by Kris Pearson
Who would want to read that? (Except me, for money, and maybe the author’s mother?) The lighting catalogue would be boring but easy enough. The kiddie stories would take time but be fun. The Russian epic would be depressing and a hard slog – and worth a lot more than the other two put together.
I squared my shoulders and opened my laptop with a gusty sigh; Chernobyl here we come.
Itsy and Fluffy knew dinner time wasn’t nearly due but they rattled the last pieces of kibble from their dishes to remind me their plates were as empty as their tummies. Then they settled down in the dotty dog bed with sighs as despairing as mine.
Somewhat later there was a knock on the door. I jumped a mile.
Chapter 10 – Paul’s unfortunate problem
“Merry, it’s me.”
I jerked out of my trance of concentration and sat bolt upright. Both the teddies scrabbled from the dog bed and got stuck trying to be first through the dog door. Excited yapping and growling somehow settled the impasse while I hauled my brain out of Russia and back to Drizzle Bay.
Was that Paul? I wasn’t expecting him. Hadn’t heard his car. I wondered what he wanted at… I glanced at my watch… 7.30?
Where had the time gone? It wasn’t a case of the book being any good. Much more that I’d been working so hard almost three hours had whizzed by.
I stood and stretched, feeling about as old and stiff as Isobel.
Unfortunate description, Merry!
“Paul,” I said, as I opened the door. I was delighted to have the diversion.
He looked past me to the laptop and notepad and empty cup on the table. “I’m interrupting. Sorry. I thought if I left it until now you’d have your dinner out of the way and I wouldn’t be too unwelcome.” His long straight nose sniffed up the curry aroma. The forgotten casserole was visible through the oven window.
“Ooops!” I exclaimed. “It’s only on low. It should be okay.”
I swung the kitchen door fully open. “Come in and take a seat while I check it. It’s not even for tonight.”
“But you’ve eaten?”
I searched for Isobel’s old padded hessian oven gloves, turned the oven off, and pulled the curry out. “No – it’s way past time I did, but dinner will be quick enough. I’m amazed the dogs didn’t remind me.”
Having presumably done their business outside, Itsy and Fluffy rattled back in, right on cue. They went straight to their dishes and sent me reproachful stares when they found nothing there.
“Hang on, doggies,” I said. “New treat tonight. In fact Bernie sent you something too.” I grabbed the cooked sausage, snapped it in half, and deposited half in each plate. Oh yes! Little jaws got going and made short work of that.
Then I reached for one of the foil packs – Beefsteak and Barley, although it was more likely minced lungs than anything truly steaky. “Can you rip that open please?” I asked Paul, indicating the notch at the top of the packet. I handed him a spoon and turned aside to gage the true state of the curry. Sally Summerfield would have been impressed. Bubbling gently and nowhere near dry. I pulled it out of the oven and left the lid off so it would cool faster.
Meantime the teddies were so keen to get at the food they had it all over their faces because they were trying to lick it up while Paul was trying to spoon it out.
“Are they always this hungry?” he asked.
I felt slightly guilty given what the time was, but said, “New food. Isobel only had dry kibble in the pantry so I thought they’d like a change.” I bent and rummaged in the pot cupboard for a heavy frypan and switched the front burner on.
He inspected the pack. “It says single serve.”
“For what size dog?”
“Small to medium.”
I looked down at the teddies, who were positively quivering with delight. “Would two of them make a medium, do you think?”
He grinned. “I think they’d make two smalls. Have you got any more?”
I tossed him a packet labelled Spring Lamb and Rice.
His dark brown eyes opened wider. “They’re eating better than me.”
I grabbed my little parcel of yummy steak. Was I willing to share? “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, more than an hour ago,” he assured me.
“Would you like a little more? I can’t treat the dogs without treating you as well.” I did, after all, have almost a steak and a half.
“I came to talk,” he said, looking uncomfortable.
“We can talk and eat.”
He gave a slow and cautious nod.
I handed him a bottle of Shiraz to open, and pointed to the shelf with the glasses. Peanut butter glasses. Isobel’s tiny sherry glasses from the sitting room didn’t fit the bill at all. Meantime I halved some nice big tomatoes, dropped a knob of real butter into the pan, and soon had a large and small steak sizzling noisily alongside them. I wasn’t kind enough to offer him the larger steak, and I was pretty sure he would have turned it down anyway.
We ate without speaking, each of us giving occasional appreciative moans because it really was superior steak and the tomatoes hummed with flavor.
“So what’s the problem?” I finally asked. He’d stayed silent, despite claiming he wanted to talk.
I sipped my wine, encouraging him with a lifted eyebrow.
“Hard to make it sound sensible,” he muttered, taking a big swig of his own Shiraz. “But I wanted someone else to know about this in case it comes back to bite me.”
My antennae started to twitch, so I ran my fingers back over my head to make them lie down again. Or maybe just to tidy my hair. “Okay…”
Why on earth was he looking so worried?
“It’s possible,” he began. Then stopped. Closed his eyes briefly. Started again. “There’s a slight chance Margaret might accuse me of killing Isobel.”
I practically lifted out of my chair with shock. I know my mouth opened and closed a few times like a demented goldfish. “Did you?” I squeaked. “I mean, I’m sure you didn’t, but why do you think that? What grounds would she have to suspect it or to accuse you of it?”
Paul dropped his gaze to his empty plate. I’d left the steaks pretty rare, and a small puddle of blood remained on each. He tilted his up with one finger and made it slide to the side of the plate. I wished he hadn’t.
“When I was in Afghanistan,” he began. He flicked a glance across at me before proceeding. “I was deemed to have formed ‘an unsuitable attachment’ with a young private. He was gay. I’m not. He hated it there.”
“Understandably,” I murmured.
“And some of the men gave him a pretty hard time about being gay. He came to me for counseling, and that’s the way the vicious rumors started.”
Oh goodness. Poor Paul.
“You’re well out of it, then. But why would that make Margaret think you might have killed Isobel?” I couldn’t see how the two were the least bit related.
He took a sip of wine. Licked his lips. Set the glass down. “Because he managed to get himself discharged and followed me to New Zealand. Hung around. Became a real nuisance.”
I waited while he marshalled his thoughts. I hadn’t noticed anyone new in the village, but really, why would I? I mostly had my eyes down on my keyboard in my office at home.
Paul let out a long, slow sigh. “Not so long ago, Isobel arrived to arrange new flowers out in the nave of the church while Roddy and I were arguing in the vestry. I had no idea she was there, and although I kept my volume down in case anyone came in for a few minutes’ peace, he had no such qualms. He professed undying love for me and claimed I’d led him on… blamed me for not sticking up for him when he was bullied, although he totally brought that on himself with his indiscreet behavior…”
He stopped and took another sip of wine.
I supplied a few understanding nods, although I didn’t understand anything much yet.
“Then he changed tack and accused me of seducing him, and betraying my professional ethics as a counsell
or and my calling as a chaplain… Followed that up by threatening to kill himself if I wouldn’t ‘relent’ and let him live with me.”
Paul closed his eyes tightly for a few seconds, and then opened them again to see how I was taking things. “Rock and a hard place, I tell you. I stormed out to get away from him, and found Isobel right there. She’d crept closer to the vestry doorway so she could hear us better.”
My heart was almost beating out of my chest with anguish for him. “And she probably heard plenty?”
“More than plenty. More than any good Christian would want to hear about their vicar. She bailed me up the next day – brave of her, I thought – and really went to town. Told me the parishioners wouldn’t want to send their sons away on the summer camps I organized if they knew I was carrying on with such a young man. Threatened to spread the word.”
“She was blackmailing you?”
He shook his head. He’d gone very pale and I knew his hand was trembling because I heard the slight shake of the glass as he set it down on the table top. “Not quite, although I wondered if she was working up to it. It must have been galling for her to have so little in the way of material things when her sister had so much.”
“Apparently,” I muttered.
“What? The fancy house, the clothes, the cruise and so on? She has a lot more than Isobel.”
I ignored that. I wasn’t certain it was all paid for. “And you think she saw this as a way of levelling the stakes between the two of them?”
Paul dropped his head into his hands. “Maybe she just really objected on religious grounds. But I was the son of a politician. She knew that. And she knew I wouldn’t want my family or my church embroiled in anything like this. That’s why I haven’t told anyone about it earlier – even you.”
Now it was my turn to take a sip of wine while I decided what to say next. The cogs in my brain were whirring furiously as I considered possibilities. “Did she tell Margaret?”
He ran a hand back through his hair. “Well, don’t sisters talk?”
“Don’t have one, but probably. I talk to Graham a fair bit.”
“Juicy gossip,” he said in a bitter voice. “Whether it’s true or not.”
I had no reason to disbelieve him. There was probably some way to ascertain the facts through military sources, although right now I had no idea what that might be. Find out who his politician father had been and start from there?
I thought back to when I was watching him across the road earlier in the week. He’d pushed all the right buttons for me. Surely a gay man wouldn’t have attracted me so strongly? I bit my bottom lip and worried at it for a while. “Would it help… if we were seen about the village together? Man and woman stuff? A cup of coffee outside Iona’s, sitting fairly close? Or we might walk the dogs down to the beach? Go to the Burkeville for a meal?” I particularly liked that last suggestion because it would be a poke in the eye for assassin John. If he really was an assassin. Somewhere in the back of my consciousness I was about as sure he wasn’t as I was sure Paul wasn’t gay.
Then an awful thought made me choke on my wine. I got my head down quickly so most of it landed on my empty plate, but it was a close thing. Those senior students he was planning to coach for basketball – was it a clever excuse to keep company with very young men? Rub up against them? Be physical in shorts and singlets? See them in the changing rooms or showers?
Not to stop them getting up to no good, after all. More likely it was him who wanted to get up to no good.
I bent, breathless, over my plate, which now looked a lot bloodier with the splatter of Shiraz.
“Merry!” Paul exclaimed as I tried to recover. He pushed his chair back, and the wooden legs scraped on the old lino. “Don’t panic. Glass of water coming up.”
I continued to shake my head and clear my throat and try to stifle my coughing as he put the water in front of me. A cup, rather than a glass. He’d grabbed my empty teacup.
“It’s okay, I’m fine,” I claimed between coughs. Plainly I wasn’t because this time it was me with the shakes. The cup almost tipped over as I set it down after a sip of water. “Went down the wrong way,” I said, still spluttering. “What a nasty feeling.” I rubbed my throat in case it helped. It didn’t.
Once I’d recovered a little I asked, “So what was his name again? Roddy something? I’d better know the whole story instead of only half. In case anyone asks.”
Paul rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. “Roddy Whitebottom.”
I just about died, trying not to laugh. “Really?” I croaked. “Wouldn’t you change your name if you were unfortunate enough to be a Whitebottom?”
Paul’s lips quirked.
“Sad for a young man,” I added, because it really was a tragic name to get landed with. “That’d be enough to send you gay if you weren’t in the first place.”
Paul looked slightly more cheerful now, although possibly because of my unrestrained hilarity rather than any of the ‘be seen together in public’ things I’d suggested. “Yep,” he agreed. “Doomed from day one, poor devil.”
“So where is he now? Still around?”
Paul reached for my messy plate and stacked it on top of his. “Gone bush for a while but he won’t be far away. He’s a crack shot so he’s trying his hand at hunting. Teamed up with someone else from Afghanistan. No-one I know.” He shook his head.
“Maybe he’ll manage to fall down a ravine or shoot himself,” I suggested.
“Wash your mouth out with soap, Merry Summerfield!”
We finished off our peanut butter glasses of Shiraz. One was enough if he was driving. And one was enough so I stayed clear-headed enough for whatever my next task turned out to be.
“Anyway,” he said. “Thanks for listening. And thanks for feeding me, yet again.”
“Not much food though,” I interrupted.
“But probably the best steak I’ve ever tasted.”
I smiled smugly. “It pays to let your butcher show you what an expert he is.” Then, to my surprise I added, “There’s enough curry there for two servings if you want to turn up tomorrow?”
Paul shook his head. “You’ve fed me twice now. Maybe we can start reinforcing my reputation as a heterosexual?” He grinned, and raised his eyebrows. My mouth had probably fallen open. “Ms Summerfield, would you care to accompany me to the Burkeville Bar and Grill for dinner tomorrow evening?”
I sent him a flirty Princess Diana-type look from under my lashes. “In something short and clingy, vicar? So I look like a real girl?”
His grin grew broader but he said nothing. We stared at each other like a pair of fools until I nodded and amended my description. “A real woman, perhaps. I don’t know about the short and clingy but I can definitely do low-cut.”
Paul closed his eyes.
“Dutch,” I added.
“No way,” he protested, opening them wide again. “I’ve saved enough on the baking Iona will never let me pay for to buy your dinner.”
I sniffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’ll pay half.”
“Merry,” he said with some asperity. “Does it not occur to you that I might, with my background, have funds behind me?”
I’m sure I pouted. “I don’t know anything about your background. I’d hardly spoken to you until a couple of days ago.”
“Yeeeeaah,” he agreed, stretching the word out. “And now you’re living in luxury beach accommodation.”
“Phooey. And earning twenty bucks a day. How could I turn it down?”
Finally we gave in to the snorts of laughter we’d been trying to stifle.
“Thank you Paul. I’ll make an effort to look like a femme fatale for you. What time?”
He pushed back his chair and stood. “Seven? I don’t imagine they’re booked out on week nights.”
I saw him to the door. Stood there waving, with the Bichons bouncing around my feet, fully-fueled and determined not to miss out on anything.
�
��Well, teddies – it’s a good thing you don’t speak English or you’d have heard some hot stuff tonight,” I said as Paul’s blue sedan disappeared over the rise into Drizzle Bay Road.
What was the ‘background’ he’d alluded to? Who had his politician father been? Not being very churchy I’d never been the least bit curious. Apart from the name ‘McCreagh’ and possibly ‘England’ I didn’t know what to try searching Mr Google for.
But… England. Lord Jim Drizzle popped over there to do political things, and we’d had that chummy conversation about the possible book I’d edit if he ever got around to writing it. It didn’t feel too cheeky to try asking him. It was now eight-twenty; was that too late to phone an elderly, early-rising farmer? Maybe the message machine would pick up if he didn’t. Fortified with my big glassful of Shiraz and an invitation out to dinner I decided to give it a go.
“Good evening, Drizzle Farm,” the gentleman himself answered.
“Uncle Jim – it’s Merry. Is this too late?”
“Everything okay?” he demanded. It didn’t seem to be too late.
“Everything’s fine. No panics.” (Except possibly a vicar planning to prey on the local schoolboys.)
Still, Paul had closed his eyes with definite appreciation when I’d mentioned wearing something low-cut, so that gave me hope he’d stick to praying instead of preying.
“I’m being nosy,” I said. “Tell me to butt out if you like, but I’m wondering if you know who the vicar’s father was? It was just a stray comment I overheard…”
From the actual vicar, actually, but I wasn’t going to tell His Lordship that.
Lord Jim hummed for a few seconds while he considered. “Got it! Antony Valentine-McCreagh. Hyphenated. Died a few years ago. MP for one of those English places that starts with ‘Little’. There are hundreds of them. Little Runcible or Little Silly Dale or something.”