingers. “Special edition.” He looked Berdie in the eye. “When all’s said and done, I get the scoop first, and in full.”
Berdie nodded.
The young man all but danced. “E-mail the snap and any information.”
“Download, hit send, good as done,” Berdie promised.
The lad rolled up the paper and tapped it on his leg. “I’ll do an on-line version, as well.” Dave, obviously giddy and appearing lost in his plans, scurried away.
“Pray all turns out well,” Berdie reminded.
Already in a dash, the departing figure raised the rolled newspaper into the air as an apparent acknowledgement.
Berdie reached for the door handle to Mr. Raheem’s shop. “Pray, and then pray some more,” she reminded herself, as well. Her shopping took only a matter of minutes. A quick walk home, vegetables washed and ready for a tasty oven ragout, she set out in the car for Mistcome Green.
Elise Davies was in the front garden wrestling the overgrowth with a pair of large garden shears when Berdie arrived. The woman looked rather sour.
“Not so good,” Berdie spoke under her breath as she exited the car. “Hello, Mrs. Davies.”
A squint was followed by a terse, “I’ll just go inside to get the music.”
While Elise fetched the item, Berdie glanced about at the garden. No “good afternoon,” no “would you care for tea,”not even a “please come inside.” But she couldn’t blame the woman for being a bit sharp. There was a great deal of work to be done to get this space in order. For a gardener, it would be an enjoyable challenge. For a person not keen on getting their hands dirty, it would be a drudge.
“Here you are.” Elise returned and handed Berdie the materials. The woman ran the back of her work-gloved hand across her forehead. A sunhat shaded her face and a garden apron protected her clothing.
“Actually, I hoped I might take just a quick moment to ask you something.” Berdie used her authoritative tone.
“Yes, well be quick about it.” Elise shook her shears at the greenery. “Rotten job, this.”
“It concerns your mother.”
Elise wacked some growth with her shears and put her hand on her hip. “If I may ask, why is a vicar’s wife so flaming concerned about my mother?”
Berdie straightened. “Linden is terribly worried about her disappearance, and may I say, for good reason. I can help.”
Elise frowned.
“My previous career was investigative journalism.”
“Now we’re getting to it.” Elise executed another snip with her tool.
“Do you know of anyone who may want to harm Olivia?”
“No,” Elise answered without hesitation.
Berdie kept her gaze on Elise steadfast. “If, God forbid, your mother should be found unwell or deceased, who would benefit?”
Elise furrowed her brow and took a tiny step forward. “You’re asking who gets Mother’s money when she pegs out.”
Berdie took a deep breath and stood firmly planted.
“You’ve got a nerve.”
&nb
sp; “It’s a standard question that helps the investigative process.” Berdie heard her volume rise as Elise commenced a hardy chop, and another, and another.
“I’m her daughter. My brother is her son.” She stretched her free hand to the side, fingers spread. “Who would you imagine gets her wealth? If there’s anything left, that is.”
“Anything left?”
“Myles, my brother, all but begged my mother for some funding to help him with his newest financial scheme. A profitable investment by some accounts. She turned him down with no consideration.” Elise Davies put a hand back on her hip. “Little bunny didn’t get his way this time. And why?”
“Perhaps there’s a good reason,” Berdie offered.
“Oh, I can tell you the reason.” The woman shook her head. “She’s considering buying a boat, something just smaller than a royal yacht by the sounds of it, with hopes of sailing ‘round the world with a friend.” Elise squeezed the shears handle so tightly, her knuckles nearly ripped through the glove.
“What friend?”
“No idea at all. Didn’t think she had any. Then she joins a flash sports club, wants to stay in shape she says.”
“The Seabrook Sports Club?”
She shrugged. “But, I can certainly think of other ways to slim without spending the small fortune required for membership.” Elise lifted her chin. “She’s gone money mad since Daddy died. And he was concerned about Myles and me overdoing.” Her face went red and she threw an arm in the air as if to encompass the house, the leaky window, the neglected garden. “Like Linden and I didn’t need the money ourselves.”
“I can see this is disconcerting for you.”
Elise shook her shears in Berdie’s direction. “Great legal mind, indeed. Wenn-Patton, that’s who’s to blame for this mess.” She knit her brow and thrust the shears forward. “And as for your concern about my mother being apprehended, she has an average physique. But if she wanted to resist someone, she has grit that makes Attila the Hun look like a ballet dancer.” She snapped the shears open and in one swift closure beheaded a struggling foxglove. “I think we’re finished here, Mrs. Elliott.”
Something sparked in Berdie’s mind. “Grit, lemonade,” she muttered, and then paused. “So inept.”
Into the Clouds Page 10
