“I’m Pete’s wife, Emily,” the blonde said with a smile. “And I’m sorry to say that it seems all the chairs at this table are snapped up.”
“Hello, Emily,” I said quickly, offering my hand. “I’m Vicky. Pete’s spoken so much about you.”
“Really? That does surprise me.” Emily smiled again, but I saw the coldness in her dark green eyes. “What a pity you two lovely girls will have to sit elsewhere.”
“But there are two empty seats,” Barbara protested.
“I believe they are already spoken for,” Emily said coolly. “Isn’t that right Peter?”
Pete mumbled something again, and opened his copy of the Mollusk Monthly saying, “Seabiscuit is looking good, Wilf.”
“No worries!” I said brightly. “We thought we’d just come by and say hello. Hello. See you all later. Bye.” I took Annabel’s arm and steered her back toward the bar. Fortunately, the band was on another break.
“My God. What a bitch!” Annabel downed two glasses of cheap champagne in quick succession. “Poor Pete. How awful to be married to her.”
“We’d better find another table,” I said, scanning the room, which was rapidly filling up with guests.
“Not near the Rawlings’s, okay?” said Annabel. “Or Quentin Goss. I saw him with his wife, too. Oh! And definitely not by the Women’s Institute. They all hate me.”
Sounds of “testing-testing-one-two-one-two,” squawked from Mr. Evans’s microphone signaling that the evening program was about to begin. “Ladies and gentleman, pleeeeease take your seats!”
There was a panicked rush to the tables for those left standing—rather like musical chairs. Annabel and I searched for two seats as Ronnie Binns barreled toward us, firing off photographs from a surprisingly professional-looking camera. He must be making extremely good money as a garbologist.
Suddenly, the opening chords of “God Save the Queen” blasted through the room. Ronnie stopped dead in his tracks and pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders thrust back. There was a screeching of chairs as everyone scrambled to their feet and turned to face the portrait of Queen Elizabeth at the top table.
“Back to the foyer,” I shouted over the noise. “Let’s regroup.”
We were almost out of the ballroom-cum-gymnasium, when Annabel pointed to a table in the far corner. “Four seats at two o’clock! Oh! God!” She gave a cry of delight. “There’s that sailor!”
Unfortunately, Topaz and Steve were also sitting there. I hesitated, torn between wanting to be close to my darling Robin. I didn’t relish being next to the new lovebirds—though it seemed Annabel wasn’t bothered. I distinctly recalled that she had once succumbed to Steve’s charms, too. Annabel obviously had a very short memory or deliberately chose to forget about it.
Robin was standing to attention in a full, regimental salute. He looked so handsome in his white dress uniform I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Next to Robin, Eunice was belting out “God Save the Queen” in a powerful soprano.
While I hesitated, Annabel moved fast. She scuttled over to the table and tried to introduce herself to Robin during the second verse but he just stared stoically ahead.
In the end, Annabel sheepishly gave up and took the empty chair on Eunice’s right.
I was surprised that the proceedings had started without Douglas Fleming or Olive Larch. Their two places stood empty at the top table. I hoped she hadn’t had another of her episodes, or perhaps Fleming had changed his mind about appearing in public so soon after his wife’s death.
I kept wondering who could have made that mysterious phone call. Every time I glanced around the room—mainly to get a glimpse of Robin on my left—I met Steve’s blue eyes staring steadily at me. Twice, he blew me a kiss and mouthed the words, “You look hot!”
“God, this is endless,” Annabel muttered, as the anthem ground on to a third verse, and then a fourth. The singing became less strident as voices dropped off, one-by-one. Only the Women’s Institute, who knew the words to all six verses, gamely carried on.
An unexpected trip around the drum kit, punctuated by a crash of the cymbals all but drowned out the final verse, followed by thunderous applause that grew even louder when Douglas Fleming walked in with Olive Larch on his arm. She looked very nice in a sparkling pale blue ensemble and tiny tiara in her cropped hair.
It would appear that the widower was not prostrate with grief after all.
“Please welcome your hosts. . . .” Mr. Evans paused, cupping his ear for another drum roll from the band. “Douuuuglas Fleming and Olllllive Larch!”
More applause followed. A bread roll sailed across the room and landed in the middle of the dance floor. Unfortunately our table was tucked in the corner so I couldn’t see who threw it though I noted that Topaz leapt to her feet, eyes darting left, right, and center. It would seem she had been right to expect trouble.
When I turned to Robin again, I realized he was fussing over Eunice who sat rigidly upright, clutching a butter knife. Her face had turned an unattractive mottled red. Beads of sweat were accumulating on her brow. Annabel grabbed a copy of the Mollusk Monthly and started to flap it at Eunice’s head.
“She doesn’t like that,” Robin snapped, and snatched the leaflet from Annabel’s hands.
“I was only trying—”
“Don’t panic!” Steve hoisted himself out of his chair. His bulk seemed to get tangled up in the tablecloth. Fortunately, Topaz managed to hold the hem and save the place settings.
“Medic coming through!” Steve cried. “Keep breathing, doll.” He knelt beside Eunice. “I’ll take over now. Head between the knees, luv.”
“Thank you. I’ll go and fetch her wrap from the car.” Robin turned to me. “Vicky, a word in private, please.”
Robin wanted to talk to me, alone! I stood up to follow.
“I’m coming, too,” said Annabel.
“I think you’d better stay and save our seats,” I said quickly. “The event was overbooked and there’ll be latecomers.”
Leaving Annabel to pout, I hurried after Robin and found him waiting for me in a small alcove at the bottom of the stairs.
Even though the circumstances were highly inappropriate, I couldn’t help hoping that Robin would sweep me into his arms saying, “Vicky, I can’t stand it any longer.” He’d pull me close to his manly chest, uttering, “You’re so beautiful. Much more beautiful than Annabel. Say you’ll be mine.”
“We’ve got a problem,” he said.
I came back to earth with a bang. “We have?”
“Are the rumors about Douglas Fleming and Olive Larch, true?”
“I haven’t heard anything.”
“Perhaps your pretty friend might know?”
“The one with the bionic woman contact lenses?” I heard myself say then wished I hadn’t sounded so catty.
Robin smiled at that remark—I love making him laugh—but his expression quickly changed to one of concern. “Mum told me she filled you in on Auntie’s health problems so I don’t need to tell you what might happen if Fleming doesn’t keep his promise.”
A worm of foreboding began to grow in the bottom of my stomach. “What promise?”
“Auntie told me you’d insisted that Fleming never stopped loving her.” Robin’s voice held a hint of accusation. “Is that true?”
“Not . . . not . . . in those exact words.”
“She only needs the slightest encouragement,” Robin said exasperated.
“I didn’t know.” I felt slightly annoyed. Surely he wasn’t blaming me for Eunice’s state of mind?
“If he marries someone else . . .” Robin took a deep breath. “I’m afraid of what she might do.”
Suddenly, I saw Eunice at St. Peter’s again and her euphoria at Douglas Fleming’s eligible status; the way she had shown up at his office with a plateful of biscuits all dressed up like a dog’s dinner. The phone calls she claimed Fleming had made and her jealous reaction to Olive Larch.
Good gr
ief! What if she tried to get rid of Olive?
I looked at Robin’s face. It was etched with anguish. “Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t be burdening you with my troubles.”
“You’re not at all. Really,” I said, trying hard not to look thrilled. I wanted to be burdened by Robin.
“I’m away so much and Mum and Auntie don’t really get along.” Robin reached out and took my hand. “And then she’s always in trouble with the police. Don’t you reporters know people in the police force who could occasionally pull in a favor?”
“Well, it depends what it is,” I said.
“I just wish someone would keep an eye on her. Do you know of anyone who might?”
“Me!” I cried. The words had tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. Idiot, Vicky, idiot! When I’d originally thought of offering my services, I’d had no idea that Eunice had some form of mental problem.
“You really mean that? I don’t know how to thank you.” Robin lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. I’d expected to feel a frisson of je ne sais quoi, but felt absolutely nothing. I was obviously still in shock at the gargantuan task I’d just let myself in for.
“Just check on her every day and make sure she always takes her medication.” Medication? “Of course.”
“You’ll have to get that from Dr. Bodger in Newton Abbot.”
“But, that’s miles away,” I said. “What’s wrong with Dr. Frost?”
“She can’t stand him.” Robin dropped my hand. “I’m going back to the table but you wait here for a few moments. I don’t want Auntie to think we were talking about her.”
“What about her wrap?”
“She didn’t bring one.” And with that, Robin was gone.
It was with a mixture of optimism and dread that I counted to twenty before returning to our table. True, I loved the fact that Robin felt indebted to me and that we would be in daily contact when he went back to H.M.S. Dauntless. But I was deeply uncomfortable about this so-called keeping an eye on Eunice that I had promised so rashly to do. I was an investigative journalist, not a nanny. Somehow, I felt just a tiny bit taken advantage of. Perhaps this was what it was like to be in a relationship? Love me; love my family.
With that happy thought, I walked back to join my man.
17
The ballroom-cum-gymnasium was in virtual darkness when I stumbled back to my chair. A projector was trained on the only blank wall available above the makeshift bar.
An air of restless expectancy filled the room as someone on stage fiddled with a portable CD player—presumably the same machine that initially blasted out Cuban music—in an attempt to find a specific track from a Dionne War-wick CD.
I could have slipped quietly into my chair had it not been where Topaz had dumped her rucksack, which fell to the floor with a loud thud. “I didn’t want him sitting next to me,” she said in a low voice.
To my astonishment, the “him” in question was none other than D.S. Probes. It certainly explained Topaz’s childish gesture with her rucksack. The two were very distant cousins and had enjoyed a brief fling for which Topaz seemed to feel nothing now but disdain.
I stole a glance at Probes and even in the poor light, had to admit he was one man who did look very handsome out of uniform especially with his ginger hair fashionably coiffed in stiff spikes.
Accompanied by Dionne Warwick’s tearjerker, “That’s What Friends Are For” the slide show finally stuttered into action. Of course, I’d written Sammy Larch’s obituary, but even I wasn’t prepared to see just how big a role the old boy had played in the Gipping community during his ninety-five years on this earth.
From discovering his first snail in a Devon hedgebank at age five, we witnessed not just Sammy’s accomplishments in the snail world, but his dalliance with other Devon country pursuits—pole climbing, worm charming, the highly dangerous flaming tar barrel racing, and even a brief flirtation with hedge jumping.
As the show ended and the lights went up to tumultuous applause, a quick glimpse around the room showed there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Even Topaz had streaks of black mascara running down her cheeks.
Given Sammy Larch’s unpopularity when alive, I was once again reminded of how even a cantankerous old man, previously reviled in life, could assume a saintlike status after death.
Olive, Fleming, and Mr. Evans made their way on stage to stand alongside the band. Mr. Evans handed Olive the cordless microphone but she stood there, frozen.
Several moments dragged by. Someone in the audience coughed. Another bread roll sailed through the air and landed at her feet. A voice called out, “Get on with it, luv.”
Fleming threw his arm around her shoulder and took the microphone. “I know that Olive joins me in thanking you all for coming here tonight.”
I glanced over at Eunice and saw her stiffen. Robin patted her hand.
“It’s a strange feeling being up here without my dearly departed Scarlett. . . .” Douglas Fleming paused, seemingly close to tears. “But I’m sure, knowing her as you all do, she would have wanted us to carry on and have a good time.” He bit his lip and closed his eyes as if reliving some painful memory. Olive gently squeezed his arm in sympathy.
The room was silent. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop until a voice cried, “When’s the funeral?”
“Scarlett’s obituary will be in the Gazette tomorrow,” said Fleming. “Tonight is very—”
“I heard she’d been buried already,” came another voice from the floor. This prompted cries of disbelief and outrage. I heard “open casket!” “London caterer!” and “thirteen-pan steel band.”
“It’s a travesty!” shouted Phyllis Fairweather seated at the Women’s Institute table as the other members started banging on the table with their spoons.
Hadn’t I warned Douglas Fleming there would be trouble?
“It’s what she wanted!” Fleming’s voice cracked with anguish. “Who am I to take away her last dying request?”
Unfortunately, I was too far away from the stage to really see Fleming’s expression. He certainly sounded upset but if you ask me, he seemed to be putting on quite a performance. His audience certainly bought it, but I wasn’t sure if I did.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. Please!” Mr. Evans took back the microphone. “Some respect. This is a very tragic situation but as Scarlett would have said, ‘Let the party go on,’ and it must, because tonight we have a very special announcement. Barry?”
The words “Larch Legacy” flew around the room creating mass speculation on who was going to get the award. I looked over at Dave who had already got to his feet and was straightening his bow tie.
Barry Fir, aka Hogmeat, retrieved an enormous fake cardboard check the size of a small table from the side of the stage. Wonderguts began an enthusiastic—but short—drum roll as Ronnie Binns, crouching low and snapping photos, darted toward the stage. He promptly collided with Tony who had set up his tripod in the corner.
Olive pulled out a sheet of paper and began to read, “It is with great pleasure—” her hands were shaking, “That I am able to award the Larch Legacy and a check for five hundred pounds to—” Another crash of drums, “The Hedge-cutters of Gipping-on-Plym!”
The cutters tables exploded with cheers and whoops of joy. I thought I’d misheard and turned to Topaz. “What did she say?”
“Sssh,” Topaz hissed. “I’m trying to listen.”
“My father was always grateful to the cutters for preserving the beauty and heritage of our Devon hedgerows,” Olive said in a halting voice. “For helping keep the hedgerows safe for God’s small creatures and in particular, the snails we love. For the little red berries . . .”
As Olive droned on, my heart plunged further and further into my boots. I felt incredibly sorry for Dave who held his face in his hands, but more sorry for myself.
I had committed a journalistic snafu of monumental proportions.
I had taken a story given to me at face value.
My career was ruined.
Thank God we were seated at the rear of the room so I couldn’t see the reaction on the Gazette table, but I could definitely see Dave’s growing despair. Comforted by his cronies, there was a lot of alcohol being passed around—and a rain of bread rolls being thrown at Jack Webster as he swaggered to the stage.
It was all too much for Dave. He leapt to his feet. “You bloody thief!”
Topaz grabbed her rucksack and stood up, too, but promptly sat back down when Mr. Evans grabbed the microphone again shouting, “Thannnnk you, Olive. Ladies! Gentlemen! The buffet is ready in the next room. Load up your plates and let’s get this show on the road!”
The spattering of applause was swiftly drowned out by the mass exodus to the adjoining dining room and the promise of food provided by Helen Parker, who had taken over my former landlady’s catering business, Cradle to Coffin Catering.
“Vicky?” said Steve. “Can I bring you a plate of something?”
“No, I’m fine, but thanks.” My appetite had completely gone.
“You’ve got to eat, doll. Just a few nibbles?”
“Yes, please,” said Topaz pointedly. “And you’d better be fast. I’m told it was frightfully under-catered.”
Steve needed no further encouragement and set off in the direction of the dining room. Robin followed suit, leaving Eunice staring stonily into her lap.
I sat there in a stupor. I dreaded going anywhere near the buffet table where I was bound to bump into Wilf.
“I told you there would be problems!” Topaz gloated.
“What’s she talking about?” muttered Annabel.
“Nothing,” I said miserably. “Aren’t you going to get some food?”
“We’re waiting for the stampede to be over,” Annabel said, leaning in to Probes. “Aren’t we, Colin?”
Colin?
“Evening, Vicky,” said Probes. “Ms. Potter.”
I tried to speak but was overcome by an inexplicable attack of shyness.
“Oh, hello. I didn’t recognize you out of uniform,” Topaz said with a sniff. Other than myself, Probes was the only person who knew Topaz’s true identity. Why he kept her secret was one of life’s great mysteries.
Expose! Page 12
