Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

  “Well?” Annabel gestured to Robin’s empty seat. “What’s going on with the sailor?”

  “Sssh,” I said, quickly pointing to Eunice who now had her eyes closed.

  “She’s not listening. Everyone saw you follow him out into the foyer.” Annabel gave an indulgent laugh. “Colin said you were huddled cozily together under the nook at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “I d-d-didn’t say it quite like that.” Probes had the grace to blush. “Ms. Lake asked if I’d seen you and I said I had.”

  “Personally you’re wasting your time.” Annabel glanced over at Eunice again and lowered her voice. “He’s a bit of a mummy’s boy.”

  “He’s just attentive and kind,” I said, though I was beginning to think Annabel might be right.

  “Colin has very kindly offered to help me with my exposé.” Annabel picked up a bread roll and began to pull it apart. “He’s with the Drug Action Team in Plymouth.” Of course, I already knew that.

  “As a m-m-matter of fact, one of the reasons I am here tonight is because—”

  “You should ask him about Spain, Vicky.”

  My mouth went dry. “Spain? Why? What for?”

  “You know, silly.” Annabel rolled her eyes. “Scarlett Fleming?”

  “Oh, yes. Scarlett Fleming. No. Actually, I’m fine.”

  “Vicky e-mailed the Foreign and Commonwealth Office,” said Annabel, as if I wasn’t sitting right next to her. “She’ll wait forever, won’t she Colin?”

  “If I can be of assistance—”

  “You’d better get to the buffet, quick.” Steve materialized at our table with two plates laden with steak and kidney pie, creamed mashed potatoes, and carrots. “The food is running low already. Where’s Topaz?”

  “I thought she was with you.” I hadn’t noticed her slip away. “She’s probably in the ladies’ loo.”

  “Her food will get cold.” Steve took Topaz’s empty chair next to me and edged it close. “Do you want some of mine, doll?”

  “We’re off.” Annabel dragged Probes to his feet. “Come on, Colin.”

  “Spain, you say?” said Probes thoughtfully.

  I began to rise. “Wait for me—”

  “Hang on, doll. I want to talk to you.” Steve put his hand firmly on my knee. His touch was electric and sent shivers down my spine. I was acutely aware of the smell of Old Spice and antiseptic. “God, you look gorgeous tonight.”

  “Your food is getting cold.”

  “Maybe I don’t care,” he said, staring at me with lust in his eyes.

  “Honestly, Steve, you’re incorrigible.” I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re here with Topaz and hitting on me. Don’t you have any shame?”

  Steve shrugged and gave me an impish grin. “She invited me and who am I to turn a lady down but”—his lips brushed my ear—“if you want the honest to God truth, she frightens me. She’s the one woman I would never want to be alone with. Unlike you.”

  “And what about Annabel?” I said, reminding him of his swift liaison with her not so long ago and one I only knew about because Annabel bore the telltale morning after signs of stubble burn on her face.

  “She forced me,” he said in deadly earnest. “But you’re different.”

  “Because I’m not interested.” I tried to stand up but Steve kept hold of my knee.

  “Dinner. Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Sunday! Come on, doll! You’re breaking my heart.”

  “Somehow I doubt it.” I removed Steve’s hand from my knee. “Enjoy your pie.”

  “I won’t give up,” he called out, as I headed into the dining room.

  There was quite a feast. In addition to the usual Marks & Spencer cook-from-frozen nibbles provided by Cradle to Coffin Catering, the Women’s Institute had contributed homemade salads and baked goods. Naturally, each contributor’s name was written on a small white flag and stuck into the relevant dish. I noted that no one had touched Amelia Webster’s anchovy and gherkin piccalilli.

  Apparently the delicious steak and kidney pie—served in commercial-sized stainless steel chafer dishes—was actually made from scratch by Gillian Briggs, who used to be a cook in the Women’s Royal Navy back in the 1970s.

  The queue was a long one. As I tried to find the end, snatches of conversation drifted toward me: “Don’t eat the piccalilli,” “I heard Scarlett had plastic surgery,” and “It didn’t take Fleming long to get his feet under the table.”

  At this last provocative remark coming from Pam Green, director of all Gipping Bard productions, I pretended to readjust my right sandal—no mean feat given the stabbing pain I endured from my whalebone corset in trying to bend over.

  “That’s an unkind thing to say, Pam.” Barbara had her back to me. “Dougie has always been fond of Olive.”

  “Fond of her money, you mean,” said Pam darkly. “I heard he was handling the Larch millions.”

  “I doubt it, dear,” Barbara said. “Olive is my best friend and I’m quite sure she would have told me.” She paused for a moment, “Who said that? Was it Ruth?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say,” Pam said somewhat smugly. “But Scarlett told me Dougie wanted them to be friends with the Larch’s even though she couldn’t stand Sammy.” Pam lowered her voice. “He used to pinch her bottom, you know.”

  “That’s not true—”

  “He was determined to reach his one hundredth birthday and get a telegram from the queen,” Pam forged on. “How convenient that Sammy died when he did.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t plan on falling down the stairs. Pam.” I detected a note of irritation in Barbara’s voice.

  “And Dougie losing his wife so soon afterward . . . well . . .” Pam turned to stare at Fleming who was posing arm in arm with Olive for Ronnie Binns—since when had he become the official photographer? “He’s hardly the grieving widower, is he?”

  I had to admit she had a point. Fleming seemed to have made quite a recovery after his emotional breakdown on stage as he laughed and joked for the camera.

  “I really don’t believe in idle tittle-tattle,” sniffed Barbara, the queen of gossip. “Excuse me. I must get some trifle.”

  She drifted off leaving Pam Green to corner Florence Tossell with her speculations.

  “Vicky! Over here!” Probes was holding three empty plates. “I’ve saved you a place.”

  Surprised and delighted—the queue was long—I squeezed in beside him, ignoring grumbles of “The end of the line is around the corner” and “You can’t push in.”

  “Where’s Annabel?” I said as Probes handed me a plate.

  “She went to make a phone call.” Probes stared down into my eyes—I didn’t remember him being so tall. His eyes were a very dark blue with unusually long, brown lashes. I’d always thought natural redheads had sandy colored eyelashes and wondered if he wore mascara or even had them dyed.

  “You look l-l-lovely tonight,” he said, turning red.

  “Thank you.” Even though I’d heard this compliment many times, I actually blushed, too. “It’s Annabel’s dress and she did my makeup.”

  “I know. She told me.” He grinned. His dimples really were quite charming. “You’re very difficult to pin down,” Probes went on. “I was hoping—”

  “What are you doing here?” Robin stood in front of me holding two plates of steak and kidney pie. He looked horrified. “You didn’t leave Auntie alone, did you?”

  “Of course not,” I said quickly. “Steve was there.” Frankly, I hadn’t realized my keeping-an-eye-on-Auntie duties had already begun.

  Robin scanned the room anxiously. “Where’s Olive Larch?”

  I looked, too. There seemed to be no sign of her. “I’m sure everything is all right,” I said, more for my own benefit. Robin’s panic was contagious.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” Probes switched into his concerned police officer mode.

  “No. Why would there be?” Robin said ra
ther rudely. “I thought Vicky had volunteered to keep an eye on my aunt but obviously I was wrong.”

  “I’m sorry.” I really didn’t know what else to say.

  “Excuse me.” And without even his customary nautical salute, Robin charged off.

  “What was all that about?” said Probes.

  “Nothing.” I actually felt upset. Barbara walked past us with a bowl of trifle. “Hold my plate,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I caught up with Barbara in the doorway. “Olive went to powder her nose,” she said, in answer to my question. “Why?”

  “Just wondered.” I tore after Robin but when I reached our table, Steve was by himself. There was no sign of Eunice or Topaz. Even her rucksack was gone.

  Robin was practically hyperventilating. “Where the hell can Auntie be?” He turned to Steve—whom I noted had almost polished off Topaz’s pie as well as his own. “You!” Robin barked. “What was your name again?”

  “Steve,” he said placidly. “Keep your hair on. No need to fret. Mrs. Pratt went to powder her nose.”

  Robin and I looked at each other in horror and chorused, “Ladies!”

  We’d barely moved an inch when a deafening Klaxon horn exploded into life. It was the loudest alarm I’d ever heard. For a moment, no one moved, everything dissolved into chaos. Plates laden with steak and kidney pie splattered to the ground to join the trifle and other items on the menu.

  Steve snapped to attention. Whipping a white headband emblazoned with a red cross from his tuxedo pocket, he tied it around his forehead. With no one near enough to grab the tablecloth, place settings, glasses, and bread rolls followed Steve in his wake as he dived into the action shouting, “Medic! Make way for the Medic!”

  Then, just as suddenly, the horn stopped. A series of loud spits and pops was followed by a hissing noise. Throughout the ballroom-cum-gymnasium, dozens of sprinklers began to discharge torrents of rank smelling water. There were screams from the ladies and a variety of colorful curses from the menfolk. Several yelled, “Fire!” and—along with yours truly—slithered their way toward the foyer on a floor slick with buffet detritus.

  On stage Hogmeat, Harris, and the Wonderguts hastily packed away their electronic equipment—including Mr. Evans’s public announcement system.

  “Do not panic. Stay calm.” Probes stood on top of a chair clutching a megaphone—obviously taken from the gym closet. “There is no fire. I repeat. There is no fire.” But no one seemed to pay any attention.

  Ronnie Binns dashed about taking more photographs. Clearly, his expensive camera was waterproof, too.

  We reached the foyer only to find it was blocked by a massive brawl between cutters and jumpers who seemed oblivious to the fact that they were getting soaked to the skin.

  In a large pool of water, Dave Randall was straddling Jack Webster, smearing his face with trifle. I had the stray thought that Tuxedo Temptations were going to be very unhappy tomorrow morning when ninety percent of their suits were returned damaged.

  I scanned the room for Robin, but it looked like he’d got to dry land before the alarm bell went off.

  “Please make your way to the dining room,” Probes boomed through the megaphone, as he advanced toward the bottleneck by the foyer. “I repeat. Make your way to the dining room.”

  We duly turned around and trooped off to the dining room to find Mr. Evans and lanky Simon Mears, leader of Gipping Boy Scouts, directing everyone through the open French doors and into the car park. There, Simon’s wife Nicola—Brown Owl of First Gipping Brownie pack—was taking a roll call of sorts. Steve dashed about, administering what appeared to be smelling salts—judging by the violent reaction and swift recovery of each lady in need.

  The shock that had ripped through Gipping Manor was now replaced by relieved laughter. I heard, “the evening’s still young,” and “wet T-shirt competition.” Several of the ladies’ gowns, when wet, became transparent—much to the delight of the menfolk.

  I spied Robin talking on his mobile phone. There was still no sign of Eunice. I was about to join him, but he pointed at the French doors and mouthed some kind of order. Presumably, that meant I was supposed to go back and find his wretched aunt. I was wet, cold, and beginning to have second thoughts about a future with Lieutenant Robin Berry.

  Barbara hurried toward me. “Have you seen Olive?” She was shivering and looked like a drowned rat. “Dougie’s worried sick. She never came back from the bathroom.”

  My stomach flipped over. I’d seen the mixture of despair and envy on Eunice’s face. After forty long years of unrequited love, who knew what she’d do to her rival? “Wait here, Barbara. I’ll find her.”

  I set off in search of Olive Larch and prayed she had come to no harm but in truth, I feared the worst.

  18

  I ran as fast as my high heels allowed around the outside of the building and back into The Manor front entrance. Fortunately the sprinkler system had been switched off. Also, it had not extended to the corridor leading to the loos, which was bone dry.

  I heard the shrieks even before I opened the door.

  “What on earth’s going on?” I cried, trying to make sense of what I saw before me.

  Olive was sprawled on the floor in what I prayed, was just a dead faint. She was clutching a pair of nail scissors in one hand. In the other was a crumpled brown paper bag.

  Inside the stall I heard Eunice screaming as Topaz—fake cat’s ears perched atop a black balaclava—gleefully wound a length of orange nylon binder twine around the stall door grab handle, presumably to prevent Eunice’s escape.

  Furious, she rattled the door yelling, “Let me out. Let me out!”

  “Shut up or you’ll be sorry!” shouted Topaz. The hammering stopped. Eunice began to whimper.

  I knelt down beside Olive and was relieved to find she had a pulse—and a surprisingly strong one, too.

  “We’ve got to find Steve,” I said.

  “Not we. You. My job is done.” Topaz had discarded the black skirt she’d worn to the gala. Around her waist was a wide, handyman’s belt that had several compartments bulging with all sorts of tools and gadgets.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” I said firmly. “I want to know exactly what happened here.”

  “Vicky? Is that you?” said Eunice in a tremulous voice.

  “Sssh!” Topaz whispered. “No names.”

  “Yes, it’s Vicky,” I said. “Hold tight Eunice. Everything is going to be okay.”

  “Take this.” Topaz retrieved a can of mace from her handyman belt. “She might get violent. Wait.” She cocked her head. “Can you hear a siren?”

  “Probably the fire brigade. Was it you who set off the alarm?”

  “Of course not,” Topaz said. “But I told you there’d be trouble.” She removed her belt and thrust it back into the rucksack. “I have to go.” She pulled out a small cylindrical object with a red tag. “I was never here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a flare to mask my exit.” Topaz walked over to the bathroom window, which already stood wide open.

  “No one will see you. They’re all in the car park,” I said. “And besides, using a flare will only attract attention.”

  “You’re right. Good point.”

  “Vicky, Vicky,” Eunice whimpered from behind the stall door. “Let me out. Please!”

  “The Caped Kitten never takes chances.” Topaz said in a low voice. She pointed to Olive who had managed to sit up. Olive took one look at Topaz, let out a pathetic squeak, and promptly fainted away again.

  And, with a swirl of her cape, Topaz clambered out of the open window and vanished.

  Seconds later, D.S. Probes appeared in the doorway followed by Robin, Steve, and Barbara. “What’s going on here then?” he said.

  “Auntie!” shouted Robin. “Where are you?”

  “Robin! Oh! Help!” Eunice became hysterical.

  Barbara flew to Olive’s side. “Oh, oh! She’s dead.”
>
  Steve promptly dropped to his knees and skidded across the tiled floor to Olive in an impressive Saturday Night Fever move. “I’ve got her, doll.”

  “She fainted,” I said helplessly.

  “What the hell?” Robin swung around to face me, his eyes flashed with anger. “Who locked Auntie in the lavatory?”

  “I don’t know,” I lied, inwardly cursing Topaz and her stupidity. “I just got here myself. Let’s—”

  “I’ll do it.” Robin fumbled with the binder twine on the stall door but to no avail. Clearly, Topaz had not used a nautical knot.

  “Allow me.” Probes stepped forward with his Swiss Army penknife and effortlessly sliced through the orange nylon cord.

  Freed at last, Eunice burst out of the stall and tumbled into Robin’s arms. “Auntie! Thank God you are all right,” Robin said.

  “I was trying to help her,” Eunice said feebly. “But she attacked me.”

  “Olive Larch attacked you?” Robin shot Olive a glance of pure venom.

  “She would say that, wouldn’t she?” Barbara shouted defiantly from Olive’s corner.

  “Are you calling my aunt a liar?” Robin seethed.

  Probes caught my eye and I could have sworn I saw a flash of amusement. “Did you see anything, Vicky?” he said, pulling out a small notebook from inside his drenched tuxedo—yet another tragedy for Tuxedo Temptations.

  “When I got here Eunice was already locked in.” This was true. Blast Topaz!

  “But, wait . . .” Probes frowned and returned to the stall door. He inspected the dangling piece of twine with his pencil and flipped it over. “Who did this?”

  “Well, Olive certainly couldn’t,” said Barbara hotly. “She was practically left for dead on this cold floor.”

  “Hardly,” Robin snorted. “She tried to kill Auntie with scissors! Look! She’s got them in her hand!”

  “I don’t think Ms. Larch is strong enough to lock anyone in the bathroom,” Steve said as he bathed Olive’s forehead with a damp paper towel.