Blood and Broomsticks

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘OK if I go as myself?’

  ‘No. You have to be Gomez Addams to my Morticia.’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes has nothing to do with Hallowe’en.’

  Some pretty hot sexual antics weakened his resolve; food might be the way to some men’s hearts, but in Doherty’s case it was sex. He would accompany her wearing suitable costume and be pleased to do so. As long as she took her clothes off right now.

  It was a small price to pay, anyway she was quite keen on getting up front and personal with him. As for the party? Of course he was coming. He was putty in her hands.

  Honey should have remembered that the end of October was not her favourite time of year and that the demands of life were not constrained to the Green River Hotel. She had a family to contend with, though that shouldn’t have made that much difference. As Smudger the chef was fond of telling her, manure becomes a four-letter word when it falls on top of you.

  If her old Citroen hadn’t developed a technical fault, and if Ahmed at the oily little repair shop beneath the arches hadn’t let her down, then the accident would never have happened.

  ‘There’s a gremlin in the electrical department,’ proclaimed Ahmed Clifford – son of a Somerset chip shop owner and a widow with three children and a market stall. Ahmed was the only result of their union. He said this while running his greasy right hand through his equally greasy long hair.

  Ahmed didn’t look like your average mechanic. He looked like a Bollywood leading man, milk chocolate skin, glossy shoulder length hair, and long black eyelashes far more luscious than anything Max Factor could produce. His eyes glowed with dark depths, though they needed to set as they were in a face continually greasy from the cars he worked on.

  Honey took the statement on board assuming he was referring to her car’s electrical department – the tangle of wiring embedded beneath its metal skin.

  ‘I know she’s a little cantankerous, but I do believe it’s part of her charm and …’

  ‘… her electrics are lousy. Dangerous even.’ Ahmed had a habit of butting in before a sentence was finished. ‘It’s a Citroen. It’s French. Anyone with any sense knows that French electrics are crap. There’s a gremlin on the production line.’ He had to be kidding. Did he really believe in a green gremlin chuckling wickedly to itself while pulling wires from where they should be and putting them where they shouldn’t?

  ‘If he exists, I hope he’s well insulated and isn’t likely to …’

  ‘… catch fire. The car might. That’s the dodgy thing about electrics.’

  Ahmed shrugged and lit up another cigarette. The fact that both he and his workshop were coated with flammable substances didn’t seem to worry him.

  ‘How soon can you fix it?’ She spoke quickly before Ahmed could pre-empt and answer the question before she’d actually asked it.

  His sucked in breath made a hissing sound through his pearly white teeth. He shook his head, expression as morose as a down at heel funeral director.

  ‘It’s a big job. Not easy at all.’

  It was as though somebody had shoved an icicle down Honey’s back. A very long icicle. One of those with a pointed end that drips cold water. Ever the optimist, she’d expected him to tell her that hey ho, it would be fixed in the shake of a lamb’s tail. But she’d heard that hissing before; it was made by anyone in the business of fixing things or rather inferring that something was not fixable. The writing was on the wall; her vehicle needed to stay in the automotive equivalent of intensive care. Hopefully there would be a full recovery. But this was a car and not just a French car. It was her wheels, her mode of transport, imperative to survival.

  ‘I really need it …’

  ‘… back in a hurry. Of course you do. Sorry. It’ll take a week at least. I’m stacked out with work as it is and tracing an electrical fault takes time.

  Honey huffed out a sigh. Bath was a great city for walking, but there were times, such as shopping at the cash and carry, escaping to do serious shopping in London, or driving her mother to somewhere she just had to be, when she badly needed a car. Her gaze scooted over three or four cars parked on the forecourt. Two or three of them sported for sale notices. She wondered whether he hired them too.

  ‘Do you …?’

  ‘… hire cars? No. Sorry.’

  ‘Ever thought of …?’

  ‘… running a few cars I can let out to customers whose cars are being repaired? No. Running a hire fleet can be expensive. It’s the insurance, you see.’

  ‘I was about to ask if you’d ever thought about going on the stage.’

  His teeth flashed white against dark skin and a wreath of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Not stage. Film. I wouldn’t mind being a film star. I can do all the dance moves.’

  Suddenly he broke into song while gyrating like a Bollywood superstar, rolling his eyes and flapping his hands – all to the sound of a rock and roll number sung in Urdu.

  ‘No,’ said Honey once the performance was ended. ‘Stage. As a mind reader.’

  She repeated all this to Doherty in the smoky darkness of the Zodiac Club.

  ‘No bloody car and my mother wants me to go with her to meet a friend who’s down. I suppose I’ll have to hire one – but the cost …’

  ‘Is this a life and death kind of visit?’

  ‘You could say that. Her friend’s husband’s gone off. Left her a goodbye note and said he was going to travel the world to find himself. My mother’s offered my services; wants me to find him.’

  ‘PI Driver,’ he said with a grin. ‘Have you any idea how many people leave to find themselves every year?’

  ‘Lots, I would guess, though not many in their late eighties. And not many with a wife offering five grand to whoever finds out where he is.’

  Doherty gulped. Honey wasn’t sure whether it was in disbelief or amusement. Probably both.

  ‘And before you ask, Rhoda is also in her eighties. So it is life and death in that both of them have one foot on a bar of soap and the other in the grave.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, still looking amused, ‘I’m on a course in Reading for the next week. Borrow mine.’

  ‘My,’ she said, snuggling up to his shoulder. ‘More brownie points for you!’

  His grin widened. ‘I’ll collect them all later.’

  Doherty’s Toyota MR2 was made for two to share. It didn’t boast much room for shopping, but they were off to visit Rhoda Watchpole, one of her mother’s oldest friends.

  Rhoda lived in a two-bedroomed flat on the second floor of an apartment building catering exclusively for the over sixties. The broad door guarding the entrance was wide enough to take wheelchairs. It also closed slowly to allow for the entry of slow legs and Zimmer frames. In case of need there was also a warden on duty at all times.

  Gloria Cross, splendidly turned out in a damson coloured suede jacket, caramel sweater, and trousers the colour of Cornish cream, pressed the button for Rhoda’s flat. Honey was resplendent in faded jeans, a black sweater, scuffed boots, and a quilted jacket that smelled vaguely of wet dog.

  Rhoda’s voice sounded through an assortment of squeaks and asked who it was. The buzzing sound that followed happened at the same time as the lock released.

  The room they were shown into was stuffy. It was also very beige; light beige walls, dark beige furniture, beige and pink floral carpet.

  Honey had seen the woman before when dropping her mother off at some seniors do, but didn’t recall her being as fat as she was now. She certainly couldn’t recall her having a treble chin. Her hips fitted snugly in the wide armchair.

  A box of Marks and Spencer’s fresh cream cakes sat on a small occasional table within grabbing range. Half a chocolate éclair sat on top the box, all that remained of four cream cakes if the writing on the side of the box could be believed.

  Gloria Cross also noticed the cakes.

  ‘Am I reading right, Rhoda? There were four cakes in that b
ox?’

  Rhoda twisted her head and eyed the box over a buxom bosom.

  ‘Were there four?’

  Honey’s mother grimaced. ‘There certainly were. Marks and Spencer wouldn’t lie about a thing like that.’

  ‘They’re lovely,’ said Rhoda just before stuffing the half éclair into her mouth. ‘I can’t resist. My doctor says I’m comfort eating. I’ve let myself go, he said, and I really need to take control again. But it isn’t easy,’ she said, pulling a bunch of tissues from a box stuffed under a rim of fat where a waistline used to be. ‘I miss Bert so much. Why didn’t he say he wanted to go on one last adventure? I would have gone with him, honest I would.’

  A vision of the elephantine woman struggling up Everest or paddling a canoe up the Orinoco popped into Honey’s mind. In the first instance she would probably fall and bounce all the way back down again. In the second, her bulk would either capsize the canoe or she’d be stuck in it, never to escape until she’d lost a few pounds.

  Rhoda dabbed at her watery eyes and blew her snotty nose. A waste bin near her feet confirmed the fact that crying and eating took up most of her time. It was full of tissues, chocolate wrappers, and cake boxes.

  ‘Never mind, Rhoda. Honey’s here now. She’s going to call out an ABC and find that missing husband of yours.’

  Taking the opportunity to look out of the window at the neat lawns and bare flowerbeds, Honey rolled her eyes. Her mother was now referring to an APB like she’d heard the cops say on American TV shows. ABC or APB, neither would happen. The fact was she’d never had to locate a missing husband before – and not one in his late eighties who had gone on walkabout.

  ‘So when did this happen?’ asked Honey.

  Rhoda sniffed and looked around her. At first Honey presumed she was being secretive about the date for some odd reason, until she saw a second box of cakes. Mr Kipling’s apple pies. Honey handed them to her. Rhoda grabbed them with her podgy hands.

  ‘It was at the same time as Margaret Sinclair was taken away in the ambulance. The warden would have the correct date. I think she had breathing difficulties. Anyway, she never came back. In no time at all, her flat was up for sale and all her furniture taken away. Poor old soul. Still,’ she said, shaking her head as she ripped open the box of apple pies. ‘We’re all destined to go the same way, aren’t we?’

  Gloria Cross was having none of it. ‘Sooner rather than later if you keep stuffing back those cakes and pies, Rhoda. For goodness’ sake, get a grip! We’re here now and Honey, my detective daughter, is going to find Bert for you.’

  The first apple pie paused on its way to Rhoda’s mouth. The corners of her mouth turned down. It seemed Rhoda was about to break into tears again.

  ‘I can’t help it, Gloria,’ she wailed. ‘You have to understand. I miss Bert so much. Especially at night lying alone in bed.’

  Up until this point, Honey hadn’t been too sold on the idea of finding a missing husband, but seeing the woman’s copious tears, she couldn’t be cruel.

  ‘Look, Mrs Watchpole. I’ll do my best to find him. Perhaps that will help you control your comfort eating. Yes?’

  Honey’s mother was more to the point. ‘Look at it this way, Rhoda, if the poor man does come home, you’ll still be lying alone in bed – with all that fat you take up so much room there’ll be no room in bed for Bert.’

  When it came to making the best of what you had, Honey knew that her mother took no prisoners. There was no excuse for letting yourself go even when you were in your eighties and your husband has gone trekking in the Himalayas – or swimming with whales or whatever.

  Initially Honey presumed that Rhoda was about to burst into tears again. But she didn’t. She looked up at Gloria with moist round eyes.

  ‘You’re right, Gloria. You are SO right!’

  To Honey’s surprise the apple pie went back into its box and the box into the bin.

  Rhoda pulled herself up from her chair and studied her reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall.

  ‘I need to get my hair done before he gets back. Might even have a facial. Definitely a pedicure. My corns are playing me up rotten. Yes,’ she said, her eyes shining and fixed on Honey’s mother. ‘I need to get myself in shape before he comes back. I’ll join a gym; I’ll go jogging …’

  They left her there billowing with hope.

  On the way out Honey paid a visit to the warden’s flat which was on the ground floor. A man with Mediterranean looks and of the required sixty years of age and over answered the door. His eyes flitted over Honey and then landed on her mother.

  His smile was practised pure seduction. ‘Can I help you lovely ladies?’

  Honey heard the warning bells. Her mother had been a big Tony Curtis fan in his younger days – especially in Spartacus with Kirk Douglas. It was the short skirt that did it. Oh, and she had a weakness for Italians too.

  Honey pushed a protective shoulder between the warden and her mother and explained their reason for being there.

  ‘I’ve been retained by Mrs Watchpole to find her missing husband. Perhaps you could confirm some of the details such as when he went missing?’

  The deep brown eyes that had been locked with her mother’s haltingly returned to her – almost as though she’d just interrupted a very important conversation.

  ‘Mr Watchpole. Ah, yes. He went missing, but he left a note. He wasn’t murdered or kidnapped or anything. He just wanted to get away, I think.’

  ‘I know. I just want you to confirm the date. Mrs Watchpole said it was at the same time as another of your residents was carted away in an ambulance.’

  ‘Margaret Sinclair,’ her mother interjected. ‘Slim lady with pale blonde hair turning white. Used to be a model in her younger days for Norman Hartnell and Coco Chanel.’

  ‘You didn’t say,’ said Honey, eyeing her mother in disbelief.

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ said a smiling Gloria Cross, her faraway look and her enigmatic smile directed at the one-time Italian stallion standing in the doorway.

  ‘Come in, dear ladies,’ he said, swinging the door wide. ‘I will check the details for you. Can I offer you a drink? Tea, coffee, Chianti?’

  ‘No,’ said Honey.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gloria gliding past her daughter. ‘Wine.’

  Honey could hardly believe her ears. Her mother never drank wine at lunchtime. It wasn’t that often she drank it at dinnertime either.

  Reduced to being a second-rate performer in this particular scene, she followed the elderly couple. At one point it seemed the door would close on her, leaving her outside before she had chance to get in. Luckily her boots had no heel so she was quick on her feet.

  ‘My name is Tony,’ he said, her mother’s hand in his, his smile still sending a sexual message and his eyes looking deep into hers.

  ‘Anthony. I am so pleased to meet you,’ said Honey’s mother.

  ‘Antonio. Please. Call me Antonio.’ He kissed her hand.

  ‘A beautiful name,’ breathed Gloria Cross. ‘Italian, of course.’

  ‘My mother was Italian.’

  Honey looked at her mother’s awestruck expression and she could almost hear her mother’s heart racing.

  ‘The date. Could you check it,’ she persisted as the warden kissed her mother’s hand for the second time before enclosing it in both of his.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, his smile directed at her while his eyes devoured her mother from head to toe.

  Gloria positively preened at the attention she was receiving.

  The warden let go her hand long enough to delve into an elaborate bureau of tropical wood with mother-of-pearl decorations. It looked Italian. Just like him.

  He retrieved a diary bound in black vinyl, fluttered a few pages, and ran his finger down the dates.

  ‘July 23rd. It was a Tuesday evening at seven o’clock when the ambulance came for Mrs Parsons.’

  ‘At what time was it noticed that Mr Watchpole had gone missing?’ asked Honey.
>
  Antonio tossed his black haired head thoughtfully, eyes rising to the ceiling.

  ‘He’d started going to the gym. That’s where he went that morning, but he didn’t come back.’

  ‘Wasn’t he a bit old for the gym?’ said Honey.

  Both her mother and Antonio fixed her with a pitying look. ‘It was a class for the over-sixties,’ said Antonio. ‘It was geared for people who are not so athletic as they used to be. Stiff knees. Bad hips. Lumpy elbows.’

  Honey squirmed a bit but didn’t apologise. In her opinion she’d asked a totally reasonable question.

  ‘And the note. Do you know when was that discovered?’

  Saving his sugary smile for her mother, from whom his eyes never strayed, he nodded in answer to her question.

  ‘Mrs Watchpole found it tucked inside her weekly magazine which her husband had fetched from the shop on the corner before going to the gym.’

  On the way back to Bath Gloria expressed a wish to visit John Lewis to buy another friend a birthday present. On the way there they talked about Rhoda and Bert.

  ‘It was all carefully planned,’ said Honey. ‘Right down to leaving the note and taking a holdall into which he could pack the few things he needed. He must have really been keen to do a bit of soul-searching.’

  ‘It’s Rhoda’s own fault, of course. She was already putting on weight before he left,’ said her mother, her lips pursed in disapproval. ‘But now she’s worse. I’m of the firm opinion that she hasn’t seen her toes for a while, or anything else for that matter.’ She paused to gather her thoughts and the thoughts made her smile. ‘Hey. That warden. What a dish!’

  If she hadn’t been driving – and driving Doherty’s car at that – Honey would have closed her eyes and counted to ten.

  ‘I’m going to buy Cecily a pair of fish tweezers for her birthday.’

  ‘Not perfume?’

  ‘Of course not. Perfume is so ordinary.’

  Honey considered how she would feel on receiving a pair of fish tweezers as opposed to a 250ml of Chanel No.5. She also knew that once her mother had made up her mind about something, there was no point in arguing.

  The sales assistant had purple hair and a double chin but was very apologetic. ‘We have a very wide range of cooking utensils, but …’ He shrugged his shoulders and flapped his hands apologetically. Honey’s mother was most put out. ‘I know she really needed a pair of fish tweezers. Now what do I get her?’