by Kris Pearson
I tried not to snort. Yes, I’d seen sensational reports like that for sure. High on excitement, low on facts.
She rolled her bottom lip in over her teeth while she thought for a moment longer. “Umm… Platinum blonde Ms Gregson will be remembered for her moving portrayal of the abused wife, Fiona, in the BBC’s production of ‘You’d Never Suspect’. Widowed only months ago, Ms Gregson fled to New Zealand to spend time with her war hero brother so she could heal in peace and privacy. It’s rumored her mental state is now fragile’.” She scowled. “And they’ll dig out some terrible old publicity shot from a past production where I’m wearing a frizzy wig.”
“You’re not really ‘platinum’,” I objected.
“I’m a long way from ‘fragile’, too,” she muttered.
I drew a breath. “Is Paul really a war hero?”
“In my eyes, for sure.” Her sharp gaze dared me to think otherwise.
“Phone her,” I suggested.
“We’ve already Skyped to prove I arrived safely.”
I gave her a gentle dig with my elbow. “Yes, but this hadn’t happened then. Get in first. Tell her how it really is now. And, by the way, you’re good. I can see you doing a great commentary for the filming job.”
She relaxed a little at my compliment. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to beat her to it. Might prevent her from hopping on the first available flight and trying to ‘rescue’ me.”
“She wouldn’t, would she?” I suddenly pictured Her Tweediness striding along the beach with a brace of hounds, hunting down her sorrowing daughter.
The customers immediately ahead of us uplifted their goodies and made their way to one of the indoor tables. Iona glanced behind us, decided the queue was now manageable, and said to the girl, “Michelle, you’ll be okay on your own for a few minutes, won’t you.” It didn’t look as though Michelle had any say in the matter.
Iona lifted a hinged section of the counter and beckoned us through to the kitchen. Heather stared around with unabashed interest until I introduced her. “Iona, this is Paul’s sister, Heather Gregson. Heather, this is Iona Coppington.”
“Strong family resemblance,” Iona said, offering a hand to shake.
“You really think so?” I asked. Heather looked surprised and then added, “So pleased to meet you, Iona.”
“Goodness yes,” Iona said, tilting her inquisitive birdie face up to inspect Heather more closely. “Different coloring but the same long, elegant, English nose. Same set to the mouth.”
“I don’t like my nose much,” Heather said.
“Not too fond of my chubby one, either,” Iona chortled. “I’d rather have yours any day. Anyway… Merry says you’re a keen baker?”
“Amateur only. I’d need direction, but I’m sure I could do anything you needed after that.”
“Frosting? Icing? Birthday cakes for kids?”
Heather’s eyes lit up. “Yes, anything fiddly or fancy I’m very good at.”
“Christmas cakes?”
“Baking them or icing them?”
Iona looked sly. “Baked them months ago. They’ve been maturing, and getting a little drink of brandy now and then.”
“Iona!” I exclaimed. “Are you allowed to do that without a liquor license?”
“I am sure it all evaporates,” she said, not looking the least bit worried. “I could certainly do with some behind-the-scenes help for the next week or so.”
They continued to chat, totally ignoring me.
“How about I nip home to change and come back for a trial run?” Heather suggested. “The rest of today, plus tomorrow to start with, and you can see if I’m useful.”
“We’ll have to work out how to pay you.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Could you make a contribution of Christmas cakes and Christmas puddings to Paul’s big community lunch?”
“I’d be doing that anyway,” Iona said, looking offended that Heather thought otherwise.
“Well, maybe a bit more than usual? I’d be perfectly happy with that. I’ll be in heaven playing in here.” She gazed around the spotless white kitchen with its stainless steel benches and commercial oven.
Iona shot her an assessing glare. “You won’t consider it ‘playing’ if I throw three dozen cupcakes at you and ask for pointed clown hats, lemon drizzle icing, and a different expression on every face.”
Heather rubbed her hands together and grinned. “Try me!”
“All done in half an hour.”
“Ah. I’ll speed up with practice.”
“I can see you two are going to get on fine,” I said to Iona, hitching my bag more firmly over my shoulder. “We had no breakfast because we were going up in a helicopter, so maybe we could grab coffee and a muffin and then I’ll leave you to it.”
“Back to your lonely laptop?” Heather suggested.
“Not so lonely this time. It’s my favorite author – the one who does her own animal paintings.”
“Elaine O’Blythe?” Iona demanded, her face tilted to one side like an inquisitive budgie. “Has she got a new book coming out? Will it be in time for my youngest grandies for Christmas?”
I shook my head. “Bit of work to do yet.”
She sighed. “They’ve got all the others. They love them. I still need to buy a few bits and pieces for them.”
“Come to the craft sale at Horse Heaven with us?” I suggested. “We thought we’d have a look on Sunday.”
“Ummm…” Heather said. “What time? I said I’d help Paul with a Sunday School nativity rehearsal mid-morning before he does the Family Service. An item to perform at the community lunch.”
I clapped a hand to my chest. “Sorry. Should have thought.”
“Two o’clock?” Iona suggested, and we both nodded.
*
Life went back to normal for the next couple of days, and with no murder progress to distract me, I got plenty of editing work done. Then, after lunch on Sunday, the three of us bundled into the Focus and made our way to Old Bay Road. Horse Heaven baked under the summer sun. Plums and apricots glowed from among the leaves of Betty McGyver’s trees. The same horse who’d escorted me last time trotted up the driveway beside us on the other side of the fence again, whickering a soft welcome.
“Isn’t he beautiful!” Heather exclaimed from the back seat. I could easily imagine her in jodhpurs and a riding helmet, cantering around the Derbyshire countryside.
Parking was at quite a premium once we got closer to the big barn, but I squeezed us into a gap someone else was vacating. It looked like the ladies were having a very successful sale.
And so it proved. Betty was beside herself with glee. “Merry,” she enthused. “Such a great turn-out. Thank you so much for getting that item into the Coastal Courier for us. And they used both of the photos.”
“Not surprised,” I said as we all turned toward the barn. “You set the goodies up to look so pretty for them.”
Some time ago I’d come out to Horse Heaven to what was loosely described as a crafting conference. I’d been following a hunch about the Isobel Crombie murder, and farmer Betty had been kind enough to feed me brunch (delicious bacon from a much-loved pig previously known as Harold). “You’ll remember Iona from the café, of course,” I said, recovering my manners. “And this is Heather, Vicar Paul’s sister.”
“Here for a Kiwi summer,” Heather said, shaking Betty’s proffered hand.
“Can we chat for a minute?” Betty asked, politely making it plain she wanted me but not Iona or Heather. I waved them to go on ahead of me, and Betty led me between two parked cars. “This murder,” she said, as soon as we couldn’t be overheard. “Any progress yet?”
Why would Betty be so desperate to know? I must have looked at her rather sharply because she followed up with, “I’m on my own here at night. If anyone decides to steal my stock they’ll get a blast up their backsides from my shotgun.”
“Fair enough, too,” I agreed. “But that quarter-cow in our garage wa
s either from Drizzle Farm or Devon Downs, so I don’t think you need to worry too much over this side of the bay.”
“They’ve narrowed it down to those two properties?”
“Yes, but that’s confidential for now. Okay?”
She nodded, looking somewhat less on edge. “Good to know. So they’re making progress. Anyone in mind for the murder?”
“Not yet, as far as I know, although why would Bruce Carver tell me?” I leaned closer to her. “He had a word with both Heather and me this morning but he wasn’t giving anything away.”
Betty had to be content with that. I wasn’t getting into speculation. There was plenty of that swirling around the village already.
Heather, Iona and I spent a happy hour or so wandering around the stalls and eventually departed with a hand-crocheted merino infinity scarf for Heather and Paul’s mother, and three pairs of earrings and a patchwork bag created from varying shades of old denim jeans for me. Iona chose hand-knitted glove puppets with ping pong ball heads and huge smiles for her younger grandchildren, and half a dozen very ugly mini-zombie dolls made from wooden clothes pegs, which she declared would be perfect stocking-fillers for her twelve year old twin grand-daughters.
“Zombie cupcakes?” Heather suggested as we walked back to the car. “Gray frosting, big frightened eyes, a trickle of blood?” She and Iona fell about laughing.
“Hmmm… school holidays,” I said. “They might even be worth a try.”
“Totally,” Heather agreed. “Can’t be more gruesome than Evie Garrison’s attempt at being the Virgin Mary in this morning’s nativity rehearsal. Her older sister did her makeup. She made her look like some sort of rock-star – Alice Cooper, or the blokes from Kiss – black-rimmed eyes and skin as white as a geisha.”
“Or a panda?” Iona suggested, and we all dissolved into laughter again.
I should probably admit we’d tried some samples of fruit wines – Heather and Iona much more than me, seeing I was driving. The hilarity was probably out of proportion to the topic. The supply of the wine was possibly not legal. On private property? Given away and not sold? Who cared – they were surprisingly nice wines on a gorgeous summer day and we were feeling no pain.
I beeped the car unlocked. “Is this okay on the seat beside you?” I asked Heather, handing her my new patchwork denim bag with the rest of the things inside it. She’d insisted chubby Iona sat in the front on the way here, and was already climbing into the back again.
“No worries – where’s my card from that wine-maker?” she asked, fumbling around her pockets. “I’m definitely going to order a box of the elderflower champagne. And some of that raspberry gin.”
There’d been gin? I hadn’t seen that, and maybe just as well!
Right as she located the card, my phone burst into ‘Jingle Bells’. John’s name appeared on the screen and his deep voice rumbled into my ear. “I’m taking the dogs for a run out past the Point. Wondered if you wanted to come for a beach walk on such a nice day?”
My skin prickled, thinking of that kiss. Was this really just an invitation for a walk? I wouldn’t bring the spaniels, in case.
11 – Man-handled
Bringing – or not bringing – the spaniels made no difference as it happened.
John collected me in the black pick-up with Fire and Ice secured in the tray. “Are they okay?” I asked, peering around at their big faces looking at us through the rear window.
“They’re working dogs, not pets,” he said. “Lick you to death if they were in the back seat.”
Euw – they had very big mouths with huge, long tongues!
Taking very little notice of the speed limit, he roared down Drizzle Bay Road. “So you’re playing the Mom in the commercial and the vicar’s being the Dad?”
“Only from the back,” I said. “And hardly ‘playing’. We’ll just be bodies the right size and age.”
“I’ll be shooting you. Could sneak your face in, if you want?”
“You’ll be shooting us?”
“Did quite a lot of video surveillance in the past. Comes in handy…”
Hmmm. The Black Ops rumors floated to the top of the murky things I knew (or maybe didn’t know) about him. “Have you worked all over the world?”
“Nowhere as peaceful as this,” he said, which didn’t tell me much.
“War zones?”
“Yup.”
I waited for anything else. It wasn’t forthcoming. “And?”
“Industrial espionage. People who need watching.” He shrugged, and sent me a lazy grin. “Not always a nice world out there.”
“So you’re here for some peace and quiet?”
“Here for whatever turns up.”
He was infuriating! I couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or not. He wasn’t actually rude but he was way less than forthcoming.
After a few more minutes he pulled into the space by the beach access path. This was where I’d first seen his truck all those weeks ago. The cottage was only about a hundred yards away, but the big white X of the tree trunk had to be further on because the wheel-tracks we’d seen from the air led to Drizzle Farm’s land. I’d be keeping clear of that, for sure.
“So here we are,” John said. “I’ll only be half an hour.”
As Fire and Ice and John bounded off into the distance I gave them half a wave they never saw and started to amble along the tangled strip of seaweed and shells, wondering what treasures I might discover. So far it seemed the invitation really had been for a walk – and a walk on my own, at that.
I picked up a long, smooth stick and used it to poke at some of the thicker clumps of seaweed and kelp. Found a really big paua shell, gleaming blue and turquoise and violet. Then a much smaller, paler one. It was a little honey so I gave it a rub and slipped it into my pocket. This was followed by the most amazing convoluted piece of driftwood. I easily pictured our mother using that in one of her rather creative flower arrangements. Not being a floral artist myself I left it behind and wandered on, thinking fond thoughts of her.
The air smelled super salty. The breakers thundered in under the lowering sun, tossing plumes of spray behind them as they raced toward the shore. I was surprised John was running instead of surfing. He was good to the Shepherds though. Fire and Ice were pictures of health – thick shiny coats, bright dark eyes, and bursting with energy. They ran faster than him, and he was going at a fair clip. The dogs easily outpaced him and then circled back to start the race again, kicking up sand and barking joyfully.
I watched as they moved further and further away and then returned to my slow beachcombing. Found a strange flat shell the like of which I’d never seen before. When you grow up beside the ocean there’s not much you don’t recognize. Maybe this had been washed up from somewhere very deep? I slid that into my pocket beside the little paua shell.
I was in a deeply peaceful place when I heard an urgent shriek of, “Help, please!” from somewhere behind me. I whipped around – on edge to suddenly have company. At least it was a woman’s voice, although plainly a panicked one. I was amazed to find it was Margaret Alsop.
She’d looked bad at the Burkeville on Wednesday – the day Paul and I had taken Heather to brunch there, and Margaret had called in to buy a croissant, intending to share it with Pierre the poodle. Now she looked absolutely terrible. She appeared to have aged another ten years. Her peroxided hair was scraped back into an untidy ponytail and her big bosom was at least all covered this time, but the stretchy top she wore did nothing to disguise its dimensions.
“Margaret!” I stared at her. She’d scrambled down onto the beach from the old cottage’s garden. She was panting hard and pink in the face under her unnatural yellow-blonde hair. It was a real shock to see her.
“I thought it looked like you,” she gabbled. “I hoped it was. Can you help? This is urgent. This is really urgent.” At that moment there was a loud masculine yell and two angry men came barreling over the highest sand hill, heading straight
in our direction.
“Oh God!” she gasped. “It’s them. They’re home early.”
My mouth must have been a total ‘O’ of surprise. I didn’t expect she’d be so destitute she’d need to take in lodgers to make ends meet.
“Three of them,” she quavered. “Demanding to stay here because it’s out of sight. Two nasty big dogs as well. Pierre is terrified of them, and they keep threatening to feed him to them if I don’t do what they want.”
I stared across at the two men who were making as much haste as they could, stumbling through the low beachy scrub. They’d be all over us in thirty seconds.
Three men, two dogs. Could they be the rustlers from the green stock truck? The intruders DS Carver had evicted from Perce Percy’s land? Was this where they’d disappeared to?
I twisted away in the hope they couldn’t see what I was doing and grabbed my cell phone. Tapped out the fastest text in the world to John. 3 men 2 dogs cottage get help. And attempted to stuff the phone back in my pocket, hoping they hadn’t seen me sending it. Fat chance, of course.
“You can forget that, Blondie,” the first of them said, slinging an arm around my neck in a chokehold and diving for the phone with his other hand. He wrenched it out of my fingers and hurled it into the sea.
Noooo…. all my contacts! What a stupid thought – I should have been thinking ‘all my oxygen’ but the human brain is a very strange thing.
“Aaaarrgghhh…” was all I could manage, and Margaret sounded a lot the same. The two men forced us back up the beach, an arm across a throat, the other around a waist, turning and dragging us when we couldn’t manage to walk properly in their tight grips. They were big and tough and smelly – unpleasantly perfumed with old perspiration, beery breath and animal dung. The one forcing me along had rough, calloused hands and horribly scratchy whiskers that kept digging into the side of my face. He’d clamped a punishing fist around my jaw. I would have loved to bite him but had no chance to.
