by Rebecca Tope
Unless, perhaps, she had been actively aided and abetted by her friend and colleague Gillian Townsend. And that, to Simmy’s mind, made the whole theory even more ludicrous. Nobody could be more wholesome and law-abiding than Gillian. Despite her regular lapses in judgement, Simmy was thoroughly persuaded that she was right this time. If Gillian Townsend was party to a cruel and premeditated murder, then she, Simmy, would eat every tulip and gerbera in the shop.
Chapter Seventeen
She stayed at Beck View until almost nine, chatting rather absently to her father, while washing down the kitchen surfaces and eyeing her mother with some concern. Angie was looking a decade older than she had at the start of the year. ‘How many bookings have you got for the coming month?’ Simmy asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Three or four lots of people a week, as usual, I suppose. There’ll be some spur-of-the-moment ones as well. There’s a couple the week after next bringing two dogs. That’ll make extra cleaning.’
Simmy had been surprised to learn that people almost always let their dogs sleep on the beds. ‘That’s awful,’ she said, when first hearing of it. ‘Can’t you stop them?’
Angie had laughed. ‘Tell me how, and I might. We all pretend they’ll be on a blanket on the floor, but that never happens, unless the animal’s really huge. And actually it’s just as easy to get mud and hair off a duvet cover as it is off the carpet, when you think about it.’
Simmy had never thought about it at all. ‘Where do they eat?’ she’d wondered.
‘Mostly in the en suites, where they can wipe up any spilth.’ Spilth was a word coined by Russell, or so they believed. How the language had managed without it, they couldn’t imagine. Simmy’s father used it as often as he could, in the hope of sending it out into the world for the benefit of mankind.
The Lake District was famous for its dog-friendliness, with shops and even some restaurants allowing them in. It had become a selling point, and Angie had no plans to limit access to canine holidaymakers. She rejected Simmy’s suggestion that she should charge extra for them, too. ‘They really don’t involve any extra work,’ she insisted.
‘So the two dogs will sleep on the beds, will they?’ she asked now.
‘Probably,’ shrugged Angie.
Back in Troutbeck she phoned Christopher, with a sense of having short-changed him all week. She had told him little or nothing about the death of Declan Kennedy, unsure of his reaction. Whilst auctioneering had a famously seamy image, floristry did not, and she was reluctant to spoil the illusion any further than she had already. There was a lurking shameful shadow associated with the way a simple delivery of flowers could pull her into murky human depths. Somewhere, she felt it must be her own fault; she was doing something wrong, or failing to watch her step.
But not telling him carried its own problems. With Ben sceptical about Anita Olsen’s innocence, as well as being desperately busy, there was really nobody with whom to share her thoughts on the subject. Bonnie was in the other camp, Russell wasn’t well enough and Moxon would very likely tell her she was overstepping a mark.
‘I wish you could bring your dad to next weekend’s sale,’ Christopher said wistfully. ‘It’s going to be a bigger one than usual.’
‘I wish I could, as well. But there’s no way. I’m clearing the decks for Mother’s Day, making lots of lists, and trying to get someone in to help. Besides, Dad’s not really up to it yet.’ She told him about the broken china, and how upset her mother was. ‘She hides it, but I know she loved all those silly teapots and jugs.’
‘She should come to the sale as well, and get some new ones. We’ve kept some really good pieces back, so we can call it a Spring Special. Focusing very much on china and glass. There’s a few big collectors coming along, as well as a lot of online bidding.’
‘I thought china was out of fashion.’
‘It is and it isn’t,’ he said, rather to her irritation. ‘I personally know of three different B&B ladies who go mad for bits of Beswick, and two more who’ll snap up any Moorcroft they can find. Your mother might have some stiff competition, come to think of it.’
‘Well, she can’t go, either, so the matter doesn’t arise. It’s good to know she’s a more typical B&B lady than she realises.’
‘She is. The world’s full of crazy collectors. She’s just one more of them.’
Simmy laughed. ‘She’s not my idea of a collector at all. I imagined American men in panama hats, with pockets full of cash.’
‘We almost never get anyone like that.’ She could hear his mind spinning. ‘Where did that image come from?’
‘No idea. Maybe I’m thinking of butterfly collectors.’
‘We do get them now and then, but they don’t wear panama hats either.’
It was no good – the banter was far too inconsequential for her mood. Life was real and earnest, and instead of providing respite and solace, Christopher was simply diverting her from the serious stuff. ‘I can’t take another Saturday off for ages,’ she said. ‘It’s the busiest day in the shop, during the summer. I don’t know how we can work round that. The roads are going to be cluttered with tourists, as well.’ Frustration blossomed as she spoke. ‘It’s going to be impossible,’ she wailed.
‘No it isn’t. Where did this come from? For a start, I’m serious about a holiday, and we don’t have to wait till June. I think we could get away for a long weekend at the end of April, both of us, if we really wanted to. It’s unhealthy and foolish to go all year without a break. We need to stop being such workaholics – both of us. It’s not healthy.’
The idea had barely penetrated Simmy’s consciousness, despite his repeated references to it. Her parents hadn’t been on a holiday for years, and now she was running her own business, she had simply assumed that it wasn’t going to be an option. An occasional full weekend off was luxury enough.
’So we can have two holidays?’
‘Well, one and a bit, anyway. I was thinking of something more modest next month. Maybe three days as a city-break somewhere. I gather Brussels is very underrated, and there’s loads to see and do there. Plus a whole lot of chocolate.’
‘Blimey!’
‘Greedy, aren’t I? But it would solve our logistical problems, and really test how things go between us. You don’t know a person properly until you’ve travelled with them.’
‘Mm,’ she said, thinking of remarks she’d heard from women friends to the effect that it was often a mistake to try to travel with your man. ‘It brings out the worst in them,’ one friend had said. But Christopher had spent much of his adult life exploring the world, and was an expert traveller. ‘I think you might find me a bit of a wimp. I’m not great with exotic food, and I can’t speak any foreign languages.’
‘We’ll avoid Venezuela and Burkina Faso, then,’ he said easily. ‘I have to say I was underwhelmed by them both.’
‘It would be lovely to have proper time together. I don’t know why I’m being so lukewarm about it. Just that I feel a bit bogged down at the moment. It won’t last.’
‘No problem. But I am going to book it. Them. Both of them. Brussels at the end of April and Lanzarote at the beginning of June. Clear your diary, woman, and come away with me.’
‘Yes, sir. And thank you. It’s nice to have someone else make the decisions for a change.’ At the back of her mind she could hear her mother expressing horror, not to mention her former assistant Melanie and Bonnie. Regardless of what they might think, it was true. She trusted Christopher to choose the right places to stay, the right mixture of sun and sea and food. ‘I insist on paying my share, though,’ she added.
‘I wouldn’t expect anything else,’ he said, hitting the exact right note.
She sighed. ‘I don’t deserve you,’ she told him.
It had been a busy day. Even in ordinary times, the approach of the weekend called for additional focus and preparation. While Saturday was the traditional changeover day for holidaymakers, implying that nobody would hav
e time for shopping, it had become apparent that a large number of them felt the need for flowers to take home with them as gifts or souvenirs. The dog-sitter, abandoned old parent, or just the empty house waiting for them – all seemed to need a floral tribute.
Remembering the imperious text of the morning, she sat holding her phone after finishing the chat with Christopher. Everything in connection with Gillian was unfinished, the loose ends unavoidable. With a surge of energy, she decided to take the initiative, keying a message.
Went to Crook as requested. Have a few thoughts to share. When can we meet?
Stilted but good enough, she judged as she sent it. It was a week since her first meeting with Gillian and Anita; a week since Declan had died. The police must be growing agitated at the passage of time and the failure to resolve the investigation. Was Moxon sorry not to have greater involvement from young Ben Harkness, she wondered. Probably not, since there had certainly been times when Ben was more part of the problem than the solution.
No response had come to her text by the time she got to the shop next morning. Bonnie followed her in, two minutes later, and they both went to the computer to check for new orders. ‘Four!’ said Bonnie. ‘That’s good, isn’t it.’
Before Simmy could answer, a customer came in, with an unmistakable air of belligerence. She carried a bunch of flowers. ‘Uh-oh,’ murmured Bonnie.
‘These flowers were sold to me under false pretences,’ the woman accused. ‘Look at them. They’re dead already.’
‘When did you buy them?’ Simmy asked.
‘Only just over a week ago. I expected them to last far longer than that.’ She brandished the blooms, which were unarguably at death’s door.
Simmy glanced at Bonnie abstractedly, and went back to the irate woman standing six inches away from her. ‘You’re being unreasonable,’ she said coldly. ‘The flowers were quite fresh when you bought them, and you’re telling me they were perfectly all right for nearly a week. What did you expect?’
‘They were not perfectly all right. They were brown at the edges within five days. The buds fell off without opening. Everything drooped.’
Bonnie stepped forward. ‘Did you keep the water topped up?’ she asked.
The woman whirled round. She was short, dark and angry. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘I work here. I remember when you bought the flowers. You had no idea what any of them were, and didn’t listen when we tried to tell you how to look after them. I’m guessing you gave them an inch or two of water, in a hot room, and it was all gone in a couple of days. Isn’t that right?’
The woman hesitated, avoiding the eyes of both Bonnie and Simmy. ‘I gave them water,’ she muttered.
‘Well, I have no intention of refunding you,’ said Simmy. ‘There are limits to what I can be expected to do to ensure the flowers stay at their best. It’s not my responsibility once you leave here with them.’
‘Oh, yes it is. What about the Trade Descriptions Act?’
‘What about it?’
‘I bought them in good faith. You told me they would last two weeks.’
‘Up to two weeks,’ said Bonnie. ‘That’s what we always say. Some people can keep them nice for quite a lot longer than that, with a bit of common sense.’ She tensed, waiting for a reproach from her employer, but none came. Instead, there seemed to be a beam of approval coming her way.
At last the woman went away, assuring them she would never cross their threshold again.
‘Good riddance,’ said Simmy. ‘What a stupid person.’
‘You were brilliant,’ said Bonnie. ‘You never said sorry even once.’
‘I didn’t see why I should.’
‘Good.’
Simmy smiled ruefully. ‘Not a great start to the day, all the same.’
‘Come on, Sim – that wasn’t the start. We’ve got all these new orders, look. That must be good – right? I mean – this is what we’re here for. You’d starve if nobody wanted any flowers, wouldn’t you?’
‘Eventually, I suppose. Though I could always stack shelves at Sainsbury’s.’
‘No, no. You could work for Christopher. I bet that’s a brilliant job.’
‘Make up your mind.’ She sounded tetchy even in her own ears. ‘To hear you talk, you want me to close down and move to Keswick.’
‘I don’t.’ The voice was that of a child of five, guaranteed to elicit shame.
‘Sorry. I’m in a mood today. I went to Crook last night, to look at the place where the Kennedy man was killed.’
Bonnie instantly reflated. ‘Did you? Wow! I thought you weren’t going to have any more to do with it. Did you find anything?’
‘Not really. Are you and Ben seeing Debbie again? Should I be careful what I tell you? I still don’t exactly understand what’s going on in that department.’
‘It’s all got horribly stuck,’ Bonnie admitted. ‘Without any evidence, Debbie’s got no hope of getting her mother convicted. The police were really good to start with, listening to her accusations and taking them seriously, but now I think they’re changing their minds about it. They keep coming back to the car that hit him. They need to find it before they can get anywhere.’
‘It’s probably been crushed by now, don’t you think?’
‘Quite likely. Ben says this might be the one that got away.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Escaped justice. Got away with murder.’ Bonnie spoke slowly, as if to an aged and demented relative. Simmy could hear the silent What do you think it means? that Bonnie was too polite to utter.
‘That wouldn’t please DI Moxon.’ The thought of the detective’s frustration was upsetting. ‘They must hate it when that happens.’
‘It’ll stay as an open case for ages. More or less for ever, actually. Cold cases, they call them.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Simmy, meekly accepting the role of dim-witted old person. ‘But people in Crook might yet come up with something. They seem to be pretty taken up with it all. They probably can’t understand how nobody saw or heard anything that would precisely pinpoint the time it happened, and the sort of car it was. I mean, obviously other cars must have passed it at some point – why didn’t they notice blood or dents on it? They must be feeling they’ve failed.’
Bonnie cocked her head. ‘You’ve been talking to people, haven’t you?’
‘One or two. Nothing came of it that could be useful.’ Reviewing recent conversations, she found herself unconvinced that this was true. Somewhere there must surely be some helpful detail, some snippet of evidence that could prove Anita’s innocence. ‘Except, it seems definite that it couldn’t possibly have been Anita,’ she finished. ‘She’d have had to have been in two places at once.’
Bonnie grinned. ‘That’s what Ben loves about it. It’s a great puzzle. But he needs a few more pieces – just like Poirot would say. And he’d be sure to think you’d got them, if he could hear you now.’
‘You think it’s down to me to provide evidence that would convict Anita Olsen? That’s not going to happen, when I’m absolutely sure she didn’t do it.’
‘It’s wonderfully complicated, isn’t it?’ said the girl happily.
‘You could say that,’ sighed Simmy.
Customers, orders, deliveries to Bowness and Troutbeck, new stock arriving – all kept them occupied for the morning. Simmy forgot all about her text to Gillian, and Bonnie was comprehensively diverted by the appearance of one of her former foster siblings with their new mother. ‘Hey, Crystal!’ she enthused. ‘Remember me?’
The child, aged about six, looked at her doubtfully. ‘Yes, you do. Of course you do,’ Bonnie persisted. ‘At Corinne’s. I used to put you to bed, and sing to you.’ She burst into a rendition of ‘Unchained Melody’ that was startlingly tuneful. ‘Remember that?’ she said when she’d finished. Everyone in the shop was staring at her.
The child looked dazed, and Simmy suddenly wondered how sensible it was to remind her of earlier
times. She tried to catch the eye of the woman with her, but she was fixated on Bonnie. ‘That was fantastic,’ she said.
‘Have you adopted her?’ Bonnie asked.
‘In the process. Her foster mother did a good job. It’s really going to work out, isn’t it, sweetheart?’ She addressed the little girl, who nodded compliantly.
Simmy was impressed by the courage that must surely be required to take on a child with years of confusion and damage behind her. Only good people would do it, she concluded. Good, brave people – who were perhaps also desperate to experience parenthood. ‘Have you got any others?’ she asked.
‘Two boys, in their teens. We adopted them as well.’
Simmy could think of nothing to say, other than to express her own feelings of inadequacy, which would not be fair or appropriate. Her own timid world of tiny families and high levels of apprehension was far removed from this blithe woman’s – which was also the one inhabited by Bonnie Lawson.
The woman was buying flowers for a social worker who had performed various miracles, apparently. Bonnie knew her, and approved the tribute. Nobody was quite sure whether Crystal actually remembered her much older foster sister, but the song had been lovely.
‘You’re a very good singer,’ Simmy said. ‘That song’s a funny choice, though.’
‘Corinne loves it. She’s got a CD with about twelve different people singing it. She used to play it all the time. She does it at her gigs.’
Bonnie was one of two remaining foster children at Corinne’s. The hitherto inexhaustible mother figure had gradually retired over the past year or two, but Bonnie as the eldest and little Sebastian as an emergency case were still part of the household. The looseness of the arrangement reminded Simmy strongly of the way her own mother forced the world and its institutions to conform to her own value system. Angie demonstrated an assertiveness that Simmy herself found impossible to apply to her own life.
