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

by Caroline James

  ‘Well, we had a great night in the pub and certainly celebrated the birth of your new family by drinking their health.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you.’ Alf took a mug of tea from Marjorie’s outstretched hand. ‘I’m just saying, don’t go breaking his heart.’

  Hattie sat down. She was tired. She’d had little sleep and had enjoyed a wonderful night with Reggie but again, he’d insinuated that their relationship was more than just a bit of fun and if truth be told, Hattie was terrified. She’d never planned to get involved; she hadn’t wanted to get involved with anyone. But Reggie was special, and Alf was absolutely right, she mustn’t break his heart, he deserved more than that.

  Hattie looked up, her eyes went from Alf to Marjorie. ‘So what’s bought you two grim reapers in off the street at the crack of dawn?’

  ‘I want to know what you want me to do next,’ Alf said.

  ‘And I want to know if I will be getting a life insurance pay-out.’ Marjorie raised her eyebrows. ‘Where are you up to, Miss Marple?’

  Hattie sighed and turned to Alf.

  ‘Go and build something for the ducks, something substantial and safe and duckorable. I don’t want any herons or foxes picking the baby ducklings off; they’re very vulnerable out there in the garden.’

  ‘Duckorable?’ Alf asked. ‘I’ll pad a pen out in plush velvet, shall I? With a red carpet leading down to the water?’

  ‘Whatever you think.’ Hattie was dismissive. ‘Now take your tea and be off; leave me to have a chat with Marjorie.’

  As Alf left the room, Marjorie took his seat. She had a china cup and saucer, from Hattie’s best set and, sipping her tea, leaned in to ask, ‘Is he good in bed?’

  ‘Who? Alf?’

  ‘No, don’t be stupid, I mean Reggie. I always thought he had his eye on me, so you were lucky when I let you get in there first.’

  ‘Yes, he goes like a freight train and lasts all night, is that what you want to hear?’

  ‘I thought as much.’ Marjorie looked peeved. ‘No need to rub it in.’

  Hattie shook her head. Marjorie was impossible. ‘I haven’t got anything new to tell you,’ she said, moving onto the subject of Marjorie’s investigation. ‘But I am fairly confident that Barry did commit suicide.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it is beginning to look that way.’

  ‘But why? You must have a reason?’

  Hattie wondered how much she should tell Marjorie but with a police investigation being carried out, she knew that she couldn’t say too much. ‘I don’t think things were all as kosher as they should have been at the manor and maybe Barry was aware of things he probably didn’t want to be aware of.’

  ‘Enough to kill himself?’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness, I can’t imagine what he knew.’ Marjorie’s face fell and she looked genuinely upset. She stood up and placed her cup and saucer in the sink. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk to clear my head.’

  ‘Aye, that’s a good idea.’ Hattie sighed. ‘I’ll tell you more when I can.’

  And as Hattie closed the door behind her neighbour and climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she had no idea that her assumptions about Barry’s death were almost, but not quite, correct.

  29

  Nancy had settled nicely into her luxurious holiday chalet in Abersoch. Having arrived during the evening of the previous day, she’d unpacked her case and eaten the sandwiches that Grace had prepared for her, then fallen into bed and slept like a log until late the following morning. When she woke, Nancy took a long lazy bath and flicked though the pages of a pile of magazines that she’d purchased at a service station, and, sipping a mug of fresh coffee, contemplated what to do with her day.

  She was so pleased that she hadn’t let the chalet out this summer. In the past she’d achieved a high rental income for such a well-appointed, deluxe holiday home and it had been in much demand. But for some reason, instinct had told her not to accept any bookings; instead she’d had decorators freshen the paintwork, both inside and out, and tidy the decking that overlooked the beach. Now, it felt wonderfully bright and welcoming. Like starting all over again.

  Having dressed in shorts and t-shirt, she decided to wander through the resort to the on-site supermarket to purchase supplies to keep her going for the next few days. Nancy hesitated when she noticed a bottle of bourbon on the packed shelves of spirits and settled instead for a bottle of white wine.

  She had no intention of ever being drunk again.

  As she paid for her groceries, she shuddered. The hangover she’d experienced was only just clearing and despite the remedy that Grace had given her, which had made her twitchy and nervous, she still felt dehydrated and tired. The cashier asked if Nancy would like her groceries delivered to her chalet and, after giving the girl her address, Nancy decided to make her way back by walking along the beach.

  Looking out across the bay, she could see that the tide was rolling in and she made her way along the road to a jetty that ran to the sea. As she stepped onto the beach, she slipped her sandals off and felt warm golden sand caress her toes. It was delicious! She ambled forward until she came to the water and stopped to let a fringe of lace wash over her feet, the white froth moving backwards and forwards, hypnotically.

  Nancy was entranced.

  For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was beginning to relax. The fresh salty air, the wide horizon and the cawing of gulls above the sound of breaking waves was so calming. She felt far from the pressure of work, where the constant demands on her time never ceased. Old people crying out, staff backstabbing, endless paperwork and so much to be done to keep everyone happy. She couldn’t remember the last time that she’d taken a holiday. Imagine! All the lovely properties that she’d amassed over the years and she’d never made the time to enjoy them.

  Nancy turned and began to walk, paddling in the warm water as she went along the beach. Children, still on school holidays, played a game of beach cricket nearby, boats bobbed about at sea and the drone from a power boat engine could be heard as cheering holiday makers water-skied across the bay.

  Abersoch was a beautiful place to be. Nancy couldn’t help but think of John and wonder if he would enjoy this resort. Known as The Warren, in summer, warm currents from the Gulf Stream drifted into the waters and fat grey seals basked on the islands that formed a small archipelago, called Saint Tudwal’s Islands, or St Tud’s to the locals. She hoped that one day, when they were finally together, they would be able to share their time here, relaxing in the chalet, lighting the wood-burning stove on chillier evenings or sunbathing on the patio overlooking the beach, in the warmer months. They might even have a dog, a companion to take on walks as they strolled hand-in-hand in the sunset.

  John had called her last night, to make sure that she’d arrived safely and to ensure that she had everything that she needed to make her stay comfortable. A large bouquet of red roses had arrived that afternoon too and Nancy had glowed with pleasure as she’d arranged them in a cut-glass vase and placed them on a table in the open-plan lounge. How wonderful it was to know that John loved her and that, soon, they’d be together. She would overcome this little hiccup at work and accept that she should be reprimanded, for John had assured her that he loved her and would sort everything out and she wasn’t to worry about anything at all.

  Nancy sighed as she let the balmy wind tousle her hair. She felt salt spray tingling against her skin and as the sun warmed her face and the soft surf lapped her feet, she made a sudden decision.

  She wasn’t going back.

  Nancy wanted to laugh out loud! She had the urge to run and jump and skip like a child for she’d never felt so free! Why on earth was she even contemplating returning to her job? Whatever had possessed her to even think that she would continue to work around the clock, at the beck and call of others, when she could, without any trouble, sim
ply walk away. Wisely she’d emptied her desk of personal items, when the CQC inspectors went for a break and something to eat. It had been easy to clear the safe too, removing anything that she thought might point the finger dangerously in her direction. Her laptop was safe in the chalet and they’d find nothing incriminating on the company computer; she’d made sure that the logs and records were all in order, even though she’d had to falsify some of the data. In her bedroom, she’d stuffed all her jewellery and valuables into a holdall and only left when she was confident that she’d left nothing behind that would lay any blame on her. John would allow Nancy to be on paid leave for the foreseeable future and, when the time was right, she would simply resign and no one would be any the wiser, simply thinking that the manager had decided to take early retirement.

  But Nancy didn’t care what anyone would think. After all, once she was together with John the tongues would be wagging and gossip rife. But what did it matter? John would be free, having dumped the ghastly Venetia, and they would be able to be together. With the nursing homes sold, they could combine their property portfolio and work remotely, choosing to live wherever they liked.

  A beach ball hurtled in Nancy’s direction and, dropping her sandals, she ran to catch it then tossed it high into the sky towards the children who’d thrown it. She smiled as she watched the family playing, their dog joining in too, chasing the ball along the sand, tail wagging and tongue lolling.

  How marvellous she felt. To have made this lifechanging decision! How wonderful her life with John was going to be. She had no need to be anxious, nor to worry about the running of Marland Manor. All she had to be concerned about, John had told her, was that she released the funds that she’d raised, as soon as she received them, transferring them to his bank account as he’d instructed. Then, she simply had to sign the documentation that was to be delivered that week, by courier from John’s solicitor. It was easy. She was happy and, she thought, the sooner things got moving with refinancing the properties, the sooner she could start reshaping the rest of her life.

  Nancy hadn’t realised how far she’d walked along the beach and, looking up, she saw that she’d arrived at the granite headland of Mynydd Tr-y-Cwmwd at the north-eastern end. Turning around, she set off walking. The wind had got up and, with a strong squall now blowing, she braced herself and moved forward. Sand stuck to her skin and, with the tide rushing in, she moved higher up the beach to avoid being immersed. Nancy wasn’t used to walking, especially on a beach.

  She was relieved to see the roof of her chalet in the distance and as her footsteps became heavier and her breathing laboured, Nancy almost crawled up the steep dunes to find the beach-side entrance to her home. As she rose over the top and scrambled down through dense marram grass, which held the dune together, she gripped her sandals and fell, exhausted onto a deckchair. She closed her eyes, relieved to be back in the shelter of the enclosed garden of her home and, with a deep sigh, fell asleep.

  It was only a little while later that the sharp sound of approaching footsteps, crossing the concrete floor of the patio, alerted Nancy from her nap. The late afternoon sun was low but shone brightly on her face and she held a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the glare. Realising that she wasn’t alone, she called out, ‘Who’s there?’

  A shadow suddenly engulfed the deckchair and Nancy sat up. As her eyes began to focus and the shape materialised, she felt the colour drain from her face. Gripping the sides of the chair and with an impeding feeling of doom, she looked directly at the stranger before her.

  ‘Mrs Nancy Hildegarde Clifford?’

  ‘Er, yes, that’s my name.’

  ‘You are under arrest on suspicion of defrauding vulnerable adults,’ the stranger, a police officer, began. He leaned down to take her wrist, then continued, ‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ With a swift movement, he snapped on a pair of handcuffs and pulled Nancy to her feet. ‘I have a car waiting to take you the police station at Pwllheli.’

  Nancy felt the earth fall away from under her feet. She began to plead with the police officer, but he wasn’t listening and, together with a female colleague, led her away to a waiting vehicle. Nancy glanced around, praying that John was out there somewhere, hurrying to her rescue. She had begun to shake uncontrollably and, gasping for breath, felt the ground give way beneath her feet.

  As her world went black and her body slid to the floor, the last thing Nancy remembered was a voice that sounded very far away.

  ‘It’s her age; old ladies always faint when they’re frightened.’

  IN THE CHURCH OF SAINT JAMES in the Parish of Hollywood, the vicar was taking a visitor on a guided tour. Roger waxed lyrical about his beloved house of worship, pointing out the ancient stained-glass windows and sturdy stone walls, that over the centuries had stood the test of time. His arms were wide as he stood in the belfry and showed the American sightseer the magnificent bells of Saint James. As they walked through the cool aisles to the nave, the American twitched his nose at the strong Anglican smell of musty prayer books and wilting lilies that cascaded from a vase on the pulpit, intensified by the heavy heat that surged through open oak door.

  ‘Ah, here’s my beloved wife,’ Roger said as he saw Penny, who’d paused in the vestibule, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the church as she stepped out of the early evening sunshine. ‘Good luck in tracing your ancestors,’ he said to the visitor, ‘don’t forget to check the headstones in the graveyard; Truman is an unusual surname.’ Roger turned and walked away.

  Penny came forward. Her face was hot and flushed and she dabbed at her skin with a tissue and allowed her husband to kiss the top of her head. She held her hand to his face and stroked his smooth, tanned skin. ‘You look very groomed,’ she said. ‘Have you been to the barber?’

  ‘I have to keep up appearances,’ Roger said. ‘No one wants to see a crusty old vicar.’ He ran a hand through his gleaming hair. ‘What brings you here, my dear? I thought that you had a sit-knit-and-chit group this evening.’

  ‘I did, but I couldn’t sit comfortably, nor knit or chit. It’s just too hot.’ She rubbed her bump, then, leaning on a pew for support, held a hand to her lower back. ‘I’ve left the children in the creche at the group. One of the other mothers said she’d keep an eye on them until I go back to pick them up.’

  ‘Of course. Do you need to rest?’

  ‘No, the baby is kicking, and I thought I’d have a little walk, to try and settle it down a bit.’

  ‘Very well, but do be careful, you’ve only a few weeks to go.’ Roger touched Penny’s bag, which was slung over her shoulder. ‘Call me if you need me; do you have your mobile?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Have you got any water? You must quench your thirst in this weather.’

  ‘I’ll call at the shop and pick a bottle up.’

  Roger nodded. ‘I may be late coming home,’ he said. ‘I have to visit a troubled soul, who needs spiritual guidance.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll put the children to bed. I doubt that I’ll still be up when you get in, I need an early night.’ Penny sighed. ‘It’s so difficult to get any sleep in this heat.’

  Roger watched Penny as she wobbled out of the church. Her burdensome figure made a bumpy silhouette against threads of light that lingered in a darkening sky. He was left alone in the quietness and, even though it was early, he decided to lock up. If there were any parishioners in the vicinity who needed to come to the house of the Lord to spend time with him in prayer, they’d have to come back in the morning.

  Roger had a lot of administration work to do but this was a task that he loathed and he’d no intention of getting on with it that evening. He looked at his watch. Time was moving on. Reaching into his pocket, Roger produced a bunch of keys then locked the main door and hurried along the aisle until he came to a side room, where h
e removed his clerical collar and tucked it into his pocket. He had a smart, short-sleeved cotton shirt on a hanger, behind his vestments, and, turning a tap in the stone sink in a corner, he slipped out of his cassock and splashed cold water over his perspiring body. Checking his neatly manicured nails, he dabbed his favourite spicy cologne onto his face and body. Refreshed and dressed in the clean shirt and trousers, Roger let himself out of the church through a rear exit, to hasten across the car park.

  As he sped through the village, he smiled. Visits to this particular person in need did not necessarily involve helping them find Jesus. But the Lord’s calling was strong and as Roger joined the main road, he put his foot down and accelerated out of Hollywood, without so much as a thought for the good Hollywood folk and family he left behind.

  30

  Hattie was restless. She’d spent most of the day trying to work out in her mind what had really happened to cause the death of three people but now, many hours later, she was none the wiser. Despite an afternoon nap, her head was spinning with a number of possibilities, but none of them felt right. The hot and humid weather didn’t help. It made concentration difficult, and all she really wanted to do was rest.

  She sat in the conservatory and looked out. The sun was low in the sky and rich hues of red blended with orange and crimson, as puffy clouds blushed in the near perfect light of yet another glorious summer’s day.

  Hattie reflected on the weather. In the short time that she’d lived in Hollywood, she’d enjoyed a wonderful summer, with temperatures reaching new records and water supplies in some counties at dangerously low levels. The butts that Alf had placed under the spouts, from the guttering around her home, were dry and the level of the pond was low. It worried Hattie. Although a Mediterranean atmosphere was a delight rarely enjoyed during a British summer, everywhere needed rain. Farmers, already harvesting, were concerned that there wouldn’t be enough water for their livestock if the drought continued.