Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

  “I got tipped off. A woman phoned but wouldn’t give her name. I was going to mention it earlier but somehow, it didn’t seem the right thing.”

  “Tipped off?” Douglas Fleming frowned. “Who on earth . . . oh, dear.”

  “Do you know who it could be?”

  “I’m afraid I might.” Douglas Fleming turned pale. “Good God!” He lowered his voice and whispered, “Look no further. I believe your answer is over there.”

  A silver Ford Fiesta was parked on the far side of the church car park in the shadows.

  I was flabbergasted. “Doesn’t that car belong to Eunice Pratt?”

  It was a well-known fact that she remained wildly infatuated with Douglas Fleming, her childhood sweetheart, but how she found out about this morning’s burial so quickly was anyone’s guess.

  “Forgive me. I must go.” Douglas Fleming grabbed my hands and squeezed them tightly in his own. “Please, Vicky. I can’t deal with her now. Would you mind?”

  And with that, he hurried to his Audi and leapt in, just as a slight figure with a lavender-colored perm scrambled out of the Fiesta shouting, “Dougie! Dougie! Wait!”

  Mr. Fleming appeared not to hear. He gunned the engine and tore past her at high speed as if his life depended on it.

  Eunice scurried toward me, her face shining with excitement. “It’s true isn’t it?” she cried. “Scarlett Fleming is dead. Dougie is mine at last!”

  2

  Eunice Pratt engulfed me in a warm embrace. Her pale blue twinset and beige skirt smelled strongly of lavender water and mothballs. She was so thin I feared she might snap in two.

  Mrs. Pratt was not one of my favorite people. She was a bitter woman in her sixties with a nasty temper. She was also the love of my life’s—Lieutenant Robin Berry—aunt. Given that Robin adored her, it was important I keep on her good side. Of course, Robin and I hadn’t actually gone on our first proper date yet but it wasn’t for want of trying. On the two occasions we’d made dinner plans, he’d had to cancel at the last minute, due to “top secret naval business.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, dearest Vicky,” Eunice Pratt cried.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I said, gently extricating myself.

  “Of course you did.” She beamed. “You gave me hope. If you hadn’t told me how Dougie felt, I’d never dared to dream.”

  How horribly awkward! A few weeks ago, I had inadvertently hinted that the embers of her school day romance with Douglas Fleming may not have grown cold, but it was just a passing remark to make her feel special. Unfortunately, given the speed with which Douglas Fleming had peeled out of the church car park, it would appear that as far as he was concerned, those embers had definitely fizzled out.

  “I had no idea Scarlett was ill,” Mrs. Pratt chattered on happily. “I wonder what she died of—probably her heart. She had high blood pressure, you know—and of course, that dreadful temper. Poor Dougie. Good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say.”

  I hadn’t expected heartfelt sympathies but Mrs. Pratt’s callous remark got me thinking. “By the way, thank you for telephoning this morning.”

  She looked blank. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Don’t you remember?” I said indulgently. I was used to dealing with these senior lapses of memory. “You told me to get a reporter to St. Peter’s immediately but didn’t want to leave your name?”

  “Are you implying I made an anonymous call?” Mrs. Pratt said appalled.

  “Someone phoned—”

  “It was certainly not me,” she snapped.

  The funny thing was, I actually believed she was telling the truth. Even if she had forgotten she’d made that phone call, Eunice Pratt would always leave her name.

  Rather like her dead rival, Mrs. Pratt basked in the limelight and never missed an opportunity to plug her latest petition, no matter how inappropriate the circumstances. At Sammy Larch’s funeral I caught her handing out inflammatory flyers condemning the British government’s plans to add loudspeakers to the numerous CCTV cameras that were now installed throughout the country. “A shocking invasion of privacy!” Eunice claimed and I had to admit she could be right.

  I wondered what prompted Douglas Fleming to suggest his former love had been the caller. “How did you hear about today’s sad event?”

  Mrs. Pratt turned a mottled shade of red. “I was just passing by and recognized Dougie’s car.”

  “Really? That was lucky.” Hardly passing by. Church Lane was off the main road and dead-ended in a field.

  A peculiar feeling came over me. Surely there wasn’t anything sinister about Scarlett Fleming’s death? Good grief! What if Eunice and Douglas Fleming were having an affair? What if they’d knocked Scarlett off and he was only pretending to dislike her to throw me off the scent? Now I thought about it, Fleming’s hasty get-away exit from the car park had seemed staged.

  “A lot of people are going to be disappointed that Mrs. Fleming wasn’t given a traditional funeral,” I said slyly. “Don’t you think that odd?”

  “Why? She wasn’t very popular.” Nor was Sammy Larch, I thought, and people turned up in droves for his official departure. “I assume she’ll still get her fifteen minutes of fame on page eleven?” Eunice added.

  “Yes. I will be writing Mrs. Fleming’s obituary,” I said. “I’m going to see Mr. Fleming this afternoon.”

  “Good. I must pay my respects, too. I’ll come with you and bring one of my homemade cakes.”

  “I might just phone him instead,” I said quickly.

  “I’ve been learning to cook. She was a good cook, you know. But I shall be better.”

  I checked my watch and gave a yelp of horror. Every Thursday morning, Pete held a Page One meeting. I was going to be late. “Sorry, Mrs. Pratt, I’d love to stop and chat but I have to dash.”

  “Do call me Eunice,” she said, grabbing my arm. “Tell you what, why don’t you come for supper tonight and we can talk about this more?”

  I hesitated. The thought of sitting amongst live chickens in a kitchen that smelled of damp dog, listening to Eunice fantasizing about a future with Douglas Fleming was not my idea of fun. But sometimes one had to make sacrifices to get the truth. I was quite certain my heroine, Christiane Amanpour, had endured far worse meals out on the battlefield.

  “I’d love to,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

  “It’s formal attire. Come at six.” She gave a happy nod. “I’m making monkfish medallions with tomato lemon coulis followed by snow eggs with pistachio custard and chocolate drizzle.”

  “It sounds delicious,” I said—and alarmingly ambitious. Still, better than the usual liver and onions I got every Thursday night at Chez Evans.

  “Yes. I’m having a practice run,” Eunice said, “And of course, Dougie loved fish Fridays at school.”

  As I sped back to the Gazette, my mind was spinning. A mysterious phone call, a much-loved wife practically buried in secret, a dubious funeral company, and an old flame so anxious to reunite with her former lover that she admitted to taking up cooking!

  Call me suspicious, but I wondered if Douglas Fleming and Eunice were up to something. The question was could it involve murder?

  3

  It was well past nine by the time I rushed into reception.

  “There you are,” cried Barbara Meadows, our sixty-something you’re-as-old-as-you-feel receptionist. Dressed in her usual shapeless, purple hand-knitted cardigan over a crimplene polka-dot dress, Barbara was perched on the edge of one of the hideous brown leatherette chairs. It looked like she was wrestling with an extremely large, deflated exercise ball. “Annabel has rung down twice wondering where you were.”

  “Plym Bridge was closed. I had to go the long way around. But Pete knows.” I’d sent him a text and left an explanation on his mobile. Experience had shown that I couldn’t rely on Barbara or Annabel to pass on messages. The former genuinely forgot—and the latter pretended to.

&n
bsp; “Hair, dear. Take this.” Barbara reached into her cardigan pocket and withdrew a tortoiseshell mirror and comb. She always wore her iron gray tresses scraped into a tight bun. “You look like you’ve just got out of bed,” she went on, with a knowing wink. Barbara always had sex on the brain.

  I pretended not to hear. “No time,” I said, hurrying past.

  Ignoring her cries of “You really should grow it,” and, “Men love long hair,” I left reception and tore upstairs.

  The other reporters were already in Pete’s office judging by the angry voices coming from behind his closed door. Someone other than me was in the hot seat this morning.

  I hovered outside—not eavesdropping, of course—just waiting for the right kind of lull so I could make my entrance.

  “Find yourself another sports writer,” I heard Tony Per-kins yell. “I’m through!”

  Pete’s door flew open narrowly knocking me off my feet. Tony stormed out and slammed it behind him, hard. His thin, pointed face was white with rage. With his lank, shoulder-length brown hair, a growth of stubble on his chin, and dressed in a tattered, old gray sweatshirt emblazoned with the logo GIPPING GROWLERS—our local football team—Tony looked even scruffier than usual.

  I was just about to rap on Pete’s office door when an ominous voice stopped me in my tracks.

  “What’s all this caterwauling?” Wilf Veysey, our reclu sive editor, emerged from his corner office. Dressed in his trademark brown tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, he cradled his Dunhill pipe in his hand. His one good eye zoomed in on Tony, giving me the chance to duck behind my desk out of Wilf ’s range of vision.

  “Tony?” said Wilf sternly. “Come into my office and close the door.” I waited until Tony had done just that then, darted into Pete’s. This was bad. No one liked to disturb the great man.

  Pete was standing by the window, shirtsleeves rolled up, wearing ancient jeans and gnawing on the end of a pencil. I hated this room. It was small, cramped, and stuffy and still smelled of stale cigarettes despite the fact Pete had given up smoking months ago.

  “Well, good afternoon,” Pete snapped. “Glad you decided to stop by.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I left a . . . never mind.” Blast! Pete’s mobile was recharging on the top of his filing cabinet.

  “Don’t get so stressed you silly thing.” Annabel was sharing the tartan two-seater sofa with Edward Lyle, our court reporter. Today, Annabel was dressed simply in a plain cream V-neck T-shirt dress that accentuated her curves. Gold chains hung around her neck and she wore espadrilles that laced up to her knees.

  “I told Pete it wasn’t like you to be late,” she said, adding with a nasty laugh, “I expect you were on the trail of some new scoop.”

  “I was, actually.” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. Annoyance flashed across Annabel’s face.

  “Let’s get on with this week’s edition—and in the future Vicky, don’t go off without permission when you know you’re supposed to be here, at nine on Thursday mornings!”

  “Sorry.” I refused to look at Annabel, but I heard a snigger. “Edward, budge up or get up,” she ordered, patting the tartan two-seater sofa. “Where are your manners?”

  Without a word, Edward got to his feet and went to lounge against a bank of olive green filing cabinets against the back wall. Dressed in his usual smart khakis and pristine white trainers, today’s yellow polo shirt bore the helpful word Thursday.

  “Well?” Pete demanded. “Did Tony leave? Stupid idiot.”

  “He’s in Wilf ’s office,” I faltered.

  There was a universal gasp of horror and a “Bloody hell,” from Edward who rarely cursed.

  “Wilf? Wilf?” Pete regarded me with utter fury as if I had physically put Tony there, myself. “That sneaky bastard!”

  “Wilf came out of his office,” I said gingerly. “He wanted to know what all the caterwauling was about.”

  “Oh, great. That’s just bloody great,” Pete threw his hands up in despair and went and sat in the chair behind his desk. “That’s all I need.”

  “Wilf is a fan,” Annabel whispered.

  “Of what?” I said.

  She gestured to Pete who was sifting through a stack of photographs on his desk. He selected one and held it up. It was an eight-by-ten photograph of a garden snail labeled SEABISCUIT. A plaque with the number one was stuck to the snail’s shell.

  “This, believe it or not, is our lead story,” said Pete grimly.

  “Snails? You’re joking!” I shrieked, expecting to be joined in by a chorus of ridicule.

  “Let me explain, Vicky,” said Annabel. “Hedge-jumping ends on April thirtieth. From May until the end of August, it’s officially snail season.”

  “Snail season?” I’d thought hedge-jumping was strange enough. Would I ever understand these bizarre country pursuits?

  “Something to do with birds nesting and nature recovering,” Annabel went on. “Call it an enforced détente between the hedge-jumpers and cutters. Gives the men something else to think about. I must say I’m surprised you didn’t know this.”

  “Thank you, Annabel,” said Pete. “We kick off with the GSRF—”

  “The Gipping Snail Racing Federation, Vicky,” Annabel put in, adding in a low voice, “Tony accepted the role of scrutineer this season. Pete feels it’s a conflict of interests.”

  “Are you finished?” Pete snarled.

  “Sorry,” said Annabel. “But Vicky keeps asking questions.”

  “Actually, that’s—”

  “You can ask me afterward. I’m the bloody chief reporter, got it?” Pete said. “As I was saying, the Gastropod Gala is tomorrow night. The first race of the season will be on Sunday at the Three Tuns. Wilf has written some very exciting features on breeding and training. We’ll finish up the interviews with the owners today. Those will appear on pages eleven and twelve since there aren’t any funerals—thank you very much, Reverend Whittler.”

  I raised my hand. “Actually, there is one obit—”

  “Edward, what’s the latest on the Larch Legacy?” said Pete.

  Annabel whispered in my ear, “The Larch Legacy—”

  “I wrote Sammy Larch’s obituary,” I hissed. “I know what it is, thank you.” Once a year this highly coveted award—and five hundred pounds cash—was given to one of the dozens of local societies deemed worthy of recognition. With no guidelines or prerequisites, it was more a case of finding favor with the now—thankfully—deceased old man.

  “The winner will be announced at the gala,” said Edward. “Being as it’s the last one, his daughter, Olive, wanted to make a big deal about it.”

  Pete frowned. “That’s too late to get into this Saturday’s edition. By next week, it’ll be old news.” Pete slammed his hand down on the table. “Someone’s got to know who gets the award? Christ! Larch has been dead for weeks.”

  “I already asked Olive,” said Edward. “She said the winner’s name is in a sealed envelope in the safe and she doesn’t even know who, herself.”

  “Goddamit! Wasn’t last month’s Gipping Guessing Game calling on readers to vote on who might win?”

  “Barbara won’t talk,” said Edward. “She padlocked the voting box.”

  “Bollocks.” Pete slammed his hand down on the table again. “I need something else beside bloody snails on Page One.”

  “I thought my CCTV report was going on the front page,” said Annabel in a sulky voice.

  “Haven’t seen it.”

  “I tried to give it to you last night.” Annabel batted her eyelashes. “Remember? When we were working late?” Annabel leaned over giving Pete an eyeful of cleavage, and pulled out a manila folder from yet another new handbag—Gucci, this time. She flipped through her notes and began to read, “New cameras have been installed on Plym Bridge, the industrial estate, the market square—”

  “Yeah, but what’s your angle?” Pete said.

  “Angle?” Annabel looked blank. “
Um—well—there are a lot of cameras.”

  “Latest statistic I heard was there are 4.2 million—and rising,” Edward chipped in. “That’s one CCTV camera for at least every fourteen people.”

  “But not in Gipping.” Annabel glowered at Edward.

  “I think it’s an invasion of privacy,” I said. “They’re talking about introducing loudspeakers, as well. Can you imagine—a voice coming from the void like God, ordering people to pick up their litter! Shouting at shop-lifters.”

  “That’s stupid,” said Annabel, “You’re making it up.”

  “No, she’s not. Do your bloody homework,” Pete declared. “Talk to the man in the street. Is the level of surveillance in this entire country becoming a nationwide Big Brother?”

  “You told me to focus on Gipping-on-Plym,” Annabel whined.

  “There’s a whole wide world out there! Do I have to tell you everything?” Pete rolled his eyes. “What’s your headline?”

  “How about, CCTV? REALITY TV?” I suggested.

  “Yeah. I like it. Good one.”

  “I was going to say that,” Annabel snapped.

  “Bloody hell!” Pete jumped to his feet. “Morning, sir.”

  “Carry on, carry on.” Wilf walked in, followed by Tony looking smug.

  Annabel and I stood up. She gave Wilf a flirtatious wave but was rewarded with a scowl as his good eye zeroed in on her short dress and lithe, tan legs.

  “No need to get up,” Wilf said. We promptly sat back down. “Tony tells me we’re all set for this week’s Gastropod bumper edition.”

  “Tony said that, did he?” Pete’s eyes flashed with fury. “Thanks for doing my job.”

  “He had an excellent idea about running a weekly column about the challenges of being a scrutineer,” Wilf said. “Readers can phone in with their questions and Tony will answer them.”

  Tony looked pointedly at Pete. “Should ramp up the circulation. People like to see their name in print.”

  “And who is going to man the phones?” Pete said. “Barbara doesn’t have the time.”