Sealfinger (Sam Applewhite Book 1)

by Heide Goody

  “Er, hi Doug,” said Delia dutifully.

  Sam opened the parcel. She had been sent a big pile of DefCon4 flyers to distribute to potential local clients. “Here,” she said, giving one to Delia. “In case you foolishly decide you need DefCon4’s services.”

  “No, this looks good,” said Delia. “These people offer so many services. Scalable business solutions for a small monthly subscription, including risk consulting, event security, training services.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “You know this is all me, don’t you? At least for this area.”

  “You can do all of these things?” Delia asked.

  “Apparently, I have access to the requisite training material if I find myself with a development need,” said Sam, quoting from one of the cryptic and incredibly unhelpful emails she had received in the past.

  “Well, that’s pretty good,” said Delia. “Getting new skills is—”

  “—Except I’ve never been able to access it,” said Sam. “Something about not being on the trusted domain for the company’s network, because the IT person who was supposed to do it can’t get out here because of working time regulations. I don’t even know what that means, but I can’t get past it.”

  “And what’s clown management?” asked Delia, pointing at the flyer. “Is the circus in the Guild of Small Business Owners?”

  Sam looked and groaned. “No, it’s supposed to say ‘crowd management’. That’s what comes of using spell check instead of getting an actual human to look over something.”

  She looked at the clock on the wall. Two hours to the local business guild meeting.

  Sam searched around for a felt tip. “Let’s see how many of these I can correct before the meeting.”

  “We,” said Delia. “How many we can correct.”

  “Don’t you have better things to do?” said Sam. “A family to spend time with?”

  Delia blew a stray strand of hair away from her eyes and dropped into a chair. “Have you never thought I might be doing this to avoid spending time with my family?”

  Later, with five hundred corrected flyers in her bag, the pair of them headed to Carnage Hall.

  “I should have dressed up a bit,” said Delia as they passed through the theatre foyer and towards the Jim Bowen bar.

  The bar was closed to the public for the guild event. The member of staff on the door wasn’t checking IDs or invites or anything. Sam simply gave the man an ‘I’m here on business’ look and went through.

  “You don’t need to dress up to come to these events,” she said.

  “Some of these people are in suits,” said Delia.

  Sam looked around at the half full bar. “That’s people who’ve worn suits all day. You’ll probably see people come here in overalls as well.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Delia. “It’s got the word ‘guild’ in it, for heaven’s sake. That does not speak of overalls to me. It speaks of pearls and twinsets and—”

  “I’m getting the idea you might be nervous about this,” said Sam.

  “No! Not me, I’m fearless.” Delia made a visible effort to calm herself, then she turned to Sam. “I bet all your guild friends have Audis and Mercs and Beemers. These people are actual businesspeople, with plans and investors and whatnot.”

  There was some light mingling going on in the room, and several people had drifted into knots of conversations. There was also an undeniable bit of class distinction going on. People Sam knew who were shopkeepers had drifted together in one clump, with hairdressers, beauty therapists and manicurists as a distinct (and well-presented) off-shoot. There were the financial services people, and the loosely associated estate agents, solicitors and pawnbrokers. Publicans, club owners and holiday park managers suffused the room, confident in their businesses’ dominance of the local economy. And although there were no people actually in overalls, the tradespeople – the electricians, the plumbers, the builders and mechanics – were a clearly defined bunch, some of whom had succumbed to stereotype and already moved from the free (albeit cheap) wine onto pints of beer from the bar.

  “Some people think the trappings of success is the same thing as success,” Sam said, then thought about it. “Yeah, well maybe it is, some of the time. But look at you. You are clearly motivated by your passion for re-use and invention.”

  “I’d quite like a nice car as well,” said Delia.

  “Would wine and nibbles do in the meantime?” Sam asked.

  “Oh absolutely!”

  They snagged a glass of wine each.

  “Cheese and pineapple on sticks!” said Delia, a massive grin on her face. “It’s like the last thirty years of culinary history totally passed this place by.”

  “Lincolnshire folk know what they like,” said Sam.

  “How many can I take before I look greedy?”

  “Nobody’s judging you here,” said Sam. “At least, not until it’s time for the businessperson of the year awards. You can fill in a form while you’re here. Tonight is the last chance to vote.”

  Sam picked up a form while Delia arranged speared cheese and pineapple chunks in between all of her fingers. She held out a fist bristling with cocktail stick claws as they walked away from the table. “Look at me! I am like that superhero fella, but with useful snacks!”

  “Hey, Sam, I didn’t expect to see you here!”

  Sam knew that voice. Her stomach lurched. “No way,” she murmured.

  She turned slowly.

  Oh, hell, she thought. It was him. Months since she’d last seen him, years now since they’d broken up. A mop of carefree black curls and the lingering tan of a man who had spent a lot of time in the sun.

  “Rich.” She coughed in surprise and drank a mouthful of wine to wash it away. “Wow. I didn’t expect to see you here either.”

  Why would she expect to see him? This was Skegness. Rich was St Tropez, Cannes, Miami, Capri. Rich was not Skegness. Even here, among the local movers and shakers, he stuck out like a sunbather at the D-Day landings.

  She stared at him for a long, confused moment, at the easy cocksure grin on his face, the tailored suit, the shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, the scallop shell on a leather thong hung round his neck. “Why are you here?” she asked, after a moment.

  Ex-boyfriend Rich smiled and made an expansive gesture. “Local business meeting, isn’t it? Came to see who’s around and what everyone’s up to.”

  “No, no. Not just here. Why are you in Skegness. No scratch that. Why are you in Lincolnshire, or even England, come to that? I thought you were living in Nice, or Los Angeles, or somewhere?”

  Rich nodded carefully. “Citizen of the world, aren’t I?” he said and laughed. “I’m re-thinking things. Don’t want to make hasty life choices, so I’m here for a while, looking at business options. Got this amazing plan for a seabed tourist attraction.” He nodded at Delia. “Is this a friend of yours?”

  Sam turned. “Sorry. Delia, this is Richard Raynor. He and I—” She nearly froze again. Delia knew. Rich knew. Why say it? “—A long time ago,” she finished. “Delia here’s a friend and a local businesswoman.”

  Rich held out a hand. Sam saw Delia’s face drop as she tried to disguise the fact her hand was currently a cheesy hedgehog by holding it behind her back.

  “I’m Rich,” he said.

  “I heard,” said Delia, reaching out boldly with her left hand. “We’re thinking of introducing a secret left-handed handshake. What do you think?”

  Rich took Delia’s left hand in his and shook it gently. “I think I would very much like to know where I can get some of those amazing cheese and pineapple sticks.” He gave Delia a conspiratorial wink that made her blush.

  “I like your necklace thing,” she said.

  He fingered the shell lightly. “Found it while scuba-diving in Costa Rica. The simple things in life give us the most pleasure, eh?”

  Sam wasn’t sure there was anything simple about scuba-diving, and she was pretty certain he had fou
nd it on a beach in Vietnam. Maybe, once you’ve walked on every beach and dived in every sea, they all blurred together.

  “Must leave you for a mo,” he said to them both. “I’ve got to go shake a few hands, pose for some photos. I think someone wants me to be the keynote speaker at Friday’s awards event.” He pulled a pretend bored faced before heading off.

  He clasped hands and patted shoulders as he made his way through the crowd, as if he were familiar with everyone there. Perhaps he was.

  “He’s rather gorgeous,” said Delia, giving Sam a nudge in the ribs. “I mean seriously, he looks like a swimwear model.”

  “He’s got a pot belly under that suit.”

  “But he’s certainly charming.”

  “Superficial charm is all very well,” said Sam primly. “It’s not everything.”

  “No, you’re right,” said Delia, sipping her wine. “I mean, if he was a millionaire as well, that would change things, right?”

  Sam sighed and gazed into her drink, wondering how the hell she could change the subject.

  “Really?” said Delia. “You’re joking. You said he became wealthy but… Millionaire?”

  “And some. You know that UK rich list that gets published every year? Well, he’s been in the top fifty ever since he invented the Crap Trap.”

  “What, that stupid plastic thing for picking up doggy doo?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Delia was silent for a minute. “And he’s doing the speech at the awards, as well?”

  Sam slumped against the table. “Probably talking about some of his charity work. He’s worked with slum kids in India, built a hospital in Africa. Last I heard, he was setting up a renewable energy plant somewhere in central America.”

  Delia nodded. “How long have you known him?”

  “Years,” said Sam. She tried to tot up how many on her fingers and gave up. “A long time. He didn’t really change though, when he got rich. He’s always been a bit – what would you call it? – full on.”

  “Like how? Party animal or drama queen?”

  “I should lay off him, Delia. I’ve moved on.”

  “Yeah, that was a mistake.”

  Sam slapped Delia’s arm. It was a playful slap, but it came packed with hurt feelings.

  Delia shoved a pineapple cube in her mouth and chewed. “I’m saying it as I see it. A rich, fairly hot ex-boyfriend. There’s got to be some regrets.”

  “He’s just not in my life anymore, so I don’t want to rake over all the stuff that happened between us.”

  “Fair enough,” said Delia. “Although for someone who’s not in your life anymore, he seems to know what you like to drink.” She nodded towards Rich who was walking back towards them with two extravagant glasses, which were trailing smoke as he walked.

  He smiled broadly as he handed over the drinks. “I couldn’t go without offering you these. I have my own mixologist with me, to make things a bit more interesting.”

  “Mixologist,” said Delia, taking hers gleefully.

  “Cleopatra. She’s a wizard. This here’s a cocktail of my own humble invention. You’ll see it features some dry ice to give it a level of drama. Would you two ladies do me the honour of testing it for me? If you don’t like this one, or if you want some more, just go and find Cleopatra at the far end of the bar and tell her I sent you.” He winked and walked off.

  Sam glared at the steaming thing in her hand. “That,” she said. “That’s the thing he used to do which drove me mad.”

  “Huh? Getting you the nicest drink available on the east coast?” asked Delia and slurped with enthusiasm.

  “Deciding things for me. Honestly, it seems cute at first, but trust me, it gets old when you never get to choose anything for yourself. Just because someone has already decided what the best option is.” Sam mimed the air quotes around ‘best option’.

  “I wish my other half would be more decisive, to be honest,” said Delia. “A bit more forceful too, if you know what I mean.”

  Sam sighed. “I sound bitter and ungrateful, but I’m not.” She sipped her drink. “You’re right, this is very good.” She hated it for being so good. “Here, let me introduce you to some people.”

  She escorted Delia across the room to Alistair Green, chairman of the guild, who was hanging around the edge of a group of chatting members. Mostly farmers or holiday park owners, Sam would have guessed. Although there was an angular young woman with large eyes who was aggressively trying to hold court among them. The woman’s voice was strident, rude even, but Sam understood the difficulty of a woman trying to be heard among a group of men.

  Sam peeled chairman Alistair away from the group with a jerk of her head.

  “Saving me from Jacinda’s political campaigning?” he said, with a smile for Sam and a genial eyebrow raise for Delia.

  “Hmmm?” said Sam.

  Alistair inclined his head at the chatting group. “Intends to be the businessperson of the year. Have you both filled out your voting forms?” He gave Delia a little frown.

  “Delia here is a potential new member,” said Sam.

  “Fresh meat!” declared Alistair with easy-going relish.

  “She wants to hear all about the perks of membership while I distribute some of these flyers.”

  Delia gave Sam a look of shocked abandonment. Sam responded with a tartly mocking look in reply, not sure if Delia understood it was revenge for the lightly hurtful comments and utterly true comments Delia had made about her ex-boyfriend.

  Sam drifted around the bar, leaving flyers for DefCon4 in strategic locations, propped up on ledges and at the tables where people would sit afterwards.

  She drifted along the bar to where Rich’s pet mixologist had set up. Sam had perhaps expected to find a cabaret act that involved juggling cocktail shakers and pouring ingredients from a great height; what she found was a petite and very intense woman with an encyclopaedic knowledge of drink and a willingness to indulge her curiosity.

  “Rich said you could fix me up with a drink,” said Sam.

  “He pointed you out to me,” said Cleopatra.

  Sam smiled politely, seething inside, as though Rich had baited a trap with alcohol and Sam had walked right into it.

  “Now, I could rustle you up something of your choice,” said Cleopatra. “Or I could take you through this cheesy app that matches cocktails with your personality.”

  Sam shrugged. “I’m always open to new things. I like mixing new cocktails myself.”

  “From recipes?”

  “Just whatever I fancy.”

  Cleopatra nodded slowly. “And how does that work out for you?” she asked, neither condoning nor condemning.

  “Hit and miss. Mostly miss.”

  Cleopatra chatted to her amiably, mixing spirits, liqueurs and flavourings before presenting her with a Life’s What You Make It. Both were apparently Cleopatra’s own inventions. Sam sat back on a bar stool and made deliberately pleased noises to show her approval.

  A woman pushed in beside Sam at the bar with little appreciation for personal space. “Get me something classy,” she said.

  It was the young angular woman who had been dominating the conversation elsewhere. Jacinda someone. She wore dangerously high heels and seemed in an awful hurry. Not a good combination.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just here as Mr Raynor’s assistant,” said Cleopatra. “You can get a drink from the main bar.”

  “She’s got one,” said the Jacinda woman, meaning Sam.

  “And she’s one of Mr Raynor’s friends.”

  Sam, who was enjoying the alcoholic headrush of her cocktail, asked Cleopatra, “Is Rich footing the bill for these?” When Cleopatra nodded she said, “Please, make the lady a cocktail.”

  Sam could feel the laser-beam scrutiny of the woman’s large eyes.

  “Thank you,” said Jacinda with the icy reserve of someone who wasn’t sure why they had to thank anyone for anything.

  Cleopatra dropped blackberries,
egg white and a host of other components into a shaker and rattled it vigorously. She poured out the liquid, now a viscous and foamy black, into a coupe glass.

  “What the heck is that?” said Jacinda.

  “A Body Bag,” said Cleopatra and slid it over to her.

  Jacinda eyed the mixologist as she sipped the dark drink. “That actually tastes nice.”

  “Of course,” said Cleopatra.

  “And that taste…” She smacked her lips and licked her teeth.

  “Activated charcoal.”

  “Impressive.”

  Something seemed to relax in the intensely tense young woman, and she looked at Sam and the pile of remaining flyers. “You a guild member?”

  “I am,” said Sam.

  “Voted for the businessperson of the year yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  There was a business card in Jacinda’s hand. A moment later, it was in Sam’s.

  * * *

  Jacinda Frost

  Frost & Sons

  Property Development and Housing Solutions

  * * *

  “Ah,” said Sam and then, “Thank you,” for want of anything meaningful to say. “You’ve got that development up at Anderby Creek.”

  “Shore View,” Jacinda nodded. “Homes for eighty families. Affordable homes at that.”

  “And this would be the point where I suggest you consider DefCon4 for your on-site security.”

  Jacinda Frost looked once again at Sam’s flyers and picked one up. “I thought you just did security vans.”

  “Oh, we do everything. Site security, premises checks—”

  “Clown control?” said Jacinda, reading.

  “If you like. Live seal transportation, crockery replacement, murder investigations.”

  “Murder investigations?”

  Sam laughed at herself. That Life’s What You Make It had gone straight to her head. “Sorry. That’s definitely a sideline.”

  “Murder?”

  Sam shook her head. “A woman I know in Welton le Marsh. She’s gone missing. I’ve got a trainer from a one-footed man and some names missing from a notepad.”

  “What names?” said Jacinda. Her tone was sharp and demanding. Clearly she was interested, but who wouldn’t be interested in a real life murder?