by Adele Abbott
Mrs V blushed. “Don’t be silly.”
“It’s true. He’s very shy—he thought the flowers might break the ice.”
“He rather overdid it, didn’t he?”
“That’s what I told him. Anyway, he said he’d love to meet up with you.”
“You mean, like a date?”
“I guess so.”
“I’m too old for dating.”
“You’re never too old, Mrs V. Shall I tell him yes?”
“I don’t suppose it would do any harm.”
Jill Gooder, matchmaker extraordinaire, strikes again.
***
It wasn’t difficult to find information about the Carnation Foundation. It appeared to be some kind of ‘umbrella’ organisation which specialised in raising funds for a number of animal and children’s charities. Their website and brochure made very interesting reading. One of the patrons was none other than Gregory Pick.
But, even more interesting, was an article in The Bugle, which covered the fundraising event which Mad had attended. The person who had organised it was Gregory Pick’s new girlfriend, Lily Bell. Apparently, he’d been out of the country playing golf on the night of the fundraiser, but Lily Bell had been in attendance.
That information immediately moved Lily Bell up a few notches on my list of people of interest. It was quite likely that she would have been involved in compiling the guest list for the function, and she would have had an opportunity to take the knife from Madeline’s table.
It turned out that the Carnation Foundation had a local office, which was only a couple of streets away from Ever A Wool Moment. On the off chance, I took a walk over there. It was an inauspicious building, and only a very small office. I went inside with the intention of speaking to whoever I found there. To my surprise, it was Lily Bell. She stared at me for a moment with a puzzled expression—she was obviously trying to work out how she knew me. Then it must have clicked.
“You’re that private detective woman, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. Jill Gooder.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to talk to someone about the Carnation Foundation.”
“You’d better come through to the back, then.”
She led me to an even smaller office, which contained a single desk and two chairs. Lily Bell was glammed up to the nines in designer clothes, and looked rather out of place in such a tacky little office.
“What exactly would you like to know?”
“I understand you had a fundraising event the other night.”
“We did. I was the organiser and chairperson.”
“So I read. Did Gregory appoint you to the position?”
“What if he did? My track record speaks for itself. We’re on target to raise record funds this year.”
“Did the evening go well?”
“Yes, it was a runaway success. We raised a lot of money, and raised awareness too.”
“I understand Anita Pick was at the fundraiser. Did you invite her?”
“I most certainly did not!” She looked horrified at the idea. “I’m not sure what she was doing there. I can’t imagine how she or her little friend managed to get hold of the tickets. Those tickets were like gold dust. She probably stole them, knowing Anita.” Lily Bell seemed to realise what she’d just said. “But one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, I suppose.”
“Do you have a list of all the people who had access to the invitations?”
“That would be just the committee members.” She pulled open a drawer, and handed me a sheet of headed paper. “They’re all listed on there.”
“Roxy Blackwall?”
“Yes. Do you know her?”
“Not really. We’ve only met the once.”
“She’s dedicated, but only really interested in the animal charities. She’s not really a ‘people’ person.”
Lily Bell and I talked for almost thirty minutes about the foundation and her role in it. To my surprise, she seemed to have a genuine passion for the charities, and for the part she played. This seemed to fly in the face of the image that had been painted of her, by Anita’s solicitor, as a money-grabbing gold digger.
Would the real Lily Bell please stand up?
***
Mrs V had asked if she could bring her small, portable TV to work, so she could watch the Wool TV reality show, Wool Shop Yarns. I didn’t see any reason to object. It wasn’t as though we were overrun with clients.
She suddenly came rushing into my office.
“Jill! Quick! Come and look at this.”
“What is it, Mrs V? I’m rather busy.” That made Winky laugh for some reason.
“You’ll want to see this. Hurry up!”
I followed her into the outer office, where she pointed to the TV.
“Just look at this.”
It was Wool Shop Yarns, and the camera was focused on Kathy and Grandma who were behind the counter. Kathy looked extremely flustered; Grandma just looked angry. Very angry! The wart on her nose was glowing red, which was never a good sign.
“What’s going on, Mrs V?”
“Just keep watching.”
When the camera pulled back, I could see four or five women at the other side of the counter. They were all waving their arms around, and were obviously unhappy about something.
“Turn it up, Mrs V. I can’t hear it.”
“This is meant to be Everlasting Wool!” one of the women shouted. “So why has mine run out?”
“There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Grandma said.
“Yes, there is.” One of the other women interrupted. “It sucks! I was halfway through a cardigan, which I was knitting for my niece’s birthday, and it just ran out. I rang the Everlasting Wool support line, but the woman on there was next to useless.”
Kathy seemed to be studying her feet. One of her jobs was to man the support line. The problem was, she had no more idea how Everlasting Wool worked than the women who were calling in for help.
I’d thought Grandma had resolved the problems with Everlasting Wool, but obviously not all of them.
“So what are you going to do about it?” a third woman demanded. “Look at this scarf. It’s only two-thirds finished. I can’t match this colour anywhere else. I need my subscription to start working again.”
“It’s all in hand, madam.” Grandma kept glancing directly into the lens of the camera. She knew this was being broadcast live. Instead of being the advertisement she’d been hoping for, this was turning into a P.R. disaster.
“When will it get sorted?” one of the women said.
“By the end of today, all the subscriptions will be working again.” Grandma reassured them.
“It better had or we’ll be back here again tomorrow.”
Talk about train wreck TV.
***
There was no sign of Socks in the office.
“Has your brother gone back home?”
“Socks? No, he’ll be here for a while yet.”
“Where is he?”
“My bro doesn’t hang around. He’s found himself a girlfriend already. Poor girl, little does she know he likes to love ‘em and leave ‘em. Still, they’ll have fun together while he’s up here.”
“Do you know anything about his new girlfriend?”
“Not really. He said she’s a bit of a looker, but then all of his girlfriends are hot.”
“All?”
“He’s always been a bit of a ladies’ man.”
I bet he has.
“I was actually a bit jealous of him when I was growing up,” Winky said. “Not now of course. Not now I have Bella.”
Oh dear. I was beginning to think my chat with Socks hadn’t done any good. I wandered casually over to the window, and glanced across the way. There was no sign of Bella. Had she gone out somewhere with Socks? Should I tell Winky what was going on? But what if Socks had given up on Bella? What if he’d found himself another girlfriend? Winky and his brother were obviou
sly very close. I didn’t want to do anything which would damage their relationship until I was absolutely sure.
“Did Socks say he’d bring his girlfriend over to meet you?”
“It’s funny you should ask that. He usually likes to show off his ladies, but this time, he didn’t seem very keen.”
I bet he didn’t.
***
I’d completely underestimated the number of phone calls I’d get as a result of the BoundBall piece in The Candle. The article itself was a travesty. Don Roming had basically tried to turn the whole thing into some kind of a joke; he’d mocked the very idea of women playing BoundBall. That obnoxious man had now joined Dougal Bugle on my list of journalists to avoid.
Despite the disparaging article, I’d had calls from dozens of women—all keen to take part in the game. I had been worried that I wouldn’t be able to recruit enough players, but I’d actually ended up with far too many. I was starting to get excited about the whole venture.
I’d told everyone who called, to meet me in Candlefield Park, after work. It was a cold, damp evening, and I was a little concerned the weather might put a few people off, but I needn’t have worried. Thirty-one women turned up; a mixture of all kinds of sups.
“Hi everyone. For those of you who don’t already know me, I’m Jill Gooder. This game was my idea, and I’m thrilled to see so many of you here today. Let’s have a show of hands—how many of you have actually played BoundBall before?”
To my amazement and delight, every one of them raised a hand.
One of the women at the front, a witch, stepped forward.
“My name’s Anthea Close.”
“Hi, Anthea.”
“Hi. A lot of women play BoundBall. Okay, it’s only a fraction of the number of men who play, but we’re just as passionate about it as they are. We have our own league, although you’d never know it because it gets no coverage in the press. But then, what would you expect? All the sports reporters are men.”
Everyone nodded; a few laughed.
“We’ve wanted an opportunity like this for years,” she continued. “Something that would raise the profile of the women’s game, but the men would never entertain the idea of playing against a women’s team.”
“Well, you’re going to get your chance now. I assume you know how this all came about?”
“It’s for SupAid, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and we mustn’t forget that’s the main reason we’re doing this. It’s a great cause, but at the moment they’re struggling for donations. This tournament should help them in a big way.” I hesitated. “But we’re also in it to win it!”
Everyone cheered.
“There is just one thing we need to clear up, Jill,” Anthea said.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t really know how to say this, but we don’t think you should play in the team.”
That was music to my ears, but I waited for her to continue.
“As far as we’re aware, you’ve never played BoundBall.”
“You’re right. I haven’t. That’s absolutely fine by me. I was prepared to play if we couldn’t make the numbers, but I’d much rather field a team of experienced players. And if everyone here agrees, why don’t you be the captain?”
Everyone seemed to like that idea.
“I’d be honoured.” Anthea beamed with obvious pride.
“In that case, you can pick the team, and I’ll just watch from the sideline.”
“You have to be our manager,” Anthea said.
“I’ll do it—if everyone agrees.”
Anthea turned to the others. “All those who want Jill to be our manager, say ‘Aye’.”
It was unanimous.
“Thank you, everyone.” I was a little overwhelmed. “Anthea—if you could organise the practice sessions and select the team, that would be fantastic.”
“I’ll be happy to. There is just one other thing—what do we call ourselves? We all play for different teams. We’ll need a new name for this particular game.”
I thought about it for a moment. “Why not just call ourselves ‘W’?”
“Yeah ‘W’!” Everyone agreed. “Go ‘W’!”
Chapter 13
Mr Ivers looked down in the dumps. As a caring neighbour, I should have enquired if he was okay, and asked if there was anything I could do to help. Alternatively, I could have hidden behind a tree, and hoped he didn’t see me.
Whoops! Too late. He was headed my way.
“Morning, Mr Ivers.”
“Morning, Jill,” he grunted.
For a moment, I wondered if Alicia still had her claws into him. But his eyes were clear, and he was responding. He did look incredibly sad though.
“Is everything okay?” What was I doing? Why didn’t I just keep walking? I was getting soft in my old age.
“Not really. I’m rather sad.” Never had a truer word been spoken.
“Why’s that, Mr Ivers?” See how I made it sound like I cared. Oscar material.
“You met Tess, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes. I met her.”
“I thought we were getting on really well, but then something seemed to go wrong.”
Poisoning your partner can have that effect.
“Wrong how?”
“I honestly don’t know. It all started when I became ill—I must have caught the flu or something.”
Definitely or something.
“I wasn’t myself for a couple of days; I felt completely out of it. But then, I seemed to shake it off. After that, though, Tess wouldn’t come anywhere near me. It was as if she was afraid of catching something.”
“I’m a little like that myself. I stay away from my nephew and niece when they’re ill.” Or too noisy.
“Every time Tess tried to get close to me, it was as if something held her back.”
The ‘wicked witch away’ spell had obviously worked.
“And then, out of the blue, she said we were finished.”
“Did you ask her why?”
“Of course! I asked if I’d done something wrong. I told her I could change, and that I’d do anything to keep us together. She just said it wasn’t me it was her.”
If I had a pound for every time I’d heard that.
“She said she couldn’t be near me anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Ivers. But there are plenty more fish in the sea.”
“Not like Tess. We were made for one another. She was my angel.”
Angel of death, more like.
I knew how I could cheer him up. I would offer to go on a date with him.
What? Of course I wasn’t being serious. But, be honest, I had you fooled there for a minute, didn’t I?
***
Mrs V seemed unusually chipper. She was obviously very pleased with herself about something.
“You look very happy with life, Mrs V. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She blushed.
“I don’t believe you. Come on. You can tell me.”
“Well, if you must know, I went out with Armi last night.”
“On a date? You sly, old thing. You never mentioned anything about it to me, yesterday.”
“My love life is my own business. I don’t enquire into yours.”
“Yes you do. All the time.”
“That’s different.”
Obviously.
“So? How did it go? I want all the sordid details.”
“There are no sordid details. Armi was the perfect gentleman.”
“Pretty boring, then?”
“Not in the least. He took me to dinner at his club.”
“Ooh, very fancy!”
“It’s a private members club. Very nice it is, too. Very upmarket. The food was absolutely delicious. Apparently, the chef used to work in one of the top hotels in France.”
“Really? So what did you have? Fish fingers and chips?”
“I had the duck.” She was a past master at ignoring my facet
iousness.
“Come on, then. Spill the beans. What’s he like? Hopefully he doesn’t take after his brother.”
“He’s nothing like that horrible Gordon Armitage, thank goodness. It’s hard to believe they’re brothers. We didn’t talk about work, or Gordon, or anything like that. Armi was very good company—very interesting to talk to. A little shy, but he seemed keen to know all about me. He asked about my interests and hobbies and so on. He even offered me free legal advice.”
“That was nice of him.”
“That’s what I thought. Apparently he specialises in Wills.”
Alarm bells started to ring. Was Armi actually the goblin that Daze had told me about?
***
I was hoping to hear back from my CCTV guy, Simon Saize, at any time. If, as I suspected, the person who had stayed behind in the library turned out to be Lily Bell, I’d have enough to take it to Jack Maxwell. She’d been in charge of the invitations, which meant she could have ensured both Anita and Mad were at the fundraiser. And, she’d had the opportunity to take Mad’s knife. Lily Bell certainly had the motive. She was a gold digger if ever there was one, and she obviously hated the idea of Anita taking what she probably perceived as her money.
As soon as I got the call, I hurried over to the security company.
Simon Saize fast forwarded the tape to two p.m.
“That’s the woman.” He pointed. “She never came out.”
I was expecting to see the tall, striking figure of Lily Bell. Instead, I saw a short, squat woman, over a foot shorter. The woman had a large bag over her shoulder, and was wearing a hat, which when combined with the sunglasses, obscured her face. It was impossible to identify her.
I now had an image of the murderer, but I was no closer to knowing who she was. The only thing I knew for sure was that it was not Lily Bell.
I was back to square one.
***
I needed a blueberry muffin, and I knew just the place where I would get a staff discount—one hundred per cent discount, if I had anything to do with it.
What? Of course it isn’t theft. It’s a perk of the job.
