Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

  “Let’s get this over and done with,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Moments later, Topaz roared past in her Capri, hand firmly on her DeLorean Back To the Future themed horn. When she gunned the V-8 engine the customized double exhaust set off all the car alarms parked along the High Street. I was very glad I’d decided to travel under my own steam judging by the stares and fist waving from many disgruntled motorists and pedestrians alike.

  Steve lived in a four-story Victorian house in Badger Drive, which had been converted into flats. I left my moped next to the empty Capri and went inside where I found Topaz chattering to Hilda Hicks who was holding a green canvas bag emblazoned with the logo PINGIRL PONIES.

  “I take it the snail crowd have gone by now?” Ms. Hicks said in her loud, strident voice. Sunday night was bowling night at the Three Tuns skittle alley.

  “They were putting the tables away when I left an hour ago,” I said. “Though I expect many will still be drinking in the bar.”

  “Better be off then,” she boomed. “Ms. Potter, should I telephone Ms. Turberville-Spat to firm up the details?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Topaz, giving me a sly wink, “I talk to Ethel all the time. I’ll make sure she sends over the paperwork.”

  “Jolly good. Jolly good.” Ms. Hicks smiled again and, with a curt nod, strode out of the house.

  “What was all that about?” I said, as we began the endless, tortuous climb to Steve’s top-floor flat.

  “I’m leasing out the stable block and grounds to the Riding Club for their summer camp,” Topaz said. “It’s funny how the old bat doesn’t know who I really am.”

  Neither did I. I often wondered if Topaz even knew who she was herself.

  The next time we spoke was outside Steve’s front door. I rang the bell.

  “Wait a moment.” Topaz panted as she dumped her rucksack on the floor. There was a loud, metallic-sounding clunk. Pulling out a pair of high, strappy dancing shoes, she took off her black pumps and slipped the shoes on. They looked very similar to those I’d borrowed from Sadie.

  My heart sank. “You haven’t got a collapsible pole in that rucksack by any chance?” I said half joking. It would certainly explain Topaz’s racy ensemble.

  “It’s supposed to be a surprise. Don’t say anything.”

  “I won’t, as long as you promise to keep that pole in there until I leave.”

  Steve threw open the door with a broad smile, which instantly evaporated. “Topaz!” he said horrified. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hello darling.” She kissed him on the cheek and swept imperiously inside. “Oh, how frightfully sweet. You’re playing our song.” The sound of ABBA’s “Take A Chance On Me” filled the air.

  Hadn’t Steve played the very same song to me the first time I came here? Amused, I raised a quizzical eyebrow to our host for the evening.

  Steve looked mortified. “The song is for you, doll, not her,” he protested. Somehow, I didn’t believe him.

  Steve was dressed in neatly pressed khakis and a crisp white—and tight—short-sleeved shirt. His usual twinkling blue eyes looked troubled as he corralled me into the tiny space behind the front door and grabbed my hand. “What’s she doing here?”

  As always, a frisson of electricity surged through my body at his touch. I was acutely aware of his scent—Old Spice and antiseptic—and looked for an escape. “Apparently, you invited us both.”

  “Hey!” Topaz shouted from within. “When do I get my Steve Special?”

  “Not tonight,” Steve called out then, in a low voice added urgently, “I swear I only invited you.”

  “Topaz said you had something important to tell me.”

  He looked sheepish. “The truth is, you looked so hot at the Gala on Friday, doll. I just had to see you again and I knew you’d say no.”

  “So this was just a trick to entice me into the badger’s den?”

  “Don’t hate me, doll.”

  Topaz suddenly appeared, towering above us in her high-heeled shoes. “What are you two doing?” she demanded.

  Steve dropped my hand and sprang aside. Even I felt guilty.

  “I was about to help Vicky off with her coat,” he said smoothly.

  “Goodie.” Topaz jumped forward. “Let’s take it off together.”

  “Don’t touch me!” I said, waving them both away. “I’m not staying. I just got a text message on my mobile. I have to go.”

  “Oh! What a frightful shame.” Topaz did not sound disappointed. “Can you just tell Steve that I work for the Gazette?”

  I turned to Steve who now looked seriously worried. “Topaz secretly works for me. Her position is so secret that not even our chief reporter knows.”

  “You see! I told you so!” Topaz gave Steve a playful punch. “It’s just as well you are leaving, Vicky,” she said, “The table is only laid up for two people. There’s champagne and everything.”

  “Just stay for one glass,” said Steve in a small voice. “Just one. Please.”

  He looked so desperate I relented.

  Steve led the way into the sitting room and jumped when Topaz mischievously pinched his bottom.

  “I’ve got to go to the kitchen,” he said. “Make yourselves at home.”

  It was clear that Steve had gone to a lot of trouble this evening. The sitting room was spotlessly clean and smelled of Pledge lemon furniture polish—Mrs. Evans’s favorite brand. Fake flames leapt in the fireplace; I lost count of the number of candles that flickered from every available surface, casting a romantic glow around the room.

  A huge arrangement of red roses sat on the pine coffee table along with a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket and two cut-crystal tulip glasses. Two china plates, two silver knives and forks atop two red linen napkins sat next to a platter of Marks & Spencer canapés, a cheese board, and a bowl of grapes.

  Steve had done all this—just for me! Frankly, I was touched.

  “There are strawberries dipped in chocolate in the fridge,” said Topaz, flopping onto the sofa. Her skirt rode up even higher but she didn’t seem to care. Taking a salmon pinwheel, she added, “Steve’s an ABBA fan. Look.” She pointed to a large framed vintage poster of the Swedish musicians in white bell-bottom trousers that hung on one wall. “He collects vinyl records, too.”

  Of course, I already knew all this having been to Chez Steve before. In fact, seeing Topaz lounging on the sofa, it was hard not to relive that moment when Steve kissed me and—

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” said Topaz coyly. “You’ve gone all red.”

  “I was just thinking about work,” I lied. “There are a couple of loose ends in the Sammy Larch death I need to clear up for my report.”

  “Why? He died weeks ago. Who cares now?” said Topaz, cramming an entire shrimp vol-au-vent into her mouth.

  “That’s just where you are wrong,” I said. “As a professional investigative journalist, a case is never closed until all the i’s are dotted, and the t’s crossed.”

  “I see, boss,” Topaz said eagerly. “What’s this got to do with Steve?”

  “Did I hear my name?” Steve sauntered in with the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries, a tea cloth, and a coffee mug emblazoned MEDIC MEN ROCK! “Champagne anyone?”

  He popped the cork and expertly managed to pour the bubbling liquid into each glass and his mug without spilling a drop. “Cheers ladies!”

  I had to admit Steve’s choice in champagne was surprisingly good and far superior to the stuff that was served at Friday’s Gala.

  “Sit down everyone.” Topaz patted the sofa beside her and said in a seductive voice. “Plenty of room for three.”

  “I’m fine standing,” I said quickly.

  “I’ve got a beanbag.” Steve retrieved a brown leather beanbag from behind the sofa and dragged it around to the opposite side of the coffee table.

  He sank down heavily to ground level, reminding me of a beached whale. It looked very unco
mfortable and he certainly wasn’t able to reach the canapés.

  “Let’s get down to business,” said Topaz. “Steve, you mentioned you had something frightfully important to tell me.”

  “Did I?” Steve looked startled. “Right. Yep. Maybe later.”

  “Oh! You mean after Vicky has left.” Topaz shot me a look of triumph. “Steve only wants to tell me, not you.”

  “Well, I have a couple of questions for you, Steve.” I said taking out my notebook.

  “Anything, doll,” he said miserably.

  “I say,” said Topaz “does anyone have a pencil and piece of paper?”

  “Here.” I ripped out a page and handed her one of my spare pens—I always carry extra in my pocket. “I want to talk about the night Sammy Larch died.”

  “I got the 999 call just after the pubs shut,” Steve said. “Of course, the poor old bugger was dead when we got there.”

  “Because it was a busy night and you arrived too late?” said Topaz, pencil poised.

  “No. We didn’t arrive too late.” Did I detect a hint of annoyance in Steve’s usually mild-mannered voice? “Gipping paramedics have a reputation of reaching any accident scene within ten to fifteen minutes of a call. When Tom and I got there, Larch had been dead for hours.”

  “Hours?” I said sharply. Dave had mentioned he’d called round at seven. “How many?”

  “Yes, how many?” echoed Topaz.

  “Rigor mortis had set in,” said Steve. “That usually happens between two and four hours after death.”

  “Rigger-who?” said Topaz, licking the end of her pencil. “What’s that?”

  “I’ll explain later.” This meant Scarlett could have been in Sammy’s house at the time of his fall. “Weren’t you suspicious?”

  “Happens occasionally with the old folk,” said Steve with a shrug. “Larch was ninety-five. Family members don’t like to have the body taken away too soon.”

  “It’s true,” said Topaz. “My aunt’s cousin twice-removed kept her husband in the bath for three days before she called the ambulance.”

  “I’ll ask the questions just for tonight, okay?” I said.

  “Sorry. It’s just so exciting!”

  “The death certificate stated that Sammy had fallen down the stairs and broken his neck,” I said.

  “That’s right.” Steve nodded. “It was quite a tumble. Poor old bugger was covered in bruises.”

  “I fell down the stairs once,” Topaz declared.

  “And there was something weird,” said Steve. “I found three tiny plastic red triangles stuck in the old boy’s sweater. I’ve got them somewhere.”

  “Who made the emergency call?” Topaz said.

  “Thank you, Topaz. Let me ask the questions. Steve? You were saying.”

  “Scarlett Fleming made the call. Told me she went into the kitchen to make them a pot of tea and heard a loud thump.”

  “So, when you arrived, Olive and Douglas Fleming were there, too?”

  “Dougie was brilliant. Both ladies were in a dreadful state. In fact, Olive had one of her episodes and we had to sedate her.”

  “By we, I take it you meant Dr. Frost?” I said.

  “No. My partner Tom and I. Frost . . . well . . . can someone pass me the very last canapé and some grapes?”

  “I’ll get it. I don’t like mushrooms.” Topaz jumped up, making sure that Steve got an eyeful of thigh as she bent over to put the solitary vol-au-vent and bowl of grapes straight onto the carpet. “Would you like me to peel you a grape?”

  “No, I can manage. Thanks.”

  Topaz flung herself back on the sofa.

  “What did Dr. Frost make of it all?” I said.

  “Took five minutes to examine the body and rushed off,” said Steve. “As a matter of fact, he didn’t show up until gone one in the morning. We thought we’d have to call out a locum. Of course, the following morning we knew why.”

  “Why?”

  Steve blushed. “No reason.” He suddenly found the bowl of grapes absolutely fascinating.

  “Come on, Steve,” I said sternly. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Us, you mean,” said Topaz. “I’m a reporter, too.”

  “Frost is my boss,” Steve sounded unhappy. “Annabel is your friend.”

  “She’s not Vicky’s friend,” Topaz chipped in. “You can tell us anything. We won’t repeat it.”

  Steve looked at me. I shrugged. “Please go on.”

  “The next morning, I get a call from a friend at Plymouth General who had treated his wife to a romantic night at The Imperial—”

  “Oh! That five-star hotel on the quay?” said Topaz.

  Steve nodded. “He saw Frost in reception picking up a room key.”

  “Dr. Frost was staying the night in a hotel?” Topaz frowned. “How frightfully odd. I wonder why.”

  I knew why. Further proof that Dr. Frost was having an affair.

  “Wait!” said Topaz. “The Imperial Hotel is close to those warehouses!”

  “Warehouses?” said Steve.

  “I bet they’re in it together,” shrieked Topaz. “Frost is flogging handbags, too!”

  “Handbags?” Poor Steve looked bewildered.

  “Remember what I told you, Topaz,” I said sternly. “Now is not the time to discuss this.”

  “Well, I need more champagne.” Steve attempted to rise off the beanbag but collapsed. “Can someone pour me a glass?”

  “Not for me,” I said, polishing off my own. “I have to go.”

  “Okay. Bye,” said Topaz, jumping to her feet. “Stay right there, Steve. You and I have some unfinished business.” She reached down for her rucksack. “I’m just nipping to the loo.” Topaz skipped out of the sitting room. I heard a distant door slam.

  “Don’t leave me with her, Vicky,” said Steve, struggling to get up from the beanbag. In the end he rolled onto the carpet and staggered to his feet. “She’s a nutter.”

  I had to agree with him. “The problem is that she’s easily encouraged,” I said. “You just have to say a firm no.”

  “I tried that the other night but she kicked me in the goolies.” Steve looked up sharply. “What’s that clunking noise?”

  We turned to see Topaz trying to jam a long pole vertically in the doorway. She’d changed into a long transparent negligee through which I saw the outline of a leopard-skin costume. Her lips were painted a garish red.

  All the color drained out of Steve’s face. “Bloody hell,” he said, and sank onto the sofa whispering, “I’m a dead man.”

  “Change of plan, Topaz. Steve just got an emergency call and he has to leave, now.”

  “That’s right! I did!” Steve instantly brightened up.

  “What rotten luck.” Topaz grinned from ear to ear. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive,” said Steve happily. “Multiple pile-up on the road to Pennymoor.”

  Minutes later, Steve had blown out all the candles, turned off the fire, and put on his white coat. With equal speed, Topaz had collapsed the pole, switched outfits, and tipped the remaining food from the coffee table—including the chocolate-dipped strawberries—into her rucksack without uttering a single complaint.

  It was only when we reached her Capri, she said, “Golly! That was a close one.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you liked Steve.”

  “Me?” Topaz’s eyes widened. “Why would I?”

  “You certainly seemed to like him on Friday,” I pointed out. “And . . . well . . . tonight with all that Banana Club pole dancing palaver.”

  “You’re can’t be serious.” She regarded me with utter horror. “He’s a man! Really Vicky, you are funny. It’s part of being a reporter. Pillow talk. Making a man feel you fancy him in exchange for information.”

  “Reporters do not need pillow talk,” I said firmly. “They need to know how to ask the right questions.”

  “You can think what you like, but if I hadn’t got all dressed up like this, I
’m positive Steve wouldn’t have told us about Frost and the Imperial Hotel.”

  There was no point arguing with Topaz’s logic. “Pity he got that call though. He never did tell me what was so important,” she said.

  Topaz unlocked the Capri and threw in her rucksack. “Do you want to drop off your moped and we’ll go in my car?”

  “Go where?”

  “To Plymouth,” she said. “I want to stake out the warehouse, again. See if I can catch Annabel and Frost in the act. I’ve brought a camera.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got the snail racing results to write up, and besides, I’m tired.”

  “An investigative journalist never sleeps, remember?” Topaz slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll give you a full report tomorrow, boss.”

  As Topaz roared out of Badger Drive I wondered if I were wrong in allowing her to go off on a wild goose chase to Plymouth. I was positive Frost had nothing to do with selling handbags and had been simply having an affair. I didn’t even care with whom.

  All I could think about was Steve’s revelations. Why would Scarlett kill off Sammy Larch? How fortunate for her that Frost was too preoccupied with getting back to his mistress in Plymouth to notice anything awry? What if Fleming had known that Scarlett was going to knock Sammy off and made sure Olive Larch was out of the way at the Nag and Bucket? Nothing made sense.

  I didn’t want to wait for Whittler to come back and go through all the red tape of gaining access to the vault and exhuming the body. It could take months.

  Maybe I should break into the vault. I recalled that all property belonging to the Gipping Bards bore an identifying stamp. Somehow I had to get hold of the key. Somehow I had to persuade Melanie Carew to let me look at the CCTV cameras and have a little chat with her about her so-called phone call to Go-Go Gothic.

  If Fleming really was after Olive Larch’s fortune, he could only get it after they were married. Since Scarlett had been dead less than a week, surely I had time.

  Olive was perfectly safe. For now.

  31