Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  I was repulsed but fascinated as both began to slowly dance, hands touching hands, in perfect symmetry.

  It was incredibly intimate and unbelievably romantic. It was also clear that Barbara and Jimmy were no strangers to each other.

  And then it came to me in a flash.

  How could I have been so stupid! I thought back to Ruby’s grief that now seemed as if it had nothing to do with Belcher Pike at all. Her Dad was having an affair, and Ruby knew it.

  For as long as I’d known Barbara, she’d talked about Jimmy Kitchen—the “man who got away” and the “love of her life.”

  I withdrew, knowing I’d witnessed something I shouldn’t have. It had never occurred to me that Jimmy Kitchen was a gypsy! No wonder they couldn’t be together! What’s more, I was almost positive that this was the scandal that Whittler and most of Gipping had alluded to.

  Poor Barbara. What rotten luck. Engaged to one man but in love with another. What was she going to do?

  Yet Barbara’s predicament paled into insignificance when measured against mine.

  Steve was waiting.

  27

  I turned into Factory Terrace and had to drag myself away from Barbara’s predicament to focus on mine.

  It was just as I feared. Steve was pacing back and forth across the road smoking a cigarette. This did not bode well. For a start, I had never even seen him smoke.

  I pulled up behind his VW Jetta 2.0 TDI outside number twenty-one, switched off the engine, and cut the lights. A glow from the upstairs bedroom window revealed a crack in the curtains and Mrs. Evans’s face pressed against the glass.

  God. I hated scenes, and I wasn’t about to have one in the middle of the street for all the neighbors to hear. I leaned over and pushed the passenger door open. Steve trudged toward me and peered inside. In the gloom of the interior light, his eyes looked all red and swollen.

  “You’re being really silly.” Attack is the best form of defense! “I told you I was going to see Barbara tonight.”

  “Oh, really?” Steve took an exaggerated drag on his cigarette. “When?”

  “If you want to talk about it, get in the car,” I said. “And please get rid of that cigarette.”

  Steve tossed it into the gutter and lowered himself onto the front seat. He slammed the door, hard.

  “Just tell me the truth, Vicky,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking. Don’t lie to me, doll. It will kill me.”

  “I’m not lying. I did see Barbara.” This was absolutely true. “Why don’t you ask her if you don’t believe me?” Given Barbara’s new circumstances, I was quite sure I could count on her giving me an alibi if push came to shove.

  “I will and I don’t.” Steve turned to me. His face was etched with such pain that I felt guilty. I never intended to hurt Steve and still couldn’t quite work out how I had gotten myself into this situation.

  “Why didn’t you call earlier?” I said.

  “I did.”

  “You can’t have done. The phone didn’t ring.” This was worrying. I might have to change my service provider. I had to be accessible 24-7. “Maybe there wasn’t a signal? Did it go straight to voice mail?”

  “I don’t like leaving messages. Then I called Phil.” Steve’s voice broke. “He didn’t answer, either.”

  “Phil had told me he had a tanning session booked.”

  “Yeah. Right. Tanning.” Steve gave a heavy sigh. “It’s no good. I’ve got to do this, doll. I’ve got to look.”

  Before I could blink, Steve reached up and snapped on the interior light and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “It’s true,” he cried. “Oh God. Your face!”

  “What?” I flipped down the visor. Not only was my chin covered in blotches, my lips were puffy, too. Blast! So I wasn’t just allergic to Steve. Or perhaps it was Noah’s mustache? Maybe I was allergic to every man who kissed me?

  “I know you, Vicky,” Steve wailed. “You always get that flushed look after kissing.”

  “I’m not flushed,” I snapped. “I’m allergic to your aftershave.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Steve. “Oh God. I want to die.”

  This was ridiculous! I was beginning to tire of Steve and his wretched insecurities. I thought longingly of Barbara, wild and free, being held by the love of her life in the moonlight. Steve wasn’t for me, and I was being incredibly unkind by keeping him hanging on, even if he was a good informant.

  “You’re right. This isn’t working,” I said. “I think we should cut our losses and stay good friends.”

  Steve’s jaw dropped. “Are you breaking up with me?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I am.” I don’t know why I hadn’t ever thought of breaking up with Steve before—probably because as far as I was concerned, we weren’t having a relationship.

  Steve shook his head with disbelief. His eyes welled up with tears. “After all we’ve gone through,” he whimpered. “I don’t believe it. This isn’t happening to me. It can’t be.”

  Don’t cave, Vicky. Be strong. “Sorry,” I said firmly. “But I think this is for the best.”

  Slowly, Steve opened the door and got out of the car, dramatically pausing to whisper in a voice filled with pain, “You’ve broken my heart, doll.”

  Steve started his car and began revving the engine, pedal flat to the floor. He made so much noise that lights popped on, up and down Factory Terrace. I was mortified.

  Suddenly, Steve thrust his Jetta into gear with a crunch, slammed his foot down on the accelerator, and took off like a bullet—in the direction where the cul-de-sac ended in the high factory wall!

  Good grief. Surely he wasn’t intending to kill himself? There was a squeal of brakes, then—thankfully—the car headlights came back into view. Steve tore past me, hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead.

  I let myself in the front door feeling utterly wretched. Fortunately, Mrs. Evans wasn’t waiting up for me as I had feared, and I managed to get into my room without any interruptions.

  The first thing I saw was Barbara’s shoebox, which I planned to give her tomorrow. Even though the newspaper clipping was missing, I knew it was significant and intended to steer the conversation around to Mildred Veysey—after all, she would have been Barbara’s future mother-in-law had she still been alive.

  Tonight had been as traumatic as I had predicted, but something told me that tomorrow could be worse.

  28

  Annabel did not come home that night. I slept badly, haunted by dreams of Steve walking in on me having sex with Probes in Noah’s wagon.

  The next morning, my face still bore traces of my allergy to Steve—or Noah—but even though I caught Mrs. Evans watching me closely at breakfast, she just asked how “Sexpot Steve” was taking the news.

  When I remarked, “badly,” she nodded agreement but said that Steve had taken his breakup with her daughter, Sadie Evans, “far, far worse,” and that at one point they thought he could be “suicidal.”

  Of course, I knew that Sadie and Steve had been an item well before I moved into Chez Evans, but if Mrs. E. had thought this news would make me feel better, it didn’t.

  True, I had never aspired to be Steve’s girlfriend, but there is nothing more sobering after such a traumatic breakup than to discover you weren’t the love of someone’s life after all.

  “Don’t feel sorry for him,” Mrs. Evans went on. “He was only using you as a transitory object. He never really got over my Sadie.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. E.,” I said, but felt her remark was more of an insult than a comfort. But having half expected Steve to be bombarding me with phone calls begging for another chance, I had to assume she was right. My phone had not rung once.

  I arrived at the Gazette just after nine and noted that the show window had been drastically altered.

  Positioned front and center, two mannequins dressed as Gipping Ranids flanked the man-sized frog mascot. Wearing Panama hats decorated with badges, each mannequin sported a green-and-whi
te-spotted neckerchief, a white shirt, and bottle-green breeches with bell pads decorated in green and white ribbons. Crossed baldricks passing diagonally across the chest and also covered in small bells and white rosettes completed the outfit.

  On the far right was an assortment of banners and various percussion instruments. Tucked way in the back was one standee of Phil in Turpin Terror costume alongside his mascot, Beryl. A small flyer had been tacked in the bottom left-hand corner of the window simply saying PHIL BURROWS. GRANGE. SATURDAY.

  Tucking the newly wrapped shoebox inside my safari jacket, I entered reception.

  Barbara was behind the counter. She looked tired. Her eyes were ringed with heavy dark circles. Even her sunshine yellow summer polka-dot frock seemed drab. She certainly did not bear the radiant telltale signs of a woman in love or the haunted look of guilt.

  “The new window looks great,” I enthused.

  “No thanks to Olive,” Barbara grumbled. “She’s getting too big for her own boots these days.”

  “Where is Olive?”

  “God knows. She’s always late.” Barbara gestured to the pile of papers and ribbons on the counter. “She still hasn’t done these! They’ve been sitting up there for a whole month, and the event’s only tomorrow!”

  I, however, was glad that Olive was late. She might be slow, but she didn’t miss much, and my efforts at rewrapping the shoebox had left much to be desired. For starters, the only paper I could find at Chez Evans was the pink, floral variety that Mr. Evans had used to wrap up that mystery gift for his “Annie.”

  I set the shoebox on the counter. “This is for you. Sorry. I kept forgetting to bring it in.”

  Barbara pulled a face. “Not another wedding present.”

  “Aren’t you excited?”

  “I don’t know,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure if I can be bothered.”

  “But you’re getting married to the man of your dreams,” I said, adding slyly, “Having second thoughts is perfectly natural.”

  Barbara merely grunted. She grabbed a pair of scissors from the countertop and stabbed at the paper. Lifting up the lid, she savagely ripped through the pink tissue paper—also stolen from Mrs. Evans’s kitchen drawer.

  Barbara froze. All the color drained from her face as she lifted out the shoe and then the bicycle bell.

  “What is it?” I asked, all innocence. “Is that a shoe?”

  “No!” she gasped. “No! It can’t be!”

  She grasped at the edge of the counter and suddenly, keeled over, hitting the floor with a sickening crash.

  “Barbara!” I shrieked and crawled under the flap to find her lying motionless on the ground. Since her eyes were staring at the ceiling, she was either conscious—or dead. I picked up her wrist and, to my relief, felt a pulse.

  “I’ll call for an ambulance,” I said, hoping that Steve was off-duty and I’d get Tom.

  “No, don’t do that.” Barbara grabbed my hand. “Help me sit up. Hide them,” she whispered urgently. “Don’t let Olive see, please Vicky.”

  I got to my feet and swiftly stuffed the shoe back into the box and under my safari jacket just as Olive walked through the front door.

  Wearing a cream trouser suit with a gold barrette in her sleek gray bob, Olive seemed excited. “Good, Barbara’s not here yet,” she said, beaming from ear to ear. “I’ve got two surprises for her at my party tonight.”

  “I am here,” shouted a voice. Barbara popped up from behind the counter, her hair all disheveled. I gestured to the bulge under my safari jacket and gave her the thumbs-up. “And I told you I hate surprises.”

  “Are you feeling all right? You look awful.” Olive frowned. “Don’t you think it’s time to have all that hair cut off?”

  “You’re right, Olive,” Barbara declared. “I just might.”

  “I knew something was wrong!” cried Olive. Barbara always maintained that men loved long hair. “You’re not thinking of canceling tonight, are you?”

  “No, she’s coming,” I said, and pointed to the mounds of paper on the counter. “But only if all this work is sorted out first. Barbara, I need something in the archive room.”

  “Why?” Barbara guarded her meticulously organized archive room just as she did the show window—under lock and key.

  “I’m trying to find some background on Gladys Trenfold for her obituary,” I lied, but discreetly tapped the bulging shoebox under my safari jacket. “Didn’t she do some shoplifting?”

  Olive gave a nervous titter. “You can’t put that on page eleven!”

  “I just might,” I said, giving Olive a wink.

  “Oh wait,” said Olive. “Did you give that package to Barbara, Vicky? Was it a wedding present?”

  “No,” Barbara said coldly. “They were bulbs for the garden.”

  Olive frowned. “I do wish I could remember who had delivered it. Was it from a catalog?”

  “Remember what I said about Barbara coming tonight?” I said.

  Olive plunged into the papers whilst I followed Barbara into the archive room.

  “Close the door,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  29

  It had been quite some time since I’d been allowed into Barbara’s closely guarded kingdom.

  Floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves stood on three sides, packed with dozens of labeled cardboard boxes sorted by subject and year. Funerals took up one entire wall, weddings and births, the second. The third was shared equally among social events, including the Women’s Institute, Flower Shows, Jumble Sales, Police Reports, and Court Transcripts. I noted a new box marked TREWALLYN TRIO WINDOW APPEAL.

  A TO FILE tray filled with various-sized newspaper clippings and sheets of paper stood on the narrow wooden table in the center of the small storeroom.

  I set the shoebox down. “Do you want to tell me about Jimmy Kitchen?”

  Barbara paled. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “It’s no use denying it,” I said. “I saw you together last night in Trewallyn Woods.”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  “Barbara, it’s okay. Everyone is entitled to be happy.” Although when Dad said that to Mum during his affair with Pamela Dingles, she punched him. “What’s going on?”

  To my dismay, Barbara burst into tears.

  I pulled out the low stool cum stepladder from under the table and sat her down, perching on a portable shredder myself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Barbara pulled out a cotton handkerchief from her yellow hand-knitted cardigan and blew her nose furiously.

  “Surely it can’t be as bad as all that?” I said trotting out one of Mum’s favorite—and rather irritating—phrases. “The gypsies will be gone soon.”

  This prompted another wail of anguish. “It’s all so unfair.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders. “You’ve talked about Jimmy Kitchen for as long as I’ve known you. I just didn’t realize exactly who he was. Not that it matters.”

  “It mattered back then in those days,” said Barbara. “Gorgers and gypsies could never be together. My dad had a fit, and his folks were furious.” Dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief she added wistfully, “We were like Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Things are different now,” I said, thinking of my own tryst with Noah last night. “It’s obvious you still love each other. I think you should follow your heart.”

  “Follow my heart?” Barbara gave a bitter laugh. “I tried that once.”

  “It’s just so romantic. The love of your life comes back after all these years—”

  “You don’t understand,” Barbara said. “Jimmy lied to me. Again.”

  “About being married?”

  “They’re estranged—or so he claims.” She gestured to the shoebox. “I don’t know what to believe now.”

  “The shoe?”

  Angrily, Barbara wiped away her tears and got to her feet. She marched over to one of the shelves, pulled down a box marked
POLICE REPORTS 1960-1965, and withdrew a press clipping. She thrust it into my hand. “Read that.”

  I immediately recognized the headline from the torn clipping that the Swamp Dogs had so inconveniently tossed away.

  Mildred Mourned by Millions!

  Authorities are seeking witnesses to a hit-and-run accident Monday evening that left our beloved Mildred Veysey dead at age forty-one. It was Mildred’s endearing habit of being late for everything that ended her life as she took a shortcut to attend the Gipping Women’s Institute’s Bottled Jam competition at Gipping Manor.

  A white convertible with a red top was spotted entering Mudge Lane—a well-known spot for lovers—moments after Mildred’s bicycle. Mr. & Ms. X—whose names are being withheld for obvious reasons—discovered Mildred’s lifeless body later that evening.

  Widowed during World War II, Mildred leaves behind her only son Wilfred, who currently writes the obituary column for this very newspaper.

  Good grief! Was it possible that Barbara was the mysterious Ms. X?

  “It was a blind corner.” Barbara’s voice was barely a whisper. “It happened so fast. It was such a blur, and it would have been our word against theirs.”

  “Wait a minute—” I wasn’t sure if I had understood properly. “I thought you found the body.”

  “We did.” Barbara twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Jimmy owned a white Hillman Super Minx convertible. He loved that car,” she said quietly. “We had to get rid of it afterward. Drove it to Larcombe Quarry, shoved a brick on the accelerator, and sent it over the edge. It’s probably still there.”

  With a sheer drop of at least two hundred feet, the former slate quarry had been flooded decades ago.

  “I don’t quite follow. Oh!” Idiot Vicky. The clipping said a white convertible with a red hood. “Jimmy Kitchen was driving—”