Hattie stared at the overgrown grass and herbaceous plants that sorely needed pruning. She wondered if Hugo would have approved of her move. She felt sure that wherever he was he would be smiling, probably propped up against the pearly gates, with a glass of whisky in his hand. For Hugo knew that Hattie was a Cumbrian girl, born and bred, and it was only natural for her to return to her roots.
A willow tree bowed, blocking light from the side of her cottage, where it hung over the hedge and into the garden next door. Weeds tumbled over paths and brambles sprang from bushes clumped along the wall. Hattie pushed the thick vegetation to one side and trod carefully as she made her way to the rear of the cottage. Moss clung to a tumble-down wall and the broken stones spilled over to a field where, in the distance, the holly wood lay.
Alf has a lot to do, she thought and stopped by the wall to stare out at an expanse of green dotted with wild meadow flowers, their colourful heads swaying in the evening breeze. She sighed and wondered if she would be happy in Hollywood or bored senseless in the village where time seemed to have stood still.
2
Marjorie Delaney ran elegant fingers through her shoulder-length blonde hair, as she reflected on the previous day.
Her husband’s funeral had been a sombre affair.
She thought of funerals that she’d attended in the past where, following the seriousness of the service, mourners, glad of a chance to relax at the wake, became merry as drinks flowed and fond memories of the deceased were shared. Barry had been remembered with a copious amount of alcohol, but with doubts about his death, no one wanted to appear jolly, as they recalled happier times in his company. Everyone was shocked at the suddenness of his demise and Marjorie knew that some found it hard to fathom why Barry would take his own life.
Marjorie was surprised by the number of village residents who’d turned out. People that they’d met during their time at Holly House had been eager to pay their respects. From local shopkeepers and dog-walkers to drinkers at the pub where Barry was a regular, they’d come out in force, together with a large contingent of workers from Castle Care Communities, Barry’s employer. He’d worked there as Operations Director for many years. Kind words were spoken and Reggie, the landlord at the Holly Bush, had told Marjorie that Barry was one of the nicest blokes he’d ever known and would be greatly missed on darts and domino nights.
She moved about the room. A photograph in a silver frame showed the two of them on holiday in Sorrento. Barry was squinting in the sun and he laughed into the camera lens, while a passer-by snapped the shot. Barry’s reading glasses lay on top of a James Patterson novel, indexed by a bookmark and, on a games table, his chess set was ready to play. A painting of Camilla, Barry’s daughter, hung above the mantlepiece. It showed her astride a pony in a paddock. Marjorie stared at the little girl, who would have been about eight years old when the painting was commissioned. Camilla’s shock of white blonde hair peeped out of her riding cap and two stumpy plaits lay on her shoulders. The child’s skin was like porcelain and she was smiling as she sat upright, gripping the reins. She looked happy and Marjorie remembered that Barry had often recalled fun-filled days as Camilla grew up.
Marjorie turned away from the painting and sighed. Camilla had turned into a monster and did everything in her power to make Marjorie’s life a misery. Whatever had happened to that endearing child? The two women had argued heatedly at the funeral and tempers had been strained. Marjorie felt that Camilla blamed her stepmother for her father’s death and like a gaping wound that wouldn’t heal, the women would never agree. The police had given Barry’s cause of death as suicide and that was an end to the matter as far as anyone else was concerned. But Marjorie still couldn’t believe that Barry would leave her in such a way. It was completely out of character and she felt helpless to prove otherwise.
No one wanted to know.
Marjorie walked into the conservatory and stared out at the rain. The garden looked damp and dismal. Thank goodness it had been fine the day before, she thought. Guests had been able to sit outside and eat from a buffet, set up under a gazebo. The caterers had been efficient but as she stared at the debris of empty glasses and discarded plates, she knew that she would have to face the deluge and clear away the clutter.
Marjorie couldn’t abide mess.
Her home was a showpiece, a stylish environment that reflected her taste. With fashionable neutral tones and flashes of bold, inspirational colour, she was proud of the blend of sophistication that she’d created in a house that for years, before their arrival, had seen nothing but neglect. Barry always balked at the cost, but he enjoyed showing their home off. They’d held many a barbeque or dinner party and weekend guests sent glowing notes of appreciation, praising the hosts for their attention to detail. But the party days were over. Barry was gone and there was every chance that she would lose the property. Marjorie felt a sense of dread as she contemplated her future.
Keeping busy would help, she told herself and, quickening her step, she headed for the cloakroom to find her raincoat and boots.
HATTIE WOKE EARLY. Rain pelted against the windows in her room, pounding the frail glass. Ancient cracks leaked water, creating puddles on the sill that dripped steadily onto the floorboards below. ‘Damn!’ she said and swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘Another job for Alf.’
Hattie padded across the room. She wore a silky negligee, which had been one of Hugo’s favourites. It clung to her voluptuous body and the neckline accentuated her full breasts and cleavage. Hattie was proud of her figure. She was no stick-insect, but neither was she overweight, despite her voracious appetite. With a metabolism that motored along nicely and a face that wore her years well, Hattie knew that she looked good in her fifties and was proud that she could still attract attention.
A towel lay on a pile of clothing, draped across a chair. Hattie grabbed it and dabbed at the pooling water. She looked out to her neighbour’s house, where a woman, wandering around the garden, caught her eye. The woman wore a stylish mac and headscarf and was busy stacking chairs under a gazebo, where the remains of yesterday’s wake lay on a sagging trestle table. With no sign of help from anyone else, Hattie considered giving the woman a hand. It might be a good way of introducing herself and an opportunity to have a nose around next door.
A few moments later, Hattie was dressed and striding along the lane. Her wellies pounded across the driveway of Holly House and she pulled at the hood of her old duffle-coat as she made her way past several outbuildings and into the garden.
‘Hello there!’ Hattie called out and held up her hand. The woman paused in her deliberations to turn and stare at the approaching figure. ‘I’ve moved into Holly Cottage,’ Hattie began. ‘I noticed that you had a bit to do and wondered if I can help clear up.’ Hattie studied her new neighbour. She was similar in age, and attractive, with mid-life beginning to show on lines that crinkled around her eyes. Her blonde hair, beneath the scarf, was straight and long and hung damply across her shoulders.
‘Hello,’ the woman said, ‘I’m Marjorie Delaney.’
‘Hattie Mulberry, pleased to meet you. Should I help with those chairs?’ Hattie nodded towards the gazebo.
Marjorie turned her head and was thoughtful as she stared at the chaos. ‘No, it’s good to have some company, let’s leave them, the gardener can sort it out.
We’ll get out of the rain; would you like a coffee?’
‘Sounds like a grand idea, if you’re sure it’s no trouble.’
‘None at all, follow me.’
Marjorie led Hattie through the garden and, as she stepped into a conservatory, she shrugged off her rain gear and indicated that Hattie do the same. Hattie followed her neighbour through the house and, while Marjorie prepared their drinks, she gazed around at the luxurious kitchen. The units were of a pale limed wood with Italian marbled surfaces in the softest shades of grey.
‘Have a seat,’ Marjorie said and pulled out a chair. She placed a tray of coffee and bisc
uits on the table and, sitting opposite Hattie, began to pour. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Yes, please.’ Hattie sat down and studied her surroundings. The room was straight out of the pages of a lifestyle magazine and Hattie admired Marjorie’s taste, elegant in a minimalist sort of way.
‘Your home is lovely.’ Hattie reached for a shortbread and took a sip of her coffee. The house was delightful, and Hattie wondered why on earth Barry Delaney would want to cut short his time there. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your husband,’ she said, ‘I don’t wish to appear nosey, but it was obvious that you had a funeral here yesterday.’ Crumbs fell onto the table as Hattie nibbled and she brushed them away.
‘Yes, it was possibly the worst day of my life.’
‘It must be very difficult for you.’
‘I can’t imagine life without Barry.’ Marjorie let out a heavy sigh and nodded slowly. ‘It was a lovely service and the vicar did his best.’ She had a grim twist to her mouth as she looked down. ‘We buried Barry in the churchyard at Saint James’, in the village. I’ll go along later and have a look at the flowers, once the weather clears.’ Marjorie stared out of the window, where rain continued to fall on the neat expanse of lawn and immaculate borders. She gripped her mug. ‘Thank goodness we had sunshine yesterday and were able to enjoy the garden. Barry loves it out there.’
‘My willow tree is hanging very low over your hedge,’ Hattie said. ‘I’ll get it pruned.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Barry does that for your aunt.’ Marjorie’s eyes were dark, and her hand flew to her mouth. She closed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, what a stupid thing to say. I still can’t quite take it in. That he’s gone.’
‘Was it sudden?’ Hattie asked and immediately regretted her words. There was nothing more sudden than suicide.
‘Unexpected,’ Marjorie said. ‘He was found in the holly wood, just outside the village.’
‘I’m so sorry, it must be very difficult.’
‘Yes, Hattie, it is.’
The two women stared at each other.
‘But what of you? What brings you to our village?’ Marjorie asked.
‘My aunt left the cottage to me. I hadn’t a clue that I was named in her will, it was quite a surprise, I can tell you.’
‘I don’t remember you at her funeral.’
‘We never got on and I didn’t even know that she’d died.’
‘Annie wasn’t the most pleasant person to know,’ Marjorie said. ‘She kept to herself and refused all our invitations. Barry knew her better than me and would help with odd jobs from time to time.’
‘When my husband, Hugo, passed away I decided that I should come back to Cumbria.’ Hattie helped herself to another biscuit. ‘I’d lived in the county all my life, right up the time that we got married.’
‘How did he die?’
‘A massive heart attack. We were on a cruise, sitting at the captain’s table, when Hugo went face down in his dinner.’ Hattie looked wistful. ‘He hadn’t even started eating; it was a menu designed by a celebrity chef.’ She sighed. ‘We’d been looking forward to it.’
‘I’m so sorry, you must be devastated.’
‘I am. About Hugo, not the dinner.’ Hattie smiled. ‘I’m keeping a positive spin on things. Hugo and I were only married for two years and they were two of the
happiest of my life. I’m very lucky.’
‘Was it a second marriage?’
‘For me, yes, but it was Hugo’s first. He was much older, and we knew we were on borrowed time, so decided to make the most of it.’
‘You left Cumbria to live with him?’
‘Yes, I managed a hotel in Kirkton Sowerby, not far from here.’ Hattie smiled. ‘It’s owned by my friend, Jo Docherty. Hugo used to stay there.’
‘How lovely, you met through your work and decided to marry.’
‘Oh, it never felt like work to me, I adored my job. No two days were the same.’ Hattie grinned. ‘There was always something going on, regular visitors, locals, and a constant supply of guests getting up to all sorts of shenanigans. A hotel is a terrific place for intrigue.’
‘You enjoy intrigue?’
‘I love it. Nothing like a good mystery to solve, even if it is something as daft as where the couple in the honeymoon suite left their room key, when they decided to celebrate their vows with a roll in the hotel garden.’
‘You’d have made a good Miss Marple.’
‘My dream job!’ Hattie laughed. ‘But when Hugo proposed, I took a chance and, after our wedding, I moved to his house in Herefordshire. We didn’t spend much time there as he wanted me to travel and see the world. Cruising was the perfect thing to do as Hugo
loved travelling and I love to wine and dine.’
Marjorie poured more coffee. ‘Do go on.’
‘There’s not much to tell.’ Hattie stirred her drink. ‘The cottage is in a bit of a mess but I’ve a handyman, Alf, who will help out and hopefully get it in some sort of order. Perhaps you’ll come over and have a drink when you have time?’
‘I’d like that.’ Marjorie hesitated before continuing, as if weighing her words. When she spoke, she stared at Hattie. ‘We have something in common, both recently bereaved.’ She attempted a weary smile. ‘Thank you for coming over, it’s good to meet you.’
‘And you too.’ Hattie picked up her plate. ‘I’d better get back. Alf is due and I’m keen for him to get started.’
‘Oh, leave that, my cleaner will be in soon.’ Marjorie took the plate. ‘Pop in anytime and if you need help, just shout.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘Barry has tools for everything.’ Marjorie stopped and gripped the table. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘I must get used to the past tense.’
‘We both must.’ Hattie moved towards the kitchen door. ‘Thanks for the coffee. Don’t get up, I can see myself out.’ With a wave, she retraced her steps, found her duffle-coat and stepped out of the conservatory.
As she ran across the lawn, Hattie had a feeling that she was going to be seeing a great deal more of her new neighbour.
3
Hattie found Alf staring at the grass. She’d returned to the cottage and, with the rain abated and sunshine peeping out of the clouds, there was a fair chance that he’d get a few hours’ work done in the garden. There was a lot to do; it would take days, possibly weeks, to tidy things up. If he ever got a move on.
‘Is that the smell of bacon?’ Alf called out as Hattie unlatched the gate and stepped onto the path.
‘Aye, it might be,’ Hattie said and opened the door to the cottage.
‘Plenty of sauce, and don’t forget Ness.’
‘She’ll be lucky.’ Hattie looked at the dog who was wagging her tail as she snaked through the rooms, nose to the ground in search of crumbs.
A short while later, Hattie held out a tray. It was stacked with bacon butties and a large mug of tea. ‘Get your laughing gear around this lot, should keep you going for the day.’
‘At least ‘till elevenses.’ Alf sat down and sank his teeth into a thick round of soft white bread. Ketchup dripped onto his chin and he wiped it with the back of his hand. ‘Bloody lovely.’ He sighed with satisfaction.
Hattie joined Alf on the bench and took a sandwich. ‘Delicious.’ She sighed and licked her lips as she tasted the salty bacon. Reaching into the pocket of her coat, she pulled out a crust for Ness.
‘Tha’s spoilin’ her,’ Alf said, but he nodded his approval.
They ate in silence, both enjoying the breakfast.
‘That’ll keep me going for a bit,’ Hattie said and stood. ‘I’m off for a walk, I expect big changes in this garden when I get back.’ She pulled at the toggles on her coat to fasten them.
‘Dream on, it’ll take weeks to sort this lot. I’ll see thee later.’
HATTIE TUCKED her hands in her pockets and picked up her pace. It was an easy walk into the village and as she strolled down the lane and studied the view ahead, she thought about Alf and knew that he’d got his wor
k cut out at the cottage.
Alf had been part of her previous life, when the hotel occupied her every waking moment. Hattie had loved being involved in so much activity with different folk coming and going each day. For years there was always something that would amuse Jo and Hattie and turn their working life into a place where happy memories stayed in her head, long after she’d left the business. Alf had been a gamekeeper at first and, later, turned his hand to maintenance. He’d married Judy, who was now the manager at the hotel, and they’d been happily married for close on thirty years.
How the time had flown.
Jo still ran the hotel but had expanded and rolled the concept out. She spent her time between her businesses and, with Hattie married and travelling with Hugo on their cruises, the two friends had spent little time together in the past couple of years. Jo wanted Hattie to return to work, to be a part of the hotel again, in an environment that she’d loved. But Hattie had her doubts and felt that she couldn’t go back. With Hugo gone, it was time to find something new, something she could really get her teeth into, but so far, she hadn’t a clue what she wanted to do.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mulberry.’ Hattie looked up. On the other side of the road a woman of gargantuan proportions stood by a ladder and waved a limp chamois to attract Hattie’s attention.
‘Hello there,’ Hattie replied and looked at the woman, who’d stepped onto the ladder and now teetered precariously under a sign that read:
ROBERTS’ CONVENIENCE STORES
Underneath the word “Stores” further signage advertised a post office and gift shop within.
‘Have you settled in?’ the woman asked as she began to clean a window.
Hattie checked that there was no traffic heading in either direction, then stepped off the pavement to make her way over the road. She grabbed hold of the ladder, to steady the weight of the woman, who would surely topple over and crush anything in her path, including Hattie.
Hattie Goes to Hollywood: Shenanigans, fun & intrigue in a new mystery series! Page 2
