by Susan Moody
‘It’s worth a try, Core,’ she said, carrying the case downstairs. ‘Let’s have a look, see if we can open it, find out what’s going on.’
‘Maybe Mr Buono was in an accident,’ Cora said. ‘Maybe we should call the police.’
‘And maybe we shouldn’t,’ Dora said. ‘It’s waited this long, and nobody’s come asking about it.’ She recalled the corpse in the canal and wondered if this Mr Buono had met a similar fate somewhere. She found the small key on her dolphin ring and pushed it into one of the two brass locks, listened to the click as it turned, did the same with the other, and watched with satisfaction as Cora’s mouth dropped open.
‘There you go, Cora,’ she said, ‘you get to lift the lid, seeing as how it practically belongs to you now – finder’s keepers.’
Cora stared at the case. ‘Supposing he comes back, asking for it,’ she said, to which Dora briskly responded that she was well within her rights and she could tell him that she’d opened it (not that she yet had) in the hope of finding some kind of identification which would enable her to return it to him, in case he’d forgotten about it – or else you could say that after twelve months, let alone fifteen, any property left unclaimed reverted to the ‘landlady’ and she was very sorry, Mr Buono, but she had a legal right (‘Do I really, Dora?’) to look inside and take possession of the contents.
‘Go on, open it, Cora, the suspense is killing me.’
‘Here goes,’ Cora said and slowly lifted the lid of the briefcase to reveal dozens – hundreds, thousands – of ten-pound notes loosely packed together. ‘Bloody hell!’ Cora said. (Mother would have turned in her grave) ‘What are we going to do with it, take it to the police?’
‘The police? Not on your nelly,’ Dora said. ‘First we’re going to count it and then we’re going to . . .’
‘What, Dora?’
‘. . . spend it.’
Visions of the midnight-blue satin evening dress with diamanté scattered all over the bosom which she’d seen on sale in Thornton’s only four days earlier danced in front of Dora’s eyes, then rippled, spread, expanded into further images: a cobalt sea, herself perched beguilingly on a high stool daintily sipping a cocktail from a Y-shaped glass, besieged by not one but two – make that three – grey-haired Texan billionaires while the Captain entreated her to sit at his table for the duration of the cruise and . . .
‘My Boutique B&B,’ said Cora softly.
‘You could come on a cruise with me first,’ Dora said generously, ‘and then you’d have to move somewhere else, can’t stay here in case your Mr Buono takes it into his head to come looking for his case – or you could simply tell him, if he does, that you took it to the police. That’ll stop him because you’re not going to tell me this is – what do they call it? – legit. It’s not legit, no way, so you’re safe, Cora, and so am I. It’s a dream come true, that’s what it is.’
And think of the good that could be done! Mr Gilmour and his dog, she could give a huge donation to the Guide Dogs for the Blind, and Cancer Research, and build wells out in Africa, pay for operations on some of those poor little kids in the Sunday newspapers with horrendous harelips, there were so many things you could do, as well as having some fun.
‘Tell you what, Dora,’ Cora said, getting up and moving towards the green-painted dresser. ‘There’s a bottle of wine I opened this—last night, why don’t we have a drink, celebrate, what do you think?’
‘Good idea,’ said Dora. ‘Cheers.’
