by Dawn Harris
The Case of the Missing Bridegroom
A collection of short stories.
Romance
Mystery
Historical
Humour
by
Dawn Harris
Text Copyright© 2016 Dawn Harris
Cover image by Anne and Paul Cameron
To Susan
With thanks for all her support. And for reading every humorous poem, article, short story and book I have ever had published.
Dawn Harris was born in Gosport, Hampshire, but now lives in North Yorkshire. She is married with three grown up children and two grandchildren. For more information see:-
www.dawnharris.co.uk
Contents
The Case of the Missing Bridegroom
Days to Remember
Psychic Serena
The Reluctant Father
The Assignation
An Offer of Marriage
Women Like Us
Crime and the Councillor
When Lightning Strikes
Jordie
Red Herrings
The Wedding Jinx
Other Titles by Dawn Harris
The Case of the Missing Bridegroom
I should have been working that Wednesday evening, keeping watch on a husband in a matrimonial case, but a personal crisis stopped me going anywhere. A crisis that threatened to wreck my whole future happiness. At ten o’clock that night, after my nerves had been cut to shreds and barbecued, I finally rang Detective Inspector Ricardo Smith’s number.
Ricardo was my ex-boss. A genial, generous-hearted, forty-something celebrated pen wrecker, pink marshmallow popper, and the finest copper I knew. ‘Carey, love,’ he boomed pleasurably on hearing my voice. ‘How’s business?’ I’d recently left the police force to become a Private Investigator. ‘Clever idea, changing your surname. Carey Dent wouldn’t catch the public eye, but Carey Warthog now----’ An approving chuckle reached my ear. ‘A different kind of pig, eh?’ And he roared with laughter at his own joke.
‘Ricardo,’ I cut in tersely. ‘I need your help. Neil’s disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ he repeated, as if he’d misheard. His reaction was understandable; Neil and I were getting married on Saturday week.
I took a deep breath. ‘Ricardo, Neil left work at five-thirty, and he still hasn’t arrived home.’
‘Good God, is that all?’ he chortled. ‘I didn’t know you had the poor devil on a leash already. Look --- he’ll have bumped into an old friend and gone for a drink.’
‘Not without calling me first. We always tell each other where we’re going.’
Ricardo yawned. ‘So this time he just forgot. Men do, you know.....’
‘I’ve checked all our friends and the hospitals. If Neil’s been attacked, he could be lying injured somewhere, or suffering from temporary amnesia, or----’ my voice broke on a sob, for no-one knew the awful possibilities better than I did.
‘Carey, love.’ Ricardo’s voice was kind, but firm. ‘I can’t start a full-scale search for a bloke who’s a couple of hours late getting home. I’d be a laughing stock.’
My voice quivered. ‘Please, Ricardo. I just know Neil’s in some kind of danger, and I’m --- I’m frightened.’ The last word came out in a surprised whisper because I don’t normally scare easily.
He heaved a long sigh. ‘All right. I’ll pass the word. Unofficially. OK?’
Thanking him, I then checked out Neil’s usual ten minute walk from our flat to his office, still neglecting my Wednesday evening matrimonial surveillance. The kind of work that helped to pay the bills since I’d become, Carey Warthog, Private Investigator. No job too small. And they don’t come any smaller than the Eccles case.
Mrs. Eccles, sharp-featured, black hair, gold-digger eyes, had steamed into my office, slammed the door behind her and, shaking her index finger at me aggressively, demanded, ‘I want you to get me the name of the woman my Darren spends Wednesday evenings with while I’m at bingo.’
I learned from routine questioning that Mr and Mrs. Eccles were both thirty-five, had been married seven years, and had no children. Darren, recently made redundant from Safety First, a local security systems firm, had used his redundancy money to start his own removals business. Apparently, he had no hobbies.
‘He swore blind he watched telly every Wednesday,’ Mrs. Eccles raged. ‘But, last week, I forgot my purse, and when I nipped back home to get it, the house was empty.’
‘Perhaps he’d just popped out for a minute.’
She gave a derisive snort. ‘Not him. I watched the house from the corner cafe, and he turned up shortly before I was due home. When I walked in, he pretended he’d been in all evening.’ She leaned forward, her eyes cold and hard. ‘All I want is her name, Ms Warthog. I know how to deal with her sort.’
I stormed into Ricardo’s office early the following morning, close to blind panic, after a terrible night of fruitless searching for Neil. When he began asking me the usual “missing persons” questions, I banged my fist on his desk, causing a pink marshmallow to bounce right out of the bag. (He always had one within reach.) Ricardo popped it straight into his mouth as I exploded, ‘We haven’t had a row, Neil isn’t worried about our marriage, and he can’t run home to mother. Both his parents are dead.’
‘I have to ask,’ Ricardo murmured softly. ‘You know that.’ He speared several white marshmallows onto a pen like a kebab, and offered them to me. Ricardo only ever eats the pink ones. He says they help him to think. ‘Last question. Fill me in on Neil’s past. Friends before he moved here --- that kind of thing.’
I’d met Neil a year earlier, when he settled in Suffolk after working his way around the world. He had no family. In surprise I admitted, ‘I don’t think he’s ever mentioned anyone.’
The telephone on his desk rang and Ricardo picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Brownings, you say? Yes, of course I know it. Industrial estate. Garden implements. When?’ I watched him write twenty-sixth on the pad. Today was the twentieth. Grinning broadly, he mouthed at me, ‘tip-off.’ And said into the mouthpiece, ‘Good work, Grant.’ Detective Constable Tom Grant’s informants were reliable, and no-one was more skilled than Ricardo at nabbing villains in the middle of a robbery.
Ricardo was still talking. ‘What other business?’
I groaned. If only he’d stop nattering and find Neil.
‘Oh, that,’ Ricardo said, and listened, before glancing across at me, his expression suddenly unreadable. ‘I see,’ he murmured, and replaced the receiver so slowly it made my heart thump with fear. When he began to twist a pen absently with his fingers, my mouth dried up. I could write a thesis on his pen language. This particular habit meant he had bad news to break.
‘Look, don’t bother to wrap it up, Ricardo,’ I whispered. ‘I can take it, whatever it is. Just tell me.’
His eyes were full of compassion. ‘Tom Grant says Neil was seen with a pretty young woman at five-thirty yesterday.’
‘Where?’
‘Outside Neil’s office. Then they walked off down the alley together.’ The alley was the only way out to the main road.
‘I don’t believe it was him,’ I burst out.
‘The person who saw Neil works in the office next door. He didn’t know the woman.’ I stared at him, unable to speak. ‘I’m sorry, Carey. But better to find out now, than later.’
Ricardo insisted on driving me home, but he didn’t
stay. I refused to believe Neil had gone off with another woman ten days before our wedding. How could it be possible? He wasn’t that kind of man, and besides, we were so happy together. I checked Neil’s clothes, and our joint bank account, but nothing was missing. It was then I remembered the photograph album. This contained the only pictures he had of his parents, who had been killed in an accident when he was six. The album was his most treasured possession and the one thing he’d never, ever, leave behind. Running into the bedroom I feverishly pulled open the drawer where the album was usually kept. It was empty.
There were four rooms in our top floor flat, and I turned them all upside down. But the album had gone. I gazed unseeingly at the bedroom wall, thinking the unthinkable. Just then, the telephone rang and a familiar voice demanded, ‘Well, have you got that woman’s name yet?’
‘Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Eccles.’ And I told her what I’d found out. ‘Your Darren doesn’t have another woman. He plays cards with friends in a small hired room at the Pig and Whistle.’
Mrs. Eccles’ voice blasted into my ear. ‘Last night my Darren came home with scarlet lipstick on his handkerchief and some female’s hairs on his sweater. He didn’t get them playing cards at no Pig and Whistle.’
‘Woman’s hairs?’ I was taken aback. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Bleached, they were.’ Angrily she sneered, ‘You haven’t been doing your job properly, have you?’
I sank onto the bed. ‘I couldn’t follow him last night. I was – er – indisposed, and....’
‘Indisposed!’ she screeched. ‘Look, I’m not paying good money for you to be ill, Ms Warthog. What was wrong with you?’ And she sniggered. ‘Swine fever?’ Her voice rose to a shriek. ‘Well, I’ll just have to find his fancy piece myself, won’t I? Don’t send a bill, because I won’t pay it.’ And with that final instruction she slammed down the phone.
Numbed and bewildered, I stumbled through the next few days, not knowing what to believe about Neil. Ricardo called frequently, mostly talking shop, and I reciprocated with the tale of Mrs. Eccles and her Darren. Well, if I wasn’t being paid, it was hardly confidential, was it. But, when Ricardo began discussing his plans for the twenty-sixth, the day of the expected robbery at Brownings Garden Implements, I reminded him, ‘You shouldn’t be telling me all this. I’m not your Detective Sergeant now.’
‘Got to talk about something, Carey.’ Grabbing a stray pen, he bent it to breaking point. ‘That stricken look in your eyes doesn’t get any easier to take.’
On the twenty-sixth, Ricardo popped by, ebullient as ever. ‘Everything’s set up at Brownings for tonight. We’re going to catch those blighters red-handed.’
I thought of him that evening, as I drove home in slow moving traffic. I had absolutely no doubt he’d nab those villains. A few minutes later, I was approaching a roundabout when I spotted Mrs. Eccles in the next lane. She didn’t see me --- her eyes were fixed on Darren’s green removals van which, as I then saw, was in her lane, about thirty yards ahead of her. That was when I remembered – it was Wednesday. Her bingo night.
Well, Darren couldn’t be going to the Pig and Whistle, where the landlord said Darren and his mates had met every Wednesday for months, because that lay in the opposite direction. He must be visiting the scarlet lipstick and bleached hair instead. I couldn’t help smiling. Clearly, Darren was about to get his comeuppance, without any help from me.
The lane Mrs. Eccles was in came to a total standstill, while mine moved slowly forward. As I went past Darren I glanced across at him, and saw he wasn’t alone. What’s more, one of his companions was a woman. A blonde. No wonder Mrs. Eccles was itching to get her hands on him!
A small gap between me and the car following, enabled Darren to force his way in right behind me. He followed me round the roundabout, and to my surprise, he took the exit signposted Marsh End, a narrow lane leading to a small village and a large country house, Marsh End Hall.
There was no sign of Mrs. Eccles, and on impulse, I circled the roundabout again, and saw her drive straight past the Marsh End exit. Traffic had prevented her seeing which road he took, and she wouldn’t have expected it to be that one. Few cars used that road, and as I drove down it, there wasn’t another vehicle in sight. Frankly, Darren’s choice of destination mystified me. There wasn’t a pub in Marsh End, and the people who owned the Hall were hardly.....
Gasping, I screeched to a halt, as I remembered who owned Marsh End Hall. Suddenly I felt as if I’d been sitting in a pitch-black room for the past week and someone had just switched on the light. At first, I was puzzled by what it revealed. But it quickly became crystal clear. The identity of the owners of Marsh End Hall made sense of everything else. Grabbing my mobile, I called Ricardo, and when he answered, I told him, ‘You’re at the wrong place.’
‘I’m at Brownings on the industrial estate,’ he hissed. ‘How can that be the wrong place?’
So I told him how. The ensuing silence was broken only by an inarticulate splutter. I pointed out that the antiques and paintings owned by Mr. and Mrs. Browning at Marsh End Hall were far more valuable than the garden implements Browning & Co made.
Shortly before I left the police, I’d advised the Brownings on security, and I informed Ricardo, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Browning always visit their son in Australia at this time of the year. So the house is empty, and the couple who look after it live in the village.’
I heard the familiar rustle of a packet of marshmallows. He was thinking. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Carey,’ he announced, chewing. ‘The Brownings have a high-class security system, installed by that local firm, Safety First.’
Grinning to myself I played my ace. ‘According to Mrs. Eccles, Safety First was the firm Darren worked for before he went into the removals business.’ A loud groan deafened my ear and I laughed. ‘When you arrest them, find out where they’re hiding Neil.’
Ricardo choked down the phone, ‘Carey love, take my advice. Go and lie down for a bit.’
He clearly thought I’d flipped with the strain, so I explained my theory. ‘Look, Darren and his gang have been meeting at the Pig and Whistle every Wednesday for months now. Not to play cards, as the landlord told me, but to plan the robbery. Only his wife thought he was having an affair, and when I started nosing around on her behalf, I reckon the landlord must have tipped Darren off. That left them with two choices. They had to stop me following Darren, or call off the robbery. Well, obviously the only way to stop me doing my job was to give me something far more worrying to think about. So when they discovered I was getting married they knew exactly what to do. Arrange for Neil to mysteriously disappear. Clever, don’t you think? And it worked. I stopped following Darren.’
Ricardo said one very rude word and started his car. Shortly afterwards, he arrested Darren and his gang while they were loading various art treasures and paintings into the van. Thankfully, Darren wasn’t a violent man. He’d deliberately waited until the Brownings were abroad before robbing them. And, yes, he was having an affair with the blonde woman, but she was also part of his gang. Masquerading as a plain clothes policewoman, she met Neil as he left work, and informed him I was in intensive care following an accident. Knowing he always walked to work, she tricked him into going with her by offering to drive him to the hospital.
A couple of men were sent to release Neil from the disused barn where he’d been kept, and as I waited with Ricardo in his office, he summed things up in his own inimitable manner.
‘So Darren’s plan would have succeeded, if it hadn’t been for his wife’s suspicious nature, and we’d have a major robbery on our hands.’ And he offered me a marshmallow. Not speared on a pen for once, but straight from the bag.
‘A pink one?’ I queried, stunned; for there was no greater sacrifice.
‘Just this once, Carey, love.’ And he grinned. ‘You deserve it.’
Neil was unharmed, and when I threw myself into his arms, he murmured, ‘What took you so long, Miss Marple?’
I retorted with a question of my own. ‘Where,’ I demanded huskily, ‘is your precious photograph album?’
He stared at me. ‘In the attic, of course. I put it up there last week, for safe keeping while we’re away on our honeymoon.’
Days to Remember
I work in a florist’s most mornings, and I was just making up an order when my daughter rang me. ‘Can you manage lunch today? My treat. I have something to tell you.’ She giggled. ‘It’s a day to remember, Mum.’
This last remark, according to my family, is something I always say on momentous occasions. And I’m never allowed to forget it. But Pippa sounded so happy, I let her have her little joke and merely smiled at her attempt to make her news sound mysterious. For I knew perfectly well what it was, of course.
Pippa and her husband, Peter, both vets at a local practice, lived in Peter’s old, cramped flat and had been searching for their dream home for months. From the excitement in Pippa’s voice, it was obvious that they’d finally found it.
At lunchtime, eager to hear all the details, I was walking through the high street to our favourite restaurant, when I was stopped by a young market researcher. ‘Thank heavens,’ he said gratefully, ‘a woman under forty at last.’ And, placing his hands together as if in prayer, he begged, ‘You will help me, won’t you? Five minutes, that’s all it takes.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Please. The town’s been full of nothing but grannies all morning.’
Laughing, I agreed. Well, what woman doesn’t enjoy a spot of flattery! If he thought I was under forty, who was I to argue? He hadn’t asked my age, so I hadn’t lied. Anyway, I’ve always looked younger than my years. I work hard at preserving those looks. My hair is always the correct shade of auburn, and workouts at the gym keep my figure trim and willowy. I’m not going to ruin it by admitting how old I really am. OK, so I’m a touch sensitive about ageing. Show me a woman who isn’t.
