* * * *
You don't shed the number of pounds that I've lost just by eating less. You have to work each one off. Gyms bore me out of my mind, and who needs a treadmill when one can walk up and down the wonderful hills on the Devon-Somerset border? The sweetest air on God's earth fills one's lungs, the eyes have plenty to feast on, and every pace keeps elasticated waistbands at bay for one more week. So first thing on Sunday morning, after eight o'clock communion, I changed my church shoes for my walking boots and strode off to enjoy a mile or two before I had to help prepare Sunday lunch, now so popular it was booked up five weeks ahead.
The weather continued perfect. There was hardly a breath of wind, and I'll swear you could hear not just the bleating of sheep and lowing of cattle, but the soft tinkle of the stream all competing with every imaginable bird. And from the direction of Duncombe Court there was also something else. Something that made me quicken my pace.
Someone was calling for help.
If I bothered with the gates and the path it'd add an extra five minutes. I took to the stile and cut through the woods, riddled with rabbit holes though they were.
I reckon I'm too old to run these days, but I certainly covered the ground quickly. The screams were getting more and more hysterical.
At last I was within yards of the lawn where yesterday's fete had been held. And I stopped dead. It was as if a whirlwind had destroyed everything in its path.
All the stalls, tents, and sideshows were long gone, of course. All except the pillory. And the pillory was occupied—by none other than Mr. Harpledon-Dean. Someone had found some stocks for his wife, who was trapped a few yards away.
Neither had been pelted with sponges. If they had, the sponges had been filled with something less wholesome than water.
Apart from two eyes so black they were three-quarters closed, his face was cut and bruised. He was surrounded by vegetables, some soft and rotting, others hard as stones. And yes, there were stones too. Only small ones. Whoever had thrown the missiles had meant to hurt, not kill.
As for her, at least having her feet not her hands trapped, she'd been able to cover her face. But someone had kindly rubbed eggs into her expensively cut and coiffed hair (we shared a hairdresser so I knew to a penny how much she paid), and tipped an unlovely mixture of mustard and tomato ketchup all over her top.
"Call the police!” she screeched. “And an ambulance for Trent!"
I spread my hands—I never took my mobile into church, and rarely on my walks. It was nice to be unobtainable occasionally.
"And for God's sake unlock us! What's got into you, you stupid bitch?"
Shock, I suppose. Not just seeing them and their punishment but looking at what was left of the garden, too. Someone had taken a rotivator to the lawn. In the Victorian parterres, not a rose tree remained. The little box hedges had been scythed to the ground. The lovingly restored fountain, said to rival a famous one at Chatsworth, ran red.
"I'll go up to the house and phone from there,” I said. “I'll call the fire service too—they should be able to free you."
The house—unlocked—was in a similar state. Someone had taken paint stripper to the once immaculate doors and skirting boards. The wallpaper had been sprayed with aerosols. It wasn't graffiti: There was no sign of a pattern or a logo. It was just mindless vandalism. Except that nothing had been broken. And nothing, as far as I could see, had been stolen.
Even as I phoned the emergency services, I was trying to puzzle it out.
* * * *
I saw them off in an ambulance, having locked the house and returned the key to Mrs. Harpledon-Dean. She took it with no thanks and a sniff, as if the whole thing were somehow my fault. And when I said I'd organise a patrol of the villagers to protect the Court, she sneered quite openly.
Sneering seemed somewhat in evidence at the village shop, too, thinly masked by a total silence, the sort army folk describe as dumb insolence. I had no idea what was going on, and no time to question the shopkeepers. I had mouths to feed, old customers and new, and no one was going to be disappointed. Even when a group from the local TV station turned up an hour late with twice the number they'd booked for, and stayed till I practically threw them out late that evening.
* * * *
Because we didn't serve hot meals on Mondays, I sometimes treated myself to a day off in Taunton or even Exeter. I'd round it off with a session at Weigh Watchers, though I knew to an ounce how much I had lost or gained. One day I'd sign off for good; meanwhile it seemed to me that I owed it to the organisation to inject a little of my will power into others.
This particular Monday started as usual, with a trip to the village shop to pick up my paper. Of course I could have had it delivered, but I still reckoned on taking every single available pace. And the walk gave me a chance to nod and smile at my neighbours and catch up on the local news.
Today you'd have thought that there would be two topics of conversation, the undoubted success of the fete and the subsequent fate of Duncombe Court. In whichever order. But it seemed the only thought in people's heads was the result of a far-distant football match televised at a time when I was up to my elbows in Saturday-night diners. Words like profit and vandalism might not have entered their vocabularies.
I smelt a very large furry rodent, one with a scaly pink tail.
The other strange thing was that as I was reaching for a pint of milk, my mobile rang. My old one, as it happens. No, I still hadn't got round to transferring my number from the one so old it might as well have been steam driven, with the most basic of ring tones. The moment I answered, the call was cut.
So why were people looking at me so oddly? I stood staring at it, aware that other people were too.
"Something wrong with your new toy?” Sally, the girl on the till asked. Was it she who'd called? Just testing, as it were?
"Don't talk to me about that! I can't even switch it on."
"What about all those photos?"
"Of the fete, you mean? Rubbish, I'm afraid. Absolute rubbish. I must have got some setting wrong. No one could recognise anyone.” That should be round the village in five minutes. “It's a good job the reporter from the local rag did his bit.” And what about the other proud photographers I'd have expected, taking snaps of their efforts? Now I came to think of it, I hadn't seen one.
"They said the reporter dropped his camera,” Sally said limpidly. “Lost everything."
"What a pity!” Did I allow a trace of irony in my voice? No, surely not. “So no one got any pictures of Saturday at all?"
"Seems that way."
"No record of—anything?” I added meaningfully.
"Nothing at all.” Her mouth snapped shut.
I knew better than to open mine.
So the villagers had had a hand in the destruction and, of course, the punishment of the Harpledon-Deans. And, presumably, they wanted to make sure there was no evidence—no mugshots, you might say. I'd known the villagers to close ranks before, once against me, so it was interesting to see they'd more or less included me in the plot. Well, at least they hadn't laid in wait for me and bashed me over the head so they could take the mobile from my bag.
So if they were responsible, why? What had two very hard-working people done to offend them? For the Harpledon-Deans had not only got their hands dirty alongside the villagers who now spurned them, they'd also got the same hands on every grant going, to pay for everything from the roof to the wiring. Even the garden had had support from some august horticultural body.
Apart from the village shopkeeper, who would know everything? I'd bet my licence no one in the village would talk. So how about someone not in the village, who might still know all the Harpledon-Deans’ secrets? The Exeter hairdresser Mrs. H-D and I shared?
Karen was surprised when I wanted an appointment at such short notice, but was happy to fit me in. While she pulled tufts of hair through a ghastly plastic cap so she could apply lowlights, she chattered happily away about her new car, her
ailing auntie, and her search for a new apprentice. I let her rabbit on—I didn't want too obviously to introduce any questions. But at last I said that I thought that beside Mrs. Harpledon-Dean's cut mine looked dowdy: Could she make me look snappier, more chic? I didn't mention the fate that Mrs. H-D's had endured.
"Mrs. Harpledon-Dean? Well, you won't have to worry about her much longer, will you? She's moving, worst luck. A good client, too—here every week, rain or shine. Except when she's in the West Indies, of course. Or her villa in Tuscany—though she lets that out most of the time. And there's her penthouse—"
I had to bite my lip not to ask all the questions demanding answers. I permitted myself one. “So she's got a lot of properties?"
"Not all that many,” Karen said reflectively, as if owning three or four expensive pads was normal. “And she's selling the Tuscany farmhouse soon—all those Brits wanting to buy."
"Lower the tone, do they?” I asked sarcastically enough to make Karen blink.
"It's the way they're pushing up prices, Mrs. Welford. She did tell me how much more she could sell it for than she'd paid, but you know me, I don't like to gossip."
"Of course not.” I settled back for a bit more excruciating tugging with the crochet hook. At last I said idly, “So you'll be losing Mrs. Harpledon-Dean. Any idea where she's moving to?"
"A manor house in the Cotswolds, I think she was saying.” She listed a clutch of celebrities who'd be their neighbours.
I did the maths.
* * * *
A chic hairdo like this demanded a new outfit, and I took myself off to my favourite boutique, rather off the main drag but none the worse for that. My route took me past a row of estate agents, some specialising in new estate houses, others at the opposite end of the market. Which was where I dawdled. But I wouldn't go in. Not till I was wearing whatever I fancied at Michelle's. Then I would look the part. In fact, my investments meant I could have bought for cash any place in the area, but I preferred to perpetuate the myth that my late husband—at one time Britain's most wanted criminal—had left me in genteel poverty. Otherwise people might have had the White Hart down as a money-laundering front, not simply the best restaurant for miles.
At last I swanned into the most exclusive estate agency and asked for details of some of the properties on the coast. But flightily I changed my mind—what about something more secluded, in the heart of the country? What sort of guide price was I looking at?
The estate agent, just as trustworthy as the rest of his clan, eventually confided in me that a house just like the one I might want—only five minutes’ walk from the best restaurant in Devon—had just sold for six million pounds.
Six million—a cool profit of five million! But I raised not a hair of my newly shaped eyebrows. “For a hotel?” At least that might benefit the villagers.
"No, as a private home. An Irish recluse."
Drat and botheration. Not someone who'd be opening his grounds to the villagers and supporting their good causes by hosting their fete. On the plus side, there'd be less interminable Gilbert and Sullivan, but that was about all.
How had they found out? I sometimes think the villagers hacked not into computers but into folks’ brains—and that they'd had a lot of practice over the years.
* * * *
I was on my way to Taunton when my old mobile rang. Although I had a hands-free setup, I let it take a message. My car had cost more than a week's pocket money, and I preferred it in the shape it was. In any case, I was too cross to be polite to my caller. Any caller. Five million pounds’ profit on the back of all the villagers’ efforts! Their generously donated raffle prizes. Their patience with antiques dealers selling pricey rubbish. Their bums sore with all that cheaply staged drama. They did it all because they believed that they were rescuing a lovely building that they could assimilate into village life. And all the time they were simply raising cash to make Duncombe Court more attractive to potential buyers.
As I parked for the Weight Watchers weigh-in, I thought I'd better check the message. It was from my receptionist.
"Seems someone told the police you took a lot of photos at the fete, Mrs. W. And they'd like to take a look."
I bet they would. And that was the last thing I wanted. Hadn't I virtually promised Sally that I would destroy any evidence? Simply wiping the damned photos, always assuming I could work out how to do it, was no good. IT bods—and the police would have a few knocking around somewhere—would be able to retrieve anything I'd deleted. It would have to be nothing less than total destruction.
There was only one thing to do, irritating though it was. Stopping the car, I placed my new mobile phone carefully under the nearside front wheel. There was a satisfying crunch as I drove over it.
Copyright © 2010 Judith Cutler
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Fiction: TRADITION by Ed Gorman
In addition to the short-story collec-tion reviewed in this month's Jury Box, The End of It All andOther Stories, Ed Gorman has recently produced a new novel. Starring Sam McCain, a character who first appeared in print in EQMM, the book, entitled Ticket to Ride (Pegasus), received this praise from Booklist: “An insightful portrait of small-town dynamics and plenty of deadpan humor.” Mr. Gorman's new story for EQMM is equally insightful, but in a more serious vein....
At least the caller had the good grace to wait until Amy and I had finished making love. What with a kid and both of us working, the old days of spontaneous and frequent lovemaking were long gone. Now we made appointments, and to-night we'd penciled in a frolic in our bedroom. I can't say it was a frolic as such, but it was one of those times when lust and tenderness reminded me of how much I loved my wife of nine years and how nice it was afterward to lie with her sleeping on my chest.
We'd been a little late getting started because she'd gotten a call from Paula Crane, a fellow high- school teacher. She'd wanted to know all about the English teacher who joined the faculty recently. Since Amy also taught English, Paula assumed that she'd have lots of gossip about the man. Several of the female teachers had been at the house a few weeks back and all they'd talked about was this Bruce Peters. Apparently the women couldn't stop flirting with the handsome bachelor. As Amy hung up, she'd laughed and said, “Sorry, honey. If I didn't know better I'd swear Paula wasn't married. She talks like she's still single."
The clock radio said 11:24 as I reached to pick up the receiver. I had to roll to my right to reach it. I tried to do this without waking Amy up but my acrobatic skills failed. Her blond head snapped up and she looked at me with the fuzzy confused gaze of a child. “What's wrong, honey?"
"The phone."
"Oh.” Then, brushing hair from her face, alert now: “Oh, God."
I suppose that is a phrase common to many women married to law-enforcement officers when their phone rings late at night. A mixture of irritation and vague fear.
She sat up and began running a slender hand across her face.
By now I could see Caller ID. My father.
"Just got a call that David Neely is dead."
"Dead? How?"
"All I know is that he's lying on the river road straight down from the cliff behind his A-frame. Dink Hopkins was out on his motorcycle and found him about five minutes ago. Didn't call the shop. Phoned me at home."
"I'll meet you there in about ten minutes."
"Tell Amy I'm sorry about the late call."
Amy was up and hurrying out the bedroom door to check on our daughter. Even though Cindy is six, she still checks on her three or four times a night, the way she did when she was smaller.
I grabbed socks, my L. L. Bean Bison Chukkas, black sweater, jeans, and the plastic loop that carries my official ID, dressing quickly in the Halloween shadows from the naked tree limbs on this cold October night. The last two items were my fedora—and I'm well aware of the vanity involved with wearing it—and the .38 I holster on my belt.
Amy was back in a rush, sliding her arms around me,
holding me tight, letting me smell the good clean scent of her hair and recently showered skin. “Did somebody die?"
"David Neely. Dink Hopkins found him on the river road a few minutes ago. That's all I know."
She leaned back. “Oh, God. I wonder if he was murdered—I wonder if it was one of his married women.” Then: “Oh, listen to me.” Her hands dropped from my sides. In the wan streetlight she looked like a sensual college girl. “Can you be any more of a bitch, Amy? I shouldn't have said that. The poor man's dead. It's just that he was—"
"An asshole."
"Yes. An asshole. He ruined my best friend's marriage."
"Well, Donna had a little something to do with it, too. He didn't exactly force her into that affair.” I leaned in and kissed her. “I need to get going. I'll call you on your cell in a while so it won't wake Cindy."
"Love you."
"Love you, too."
* * * *
Alveron, population 4,680, is in Northern Illinois, fifty-three miles from Lake Michigan. At this time of night everything except a few taverns and convenience stores is closed and the houses, which tend to be small except for a handful of McMansions on the eastern edge of town, are hunkered down in dreams and darkness. There was no reason to use a siren. My father, the county sheriff, would already have dispatched an ambulance as well as the county medical examiner, a capable middle-aged black doctor who had yet to find complete acceptance in the mostly white community. I liked him. Our previous M.E. had been something of a showboat. Our new man had come here to get his kids out of the city. We had the lowest murder rate in the state. Our badge of honor.
I couldn't drive these streets without being at the mercy of memories good and bad. Being the son of the sheriff in a small town means you'll have lots of friends, whether you want them or not. You enjoy something like celebrity. My folks are good and decent people. My father believes that physical force is always the last resort and he has fired more than a few men over the years who have taken their problems out on their prisoners. Last year he hired a young woman as his newest deputy. She and Dr. Thomas face about the same amount of resistance. A black doctor? A female officer? What the hell is going on here? That's Chicago foolishness and not at all for Alveron.
EQMM, July 2010 Page 8
