Noah didn’t answer, simply scooped up the offending container, shoved it into the recycling bag, dumped it into the white bin, and scurried off without even saying good-bye.
“Men,” said Dora, all smiles once more. “Give them something to do, but you may as well do it yourself.”
“Goodness. Is that the time? Best get on,” I said, knowing full well that Dora was going to grill me about her wretched article.
“I’m looking forward to seeing my article on tomorrow’s front page,” she said.
“I gave it to Pete Chambers, our chief reporter,” I said brightly. “He’s the man you want to talk to if you have any questions.” I paused, not sure if I should bring up the subject or not. “You mentioned something about a tape concerning her ladyship?”
Dora nodded. “That’s right.”
“Is this something you wanted to give to the Gazette?” I said innocently.
“Do you think I’m blind?” snapped Dora. “Her so-called ladyship is your friend. You’d never run the story, and anyway, it’s too late.” Dora’s eyes gleamed with malice. “What’s done is done.”
As I drove back to the office, I couldn’t help thinking what a horrible person Dora was. At first she’d seemed so nice, with all her gypsy, activist, want-a-better-future attitude—and environmentally conscious, too—but there was something about her I couldn’t quite put my finger on. No wonder Jimmy preferred Barbara.
What could Dora do to Topaz? I’d seen that container marked ACETONE. What if she was planning on burning down The Grange?
My mind was reeling with all that had happened this morning.
Probes had practically declared his undying love, only to be interrupted by Noah, who believed I was under attack. Yet when Dora appeared, he scuttled away like a coward. Was there no perfect man in this world?
Back at the Gazette, I let myself in by the side door so as to avoid walking through reception. I’d have more than my fill of Barbara and Olive tonight at the party, and it sounded as if things had already started, judging by the sounds of laughter coming through the walls.
Over the past few months, I noticed that Barbara started having “Casual Friday Afternoons,” which basically meant that with Wilf and Pete putting the paper to bed in Plymouth, the ladies liked to celebrate the end of the week with alcoholic beverages. Word soon got around town.
Upstairs, Edward greeted me with a smile. “Great. You’re back just in time to make my tea. Just kidding. Wait there.” He disappeared into Wilf’s empty office and returned with two mugs, having obviously utilized Wilf’s personal kettle and raided his tea-bag stash. Whereas we drank PG Tips, Wilf was partial to Yorkshire Gold—a far more superior brand. And I could see why. It was delicious.
“Why do you think gypsies would carry large containers of acetone in their wagon?” I asked suddenly.
“Of course it’s highly inflammable, as you know,” said Edward. “Traditionally, gypsies burned their wagons with all their possessions in it after a death.”
“Not these days, surely?”
“There was a case only recently. It’s on the Internet.”
Edward was right. I also found some accounts of incredible gypsy funerals—one, a famous gypsy king from northern England was carried in a white carriage pulled by seven white horses whilst his widow and immediate family traveled behind in silver limousines; another funeral was attended by more than a thousand mourners who walked behind the horse-drawn coffin singing gypsy songs.
Traditionally, floral wreaths and tributes were woven with cherished possessions belonging to the deceased. It all sounded very lovely.
A part of me was sorry that Belcher Pike was leaving and I wouldn’t have a gypsy funeral to include in my obituary archives.
For the rest of the afternoon I researched gypsy funerals and studied their traditions. Often, funerals—or wakes—would run for days, if not weeks, so that people from all over the country could come and pay their last respects. Many were undertaken before the gypsy died.
One thing began to really bother me.
If Belcher was such a notorious figure in gypsy life, where was everyone? The gypsies had been at The Grange for at least a week. Perhaps he just wasn’t that popular?
I also became increasingly obsessed with Carol Pryce. Probes knew the dead woman, but why all the secrecy? It also occurred to me that Noah hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know in the wagon last night.
I searched Google for sodium hydroxide and discovered it was used as a drain-cleaning agent for clearing clogs. Years ago it was also one of the main ingredients in hair relaxing products. Among the side effects listed were “chemical burns.” How could sodium hydroxide have gotten onto Carol Pryce’s head?
Steve would know. Hoping the end of our so-called personal relationship had not affected our professional one, I picked up the phone and dialed his number.
It rang for what seemed like ages but then switched into voice mail. I tried again using my mobile—Steve told me he’d programmed a special ring tone for my calls, Abba’s “Dancing Queen”—but to no avail.
With a sinking heart I knew he was avoiding me.
I was beginning to think that Barbara was right. Men brought nothing but heartache.
Tonight was Olive’s hen party. With everything that had happened, I couldn’t help wondering if Barbara would actually turn up.
33
After inheriting the Larch millions from her overbearing father, the late Sammy K. Larch, Olive couldn’t wait to move from her childhood home and had put in an offer for a huge manor house on the outskirts of Pennymoor.
Having lived most of her sixty-plus years as a spinster—a fate that terrified me given my own unsatisfactory status—Olive was certainly making up for lost time.
Leaving my car behind Amelia Webster’s white Mini Metro, my heart gave a little leap. Steve’s VW Jetta was parked on the opposite side of the street.
Steve was always popular with the older ladies. He had a knack of making them feel young and sexy, but even so, it was highly unlikely he would have been invited to an all-girls hen party.
There was only one reason why his car was parked here tonight.
Me.
Steve was so predictable! Somehow he’d found out about Barbara’s party and was determined to win me back.
I deliberately avoided looking in his direction and pretended I hadn’t noticed his car. Now that I knew he was still interested, I wasn’t sure if I was that bothered after all.
Olive—wearing a diamanté barrette and a long navy evening dress—greeted me at the front door. The dress code had called for “formal attire.” Fortunately, Mrs. Evans had found something for me to wear courtesy of the Gipping Bards costume department—she’d reworked an elaborate black silk ball gown from The Phantom of the Opera.
“Quickly!” Olive cried, dragging me inside. “Barbara is coming with Ruth Reeves, and they’ll be here any minute.”
“I thought Barbara already knew about her party tonight,” I pointed out.
“Yes, of course she does. But we’re still going to shout ‘Surprise!’”
Olive was almost beside herself with excitement. “Florence, go and stand watch from the loo. The window overlooks the street.”
Florence Tossell did as she was told. She looked very nice in a long-sleeved, silver, ankle-length sheath, with clip-on diamond earrings that, to my practiced eye, were the real thing.
“Vicky!” commanded Olive. “Go through into the sitting room and tell them to keep quiet until Barbara arrives.”
I found it hard to believe that the Olive Larch that stood in front of me brimming with self-confidence and shouting orders was the same timid little creature of only a few months ago. Inherited wealth tended to have that effect on people.
“Wait.” Olive peered at my outfit and frowned. “Didn’t Gillian Briggs wear that for the Bards production of The Phantom of the Opera?”
“Do you think anyone will notice?” I said, feel
ing self-conscious. “I don’t own a long dress, and Mrs. Evans took out the whalebone bodice.”
“Oh well. Never mind,” said Olive. “It would have looked better with long kid gloves.”
I headed for the sound of excited chatter and pushed open the door.
Of course, I knew everyone and everyone knew me—and the dress. Despite the fashion faux pas, I was greeted with the usual warmth that members of the public greet the press in the wild hope they might be singled out and mentioned in the newspaper.
Olive’s bungalow was stuck in a seventies time warp. The walls were clad in fake wood. A brown shag-pile carpet covered the floor.
Propped on the mantelpiece above a tiled fireplace stood a giant poster of Wilf and Barbara. Each image had been photographed separately but superimposed over a large red heart encompassed by flowers.
Clearly, Olive’s newly acquired computer skills extended to Adobe Photoshop.
French windows led to a small handkerchief garden. It was still light enough outside to appreciate the wooden tubs of colorful begonias set at perfect intervals around the perimeter of a crazy-paved patio.
Bowls of peanuts and crisps were placed on various tables throughout the room. A large iced cake inscribed with the initials “W & B” and decorated with pink roses sat on a plate of paper petals atop the teak sideboard.
It was very touching, and had I not known differently, I would have been very excited for Barbara and her new life.
There were fifteen of us all dressed per Olive’s instructions and even a few pieces of antique jewelry that had probably not seen the light of day for a very long time.
Annabel was not coming. Never one of Olive’s favorite people, her invitation had been given in a very offhand manner, using the “don’t feel you have to come” and “I won’t be offended” ruse.
However, I’d been surprised and a little hurt for Mrs. Evans on learning that she’d only been invited to “do the dishes” rather than attend as a guest. Twice I had to spring to Mrs. E.’s defense on overhearing her being accused of losing checks.
“I told her the money had cleared through my bank,” grumbled one.
“I did, too!” said another. “And she still insisted on seeing a copy of the check!”
“Frankly, I think Bill Trenfold might have something to do with it,” declared Florence Tossell. “Is it just me who noticed that he seems to have his own collection schedule? Someone should complain to the post office.”
Barbara arrived with the appropriate fanfare of shouts and whistles closely followed by whispers of incredulous consternation given that Barbara’s version of formal attire was a long cotton dirndl skirt and white ruffled blouse with a plunging neckline. She wore her long gray hair loose, large hoop earrings, and armfuls of gold, jangling bracelets.
There was a momentary pause of shock amid comments of “What is she wearing!” and “She looks just like one of those gypsies!”
Olive was the first to rally round and stepped up to clip a white veil onto the crown of Barbara’s head. “There! Now you look bridal,” Olive declared. “Let’s find you a drink.”
“Are you okay?” I whispered to Barbara.
Barbara held her head high. “Let them talk,” she said defiantly. “They’ll soon have something far more shocking to talk about than these clothes!”
Barbara may still be engaged to Wilf tonight, but it looked like his days were numbered after all.
“Put on Frankie!” shouted a voice. Moments later, the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” joined the excited chatter of Barbara’s friends.
Amelia Webster, dressed in a plum velvet ensemble piece, emerged from the kitchen with a tray of sherry glasses filled with an orange liquid that looked vaguely familiar.
“There’s plenty more coming.” Amelia giggled. “Let’s just see how special these cocktails are!”
There was a murmur of excitement as glasses were snatched off the tray. I took a sip, and just as I was trying to place the unusual taste, Frankie’s “Fly Me to the Moon” was abruptly cut short and replaced by Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff.”
The kitchen door flew open. Steve sashayed in wearing nothing but a frilly white apron. There was a united gasp of horror followed by cheers, then laughter.
Underneath that frilly white apron, Steve was stark naked. His flesh was white as marble, and his solid thighs and firm calves ended in nicely shaped feet with neat toes.
I was stunned. Clearly, Steve had not been laying in wait for a chance to woo me back. He was Olive’s featured entertainment—her butler in the buff!
Steve had obviously been studying the various dance routines from The Full Monty, although, thankfully, his apron stayed firmly in place throughout. However, the occasional twirl afforded us a bird’s-eye view of dimpled buttocks, which caused squeals of shocked delight.
I even found myself cheering along with the rest of them and couldn’t help thinking what a good sport Steve was. He had an excellent sense of rhythm and was very funny. Barbara seemed to be back to her old self, leading the chant of “Apron off! Apron off!”
Luckily, Steve did not oblige. He also did not look in my direction once, and although I was relieved to see that he had obviously not killed himself on my behalf, I was surprised at the speed with which he’d recovered from our breakup. Mrs. Evans was right.
After Steve had danced to the entire soundtrack of The Full Monty—even running up the wall and doing a backward flip—he disappeared into the kitchen, only to emerge a few moments later with a tray of salmon pinwheels and sausage rolls.
Passing them around the room, Steve put up with the occasional slap and tickle from the ladies with his usual good humor.
Steve’s popularity made me wonder if I’d made a mistake in pushing him away. These older women had far more experience than I in the romance stakes. Mum always maintained that eventually the fireworks fizzle out and that what mattered most at the end of the day was companionship and someone to make you laugh.
Mum had a point, and Barbara was living proof that passion only brought heartache and misery.
At last, tray aloft, Steve headed in my direction. My stomach gave a funny jump. I braced myself for a torrent of compliments about how I looked. “That was a great performance,” I enthused.
“Salmon pinwheel?” said Steve with a polite smile.
“They look delicious.” I took one but found I’d suddenly lost my appetite. “You were wonderful.”
“I’ll do anything for good old Babs.” And with a nod, Steve just turned away. I couldn’t believe it!
“Wait!” I reached out to touch his arm, and yes—there it was, that tingle. “Is everything all right?”
“Never been better, Vicky,” said Steve. Vicky? Not doll? “The weather looks like it will hold for tomorrow’s Morris Dance-a-thon.”
The weather?
I struggled to find something to say but could only manage, “Thanks so much for talking to your friend at Plymouth morgue. It really helped.”
Steve frowned. “Not sure I follow.”
“Your friend? The one who told me about Carol Pryce? I might have a couple more questions for him about the sodium hydroxide?” A sudden burst of laughter from Barbara reminded me that I wanted some information on Mildred Veysey’s death, too. “I also wondered if you had access to old coroner reports. From the sixties?”
Steve shook his head. “Sorry, Vicky. You’re talking to the wrong guy. Don’t you know a few people in the police force? I am sure they could help you.”
Blast! So he was taking the passive-aggressive path. How childish! I felt intensely annoyed but more than a little bit scared. Steve had always been there. Maybe I had really blown it.
“It’s not for me,” I pleaded. “It’s for Barbara.”
“Why?” Steve said sharply. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“Possibly,” I said. “I know you care about her. I thought you might be able to help.”
“Yo
u’re right. I do,” said Steve. “I’ll go and have a word with her right this second.”
“No!” I cried. “Don’t do that.” Good grief! That would be disastrous. “In fact, I’d rather she didn’t know about this for the time being.”
“Nice try, Vicky,” he said quietly. “But I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not going to happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“The days of using me just for information are over.” Steve shook his head with sorrow. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some ladies to attend to.” And, with a short bow, Steve—and his white, dimpled buttocks—disappeared into the kitchen.
So that was that.
To my astonishment, my eyes began to sting with tears.
A sudden commotion signaled that more excitement was in store for Barbara, but I just felt numb. I couldn’t stop thinking about Steve. I’d never really wanted him in the first place, so why did it bother me now? Was I one of these awful women who were only interested in a man I couldn’t have? Wait! Didn’t I just accuse men of the exact same crime?
Madame Dora and Ruby—clutching a canvas bag—strolled into the room. Both were dressed remarkably like Barbara—a fact that did not go unnoticed by several of the ladies present. Barbara’s expression was stony. Things were about to get ugly.
“Tonight’s readings are on the house!” cried Olive.
There were yelps of excitement along with “Clever Olive!” and “Maybe she can tell us who stole the church silver!”
Whilst Dora stepped out into the garden to “ready her mind” for the evening ahead, Ruby helped Olive set up a collapsible card table and two chairs in the middle of the room. She put the canvas bag on the floor and pulled out a pack of tarot cards, the crystal ball—wrapped in a velvet tablecloth—and some tea lights.
“How’s your husband’s charm working?” asked Ruby. “Ronnie, isn’t it?”
Olive turned pink. “He’s not my husband. Yet.”
“Don’t forget he’s got to keep that dung on his head for twenty-eight days.”
At last all was ready. The curtains were drawn closed. Candles were lit. Dora reappeared from the garden, settled into the chair, and placed her hands on the table.
Thieves! Page 19
