I can imagine, thought Flora. She’d have a fit if she found out about Joy’s secret stash of daily medication.
‘But you don’t know his first name?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No, sorry. Why do you need to know?’
Flora gestured vaguely. ‘I wanted to send him a … birthday card.’ It was the first thing that popped into her head.
‘Ah. That’s nice. I’ll make sure we get him one too.’
Flora said goodbye and watched the receptionist walk away. She shook her head and headed for the exit. Mr Felix was clearly just a harmless old man with nothing more than the state of his health on his mind. Joy had too much time on her hands, that was the real problem.
She pushed through the glass doors and smiled into the sunshine. The sight of Marshall leaning against the wall with his arms folded, glaring at her, was so unexpected she forgot for a moment what she was doing at the Maples in the first place.
‘In your own time, Miss Lively.’ Marshall turned and stalked away across the quadrant. Flora had no choice but to follow meekly at his heels.
***
At least her love life wasn’t as bleak as her work life. Flora hadn’t dated anyone for over a year – a long time for a woman in her prime, but not for someone recovering from the loss of both her parents. Things had picked recently though, for reasons Flora didn’t analyse too deeply. So far she’d been out on four dates with three perfectly eligible guys; men were indeed like buses, only much harder to catch when they were trying to get away from you.
No such worries with Heston. She’d totally given up on the bad boy vibe this time and was excited to be dating a librarian who thought the sun shone out of her tiny behind. Flora didn’t really have a type – her mum had always said she wasn’t fussy enough – but if she did, Heston probably wouldn’t be it. With neat blonde hair and smooth fair skin that clearly didn’t see much sunshine, Heston was almost as slight as Flora. But he was handsome, with a fine mouth and a chiselled nose and chin, aristocratic-looking and very clever.
And he was a secret. Marshall had made fun of both guys Flora had dated, and he’d only met one of them – an accidental bumping-into situation which had left Flora unaccountably rattled and making excuses to end the date early. The other had been ridiculed merely for his name, job, and the car he drove.
God only knew the mileage Marshall would have with Heston the librarian and his Volkswagen Beetle complete with fresh daisy in the dashboard.
She left work early on Tuesday to get ready for her second date with Heston. Her bedroom at the bungalow was not the one she’d occupied as a child – her parents had moved here when she left for university – but it was the only room in their house she’d managed to make her own. In here she had her vintage tailor’s dummy and the patchwork armchair she’d made at night school during that phase when she’d been heavily into upholstery. The red and blue quilt on the bed was from yet another phase, as was the decoupage bird of paradise tray which sat on her grandmother’s old dressing table, now painted and distressed in a fair approximation of shabby chic.
‘Why don’t you study something practical?’ her parents had asked her over and over: as a child she’d been almost aggressively creative, making complicated collages and odd structures out of cardboard and bits of wool, held together by Scotch tape and sheer determination. But Flora had been adamant psychology was the university route for her. She needed to understand what made people tick. From the moment she found out, aged fourteen and already at the stage of incomprehensible insecurity, that she’d been adopted as a baby, Flora had been on a mission. Not to find her birth parents – she had no intention of going down that route, Kitty and Peter Lively must have been relieved to discover – but to find a way to make sense of the world.
She’d made them proud with her 2:1 in psychology, but the gap year she’d taken to help out in the family business had turned into two years, then four, then six. Her dreams of working as a counsellor had receded even further from her reach, and now she had someone else’s dream to take care of. Besides, she couldn’t even figure out how to stop an old lady obsessing about bunches of flowers, secret societies and canine catastrophes. She’d have no chance with a set of real problems.
She pulled a delicate floral-patterned dress from her creaky wardrobe, smoothing out the creases where the fabric had been packed in too tightly. For work, Flora always wore the same uniform of jeans and T-shirt; cut-offs if the weather was fine. She never made a conscious decision to hide her tattoos – the one on her thigh was a lot easier to hide than the one on her shoulder – but this particular vintage find had elbow-length sleeves, which was probably just as well. She wondered what Heston would think if she changed her hair colour. It had been its natural chestnut brown for too long and she was getting the urge for something brighter, maybe a pillar-box red. Flora looked in the mirror and thought about her mum. What would she have made of Heston?
‘Should I dye my hair again?’ Flora whispered.
What she really meant was: Will it make me a bad person if I start to move on?
It was warm for April, the opposite of an Indian summer, and Flora enjoyed the short walk into town. She wore her favourite sparkly flip-flops with the tea dress and carried a light wool cardigan in case it grew cooler later. She fairly bounced along the pavement, looking forward to an evening of easy conversation and mild adoration. Oh yes, there were definite benefits to dating a man who liked you a little more than you liked him.
Heston was sitting outside on the pizzeria’s terrace, shielding his eyes from the sun with one pale hand. He was wearing a white linen suit, and the effect it created, together with his pale hair and translucent skin, was that of a ghost watching the world go by, insubstantial as a gust of wind.
His embrace was reassuringly firm though, as was the expression in his eyes when he kissed her on the cheek.
They ordered garlic dough balls and a bottle of white wine and sat back to take in the last of the sun. Heston held her hand as though it was made of china, stoking it occasionally with his soft, smooth fingers.
‘How have you been, sweetie?’ he said.
And the great thing was: he really cared.
Flora told him all about Otto’s near miss, then spilled her worries about Rockfords and their imminent move into Shakers’ territory. Heston sighed heavily and dropped her hand back into her lap.
‘I do sometimes wonder about that job of yours.’ He gazed off down the street to where two teenage girls with multiple piercings were posing languidly on a bench. She heard his soft tut, then he shook his head and looked back at her. Flora shifted uneasily and smoothed her dress over her flat stomach. She’d kept the belly-button ring, even though her other teenage rebellion piercings – nose, eyebrow, the usual places – had closed up years ago. What would someone as straight-laced as Heston make of that?
‘I mean, it just doesn’t really seem to suit you.’
She brushed off a momentary feeling of irritation: he wasn’t the first to question a woman being in charge of a removals company, and he wouldn’t be the last.
‘What do you mean, exactly?’ she said, keeping her voice level.
‘It’s just that you’re so feminine, so delicate. I can’t imagine you hulking great lumps of furniture around the place. Don’t you sometimes wish for something a bit less physical?’
Flora laughed. ‘It’s nice that someone sees me as feminine – I’m not sure about delicate, though. And Marshall would say that I’m not physical enough! He’s always going on at me to pull my weight.’
Heston’s expression tightened. ‘That manager of yours sounds like an idiot. I don’t know why you put up with him.’
‘I put up with him because I have to.’ Flora sipped her wine, then looked out across the terrace. ‘He was my dad’s choice, not mine.’
‘Didn’t you say he was American? What’s he doing over here anyway?’
‘He’s my Uncle Max’s stepson.’ She smiled at Heston�
��s confused expression. ‘Marshall was nine when Max met his mum. My uncle was only visiting, but he ended up living in the US for ten years. Marshall’s mum is a serial marrier – I think she’s on hubby number six now. He’s very sensitive about it.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Max is probably the closest he’s got to an actual father – he stuck around the longest. Anyway, Marshall was between jobs, came over here to visit with Max and while he was here Mum got sick.’ She bit her lip, aware of the tremble in her voice. Heston stroked her arm gently.
‘It’s still pretty raw.’
She nodded, but didn’t trust herself to speak. Heston, sensitive as always, filled the silence by telling her about his day at the library.
‘We’ve started a book group for our older readers,’ he said. ‘One of our members is from that retirement village of yours. Felix, I think his name is. Mr Felix. Nice old chap, comes in on his mobility scooter. Looks a bit the worse for wear.’
Flora was wrong-footed for a moment, hearing that name mentioned again, and in such incongruous surroundings. But then she smiled, picturing Mr Felix and his wispy ginger comb-over. He did look the worse for wear, it was true. Heston no doubt preferred his old people spick and span, shirt and tie for the men, twinset and pearls for the ladies. He’d love the Captain, with his manicured moustache and shining medals.
But thoughts of Mr Felix brought her mind back to Joy and the story of her secret society. Poor old Joy – grief could certainly do strange things with your memory.
‘Flora? Are you still with me?’
She gave her head a little shake. ‘Sorry. Yes, a book group. That sounds like a lot of fun.’
Their pizzas arrived, but Flora couldn’t keep her mind off the Maples. Or rather, she couldn’t stop thinking about Joy’s story of the caretaker’s son. What had they done to him that was so terrible? If only the warden hadn’t come looking for her at that precise moment.
Heston put his fork down and looked at Flora’s plate. ‘Not hungry, sweetie?’
Flora was on the brink of telling him about Joy’s crazy accusations, vow of silence or not, when her phone rang. She slipped it out of her bag and answered, glancing sheepishly at the other diners.
‘Hello?’
‘Flora? Is that you?’
‘It’s Joy,’ she mouthed to Heston as she pushed back her chair and walked to the edge of the terrace. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of an accident.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘It was just a fall. I’m not too bad, but I’ve hurt my hip.’
‘Have you seen the doctor?’
‘Not really. The thing is, Otto needs you.’
Flora turned her back to Heston and all the pairs of eyes boring into her. ‘Joy, you need to go to the medical centre right away. Can you walk?’
‘Oh, I have been. I’m fine, really. But I need you to take Otto for a few days. I won’t be able to look after him properly. I’m feeling very stressed about taking him for walks, making sure he’s okay … You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Well, no, of course not, but–’
‘That’s wonderful, thank you. I’ll have everything ready for you. Can you come right away?’
Flora walked back to the table, a knot of anxiety forming in her stomach. Heston jumped up to pull out her chair, ever the gentleman.
‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘It’s worse than that. I’ve seen my future, and it’s not pretty.’
Heston raised one eyebrow.
‘I have just,’ explained Flora with a heavy sigh, ‘acquired a dog.’
‘Pardon?’
‘A pug called Otto. Joy’s had a fall – she wants me to take him in for a couple of days. She’s totally paranoid about his safety at the moment, so I have to go over to Sleepy City right now and rescue him or I imagine there’ll be an uprising the likes of which Shrewsbury has never seen before.’
‘Even during the wars with the Welsh?’ said Heston, smirking.
‘Funny.’ Flora picked up a slice of pizza and looked at it disconsolately. ‘I don’t even like dogs, especially. I’m more of a cat person myself.’
‘Me too.’
They looked at each other in silence.
‘Do you want a lift? We can stop off at the supermarket for dog food.’
‘Thanks, Heston, but I think I’ll walk. If my life is going to be taken over by a small animal I need to enjoy my last moments of freedom while I can.’
She kissed him on the cheek and waved goodbye.
She didn’t much like dogs, Heston didn’t like dogs, and Marshall was going to have a field day with this. Why did her life have to turn so complicated?
And why hadn’t she just said no?
Chapter 5
‘Why didn’t you just say no?’
Marshall reclined in Flora’s chair with his feet on the desk, laughing at her plight, while Otto sat in her arms panting and wheezing like an old steam engine.
‘I couldn’t,’ whined Flora, sounding a little like Otto had at five o’clock that morning when he’d scratched at her bedroom door to be let in.
‘Why?’
Flora could see Marshall was genuinely bemused. He would never put himself out this way, especially if it meant turning over his house to an unwanted canine guest.
‘I couldn’t say no because a poor old lady’s peace of mind depended on it,’ she snapped. ‘It’s what friends do.’
Marshall shrugged. The gesture was so typically Marshall, so laid back and all-American, it made her want to slap him. She took a calming breath. It wasn’t Marshall’s fault she was a total pushover. She just didn’t like having it pointed out, was all. Especially by him.
‘Well,’ he said, standing up and stretching his arms back like an athlete, ‘we’ve got other things to worry about today. So little Oscar there will just have to behave, won’t he?’
‘Otto,’ said Flora, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘And he is behaving.’
‘Only because you haven’t put him down all morning.’
It was true that Otto didn’t seem to like being anywhere but in Flora’s arms. From the moment she’d taken him from a triumphant Joy last night, the pug had clung to her like a baby. She’d rocked him to sleep, then laid him in a makeshift bed on Joy’s spare dressing gown, hoping the smell would be enough to keep him there all night.
She’d only got four hours, and now the lack of sleep was starting to take its toll.
Flora hoisted the dog up onto her shoulder and patted his back. ‘So what’s to worry about now?’
Marshall threw a newspaper across the desk. ‘Page eight. Take a look’
Flora turned the pages with her free hand. When she reached page eight she nearly dropped the damn dog on the floor.
‘Jesus! A full page ad? What are they trying to do, shut us down completely?’
Marshall gave another trademark shrug and got up to stand beside Flora. They looked down at the paper together.
ROCKFORDS INTERNATIONAL REMOVALS
Top Quality Removals at Rock-Bottom Prices
You’ve tried the rest, now try the best!!!
We do the work so you get to shirk!
Try our packing service – 50% off for new customers
‘Fifty per cent off! Surely they can’t make any money with an offer like that?’
‘Maybe that’s not their prime objective.’
‘What do you mean?’
Another shrug. ‘Getting customers seems to be what this is about, not making money.’
‘But those customers are our customers. They’ve got no right to undercut us this way.’ Flora put Otto on the floor and hopefully pushed his nose towards a dish of biscuits. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘There’s nothing we can do, is there? We can’t match that offer. Just haven’t got the manpower.’
Flora’s head jerked up sharply. She was sure
she’d heard Marshall put just a bit too much emphasis on the word “man”, but he was still looking at the newspaper. Don’t be paranoid, she told herself. Apart from teasing her about Otto, Marshall had been almost friendly today. Maybe he too was sick of the sniping. Whatever the reason, Flora wanted to enjoy the calm and not rock the boat.
‘Maybe it’s time to think again about some other ideas for the business,’ she said. ‘You know, like my removals counselling service?’
Marshall groaned. He picked up the paper, screwed it into a ball, then threw it across the room. It landed in the wire waste bin with a thunk. Bullseye.
So much for not rocking the boat.
Richie chose that moment to clatter up the steps and burst into the office, smelling of diesel and outdoors. Flora looked at the clock on the wall.
‘It’s almost eleven, Richie.’ She tried to keep her voice light. ‘Where’ve you been?’
Marshall dipped his head. She wasn’t going to get any support from him, then. This was the first she’d seen of Richie all morning. Tardy was an understatement.
Richie dropped the keys onto the table. ‘Took the van for a wash, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you did – yesterday, after we’d finished moving Vera into the Maples. What have you been doing this morning?’
Richie was looking at Marshall, but when Marshall refused to return his stare he turned to Flora and shrugged. ‘Was delivering leaflets, wasn’t I? Drumming up new business.’
‘Really?’ Flora was surprised, but pleased. This showed initiative – maybe Richie would turn out to be a good worker after all. He was Cynthia’s nephew, and she had a good work ethic. A bit cold-hearted when it came to pets, perhaps, but clearly good at business. Maybe Marshall had made a good choice.
But then she had another thought.
What leaflets?
‘Which leaflets were you delivering, Richie? The Shakers ones ran out last year, and no one’ – she looked pointedly at Marshall – ‘has gotten around to printing any more.’
The only sound in the room was Otto slurping water from a bowl.
Murder at the Maples: A Flora Lively Mystery Page 6
