Hattie Goes to Hollywood: Shenanigans, fun & intrigue in a new mystery series!

by Caroline James

  In memory of Hugo, Hattie named her new business H&H Investigations. The “H’s” formed an attractive logo and with the computer skills she’d learned from setting up systems at the hotel, Hattie designed a website. The home page was simple and gave little away. She’d already placed an advert in The Lady magazine and the local newspaper; it was discreet and to the point.

  H&H Investigations

  We offer a discreet and confidential service

  Let H&H help

  For further details contact: info@handh.com

  ‘THAT’S A BIT LIGHT ON INFORMATION,’ Alf said one morning, as he looked over Hattie’s shoulder and viewed a copy of her advert. ‘Shouldn’t tha’ have added a bit more?’

  ‘Like what?’ Hattie replied. ‘I haven’t a clue what I’m going to be doing until I start and, let’s face it, I haven’t done anything like this before.’ She scowled. ‘Anyway, this has already gone to print. I hope it works.’ Hattie pushed the advert to one side. ‘Let’s see what comes in once it’s had time to circulate.’

  ‘Do you need a licence to be a private investigator?’ Alf asked.

  ‘Apparently not, I’ve checked.’

  ‘No excuses for you not to get cracking then.’

  A delivery of new furniture had arrived. It sat in boxes on the path and Alf helped Hattie unpack. ‘This is posh,’ he said as he moved a heavy oak desk into position in the office.

  ‘I want to be comfortable.’ Hattie sat down on an expensive captain’s chair and leaned back in the padded leather seat.

  ‘Where’s the other chairs?’ Alf looked around.

  ‘There aren’t any.’ Hattie looked out of an open window to admire the view.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I won’t be taking visitors; only you and I know what I’m going to be doing.’

  ‘The dog and duck too.’

  Ness had placed her paws on the windowsill and looked in. The duck’s head popped up, as he tried to look over the sill. Quack, Quack!

  ‘Oh hell, that damn duck is never away.’ Hattie stood and shooed the animals.

  ‘He needs a stretch of water.’

  ‘He’s got one in the village.’

  ‘You could have a grand pond out there in your garden.’ Alf studied the lay of the land.

  ‘Why not build an animal sanctuary while you’re at it?’ Hattie said. ‘Now be off with you, I’ve got things to do.’

  But in truth, Hattie thought, as she watched Alf traipse across the garden, she had bugger all to do.

  A week had gone by since she’d placed an ad in the Cumbrian Advertiser and The Lady and so far, nothing riveting had come in. An elderly gentleman had rung to ask for an investigator to find out why his dog was getting fat. It hadn’t been rocket science for Hattie to discover that the animal had a habit of slipping out of the garden, to wander around the sheltered housing complex where it lived, to be fed by pitying strangers of mature years, who were short of canine company. She’d turned down the opportunity to find a missing mountain bike and was reluctant to discover if the wife of a local farmer was an internet porn-star on a website called Farmers’ Wicked Wives.

  She’d set up her new laptop and positioned the phone then fiddled about with pens and pads, placing everything neatly on the desk. In the drawers, empty files sat waiting to be filled with interesting titbits and notes from the many cases Hattie hoped to be working on. A fridge blended into a row of cupboards and Hattie eyed the integrated door. There was a good supply of gin within and several bottles of tonic chilling nicely.

  It would be useful to have a livener to hand.

  ‘Tha’s got a visitor,’ Alf called through the open window as he went past with a wheelbarrow, its wheel squeaking under the weight of a mound of earth. ‘Marjorie is looking for you.’

  ‘Shite,’ Hattie replied and threw herself under the desk. ‘Tell her I’m out.’ The last thing Hattie wanted was Marjorie poking her nose around in the new office. It would require an explanation that Hattie was unwilling to give.

  ‘Too late…’ Alf smirked.

  ‘Anyone home?’ Marjorie called and pushed on the door of the office as Hattie scrambled back into her chair and attempted to look composed.

  ‘In here,’ Hattie said. Her face was red, and she was flustered as she pushed tousled hair off her face.‘Oh, there you are. I saw your car and knew that you must be about somewhere.’ Marjorie stepped into the room. ‘I made you a lemon drizzle.’

  Hattie looked at the cake that Marjorie had placed on the desk. It lay on a lacy doily on a pretty china plate. ‘How lovely, thank you.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you worked from home.’ Marjorie looked around the room. ‘This is a very nice office.’

  ‘Er, thank you.’ Hattie hoped that Marjorie would take the hint that it was a working environment and push off.

  ‘What is it that you do?’ Marjorie asked as the door partly opened and a kitchen chair miraculously materialised from Alf’s beefy hands.

  Hattie cursed Alf under her breath as Marjorie sat down.

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ Hattie said and leaned in to gather her papers. But Marjorie had a sharp eye and had seen Hattie’s advert on the desk. She snatched it up and, as she read the wording, her face lit up.

  ‘How bloody marvellous!’ Marjorie said and looked at her neighbour with respect. ‘Our very own Miss Marple, alive and well and living in Hollywood.’

  ‘Well, I would put it quite like that.’ Hattie grabbed the advert and put it face-down on her desk.

  ‘Do tell. I want to hear all about your investigations.’ Marjorie placed her bag on her knee and, unzipping her jacket, made herself comfortable.

  ‘Well, it’s very confidential,’ Hattie said, unable to look Marjorie in the eye. ‘I couldn’t possibly discuss my cases.’

  ‘Of course, I quite understand.’

  ‘Each one is different.’ Hattie thought about the fat dog and the farmer’s naked wife.

  ‘It must be fascinating.’

  ‘Yes, riveting.’ Hattie stood up and reached for the cake. She opened a cupboard and produced two plates and a knife. ‘Shall we have a slice?’ She cut two good sized portions. ‘And a drink to go with it.’ Hattie produced glasses and, after retrieving supplies from the fridge, poured them both a gin and tonic.

  ‘I don’t normally drink at this time of day,’ Marjorie said and took a slug.

  And I don’t normally pretend to be an experienced investigator! Hattie thought, as she savoured the light sponge and tangy lemon icing. Wiping crumbs from her lips, she studied Marjorie’s immaculate hairstyle and trim figure and wondered if she could replicate the casual elegance of crisp white blouse, navy gilet with gold buttons and designer trousers. Probably not. Hattie visualised herself as an over-weight sailor in drag and looked away.

  ‘You’ve heard the village gossip?’ Marjorie asked and placed her half-finished cake on her plate. She drained her glass and stared at Hattie.

  ‘Which particular gossip is that?’ Hattie thought about the rumour that Reggie was already a regular in her bed and wished that it were true.

  ‘That I’m responsible for Barry’s death.’

  ‘Crikey,’ Hattie said and reached out to refill Marjorie’s glass. ‘How do they make that out?’

  ‘They think I might be hiding something, that I was having an affair, or I’d spent all his money.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Marjorie said. ‘I loved him; I gave up my well-paid job with a very good firm to be with him. We were happy.’

  Hattie wasn’t too sure about that. With a difficult stepdaughter and a property that clearly cost a bomb to maintain, alongside Marjorie’s penchant for designer clothes and trips to the beauticians, Hattie thought that if Barry had his work cut-out financially, there was bound to be stress on the relationship.

  ‘The only thing I’m hiding is that I’ll struggle to pay the mortgage without Barry’s income.’ Marjorie spoke quietly and stared out of th
e window.

  ‘But he left everything to you?’

  ‘And Camilla is contesting that, it could go on forever and, in the meantime, I’m broke.’

  ‘What about Barry’s boss? Didn’t he offer to help you?’

  ‘John?’ Marjorie shook her head. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of him but he’s not returning my calls. I think he just wants me to go away.’

  ‘You could go back to work?’

  Marjorie scowled. Lining up at the job centre was clearly not an option.

  ‘Have you any savings?’

  ‘Savings?’ Marjorie looked astonished. ‘We had two expensive holidays a year, weekends away, the golf club fees, and Barry was always at the pub. We entertained regularly and the house is mortgaged up to the limit. Do I need to go on?’ Marjorie had tears in her eyes. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if the life insurance would come through; it’s the one thing I’m depending on. If that paid out, my money worries would be over.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s good, Barry had a life insurance policy?’

  ‘Yes, he took it out six months ago, but the insurers won’t pay out on a suicide within twelve months.’ Marjorie sighed. ‘They have a clause that prevents those in financial difficulties killing themselves to help their families. I’m arguing my case with them.’

  ‘Do you think Barry committed suicide?’ Hattie was blunt but it had to asked.

  ‘No, I don’t, it’s not possible. Barry wouldn’t leave me in this mess.’

  ‘Then it will remain a mystery.’ Hattie eyed Marjorie’s unfinished cake.

  Marjorie pushed her plate to one side, ‘But it’s a mystery that I would like you to solve.’

  ‘Eh? I mean, pardon?’ Hattie sat forward, cake forgotten, unsure that she’d heard Marjorie correctly.

  ‘Well, you’re the perfect person to ask questions about his death; you obviously have tons of experience in this sort of thing. I’m sure you have testimonials piled high.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Oh, you’re just being modest, I’m sure you’ve handled similar cases,’ Marjorie said. ‘I can’t pay anything now, but if you sort things out, I can pay later, when you’ve solved the case.’

  Hattie wasn’t bothered about the money, but it would look unprofessional if she didn’t discuss her fee. She also knew that Marjorie was in no position to fund another investigator. This could work well for both of them.

  ‘Yes, I suppose we could come to an arrangement.’ Hattie remembered Marjorie’s flair for interior design and her stylish home. There might be a deal to be done. ‘Perhaps you could liaise with Alf to make something of my cottage?’

  Marjorie clasped her hands together. A look of pleasure swept across her face. ‘Oh, that would be wonderful. I haven’t had a project in ages. It would give me the greatest joy to give you some help and advice.’

  Marjorie had come alive and, as Hattie contemplated the circumstances, she realised that they would both be helping the other, with each having a purpose, enabling them to do something positive with their lives.

  Hattie smiled. She had her first case!

  ‘Now let’s get things straight before we start,’ Hattie said and reached for a pen and pad. ‘Point one, I cannot make any guarantee that I will be able to prove that Barry’s death was not a suicide, but I promise that I will do my best to find out everything I can.’ She made a note and looked up at Marjorie, who nodded her head in agreement. ‘Point two,’ Hattie continued, ‘under no circumstances whatsoever will you ever disclose my role or indeed my business; it must be kept absolutely confidential.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘The only person who is aware of what I do is Alf.’

  ‘Alf?’

  ‘Alf.’

  Marjorie looked perplexed. ‘Well, I’m sure that you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Alf and I go back a great number of years and I trust him implicitly.’ Hattie was firm. ‘But you must not discuss anything with him.’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then we have a deal?’ Marjorie stood up.

  ‘We do.’

  The two women shook hands.

  ‘I suggest that we make a start in the morning,’ Hattie said. ‘I’ll be over at yours at nine o’clock. Make sure your cleaner and gardener are out of the way. I’ve a lot of background information to discuss with you.’

  Marjorie tucked her bag under her arm. She thrust her hands into the pockets on her gilet and gave Hattie a warm smile. ‘I’ll be ready and waiting.’

  I bet you will, Hattie thought as she watched Marjorie leave the office. There’s a lot more to this case than meets the eye!

  ‘All sorted?’ Alf appeared at the open window. ‘Got her signed up?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Well, if tha’ canna’ work that one out, tha’ll be no good as a private dick.’

  ‘A bit less of the “dick”,’ Hattie said and thought of Reggie. She might wander over to the pub for her lunch.

  ‘Have I got to start takin’ orders off her?’ Alf asked and nodded towards the big house next door.

  Hattie wondered if Alf had been listening at the keyhole but decided to let it pass. ‘The only person you’ll be taking orders from is me. However, Marjorie might be discussing certain points, to do with the renovation of the cottage.’

  ‘Grand.’ Alf grinned. ‘We’ll have it like a little palace in no time and not the run-down dump you seem happy to squat in.’ Having made his point, he gave Hattie a nod and disappeared back to the garden.

  Bloody cheek! Hattie thought. But in her heart, she knew that Alf was right. She’d had no interest in the cottage and needed a kick up the backside as far as improvements were concerned. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have the money and Marjorie would be an asset. She picked up her bag and locked the office door. She had much to think about and would concentrate better on a full stomach.

  With a happy smile, Hattie set off for the pub.

  6

  July had begun with several days of continuous hot weather and, having splashed out on several new outfits, Hattie was pleased with her choice of dress as she commenced her daily walk. She wore a pretty red tunic in a soft cotton jersey, which flattered her figure, the cut of the neck emphasising her generous breasts. A pair of new trainers of the softest cream leather felt light on Hattie’s feet, giving her a spring in her step as she headed towards the holly wood via the village. Her recent meeting with Marjorie had given Hattie much to think about and she wanted to begin by visiting the place where Barry had died.

  ‘Off gallivanting?’ Reggie called out. He sat on a bench outside the pub.

  ‘Just stretching my legs,’ Hattie replied and she adjusted her sunglasses, as she looked at the landlord relaxing in the sunshine.

  ‘Come and stretch them over this bench and let me buy you a drink.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  Minutes later, Reggie placed a large gin and tonic in front of Hattie. He sat down beside her and held his deeply tanned face up to the sun. ‘Lovely weather,’ he said, ‘you should have your bikini on.’

  ‘Aye, maybe I should.’ Hattie knew that her bikini days were well and truly over but was flattered by Reggie’s comment.

  ‘It would be nice in your sunny cottage garden, relaxing on a lounger.’

  ‘No doubt about that,’ Hattie said and sipped her drink.

  ‘I could nip around to yours and rub lotion on your back.’

  ‘It’s a job you could be suited to do.’

  ‘So, when shall I pop over?’

  ‘You’re far too busy here to be out and about.’ Hattie nodded towards a crowd of ramblers who were heading to the pub garden.

  Reggie scowled as the party spread out, occupying every available seat. ‘There’ll come a time.’ With a smile, he jumped to his feet and disappeared into the pub.

  Hattie watched him go and wondered if she was cut out for Reggie. She liked a b
it of a challenge under normal circumstances but in Reggie’s case felt that if she turned up wearing a bin-liner, he would still make advances.

  The sun was delicious and, having layered her fair skin with a large amount of factor thirty before she set out, Hattie sat back, closed her eyes and enjoyed the warm rays. Her mind drifted over her talk with Marjorie and the plans she needed to put in place.

  ‘Is it Mrs Mulberry?’

  Hattie looked up. A man stood by the bench and as she squinted to avoid the sun, she saw that he wore a clerical shirt with a tab collar and dark trousers. Bloody hell, it’s the vicar! Hattie was reminded of the many calling cards he’d left at the cottage, which so far, she’d chosen to ignore.

  ‘I thought it might be you,’ he said. ‘Mrs Roberts at the shop said that she’d seen you passing this way,’ he paused, ‘may I?’ He indicated the seat beside Hattie and before she could respond, plonked himself down.

  ‘Well, vicar,’ Hattie said, inwardly cursing Joan, ‘I’ve been meaning to pop over to the vicarage to meet you and your wife, but I’ve been so busy.’

  The vicar looked around to see if Hattie had company. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said.

  Hattie wasn’t sure that he saw at all and wished that she’d sat inside the pub. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘My wife and I wanted to welcome you to the village and ask if we might have the pleasure of your company in church on Sunday?’

  ‘Well, that’s thoughtful of you.’ Hattie caught Reggie’s eye as he went past with a tray loaded with pints of beer. ‘Another tonic water over here, landlord, and one for the vicar when you have a moment.’

  ‘I’ll have a pint, very kind.’ The vicar smiled. ‘And do please call me Roger. Roger Yarwood at your service.’ His hand reached out and squeezed Hattie’s shoulder.