There was also something very “Annabelish” in the way Barbara was taking charge of poor Olive. It was as if I was looking at myself forty years on. I wondered if Olive had ever had a proper boyfriend, too.
Swiftly changing the subject I said, “Where did you find the inflatable snail?”
“It was a prop when we did the musical version of The Magic Roundabout,” Barbara said. “I found it in the Gipping Bards storage unit on the industrial estate. I’m glad to see we now have CCTV cameras installed over there. We’ve already had one break-in this year.”
“Speaking of the Gipping Bards,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you about Scarlett Fleming. She was a very active member, wasn’t she?”
“Still is,” Barbara parked her ample rump on the arm of Olive’s chair. “Unfortunately, Scarlett always hogs the plum roles. She was far too old to play Cleopatra.”
“Actually, I’ve got—”
“Scarlett is a very good actress,” Olive protested. “She and Dougie have been very kind to me ever since Daddy—” Olive’s eyes filled with tears. “They’re like family.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to break the news especially in light of the fact that poor Olive had only lost her father a few weeks ago. “I’m glad you are both sitting down because I’ve got something very upsetting to tell you.” I paused to take Olive’s hand. Squeezing it gently, I said, “I’m afraid Scarlett Fleming has died.”
Barbara’s jaw dropped. “Scarlett Fleming is dead?”
Olive gasped and began to pant heavily. Her eyes widened in panic as she struggled to breathe.
“Oh, no! She’s having one of her episodes!” Barbara flew to Olive’s side and grabbed her hand. “Breathe in . . . breathe out . . . breathe in—Vicky go and get some water—breathe out.”
I scurried downstairs into the basement kitchenette. By the time I’d found a clean glass and returned, Olive seemed to have suitably recovered. She held a silver hip flask in her hand. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes, bright.
“I remembered the brandy,” said Barbara, waving the glass away. “I always keep it under the counter if ever you need a quick nip.”
“I shouldn’t really,” Olive said, taking another sip. “Daddy didn’t approve of me drinking.”
“He didn’t approve of most things,” said Barbara darkly. “But you’re free of him now.”
“Barbara!” cried Olive with dismay.
“Well, it’s true,” said Barbara. “You were like a virtual prisoner in that house. Time to live a little. Time to have some fun. You might even fall in love! Wait a minute . . .” Barbara paused for thought. I could almost hear her brain cells turning. With a cry of delight she said, “What about Dougie Fleming?”
Olive turned pink. “Oh!”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit soon for that?” I said hastily. “He only buried his wife this morning.”
“We’ll wait a few weeks, of course,” Barbara said beaming. “Life’s too short to grieve.”
Olive’s pink flush deepened to a dark red. “Scarlett did always say if anything ever happened to her, she’d like me to take care of Dougie.”
“You never told me that.” Barbara’s voice was heavy with accusation.
“I just thought she was being nice.”
It looked like Eunice might have a few rivals in her bid to win back her old flame.
“When’s the funeral?” Barbara said. “It’ll be a big one, mark my words.”
“Mr. Fleming buried her this morning. It was a very quiet affair.”
Olive’s face crumpled. She began to cry. “Scarlett loved peonies.”
“I don’t believe it!” Barbara cried. “You must be mistaken.”
“Mr. Fleming said she’d insisted on a no-fuss funeral.”
“No fuss? Since when?” Barbara scoffed. “She told the Bards she wanted an open casket and a thirteen-pan steel band.”
“And a big party with lots of champagne,” Olive chipped in.
“And a slide show of her life—”
“Like we’re having in Daddy’s honor tomorrow night at the Gala.”
It all sounded very expensive to me. “The cost of funerals has really gone up,” I said. “Perhaps their financial circumstances had changed and he just couldn’t afford it.”
Olive pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “Do you know what happened?”
“I bet it was a car accident,” Barbara declared. “She drove far too fast on these twisty lanes. Perhaps she met a combine harvester—”
“No!” squealed Olive, flapping her hands wildly. “Don’t tell me the details!”
“I’ll find out this afternoon,” I said.
“I heard she was going on a yoga retreat,” Barbara said. “So they can’t have been that financially strapped.”
“Have either of you ladies heard of a company called Go-Go Gothic or seen an American Cadillac driving around the area?”
“Here? In Gipping?” Barbara said, adding wistfully, “Jimmy Kitchen had a convertible. One night, we drove to the beach with the top down.”
Fortunately, the front door buzzed open, sparing us from Barbara’s infamous Jimmy Kitchen the-one-who-got-away reminisces. Olive screamed and leapt out of her chair.
“Oh!” She clamped her hand over her nose. “What’s that terrible smell?”
I knew that smell very well. Boiled cabbages.
Barbara darted back to her post behind the counter and grabbed a box of Kleenex.
“Morning ladies!” Ronnie Binns, Chief Garbologist of Gipping County Council, strolled in clutching a cheap-looking bouquet of pink carnations and a large manila envelope.
Dressed in a pair of pristine gabardine overalls and thigh-high waders, Ronnie’s face and hands looked unusually clean, even his baldpate shone. But it would appear that even soap and water could not erase his customary cabbagelike aroma.
“Can I help you, Mr. Binns?” Barbara said, holding a tissue over her nose.
“I’ve got a date with Annabel Lake,” he said shyly.
“She’s not here.”
Ronnie scratched his head. “I suppose I could wait.”
“You’ll have a long one,” Barbara said. “She’s gone all day.”
“But she promised to take me to lunch.” Ronnie’s shoulders slumped. Even his carnations seemed to droop. Presumably the flowers were for Annabel, which I thought rather touching.
“At ten thirty in the morning?” said Barbara.
“I’ve been up since four,” Ronnie sounded indignant. “I changed my rounds for her.”
Olive started to titter nervously and Barbara certainly seemed to be enjoying Ronnie’s pain.
I stepped forward. “Perhaps you got the day wrong, Mr. Binns?” It was obvious that Ronnie was smitten with Annabel, and as my mum says, “You can’t choose who you fall in love with.” Even so, I couldn’t imagine Annabel ever agreeing to a date with Ronnie.
“No. She phoned.” He pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket. “See? I wrote it down. Said she had something very important to ask me.”
I took the crumpled—and grubby—note. He was right. The date and time were correct. “Perhaps she meant your office, not this office?”
Ronnie brightened up. “Oh, yes. More private, like.”
“You’d better hurry up in that case,” said Barbara. “What’s in that envelope? A love letter? ”
Olive tittered again.
Ronnie scowled and slapped the envelope down on the counter. “Tony said you needed headshots for the newspaper.”
“Oh! Is it Rambo?” Olive cried with delight. She scurried over, her face alight with enthusiasm. “Let me see. What’s his form?”
Ronnie pulled out an eight-by-ten photograph of a garden snail. “We’ve got a good crack at the championship this season. Now that—no disrespect—” he touched his forehead at Olive, “Your father—God rest his soul—is not racing Seabiscuit.”
“Dougie is going to run Seabiscuit now,” Olive beamed.
Ronnie’s face darkened. “I thought Fleming was banned for another season for cheating.”
“It was all a misunderstanding,” Olive said quickly. “Dougie appealed to the committee and his name was cleared.
“Excuse me,” I said. “How can one cheat at snail racing?”
“Each snail is handicapped,” Olive said. “Small weights are sewn into their racing silks.”
“So, he’s going to succeed as Chief Marshal, after all?” Ronnie grumbled.
“It’s what Daddy wanted and you know that Daddy always got his own way.” Olive made another silent appeal to me for help.
“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Binns,” I said smoothly, stepping forward and snatching up the photograph. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
I took Ronnie’s arm and propelled him toward the front door.
“I wondered if you saw an American Cadillac on your rounds this morning,” I said trying not to inhale.
“A what?” Ronnie seemed momentarily taken off guard.
“Today is Thursday. Don’t you usually do Upper Gipping on Thursdays?”
“Mondays.” Ronnie squinted down at me and readjusted his overalls. It suddenly occurred to me that Ronnie might have made the mystery phone call. With thigh-high waders that snug his voice could easily go up an octave or two. “I might have seen something,” he went on. “It depends.”
“It’s just a question,” I said. “There is no money involved.”
“In that case, no.”
Ushering Ronnie out of the front door I watched him—and his pink carnations—climb into an old blue Ford Escort parked a few yards down the High Street. Glancing across the road, I noted The Copper Kettle was open for business.
Of course! Topaz was bound to have heard some gossip about the Flemings. What’s more, it was the first Thursday of the month and I was positive that several of the Women’s Institute often popped in for a quick cuppa after their weekly knitting meeting.
Given that Scarlett Fleming had also been a member of the Women’s Institute, I could almost guarantee news of her death would cause quite a stir.
6
The Copper Kettle was part of a row of Queen Anne terraced houses that flanked the High Street. It was a former charity junk shop that Topaz—whose real name was Ethel Turberville-Spat—had converted into a café on the cheap. If it hadn’t been so conveniently located directly opposite the office, I doubt I would have ever have been tempted to step inside since the food left much to be desired.
I pushed open the door and stepped into the gloom. With its low-beamed ceiling, faded wallpaper, and dismal prints of dead game hanging on the shabby walls, the place was always so depressing. Along the original shop counter, Topaz had arranged a selection of copper kettles that she swore were used by her aristocratic ancestors.
There was no sign of the Women’s Institute members—or any other customers for that matter. Topaz was perched on a stool behind the cash register, deeply engrossed in a book. She was dressed in her usual olive-green serge medieval dress and white-lace mop cap.
“Where is everybody?” I said.
Topaz gave a yelp of joy. “Oh! Just the person I want to see.”
She slithered off the stool and hurried to greet me waving her book. I noted the title, Haunted Devon, and my heart sank. For some time now, Topaz had been convinced Gipping-on-Plym was riddled with UFO’s and paranormal happenings. For weeks she’d been begging me to ghost write—no pun intended—her research on local hauntings. Topaz harbored unrealistic expectations that this would propel us to stardom as in, “We’ll be on Oprah!” and “We’ll get our own reality TV show!”
Frankly, I didn’t mind what she did as long as it distracted her from bugging me about becoming an official staff member of the Gazette. I could never find the right time to tell her that our arrangement was strictly—and secretly—between the two of us.
Topaz flipped the door sign to CLOSED and rewarded me with her usual gummy smile. “So I can give you my undivided attention,” she added with a wink.
I’d gotten used to Topaz’s flirtatious behavior and still wasn’t sure which way her sexual preferences lay, but as long as I kept her at arm’s length, she usually didn’t cause me too many problems.
“I’m here on business,” I said.
“Goodie. What’s going down, boss?” Topaz watched too many American police dramas. “Wait. You look different.” She stepped closer and studied my face. I shrank back. “Your eyes look frightfully pretty. Did you do them yourself?”
“Yes,” I lied, knowing that Topaz loathed Annabel and the feeling was mutual. “Come along, Topaz. This is work.”
“Sorry, boss.”
“I thought the Women’s Institute met here on the first Thursday of the month.”
Topaz scowled. “Apparently, they prefer The Warming Pan because it has a better menu.”
This didn’t surprise me. I’d seen Topaz buying cakes from the past-sell-by-date section at Tesco Superstore. She was notoriously stingy with her portions and I’d seen her reuse tea bags until they were nothing but pale limp pads.
“But I don’t care,” she went on. “I’m working on a new menu myself. You’ll never guess what it is.”
“I don’t have a lot of time for a guessing game this morning,” I said, but since I’d had to skip breakfast, I was hungry and could easily devour a bun, stale or otherwise.
There was a tap on the front door. I recognized the face pressed against the window as one of my mourner regulars, Hilda Hicks, from Gipping Riding School. She gestured at the CLOSED sign.
“Ignore her.” Topaz grabbed my arm and pushed me toward the red and plastic fringe that led to the kitchen. I’d long grown used to Topaz’s appalling customer service. She only opened the café when she was in the mood. It was just as well she received income from her tenants who farmed The Grange estate she’d inherited from her Aunt Clarissa. Topaz would never make a living in the catering industry.
I sat down in one of the two, tatty old Victorian armchairs, noting the kitchen was even more untidy than usual. The draining board that flanked the stone sink held clumps of earth and what looked like shells.
There was also a peculiar smell that took me back to one of the rare family holidays I’d spent in a small fishing village in Cornwall. It seemed to be coming from a large pot, bubbling on one of the gas rings in the corner.
“What are you cooking?”
“Snails!” Topaz looked hugely pleased with herself.
I was appalled. “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s snail season. We should have them on the menu,” Topaz beamed. “I’ve purged them. It’s a frightfully complicated process, you know. Would you like to try a bowl?”
“No thanks.” Recalling how lovingly Ronnie Binns had spoken about Rambo, I said, “I’m not sure if they’ll be that popular.”
Topaz’s expression was stubborn. “Why?”
“A lot people regard their snails as pets,” I said. “It would be like eating Slipper.” I gestured to the ancient old Labrador sleeping in the basket by the fireplace.
“Don’t be silly,” Topaz said. “It’s completely different. Besides, the French eat snails.”
“French snails are specially bred for restaurants on snail farms.” I dreaded to ask where Topaz had found hers, but judging by the mounds of earth, suspected it was someone’s garden.
“Did you know that in my grandfather’s day, snail racing used to be a sport for the aristocracy?” Topaz said with a snooty sniff. “The lower classes are taking over everything. No offense, Vicky, but you know they are.”
I hated Topaz pulling social rank. She made me feel like a servant. “In that case why don’t you serve jellied eels?” I said sarcastically.
“I couldn’t. Aunt Clarissa would turn in her grave.” A timer went off. Topaz took the steaming pot off the gas flame and poured the liquid containing the pathetic creatures into a colander to drain over the sink. The smell was enough to make
me gag. She ladled a heap of snails into a bowl and took the other chair. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
I shook my head. Topaz pulled out a fork from a hidden pocket in her serge apron and began deftly withdrawing the slimy gray meat from each shell.
I’d completely lost my appetite. “Aren’t you supposed to slather them with garlic sauce?”
Topaz swallowed one whole and turned a shade of green. “These aren’t quite ready yet.” She leapt to her feet and darted over to the sink, spitting the contents out of her mouth with disgust. I only just managed not to laugh. She dumped the remaining snails from the draining board into a large rubbish bin muttering, “I think I’d better start again.”
I tried to sound sincere. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. Let’s get down to business,” Topaz said, wiping her mouth on her apron. “How can I help?”
“Make me a cup of tea and I’ll tell you,” I said. “And I’d like a fresh tea bag, please.”
“I love it when you’re bossy.”
Minutes later, I sipped on a scalding cuppa and nibbled a stale cinnamon bun. “I’ve got some sad news. Scarlett Fleming died unexpectedly and I’m working on her obituary. Did you know her at all?”
“I’m afraid I’m not sorry.” Topaz wrinkled her nose with distaste. “She was a frightful snob. The ones who have no money and pretend they do are the worst. There’ll be a ghastly vulgar funeral, of course.”
How interesting. Barbara had said the same thing. I would never rely on hearsay, but it certainly confirmed my hunch that something wasn’t quite right. “How do you know?”
“I overheard Scarlett telling Ruth Reeves she’d purchased some kind of funeral plan.” She gave a shudder. “She had a list of the most ridiculous requests. One was a thirteen-pan steel band! Here! In Gipping!”
“I heard that, too.”
“She wanted an excerpt from Romeo and Juliet read over her open casket. Let me think—” Topaz clutched her hands together and said in a dramatic voice, “‘Eyes! Look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!’ Act five, scene three. I studied Shakespeare at St. Helen and St. Kather ine, Abingdon. Where did you go to school?”
Expose! Page 4
