Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  “Is that you?” Olive peered over my shoulder. I caught a whiff of her perfume—Elizabeth Arden Blue Grass—my grandmother’s favorite. “It’s hard to tell.”

  Phil cut a dashing figure dressed as a Turpin Terror complete with red tatter three-quarter coat, tricorn hat, and highwayman mask. “Being a Terror is a different ball game from dancing with the Ranids. Presumably you’ll want to interview me for the day-in-the-life feature?”

  I hadn’t considered it but it, wasn’t a bad idea. “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll have to check with my agent,” said Phil, “but plan on coming to the Manor tomorrow night. By the way, where are the extra headshots?”

  Olive looked blank. “I don’t know.”

  I hadn’t realized just how much we all relied on Barbara’s efficiency.

  “You should have gotten them by now.” Phil’s tone was mild, but I sensed a flicker of irritation. “My agent posted them last week.”

  “We’ve been having a lot of problems with the post, haven’t we?” said Olive. “It’s the cutbacks.”

  “If they’ve gone missing—”

  The signature tune from Flashdance erupted from Phil’s man-bag just in time. Phil pulled out his iPhone. “Yo! What’s happening?”

  “It’s probably his agent,” whispered Olive as Phil wandered over to the front door and stepped outside.

  “Do you think I should talk to Phil’s agent about Barbara’s party on Friday night?” Olive went on. “I was going to ask Phil to make a special appearance as a surprise.”

  “I would just ask Phil.”

  “I wish someone had thrown me a hen party,” Olive said wistfully. Having been a spinster for most of her sixty-five years, Olive’s first attempt at marriage had lasted less than a week. For the past month, she and the pungent Ronnie Binns were a hot item—a thought that I could not dwell on for too long without feeling ill.

  “Perhaps if I can find a way to put Phil’s things in the window, he’ll agree?” she said.

  “I should check with Barbara first. In fact, I may as well go and see her on my way back from The Grange.”

  Phil reappeared. “Sorry, ladies; I’ve got to run. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on that window; otherwise”—he looked grave—“I might have to pull out of the show.”

  Reassuring Phil that all would be well—even though I had serious reservations—I was relieved when he disappeared.

  “Did you say you were going to see Barbara?” said Olive. “I’ve got something for her. Wait a moment.”

  Olive went behind the counter, muttering, “It’s under here somewhere.” After what seemed like ages, she produced a small, rectangular package covered in brown paper with lashings of tape.

  “Isn’t that Phil’s?” I said exasperated.

  “Of course not.” Olive tapped a perfectly manicured frosted pink nail at the crudely written name in black marker pen: BARBARA MEADOWS. OPEN BY ADDRESSEE ONLY! EXTREMLY CONFIDENTAL. There was no postage mark. “And whoever sent it can’t spell.” She picked up the package and shook it. There was a dull thud. “I wonder what it is. Would it be naughty to open it?”

  My thoughts exactly, but I had no intention of doing so in front of Olive. “We shouldn’t. It’s personal.”

  “It could be anthrax!” Olive dropped it onto the counter and sprang back, terrified.

  “Hardly.” Although I had to admit that the package did look sinister. “Who delivered it?”

  “I only left reception for a moment to use the little girls’ room. When I got back, it was on the counter. Should we call the police? What if it’s a bomb?”

  Olive could be so dramatic! “I’ll take care of it.”

  Fortunately, the phone rang, and Olive had to answer it, giving me the perfect opportunity to grab the tape dispenser off the counter—marked in black Sharpie DO NOT REMOVE FROM RECEPTION—and slip it into my pocket. I was going to need that.

  Olive had a point. The contents of the package could be dangerous, and I would hate for something to happen to Barbara.

  Grabbing it, I hurried off to my car.

  Someone needed to check.

  8

  The package was heavily taped but no match for my Swiss Army penknife. I sliced through the bindings and removed the brown paper to find an old, battered shoebox.

  Inside was an object wrapped up in a torn sheet of yellowing newspaper. With surprise, I saw it was none other than an obituary page from the Gipping Gazette! It was dated August 26—Dad’s birthday—1963. There was no note.

  I lifted out the package with care and unwrapped it to find a single white-leather Mary Jane with a peep toe and honeycomb cutouts.

  Perhaps the shoe was connected to Barbara’s wedding day? Wasn’t the bride supposed to wear something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue?

  This was certainly old. I wasn’t a shoe expert, but it looked like something my grandmother would have worn, but it didn’t look exactly bridal.

  For a start, the two-and-a-half-inch heel had brownish stains—Devon was known for its rich red clay, which was used to make the terra-cotta pots from which the Torquay terra-cotta industry began in the late nineteenth century—but it was the circular metal object that had been jammed into the toe of the shoe that was most puzzling.

  It was an old steel bicycle bell, with a starburst on the top and a crown on the bell pusher, stamped MADE IN WEST GERMANY. Of course, everyone knew that Barbara owned a bike. Hers was pink and she was very fond of it. Baffled, I returned the bell, which still worked and emitted a bright ding-ding, back inside the shoe.

  There was something weird about it that gave me the creeps. Why mark it confidential? Where was the other shoe? Was the date on the newspaper significant, and what could this possibly have to do with Barbara?

  I smoothed out the newspaper. The headline read, MILDRED MOURNED BY MILLIONS!

  A sharp rap on the window made me jump. Blast! Steve, dressed in his white paramedic uniform, was standing there, clutching a bunch of pink carnations.

  I opened the window.

  “Morning, doll,” he said, wheezing heavily. “I ran. Got five minutes?”

  “Not really. I’m just leaving.” But Steve appeared not to hear. He walked around to the passenger side. I made a mad scramble, rolled the shoe up in the newspaper, shoved it into the box, and placed it on the seat behind me. I’d have to tape it up again later.

  “Thanks.” Steve squeezed his large frame into the front of the Fiat. There was a weird grating sound as the car sank a full two inches under his weight. Good-bye, shock absorbers!

  “Thought I’d check on my girl. I’m on a coffee break.” Steve leaned over to kiss me, but I was a step ahead and looked away.

  “What a piece of luck!” He went on, “We almost missed each other.”

  “But here we are,” I said.

  “Telepathy.” Steve beamed. “Olive said you’d already left. I know you sometimes park your car here.” He passed me the carnations. “For you.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, thanks.”

  “They’re the flowers of love, doll,” said Steve. “I wrapped the stems up in wet newspaper. They should be all right until you get them into a vase.”

  “You didn’t tell me you had a famous brother,” I said.

  “You met Phil?” An agonized expression crossed Steve’s face.

  “He came to the Gazette this morning.”

  Steve shook his head. “No, Steve, don’t ask her. Don’t go there.”

  “Don’t go where?”

  “I can’t help it. I’ve got to know.” Steve looked at me with his tortured puppy-dog eyes and took a deep breath. “We’ve got to be honest in this relationship. Tell me the truth, and I won’t be upset.”

  Had Steve been spying? Had he seen me open the shoebox? “It’s just work,” I said quickly.

  “I knew it!” Steve cried with dismay. “All the ladies fancy my brother. He asked you out, didn’t he?”

  �
��Oh. That. Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’m interviewing Phil for a day-in-the-life piece. I told you, I don’t have time for relationships.”

  “Phil’s rich. A celebrity—”

  “And you save lives,” I said firmly. “That’s far more important.”

  Steve turned pink with pleasure. “You’re right. Steve saves lives.”

  “Must you refer to yourself in the third person?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Any ID on the mystery woman yet?”

  “She’s gone, doll.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “I heard they took her to Plymouth morgue this morning.”

  “What’s wrong with our morgue?” I was stunned and more than a little suspicious.

  Steve raised his heavy shoulders. “Stalk’s orders.”

  Stalk! It certainly explained why Pete was no longer bothered—but frankly, I was incensed. Not only had the woman died on Gipping territory, but she had died in very mysterious circumstances, and nobody seemed to care except for me.

  “Come on, Steve,” I said flirtatiously. “You’re a smart and intelligent man. If it were just an accident, why would the police waste taxpayers’ money moving the body to Plymouth? Are they doing another autopsy? Is Coroner Cripps losing his touch?”

  “Search me, doll. I mean no disrespect but—” he hesitated. “Don’t get me wrong . . . She was only a gypsy. Know what I mean?”

  “I’m surprised at you of all people, Steve,” I said hotly. “Gypsy or not, the poor woman still deserves justice. And what about her family? Perhaps she has children? How would you feel—?”

  “Don’t panic! Keep your hair on, Vicky. Hang on a minute.” Steve frowned. “There was something funny about her hair—”

  “I thought she was wearing a wig.”

  “She was, and it was obvious why. I got a good look at her in the morgue,” said Steve. “There were a few small clumps and an unusual red rash on her scalp. Cripps thought it was a chemical burn and wanted to send off a sample to get tested, but we were told Plymouth would handle all that.”

  Even more strange! “Do you know anyone in Plymouth morgue?

  “Why?”

  “I wouldn’t mind being kept in the loop,” I said with a smile. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “Anything for you, doll,” said Steve. “When can I see you?”

  “How about after you’ve spoken to your friend in Plymouth again?”

  Steve nodded. “They’ll get the results back tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow it is.”

  As I drove away, a glance in my rearview mirror showed Steve waving me out of sight. I felt a pang of guilt. Steve had proved to be a valuable informant in the past. Was I just leading him on? Using him as a source of information?

  No more! I resolved to set the record straight—but not quite yet.

  News that the body had been moved to Plymouth was certainly fishy.

  Pete had told me to leave well enough alone, but I just couldn’t. Christiane Amanpour would never allow herself to be deflected from finding out the truth.

  Belcher Pike’s arrival in Gipping-on-Plym couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. Whittler had predicted there would be hundreds of gypsies arriving at The Grange. Surely someone would know who she was?

  9

  As I made my way to The Grange, I kept an eye out for a Land Rover with safari rack and overhead lighting, but only saw the common Keswick green variety.

  Turning off the main road, I could just see the chimney tops peeping above the trees that screened the main house and wondered what chaos lay ahead.

  Set in one hundred and seventy-five acres of parkland, there was plenty of space for the gypsies to call home.

  Rumored to have once run to over two thousand acres, the estate had shrunk considerably over the years, thanks to various gambling debts and a passion for snail racing.

  There were three entrances to the estate—the main drive, a tradesman’s back lane, and an overgrown access road that passed the abandoned cricket pavilion and cut through Trewallyn Woods.

  Since Topaz was adamant that she’d never sell, The Grange was turning into a white elephant. She’d made a few half-hearted attempts at renting the stables out, but they had ended in disaster. No doubt the main house would gradually fall into disrepair, as did so many of these beautiful country homes dotted around England, a vivid reminder of a time when Britain had an empire.

  Good grief! I sounded just like my father, who complained that his target market—the upper classes—was steadily shrinking.

  Dad was extremely fond of silver heirlooms, especially if there was a story behind them. He’d say, “Mary Queen of Scots’s lips touched this silver tankard the morning before she had her head cut off,” and “This candelabra was on Charles II’s night table when he first seduced Nell Gwynne.”

  Thinking of my parents made me sad—especially the last memory of Mum, pushing me onto the train at Newcastle railway station, saying, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

  What was it like to live a normal life? Perhaps I had more in common with these gypsy folks than I realized. Hadn’t my family been ostracized by society for Dad’s lifestyle? Hadn’t we been forced to move on from town to town?

  A loud horn from behind interrupted my maudlin musings. A driver’s cab filled my rearview mirror. Headlights flashed urgently. Startled, I accelerated, looking for somewhere to pull over, but the road was too narrow. The horn sounded again. The wretched lorry was on my bumper! In desperation, I yanked the steering wheel to the right and mounted the grass verge with a sickening thud.

  A large truck from Gipping County Council—REFUSE WE CAN’T REFUSE—sailed on by without even so much as a thank-you! In the cab sat a grim-faced Ronnie Binns, Gipping’s chief garbologist and recycling fanatic. On the flatbed was a selection of colored wheelie bins tied down with rope. How unbelievably rude!

  Slamming my foot on the accelerator, I bumped the Fiat off the grass verge and returned to the road with another nasty thud.

  Rounding the corner, I saw Ronnie’s lorry skid through the main gate to The Grange and barrel up the drive, hand hard down on the horn for good measure. What Olive saw in him was a mystery to me.

  Arriving at the entrance, I stopped for a moment, unsure of what sort of reception lay ahead. Opening the glove box, I took out my makeshift PRESS placard and put it on the front dashboard. I’d heard that gypsies could get violent, and that their dogs were vicious and chased after cars. I read somewhere that a Molotov cocktail had been hurled at an innocent rambler who just happened to be walking by, minding her own business. Hopefully my press card might act as some kind of deterrent.

  It looked as if trouble was already brewing. Flanked by abandoned Victorian gatehouses, the main gate had been lifted from its hinges and lay on the ground. A banner, stretching from roof to roof, said:

  Morris Dance-a-thon!

  Here! Saturday!

  See Your Favorite Devon Sides

  Dance Till They Drop!

  The accompanying massive fluorescent-green billboard listing the other attractions—hedge-jumping and hedge-laying displays, a snail racing exhibition, and a bottled-jam boil-off, had been partially sprayed with graffiti.

  The words SILENT AUCTION! TAKE HOME A PIECE OF CELEBRITY MORRIS MAN PHIL BURROWS had practically been obliterated.

  Phil was not in as much demand as he thought.

  A flash of blue caught my attention. My stomach turned over as I braced myself for a gypsy attack, but suddenly four figures in navy hoodies and jeans, aerosol cans in hand, burst from the undergrowth and scampered away. I recognized them immediately—Mickey, Malcolm, Ben, and Brian Barker, aka the Swamp Dogs—Gipping’s answer to a street gang. No doubt they were responsible for the graffiti.

  I slipped my Fiat into four-wheel drive. Even though the last two weeks had been dry, we’d had a wet summer, and Ronnie’s heavy lorry had certainly deepened the ruts in
the potholed surface. I dreaded to think what kind of damage would be done to the parkland. Add that to the hundreds of revelers expected on Saturday, and the place would be a quagmire.

  As I drew closer to the main house, I wondered if there had been some mistake.

  I counted just two painted wagons—the green-and-yellow one I’d seen earlier and a crimson one—two horses, and one 1960 orange-and-white VW camper van.

  They were backed against a vicious blackthorn hedge that I knew had been earmarked for one of the hedge-laying displays on Saturday. Even I didn’t need to have the gift of the Sight to predict trouble with hedge-layer Jack Webster.

  But where was everybody? Where was the famous gypsy king, Belcher Pike? Was this it?

  I was so preoccupied that I wasn’t paying attention and narrowly avoided hitting a pedestrian with a limp.

  Dressed in a red shawl and long dirndl skirt, the gypsy was still carrying her canvas bag filled with flyers. I did hope she wasn’t planning on giving one to Topaz—or, rather, Lady Ethel, or was it Ms. Ethel? Not moving in aristocratic circles, I wasn’t sure how to address the niece of a dead aunt who had married a Duke.

  I opened my window. “Can I give you a lift?”

  The woman turned and regarded me with suspicion. “Why?”

  “I’m going up to the main house,” I said cheerfully. I wasn’t, but perhaps the gypsies had camped on the other side of the estate. “Thought it might save you the walk.”

  “I’ve seen you before.” The woman stepped up to my car and peered at the sign under my windshield. “Are you a reporter?”

  “Yes. I’m with the Gipping Gazette.” I gave her my best smile, anxious to prove Edward wrong and that, yes, she would love to talk to the newspaper.

  “Just the person I want to see!” The woman slithered around to the passenger side and opened the door. Edward was wrong.

  Planting her muddy, sensible shoes—I recognized them from Marks & Spencer—into my foot well, the woman slid into the front seat, clutching the bag to her chest. I caught a strong whiff of cheap perfume.