by Linda Welch
“In my coffee.”
He slid from the bed and crossed the room.
“I saw your lady friend in the shop,” I said as I went cross-eyed trying to concentrate on his broad back and tight buttocks at the same time. I ran my tongue over my lips again and not to lick away cream.
He went in the tiny bathroom. “Lorraine?”
He knew I meant Lorraine when I said lady friend. Huh. I supposed I should be happy he didn’t ask which lady friend.
I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “You have more than one stashed around here someplace?”
He pushed the door ajar. A minute later the toilet flushed. Water gurgled in the sink. He came from the bathroom wiping his hands on a towel. “You spoke to her?”
I got a little short of breath. You would think, after seeing him naked so often, I’d be more nonchalant with glory before me. I tried to sound casual. “We had a nice chat.”
He smiled and went back in the bathroom to hang the towel. “I’m glad you two hit it off. She’s a sweet person.”
Really? “If she’s so sweet, what happened with you two?”
“Sweet can be a step from cloying in large doses,” he said as he came in the bedroom. He deliberately leered at me. “I’m taking a shower. Want to join me?”
I grinned at a memory. We tried to take a shower together our first night here in a bathroom the size of a stall in a public toilet. Jammed together as water cascaded over our heads, we ended up doing something other than shower.
Lorraine’s face came into my mind and I lost the smile, and any inclination to join Royal in the shower, unless to hold his head under water till he couldn’t breathe. “Already had mine.” My voice sounded thin. “Does Sally know we’re leaving?”
A faint frown creased his forehead. He knew I was miffed. “Not yet.” He went to the wardrobe and rooted in there.
I dropped the rest of the donut in the paper bag and got up from the chair. “I have to pick up my clothes. Shall I tell her?”
His voice came muffled from the depths of the wardrobe. “Yes, why not.”
“Okay. See you in a sec.”
I put the paper bag on the floor with the rest of them. “Before last night, have you seen Lorraine since you broke up with her?”
A pause, followed by, “No.”
“Maybe spoke to her on the phone?”
“No.”
“Not in the last five years?”
“No! We were together three days, Tiff! I had no interest in seeing her again, ever. Did she say we had?”
“Nope.” I wished she had. Then I would feel justified in slapping her from one end of the Vale to the other. But no, the clever bitch insinuated I didn’t know everything about her and Royal, pulling my chain, hoping I would get worked up. And I did.
“Then why are… .” I felt him behind me. “Tiff, are you jealous?”
Yep, the green-eyed-monster and I had a relationship. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
An arm went around the small of my back, another behind my knees swept my feet off the floor. Royal cradled me to his chest. “Do you remember,” he murmured in my hair, “the first time I held you like this?”
“How could I forget?” I said as softly. An underground cavern in Bel-Athaer, a headless body on the ground, the sting of tiny wounds on my breasts and belly, and Royal gently holding me in his arms.
His lips felt so soft on mine, like velvet fingers, searching, probing. And the world, including Lorraine, went away for a time.
Royal’s cell chiming out the theme music to The Addams Family broke up a cozy nesting session. I sighed dramatically. Royal leaned over me to grope on the nightstand. Putting his phone to his ear, he lay back on the pillows and answered the call. “Mortensen.”
He sat up, every inch of his body tense. “When did it happen?”
Uh oh. I sat up beside him.
“What do you want us to do? Okay. Please give Mrs. Norton our condolences.” He snapped the phone shut, staring me in the eyes, not saying a word.
“Royal!”
He drew his eyebrows together, compressed his lips. “That was Fred Sturgis. Scott Norton died last night.”
Jesus Christ! “What? How?”
“Cancer. Apparently he was riddled with it. Sturgis said it was just a matter of time.”
I squinted, as if it would make things clear in my head. “Patty mentioned poor health, not dying.” But she likely would not speak to me of something so private, so painful.
“What now?” I asked.
“They want us to carry on.”
I leaned back and linked my fingers at my waist. As always when I heard of such a loss, I tried to empathize with the bereaved, but I barely knew Patty and never met Scott.
I pushed the covers aside. “Suppose I’d better go get my clothes.”
Sally, Greg, Darnel Fowler and three local men I’d seen before stood at the desk, silent. In fact, a strange kind of hush filled the room. Suddenly edgy, I went over there. Sally’s eyes were moist. As I watched, a single tear rolled over her lower lashes and tracked down her face. She snuffled and wiped at her cheek with the hem of her apron. Her bosom heaved.
“Oh, dear me,” she sighed as I joined the group.
Greg’s sigh came out heavier. “Aye, Mother, a terrible thing.”
“Who’d have thought.” one of the locals murmured.
Aware of Fowler’s eyes on me, I turned sideways to ease through the men.
An opened newspaper lay flat on the desk. Sally pushed it toward me and put one fingertip on a small column. “Look you here.”
I scanned the column. The bodies of Paul and Sylvia Norton were discovered inside a Pegasus Van Lines rental truck. It went far enough into Loch Claire to submerge the cab, with the rest of the vehicle above the water, easily seen by a young man on his way to work early in the morning. The cabin was fairly airtight; they asphyxiated before it filled with water. An investigation by Edinburgh police was ongoing. They had no living relatives.
A heavy weight dropped in my stomach, but I couldn’t let them see how the news affected me. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” There, just right, a tad of sympathy for their loss. “Nobody got in touch with you?”
Sally sniffled. “No reason to, dear. We are not relatives. Likewise, no reason for the police in Scotland to contact Little Barrow, since young Paul and Sylvia no longer live here. Right, Darnel?”
“Right, Sally,” Fowler agreed.
I touched the edge of the newspaper, wishing I knew what it didn’t say.
“I suppose you’ll be leaving now,” Fowler said.
Sally kept her eyes down, but her hand tensed on the newspaper. Greg’s face went blank. Fowler watched me with a tiny smile which freaked me out as much as his question. A shiver ran through me.
I coaxed a puzzled expression. “Why would we leave?”
“Yes, what are you thinking, Darnel?” Greg asked. “We do not have so much business that we would see our guests off before their time.”
His unwavering gaze on me, Fowler hitched one beefy shoulder. “I thought you would be in the village but briefly before you continued your tour.”
“Did you need anything in particular, dear?” Sally asked.
I turned to her, relieved I didn’t have to see Fowler’s small, knowing smile. “Um, I wondered about my … stuff. Is it done?”
“I will bring it up to you when I have seen to these gentlemen.”
“Thanks, Miss Short.”
I backed from the desk. As I went up the staircase I thought of the Nortons, trapped in the van, each life-giving breath of air taking them closer to death. I hoped the crash in the Loch killed them or knocked them unconscious; they were not awake, desperately trying to break out as they gulped the last small pocket of air.
When I burst in the room, Royal stood at the foot of the bed, looking at something in his hand.
Chapter Twelve
Royal held the piece of paper out to me. I t
ook it hesitantly. So much had happened in a short time, I needed to get it straight in my head before something else hit, and from Royal’s expression the piece of paper heralded something else. I glanced at it and had no need to read more than the first sentence. I sank down on the edge of the bed. Royal sat beside me.
His expression turned grim as I told him what happened to the Nortons.
“And Darnel Fowler was downstairs, gave me funny looks.”
“Funny?”
“Kinda … complacent … knowing?” I rotated my head, circling one way, then the other, making the vertebrae crunch. “I don’t think anyone else saw, but he made sure I did. He asked if we were leaving now. Greg Short asked him what he meant. Fowler said he thought we were here for only a couple of days. I think he knows why we’re really here.”
Royal nodded. “I agree. Why else would he conclude we will leave now that the Nortons are found?”
I rested my head on his shoulder, his arm snaked my waist. “This is deep down dirty, Royal.”
“We will get to the bottom of it,” he said into my hair.
I dipped my eyes to the newspaper clipping of Johnny’s obituary. “Don’t tell me, under the door.”
“While I was in the bathroom.”
“I can understand someone knowing we’re out when they slipped us the note, but how did they know you were in the bathroom this time?”
“Heard the water running?”
I read the sad little obituary again. Jonathan Pierce Marsh, born July 28th, 1994. Died August 1st, 2011, two weeks ago. Seventeen; barely old enough to legally ride his scooter. It listed his schools, hobbies and of course his family. Altogether too brief for an entire lifespan. Sad.
Two weeks. Everything happened two weeks ago, or near enough.
“This doesn’t tell us anything, so all I can think is we’re being pointed in Johnny’s direction. We should talk to him again.”
“You mean you should talk to him again.”
I made a face. “Oh, yeah.”
“Before I call Fred Sturgis?”
“He’ll tell us to go home if he knows the Nortons are dead.”
“It would probably be best, Tiff.”
We went downstairs, where I was glad to find the lobby empty. I didn’t want to see Darnel Fowler’s smug face.
The heavy fog had lifted, but mist obscured the fringes of the village, limiting visibility to around fifty feet in every direction. Royal and I crossed to The Ugly Duck and started down the alley.
Atop a grass bank, a high wall made of small slices of flint stacked one on the other ran from the last cottage to the end of the alley. We would have walked on, but a voice saying, “Come ‘ere, you stupid little git!” caught our attention.
Royal put his fingers to his lips. I nodded. We climbed the bank to the wall so we could peek over.
“I let you out a minute, you go right for the cabbage. Still, it’s your nature.”
Narrow dirt paths separated small plots colorful with vegetables: cabbage, potato, onions, leeks, carrots and cauliflower by the look of them. I’m not a vegetable grower so I could have been mistaken. Four barrels designed to catch and store rainwater stood against the far wall. Over there, also, a wide break in the wall where a shiny Renault station wagon parked. Three decrepit sheds leaned on the south wall.
Stooped over, Malcolm trundled between the beds, hands not far from the ground. I thought the poor man’s back had gone out, until his hands darted at a flash of white between cabbage plants. He stood up holding a small white rabbit. “Aye, you’re a silly bugger,” he said affectionately, cuddling the ball of fluff in his arms.
Caught up in the cuteness factor of a big guy cuddling a bunny, I didn’t wonder at his agility. Not right then, anyhow. He went to a hutch on stilts and popped the bunny inside.
We were going to move on when Malcolm strode to a stack of large yellow plastic bags, grabbed one by both corners and slung it over his back. He made his way to the Renault and tossed the sack through the open hatchback. I just made out the lettering on the sack.
“Concrete mix! How much do those sacks weigh?” I hissed.
“Twenty-three kilograms. A fraction more than fifty pounds.”
Poor old Malcolm, who couldn’t carry our bags to our room, yet accepted a tip from Royal. Nothing wrong with the guy! And to top that, he had a disabled sticker on the back of the car.
I dug the toe of my shoe in a crevice, put my hands flat on top of the wall, meaning to go over there and have a word with Malcolm. Royal grabbed the back of my shirt and tugged me down. He stifled his chortling with one hand.
“Someone ought to turn the bugger in,” Carrie said.
I couldn’t swallow a stutter of surprise as I saw her at my elbow. I had a quick look over the wall. Slinging another sack in his car, Malcolm had not heard me.
“Sorry. Did I startle you?”
“I didn’t know you came with us,” I whispered.
She waved her hand at the cottage facing the brick wall. “I didn’t. I was already here, hoping to catch a ride back to The Hart and Garter.”
Royal took my hand and led us onward. We turned on the Salisbury road.
“What were you doing there?” I asked Carrie.
“Brenda Blackthorn told Jeanie Welsh she heard Glenda Wilcott caught her Harry watching Internet porn. Glenda visits her mum Mary Parry at this time every day. Poor Mrs. Parry, she can’t tell day from night most of the time. Why, she worked a forty-hour week at French the butchers in Marlborough not long ago. Sad, isn’t it, how a person can go into a decline like that.”
She was off on a tangent again.
“It was losing her cat. I think she hung on for that cat after her Alf died, her reason for living you could say. He was a nasty little bugger too. Killed Bill Wellington’s bantam cockerel and you know what fierce birds they are. Mrs. Parry denied it up one side of the street and down the other, but the cat had spur marks all over him. I’d like - ”
“Carrie!”
She tucked in her chin. “Yes?”
I briefly closed my eyes, then opened them again to see where I walked. “Nothing.”
“So you cottoned onto our Malcolm. As I said, someone should turn him in. I don’t understand why people put up with his shenanigans. He’s getting benefits illegally and that means our money is paying for his perks!”
We turned down Church Lane. “Our money?”
“Their money, then. He doesn’t work except at The Hart and Garter, and he doesn’t report it as income. He gets free housing, free medical, subsidies for food and all the necessities. Free petrol for a free car. And he has no shame!”
I shoved my hands deep in my pockets. “Why don’t they report him?”
“Bunch of lily-livered cowards, that’s what they are.”
I grinned at the mist. “Did you see the porno?”
She made a fussy gesture with both hands. “No I did not. I wouldn’t have watched it anyway.”
The mist clotted to fog; it curled up Church Lane, advancing on the village.
“Then why go there when the wife is out?”
“Here’s our Johnny! Did you come to see him?”
“About that porno… .”
“Oh hush, you.”
Royal stepped closer to me. “Sounds interesting. You can tell me when we get back.”
I composed my features. Typical. Mention porn and a man is all ears.
Johnny appeared in a swirl of fog. “Hello you young whippersnapper,” Carrie said brightly.
“Wotcher, you old trollop. Shagged any Eye-talians lately?”
“I loathe that word. It’s crude.” She shifted her attention to me. “I was shocked, yes shocked, when you people called that film The Spy Who Shagged Me. I can’t believe anyone in your part of the world knows the connotation or they wouldn’t have used it. It doesn’t mean ‘made love to,’ you know. Nothing so sweet and romantic. Might as well have called it The Spy Who Fu - ” With a quick glance at Johnny, s
he gulped down the word. “Anyway, we didn’t, more’s the pity.”
I stopped beside Johnny. “Hi, Johnny. I gather you two know each other.”
“Oh, you again,” he said sullenly.
“Nice to see you too.”
“Gonna stand there staring at me all day are you?”
“As long as it takes, yeah.”
“What takes?”
“To figure out if what happened to you is connected to the deaths of Paul and Sylvia Norton.”
Johnny stood, straddling his scooter. “They’re dead?” He slumped down again.
“We think they were murdered.”
He smacked his knee by way of emphasis. “I knew som’at was off.”
Familiar tension washed through me. We were onto something.
He ran one finger under his nose as if rubbing away a sniffle. “I did jobs for them. Gardening, mucking out the chicken ‘ouse, any old thing. I goes there Sunday evening and there’s this moving van outside and guys loading their furniture and stuff. I says to them, I didn’t know the Nortons was moving, they never told me nothing about it.” His gaze zipped to mine. “They would ‘ave said something, wouldn’t they. But a big guy, ‘e says it was sudden-like, an emergency. So I tries to go talk to the Nortons and ‘e stops me, says they already left.
“I thought, must be some emergency or Sylvia would be ‘overing over them. She were particular about ‘er stuff.”
“Did you recognize these guys?”
“Only Nobby Clarke. I did think it strange, ‘iring blokes to load and drive a rental van, not proper movers. Supposed it were cheaper doing it that way.”
“Nobby Clarke?”
“Bill Clarke. Lives over Churchfont way.”
Men cleaned out the Nortons’ house and one of them was William Clarke. I gave Royal a crooked smile. There we had it. Johnny saw something he should not, so Johnny had to go.
I told Royal what Johnny had said.
“Did they kill Paul and Sylvia?” Johnny asked.
“We don’t know, Johnny, but they are involved.”
He twisted on the scooter as if to get comfortable. “Bad luck, weren’t it, Darnel running me down. I could ‘ave told the police what I saw.”
