Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

  “Well, Mrs. Fleming didn’t get any of that,” I said neatly changing the subject. I always felt inadequate whenever Topaz mentioned her school days. There was no fancy independent school for me. We were always on the move.

  “What are you talking about?” said Topaz.

  “It’s too late. Scarlett Fleming was quietly buried this morning.”

  “This morning?” Topaz’s eyes widened in surprise. “I thought she was in Spain.”

  “Spain? Why?” My stomach flipped over. I couldn’t help it. Of course, no one knew my parents were on the lam in Spain, but whenever that country was mentioned, I felt ill.

  “She’d booked herself into a fancy yoga retreat,” Topaz said. “If you ask me, I think she was going to get plastic surgery. Maybe something went wrong and she died under the knife. It happens all the time.”

  I felt inexplicably disappointed. But it certainly explained why the Gazette wasn’t notified through the usual channels. It would explain why Douglas Fleming wasn’t forthcoming about how she died, either. He was obviously embarrassed. Perhaps he was trying to protect her reputation? Using a quickie burial company meant he didn’t have to deal with the endless gossip at the graveside, particularly now it seemed that Scarlett Fleming wasn’t as popular as I’d first thought. However, it still didn’t explain why I got the mystery phone call this morning, but perhaps that no longer mattered?

  “I thought Whittler had put a hold on all funerals,” Topaz said with a frown.

  “Douglas Fleming hired a cut-price company called Go-Go Gothic.”

  “Never heard of them. Sounds horrid and so nouveau riche—though I’m not surprised. The Flemings were always living beyond their means. They were flat broke.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The Fleming clan has been selling off land for decades. Aunt Clarissa told me.”

  I wanted to point out that the same had been true of Topaz’s ancestors and how she was always coming up with schemes to keep The Grange afloat. Even now a large poster hung on the wall of the café saying, BEAUTIFUL MANSION AND STABLES AVAILABLE FOR SHORT-TERM LET. ASK TOPAZ POTTER FOR DETAILS.

  Currently the house stood empty while Topaz pretended to live in London as Ethel Turberville-Spat but actually occupied the pokey flat above the café.

  “Of course, the Flemings were originally in trade,” she went on scornfully. “And before you say anything, yes, I know Uncle Hugh was in wool and textiles, but not my side of the family. The Turberville-Spats go back to the Wars of the—”

  “Roses. Yes, I know, you’ve told me.” I was tired of hearing about Topaz’s distinguished family tree. “Didn’t you want to see me about something?”

  “My special project. Oh!” Topaz clapped her hands with excitement. “You’ll be writing Scarlett Fleming’s obituary, won’t you?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “That means you have to go to Headcellars, yes?”

  “I’m going to Mr. Fleming’s office,” I said. “Why?”

  “Tell him you’ll go to his house instead.” Topaz did a little bunny hop on the spot. “Oh! Oh! Please let me come with you this time. You keep promising and—”

  “Sorry, Topaz,” I lied. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Pete about bringing you on board officially, yet.”

  “I’m not interested in obituaries, silly.” Topaz retrieved a cardboard box that was sitting on top of a case of Heinz baked beans. She brought out a tattered book that bore the title, Reformation Horrors! Tales Beyond The Grave, and flapped it in my direction. “Headcellars is listed in here. I’ve been dying to look inside.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good time,” I said. “He’s just lost his wife.”

  “Can’t you just ask him? Pleeeease?” she said in a little girl’s voice. “It’s for our special project. I’ve done tons of research already.” Topaz seemed so excited she was actually trembling.

  “Go on,” I said with a sigh.

  “Goody. Headcellars is one of the few remaining homes in Devon with an original priest hole!” Leafing through the book, she began to read aloud, “When Henry VIII abolished the monasteries to become head of the Church of England, dozens of important Catholic families built special secret rooms to hide their priests from the bloodthirsty killings of the king’s men. Rumor has it that Father Gregory sought refuge at the medieval manor house, Headcellars.”

  Topaz gave a theatrical shudder and continued in a dramatic whisper, “When the king’s men raided the house they tortured and killed the family—probably gouged out eyes and stuff. But even though they never found the priest, rumor has it that Father Gregory starved to death and haunts the corridors of the house begging for food.”

  “He actually talks?” I did not believe in ghosts. “I wonder what he asks for? Apple pie?”

  “That’s what I want to find out,” Topaz said darkly. “And you’re coming, too.”

  I knew better than to turn Topaz down flat and got to my feet. “I’ll think about it.”

  Topaz flung her arms around me. Fortunately, I’d anticipated the move and ducked down to pat Slipper. Her kiss landed below my left ear.

  “What are you going to wear to the Gala tomorrow night?” she said.

  Blast! “You’re not going, are you?”

  Topaz laughed. “Of course I am, silly,”

  “I didn’t think it was an Ethel Turberville-Spat kind of thing.”

  “You’re quite right. It’s not. Ethel wouldn’t be seen dead at one of those frightful events,” Topaz said. “That’s why I’m going as me. Wait. Topaz, I mean.

  “Not Topaz-the-vigilante, I hope?”

  “The Caped Kitten, actually,” Topaz said. “That’s my official name now.” Recently, Topaz had begun to believe she was a female Peter Parker and had started prowling the streets at night trying to “keep law-abiding citizens safe.” I’d given up trying to understand her eccentric behavior long ago.

  “Why?” I said. “Are you expecting trouble?”

  “With it being the final year for the Larch Legacy, feelings are running high.”

  “Any idea who’s the favorite?”

  “Rumor has it the hedge-jumpers are in with a chance. It’s all so frightfully political.” She gave a heavy sigh. “Shall I pick you up at six in the Capri or should we get a taxi? We’ll be drinking.”

  “Topaz, there is something—”

  “Surprise!” Topaz pulled two tickets out of her apron pocket. “You have no idea what I had to do to get them.”

  “I’m afraid I’m already going.”

  Topaz’s jaw hardened. “With whom?”

  “The thing is . . .” I couldn’t believe it. I was actually nervous about telling her. “I have to go with Annabel.”

  “Annabel? You’re going with Annabel?” Topaz turned an ugly shade of red. “How could you? What about us?”

  “It’s work,” I said hastily. “Honestly, it is. There’s nothing going on between Annabel—” I snapped my mouth shut. What on earth was I saying?

  Topaz snatched the mug out of my hand and threw it into the rubbish bin on top of the dead snails.

  “The kitchen is off-limits for customers,” she hissed. “Please leave.”

  I got up without a word. There was no point arguing when Topaz was in one of her moods. I had more important things to think about.

  If Scarlett had died in Spain, there was no connection with Eunice Pratt or Douglas Fleming. It was just a tragic accident. If Scarlett Fleming was a victim of cosmetic surgery gone bad, her death should be handled with tact and compassion.

  But for now I resolved to focus my energies on the guerrilla grave service report that Wilf had asked for.

  I picked up an egg-and-cress sandwich at Tesco Superstore—I was still hungry—and returned to the Gazette where Barbara was showing Olive how to answer the telephone in a professional manner. Judging by the odd word I heard on passing, Olive had been recruited to help out with the reader phone-in.

  Upstairs, back at
my desk, I left a second message on Neil Titley’s answering service, then got cracking on surfing the Internet for similar funeral outfits. I visited various websites and took copious notes on services offered—some were quite classy and, I would have assumed, far more suited to Scarlett Fleming’s flamboyant personality.

  I spent ages searching on Go-Go Gothic Google, Neil Titley, and even the phrase, Our passengers go all the way, but drew a blank. I pored through the yellow pages, called directory assistance and the Funeral Planning Authority, but to no avail.

  It was most puzzling. If I couldn’t find Go-Go Gothic, how could Douglas Fleming, and why would he choose Titley anyway?

  My suspicions deepened. I was determined to find out.

  7

  It was two thirty P.M. when I stopped outside Gipping-on-Plym Power Services offices in Thrift Shop Row—a full half hour before they closed. It gave me plenty of time to have a chat with Douglas Fleming and perhaps even wan gle an early cuppa. The vision of one of Scarlett Fleming’s delicious homemade biscuits flashed before me. Any woman was going to find it difficult to step into her shoes.

  The cylindrical blue-and-white-striped, barber-style revolving pole turned cheerfully in the sunshine. I half expected the Venetian blinds in the windows to be edged in black, but it looked like it was business as usual.

  Douglas Fleming said it was always quiet in the afternoons and he was right. The spotlessly clean office with its three pale blue desks and row of blue plastic chairs was devoid of customers. His plump assistant, Melanie Carew, was talking to someone on the phone. In her midforties with cropped red hair and bright red lipstick, Melanie was nibbling a carrot. I caught snatches of her conversation. “That’s illegal . . . she’s a tramp . . . Viagra.”

  Experience had shown I might wait for hours for Melanie to finish her personal conversation. I marched up to her desk and flashed my press card. Gesturing toward Douglas Fleming’s closed door, I said, “He’s expecting me.”

  Melanie held her forefinger up—presumably, it translated to “Wait one minute”—while she nodded and listened intensely on the phone. I didn’t have all day, but it occurred to me that Melanie might have some information on Go-Go Gothic. Maybe she booked them? Better still, perhaps it was Melanie who had called me this morning?

  I nodded and smiled but didn’t go and sit down. Instead, I took in my surroundings.

  It was hard to miss the magazines and self-help books littered on Melanie’s desk: Weight Watchers, A New Sexy You, and Cooking for Love. More pieces of chopped carrots and sticks of celery were in plastic bags next to her computer. Rumor had it that Melanie was married to a burly Welshman who worked on the oil rigs out in the North Sea but no one had seen him for years. She bore all the outward signs of the newly divorced.

  Behind Melanie’s desk, three CCTV monitors sat under shelves filled with blue office binders. One camera was trained on next door’s building supplier, a second overlooked a row of storage units on the industrial estate, and a third gave an excellent view of the G.O.P.P.S. car park. I noted that Douglas Fleming’s Audi was parked next to Melanie’s Vauxhall Astra.

  “Got to go, Madge,” Melanie said. “Be brave.” She put the phone down. “Sorry. My sister’s having marital problems. None of our husbands are as wonderful as Mr. Fleming.”

  “Awful news about his wife, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Tragic,” Melanie said, not looking remotely distressed. “He told me yesterday.”

  “Only yesterday?” I said surprised. “I was under the impression that she died a few days ago in Spain.”

  “That’s right. He was prostrate with grief,” she went on. “Couldn’t bring himself to tell anyone. Grief makes people act funny.”

  She could say that again! “I suppose you helped with the funeral arrangements?”

  “No. Mr. Fleming wanted to do everything himself,” she said. “It’ll be a grand affair, mark my words. She liked to do things in style, did Mrs. Fleming.”

  So, Melanie was none the wiser, either. “I’ll just pop in and see him.” I brought out my notebook. “Just a few questions for the obituary.”

  “Wait!” Melanie swiveled around in her chair and grabbed an envelope from the counter behind. “Mr. Fleming asked me to give this to you,” she said, staring at the CCTV screens.

  “Thanks.” I retreated to one of the plastic chairs and opened it. There was a photograph of Scarlett Fleming wearing a crown and sash saying MISS ATLANTA 1946. Douglas Fleming had scribbled a headline, MY SCARLETT, GONE IN THE WIND. LOVED BY MANY, MISSED BY ALL.

  Scanning the contents, I sensed that Douglas Fleming’s one-paragraph effort must have been written when he was consumed with grief. True, he’d listed her culinary prizes, her proficiency at Tae Kwon Do, and all the starring roles she’d played for the Gipping Bards—most notably their partnering in Antony and Cleopatra. But overall it was bland, boring, and unprintable—at least, according to my high standards. There was absolutely no mention of her accident or how she died.

  Judging by the comments I’d already received about the lack of a decent burial service, post-service party, and blatant disregard of Scarlett’s requests, if I printed this sorry offering, the Gazette could have a riot on its hands.

  When I wrote obituaries, I liked to get a feel for the person who had just passed away. Not a dreary born-lived-died account of their lives. I liked to inject characteristics, hobbies, and personality flaws—even family feuds, whenever possible. Sometimes it prompted a few telephone calls from outraged readers, but for the most part, the responses were complimentary—“You captured old Mrs. Rockwell’s dirty laugh” and “You’re right, Dickie Knole should have been locked away years ago with that nasty habit.”

  Returning to Melanie’s desk, I noted that she was riveted to the monitors.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Hang on!” Melanie peered closer at the screen and held up her forefinger once more. “Wait a minute . . . Oh! I don’t believe it!” She let out a snort of laughter, reached for the phone and hit speed dial. “Madge! You’ll never guess who I just saw. . . .”

  Melanie’s fascination with CCTV’s was just as I feared. Eunice Pratt was right. Big Brother had come to town, and privacy had gone out the window.

  Without further ado, I slipped past Melanie and headed straight for Douglas Fleming’s office, ignoring her shrieks of, “Don’t go in! He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  I knocked on Mr. Fleming’s door, counted to ten, and opened it.

  Douglas Fleming was sitting at his desk, seemingly mesmerized by a photograph he held in his hands. In fact, as I took in my surroundings, every available surface held pictures of his dead wife. I’d only been in his office once before. Back then there had been just the one photograph of Scarlett on his desk.

  Mr. Fleming seemed to be converting his starkly furnished office into a shrine.

  I’d had a lot of experience with grief, but his behavior was unusual. Of course, 99 percent of the obituaries I wrote dealt with senior deaths or farming accidents. True, there had been a couple of murders, but even those hadn’t evoked the almost catatonic state I saw now in Douglas Fleming.

  I felt out of my depth. For a moment, I was tempted to leave him to it, but Wilf was expecting the obituary. The newspaper needed it.

  Sometimes it wasn’t easy being a journalist.

  I approached his desk and gave a delicate cough. “Mr. Fleming?” I said softly. “I’m sorry to bother you at this time, but I have a few questions.”

  The mourning widower slowly raised his tortured eyes to meet mine. “Didn’t Melanie give you the envelope?”

  “I just need a few more details. Mind if I sit?” I perched on the edge of the chair opposite him and took out my reporter notebook. “It will only take a moment.”

  Douglas Fleming gave a heavy sigh. “Vicky, dear, I know you have a job to do, but I’d rather not.”

  “The problem is”—I tried my best smile—“the news of poor Mrs. Fl
eming’s passing is flying around the town like wildfire. Your wife had many friends anxious to know what happened.”

  “I hate to say this, but it’s really none of their business, is it?” he said. “They’re just gossips.”

  “You wouldn’t want them getting the wrong idea, would you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said sharply, and sat bolt upright.

  I was tempted to mention Topaz’s theory that his wife had booked in for plastic surgery and died under the knife, but thought better of it. Perhaps Scarlett had been planning on surprising him? “As you say, they’re gossips and tend to spread the most malicious rumors,” I said. “So it’s important to nip those in the bud.”

  “Are you implying . . .?” A peculiar look came over Mr. Fleming’s face. If I hadn’t known otherwise, I would have said it was fear. “Good God, Vicky! I’d never hurt her. Never. I adored her.”

  “Of course not!” I said quickly. “Everyone knows you were devoted to each other.”

  “I wasn’t even with her when it happened.” His voice cracked with emotion.

  “Do you think you can talk about it?”

  “She was on her way to a yoga retreat in Spain.”

  “A car accident?”

  He nodded. “Those foreign roads are treacherous. The Spanish drive like lunatics!”

  “I’m sorry.” I reached across the desk and gently touched his arm, but he threw it off and strode over to the window.

  “Scarlett left Gipping late Saturday afternoon,” he said, staring out into the distance. “She took a flight from Plymouth to Barcelona.”

  Spain! Although my parents had relocated to the coast—the Costa Brava to be exact—it wasn’t that far away from the city of Barcelona. “Where was this yoga retreat?”

  “Somewhere in the Pyrenees.”

  Good. Not the Costa Brava! “Do you have the name of—?”

  “Does it matter?” he said desperately. “I got a phone call on Sunday night saying she never arrived. Her hired car had blown a tire and gone off the road into a ravine.”

  “That’s awful,” I said. “She was lucky to be found at all.”