Then Pippa heard Dahlia’s voice, though she was still about twenty feet from Dev’s room. ‘I just — I don’t understand why you did it, Dev. She’s an accident waiting to happen.’
Dev said something, too low to catch, but Dahlia provided a handy catch-up service. ‘I don’t care if you feel sorry for her. Her imploding fete and the church roof or whatever it is are none of our business. Not when you’ve got a book tour to go on, never mind the rest.’
Dev rumbled again. Pippa wanted to leave, wanted to pretend this had never happened, but somehow her feet wouldn’t shift. Perhaps Dahlia had cast a spell to root her to the spot.
‘Well, I’m not giving her anything she can really mess up. And neither are you. I haven’t put in all this work over the past few months for it to be ruined by some yokel in Boden knock-offs.’ A chair scraped, but it didn’t matter. Pippa was already hurrying away, tears streaming down her face.
Ruby gazed at her, her eyes and mouth Os. ‘I’m sorry, Ruby,’ gulped Pippa, releasing the brake and running with the pushchair. ‘I’ll buy you another. Anything.’ At least there was a button to open the door, so she didn’t have to call the nurse. The door clicked, and she rushed out.
She knocked on the door to the family room, and hearing no answer, let herself in and washed her face at the little sink in the corner. The mirror showed her looking wan and red-eyed. Now she would have to rush to get Freddie.
She barely saw the road back to Much Gadding; her brain was too full of self-recrimination and shame. Am I a mess? A liability? She glanced at her stripy top. It’s all right for Dahlia, she can afford designer gear and she doesn’t have kids to puke on it.
Behind her a car honked. The lights had changed and she hadn’t noticed. I can’t even drive, she thought, blinking away more tears.
Pippa got to the preschool without further incident. Two minutes to spare. She just hoped no-one she knew would be there. Braving Mrs Marks was enough of an ordeal. She wiped her eyes, then looked in the visor mirror and wished she hadn’t.
She peered through the glass panel before pressing the bell. The only grown-ups in view were Mrs Marks and her assistant, Dawn. That was the best she could have hoped for.
‘Hello, Mrs Parker,’ Dawn sang out, as she answered the door. Good. Dawn was no doubt an excellent play worker, but more geared towards toddler emotions than adult ones. ‘Freddie’s been ever so good today.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Pippa, absently. ‘Come along, Freddie.’
Mrs Marks glanced at Pippa, and, catching her eye, looked away. ‘Let’s sing a song, children!’ she said brightly. Wonderful Mrs Marks. Oh no. Pippa blinked furiously.
Freddie ambled across the carpet, clutching a biscuit. ‘Can I eat this on the way home, Mummy?’
‘Yes. Let’s go.’
The bell rang again, and Pippa didn’t want to turn. Given the day she’d had, it could only be —
‘Hello!’ Dawn beamed. ‘Livvy’s been a good girl and eaten all her sweet potato mash.’
‘Oh good,’ said Sam. ‘I wish she’d do that for me.’ Her voice sounded sad, especially following Dawn’s cheery tones.
There was nothing for it. She couldn’t just stand with her back to Sam till she left. Livvy was getting up, but so slowly that she might have had a birthday before she arrived at Sam’s side. Pippa turned the pushchair, keeping her head down, and muttered ‘Could you get the door, please?’
Click. ‘Are you all right, Pippa?’ She looked up and Sam appeared genuinely concerned.
‘Yes, fine,’ she mumbled, wheeling Ruby away.
At home Pippa made herself a sandwich, spooned food into Ruby, and settled them both in front of one of Freddie’s many robots-with-lasers cartoons. Freddie sat cross-legged on the rug, while Ruby sat in the corner of the sofa propped up with cushions. Sometimes she pointed at the screen and made noises, but she seemed contented. Pippa let her head rest against the sofa, and closed her eyes. Reality was bad enough, without adding robots with lasers.
CHAPTER 21
‘I’ve got a few minutes,’ said Suze, her voice crackling on the line. ‘But I need to get ready. I’m taking a client to dinner.’
‘On a Friday night?’ Fridays had always been for going out with friends and boyfriends, chatting and drinking to wash off the effect of the working week and fuel the obligatory Saturday morning hangover.
‘I know,’ Suze said, dejectedly. ‘I think he’s after a free meal. He’s loaded, but there you go.’ A pause. ‘Anyway, what are you ringing for that can’t wait till Monday?’
‘I waited all afternoon,’ said Pippa, in a small, resentful voice. ‘And it wasn’t my idea, it was Simon’s.’
‘What was?’ Suze sounded exasperated. Pippa imagined her foot tapping, and her glances at the wardrobe. If she was even at home yet.
‘Suze, be honest. Am I a liability?’
‘What?’ Suze started laughing. ‘What’s brought this on?’
‘I visited Dev Hardman in hospital and he offered me some work. Dahlia was furious. Then I overheard them talking, and she said I was an accident waiting to happen. And he said he felt sorry for me.’ The sniffles Pippa was trying to stifle became more frequent, until she was nearly weeping into the phone.
‘Pip, shhhh… Of course you’re not. That’s just Dahlia being horrible. It’s what she does, and she’s so terrifying that people go along with it. That’s how she snagged Dev, I know it. She doesn’t play fair, which is why she’s set up on her own — and while clients might like it, no-one in the industry does. You were always perfectly competent when I worked with you. More than I was, often.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. I had to pull the all-nighters to save my job, a lot of the time. It was only when I got serious that I started to get ahead. And Dahlia’s had her fair share of catastrophes, the cheeky cow. She gets away with it because she blames everyone else and goes on the warpath.’
‘Thanks, Suze.’
‘Did I help?’
‘Of course you did.’
‘Good. I’ve got a boyband graduate to schmooze. How was Dev, anyway? Do they know what’s wrong with him?’
‘Erm, he didn’t say.’ Pippa hadn’t realised until Suze put the question. ‘He seemed all right. A bit pale, but otherwise —’
‘I wonder what he’s up to, asking you to work for him,’ mused Suze.
‘He said Dahlia was snowed under!’ Pippa cried.
‘Mm. He said that. But there’s usually something going on with Dev. He isn’t as daft as he looks. Oh God, look at the time, gotta go. Bye Pip, bye. And you’re not useless!’ Suze shouted before she ended the call.
Pippa found herself staring at her mobile phone. ‘That won’t give you any more answers,’ she said aloud.
‘Did Suze back me up?’ called Simon.
‘Yes, smartypants.’
‘Do you feel any better?’
‘I s’pose.’
‘Come through then.’ Pippa walked into the lounge, where Simon was nursing a glass of wine, his tie loosened and his feet propped on the coffee table. ‘You still look a bit — perturbed.’
‘I feel perturbed.’ Pippa sat beside him and took the wineglass for a sip. ‘I’m sure I’m missing something.’
‘Such as gainful employment?’
‘No, about this whole business. I wonder if … that can’t be it.’
‘What can’t be?’ Simon took the glass from her and put it out of reach on the table. ‘Out with it Pippa, it’s like being in one of those detective noir drama thingies where no-one finishes a sentence.’
‘I wonder if Dahlia was mean to try and scare me away. Maybe she messed something up and she wants to shift the blame. According to Suze, it’s a trademark of hers.’ But what could Dahlia have messed up? It wasn’t her job to check cakes or be Dev’s official taster. ‘Nah. Ignore me. I’m talking rubbish.’
‘That’s the problem. You aren’t. I’m no wiser than when you came in, because you
won’t tell me anything!’ Simon sighed in exasperation. ‘I know your confidence has taken a knock, Pip — but come on. The police asked for your help! You’ve solved two murder cases! If anyone can crack this, it’s you.’
‘Do you think so?’ Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at Simon.
‘Yes. How many times do I need to say it?’ Simon reached for the glass. ‘In fact, I reckon this is some sort of misery act to get me to cook tonight — Oi! Mind the wine!’
Pippa giggled. ‘If it was, according to you, I’m so good at everything that you’d never catch on.’
‘Nicely reasoned. Come on, we’ll cook together. There, we both win.’
‘I’m not sure we do,’ said Pippa, as a scream rolled downstairs. ‘That sounds like Freddie.’
She ran up to find Freddie sitting bolt upright in bed, tears pouring down his face. ‘Did you have a bad dream, sweetheart?’ She folded him in her arms and felt tears soaking through her top.
‘Yes,’ whimpered Freddie. ‘Monsters with laser eyes were chasing me-he-he-he…’
‘Ssshhh,’ soothed Pippa, rocking him. ‘It was just a dream. Just a dream.’
‘But I didn’t know that,’ said Freddie, sniffing.
‘Would you like some warm milk, Freddie?’
He looked up at her. ‘And a biscuit?’
She sighed. ‘Yes, and a biscuit.’
‘Yes please, Mummy.’
‘All right. Snuggle down — here’s Teddy — and I’ll bring it up in a few minutes.’
I must be more careful about what I let him watch on TV was Pippa’s first, guilty thought as she went downstairs. But that something was still nagging at her.
‘A cup of warm milk with a biscuit on the side, chef,’ she said to Simon, who was peeling potatoes. ‘No, don’t be daft, I’ll do it.’
‘What was it?’ Simon said, putting a naked potato on the chopping board.
‘Bad dream.’ The cup of milk revolved inside the microwave. ‘I’ll make sure I check for monsters under the bed when I take this up.’
‘Good move. Bangers and mash OK?’
‘Oh yes. Oooohhhh yes.’ Pippa got a Jammie Dodger from the biscuit tin and closed the cupboard door as the microwave pinged. ‘How’s that for timing?’
‘Brilliant. Round of applause.’ Simon reached for another potato. Again, Pippa felt that strange sense of something just out of reach.
Freddie was half-asleep when she entered his room. ‘Mummeeee.’ He struggled onto one elbow, blinking in the light from the landing.
‘Milk’s here, Freddie. Come on, sit up.’ His eyes opened wider at the sight of the biscuit. ‘That’s it.’ Both milk and biscuit were gone in less than two minutes. ‘Now, time for a monster check.’ She lifted his covers. ‘None in the bed. None under the bed.’ Freddie giggled as she went to the window. ‘None behind the curtains … none in the wardrobe … none in the toybox. I declare this a monster-free zone.’
‘Thank you, Mummy,’ murmured Freddie, as she leaned over to kiss him.
‘Sleep tight, Freddie.’ He snuggled down, and squeezed his eyes shut.
‘You can call me the monster whisperer,’ she told Simon. ‘What’s up?’ He was scrutinising a packet of sausages.
‘I’m a bit worried about these. The use-by date’s yesterday.’
‘But you haven’t even opened them.’ Pippa tore open the side of the packet and sniffed. ‘They smell fine. They look — well, like sausages.’ She touched one of the sausages. ‘And they aren’t slimy. They’ll be OK.’
‘I suppose.’ Simon joined her, surveying the sausages nestling in their wrapper. ‘It’s just, after your mate Dev —’
‘We don’t know that was food poisoning,’ said Pippa. ‘One day over’s nothing, we’ll cook them thoroughly.’
‘You’re probably right. No, I’ll get the pan. You’ve got sausagey hands.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
***
‘I don’t feel as if I’m going to die,’ said Simon, putting his knife and fork together. ‘But would you?’
‘If you have got food poisoning, you’ll know pretty soon, I imagine.’ Pippa took the plates through to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher. ‘The sausages tasted all right, anyway,’ she said, when she returned.
‘Yeah…’ Simon frowned. ‘Dev’s vomit explosion was pretty spectacular. I don’t really want to emulate that.’
‘Stop thinking about it, you’re encouraging yourself to feel ill. Let’s go and watch a film.’
‘OK.’ And soon enough, Simon was absorbed in a movie about which Pippa could tell little except that it was set in space, everything was shiny, everyone ran everywhere, and there were more sound effects (gunshots in particular) than actual dialogue. Whatever. ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked. Simon nodded without taking his eyes from the screen.
While the kettle boiled, Pippa fetched her notepad and sat down at the dining-room table. She flicked past the notes she had made about the fete; all the ideas, all her friends’ suggestions. It seemed both a lifetime ago and disturbingly fresh in her memory. Especially the sick, scared, panicky feeling which had washed over her several times that fateful weekend.
I need to find out what happened, she thought, finding a fresh page. For my own sanity.
Suspects, she wrote, and underlined it with a wavy line. That looks ridiculous. I bet PC Horsley doesn’t do that. Or Inspector Fanshawe. I might as well doodle flowers around it.
The kettle pinged and she went to pour water into the mugs, then returned.
Sam? she wrote.
Hates me.
Has a history of leaking stories to the papers.
Shared that article on Facebook.
Looked really guilty the other day.
It wasn’t an open and shut case, but it would bear further investigation.
Beryl Harbottle
Doesn’t like me.
Didn’t want the fete to change.
Grumpy at having people in the house.
Knew about the swords and where they were kept.
Publicly blamed me after the Dev vomit thing.
If anything, the case against Beryl was stronger than Sam’s, which disappointed Pippa a little. She underlined Beryl’s name. Who else could she add?
‘How’s the tea doing?’ called Simon.
‘Fine,’ said Pippa, and went to rescue the teabags. ‘It might be a bit strong,’ she said, taking the mugs through. ‘I was thinking.’
‘Thanks.’
Pippa sat down beside Simon and looked at the notepad. Dahlia Dean, she wrote.
Horrible.
Good at shifting blame onto others.
Rude to me AND called me incompetent behind my back.
But no motive. After all, she was hardly going to poison her own client, was she? And there was no evidence that she had.
But it had happened.
‘This is the good bit,’ said Simon, elbowing her, and as a lot of people ran around and shot each other on screen, Pippa decided that maybe sleeping on it was the best policy. Investigations could recommence tomorrow.
CHAPTER 22
Pippa went to bed full of good intentions about waking up early to ponder the case; but the next day it seemed a much better idea to drink tea in bed and scroll through social media until one of the children decided they wanted attention.
Then the doorbell rang.
‘Who calls at this time?’ Pippa muttered, as she tied her dressing-gown cord.
‘Mffrrrummp,’ said Simon, and rolled over.
‘No, I’ll go, it’s quite all right,’ Pippa huffed. ‘You carry on with the sleeping.’
If it’s Sheila back from her holidays I’ll wring her neck. Politely.
But the shape she could glimpse through the glass of the hallway door was taller, rounder, and somehow more authoritative. Pippa groaned as she opened the inner door, then assumed what she hoped was a welcoming smile.
‘Good morning, Mrs Parker,
’ said the vicar, his eyes taking in Pippa’s sailboat pyjamas and towelling dressing gown. ‘I hope it isn’t too early to call. I was just passing, you see…’
Of course you were, thought Pippa. The only way that would be less convincing was if she lived in a cul-de-sac. ‘How nice of you to call, Reverend,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Oh, it isn’t urgent,’ said the vicar. ‘I wondered how you were getting on with the event you said you’d organise. The one with your friend. In aid of the church.’
‘Oh, um, I’ve been a bit busy. Recovering from the fete and all that.’
‘And you did a wonderful job, Mrs Parker, a wonderful job. That’s why I’m so keen to hear how your new venture is going. Have you set a date yet?’
‘My friend’s in the process of checking her diary,’ said Pippa, hoping God wouldn’t strike her down. ‘She’s very much in demand. But I’m sure it will be soon. I’ll confirm the date with you the minute I know it myself.’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ said the vicar, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. ‘I’d like to start work on the repairs to the spire as soon as possible. I daresay you’re aware that the climate of Much Gadding is rather — rather damp in autumn, ahahaha.’ He rose a little higher on the word damp, as if he would float into the air.
‘It certainly is,’ said Pippa, thanking her lucky stars that she wouldn’t be experiencing the rainy season in the chilly, leaky environs of Rosebud Cottage. Although Serendipity had probably fixed all that. She really must ask Serendipity about the event. ‘I need to get together with my friend and thrash out the fine detail,’ she said. ‘Then I can report back to you properly.’
‘I shall look forward to it,’ said the vicar, rising upwards. ‘I’ll leave you to your, ah, morning.’
More stuff to do, thought Pippa as she closed the door and went upstairs. She’d text Serendipity later, it was still far too early to be disturbing people on a Saturday. Anyway, Serendipity was probably doing something artistic and useful; sketching in a field of poppies, or baking sourdough bread. The thought made her want to hunker down in bed and read, even more than she had before.
A Fete Worse Than Death Page 13
