She sat back in her chair and gave a small, airy gesture.
Oh, here we go, thought Florence.
“It was such great fun, Florence. You’d get all dressed up in a lovely frock that moved and swished when you danced, silk taffeta maybe, and wear your best fragrance. How special I felt giving myself a little spritz of Shalimar, knowing that my Arthur was waiting downstairs for me! And the men all looked so handsome in their suits with a flower in their lapels. And there would be a real orchestra, too, with the musicians in crisp white jackets. So romantic… Arthur could hardly wait to get me home!”
She giggled and then gave herself a little shake, as if to help herself return to the present.
“Anyway, I’m looking forward to it. Will you go, do you think?”
“I doubt it,” said Florence. “Dancing was never something I particularly felt drawn to. Now,” she said, changing the subject, “have you given any thought as to what you’d like for tea?”
“Well, something light,” Mrs. Lloyd replied as she picked up her knife and reached for the butter. “I’d like to lose a few pounds. I’m planning to go into Llandudno today to see if there’s anything new and smart in the shops and I’m not really sure what time I’ll be back.” She withdrew her knife before it could reach the butter and glanced at Florence. Sensing disapproval, she added defensively, “I’ve been wanting a new outfit, anyway. There’s also the grand opening of the new spa coming up and we’re sure to be invited to that, so you see I really could do with a new outfit for the holiday season.”
Florence buttered her toast and said nothing.
“Do you think you’ll go to the spa opening?” Mrs. Lloyd continued. “I expect everyone will be there and it will be a good opportunity for you to meet folk.”
“I don’t know,” Florence replied. “Depends on whether or not I’m invited.”
“Oh, you’re a right old stick in the mud, you are,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “Even if you were invited, you probably wouldn’t go. It’d do you good to get out and about more. So do think about coming dancing with us. There’s sure to be a good turnout. We’re desperate around here for fun and excitement.” She thought for a moment and then brightened. “Do you think there’ll be disco dancing? I always wanted to give that a go.”
Before Florence could reply, the sound of the letter slot being pushed open, followed by the soft thud of the morning’s post landing on the hall carpet had Mrs. Lloyd setting down the spoon she had been using to stir her coffee and springing from the table.
She returned to the dining room a few minutes later, holding a small stack of colourful envelopes in one hand and waving a letter opener in the other.
“I think our invitations to the grand opening have arrived,” she said, as she slid back into her chair. She handed two pieces of mail to Florence, then slit open a stiff, cream-coloured envelope.
“Yes! Here’s the invitation to the opening. Mrs. Evelyn Lloyd and guest.” She leaned over and eyed Florence’s envelopes. “Did you not get one?” Florence shook her head. “Well, perhaps they assumed you’d be coming as my guest.” She thought for a moment and then brightened. “Or maybe yours will arrive on Monday.”
She glanced again at the invitation, then set it down and took a sip of coffee.
“You know, Florence, that Penny Brannigan and Victoria Hopkirk… they fancy themselves brilliant amateur lady detectives. Ha! The next time a good mystery comes to town, we should show them we’re just as smart as they are. You and I, we could give them a good run for their money!”
Florence frowned. “But I heard that Penny woman’s courting a rather high-up police detective. Surely he gives them clues and tips. They’ll have inside information we wouldn’t have access to.”
Mrs. Lloyd’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Courting is it? Gosh, I don’t think I’ve heard that term used since, well, I can’t remember when.” She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s got that far yet. I’d have heard. No, they’re just good friends, but he is definitely keen on her. I’ve been in the salon and seen the way he looks at her.”
Florence raised her eyebrows.
“Well, whatever their relationship is, we could still beat them at their own game, no problem.” She leaned forward. “You see, we have local knowledge on our side and you can’t beat that!”
“You might,” said Florence, “but I don’t have any local knowledge. I’ve only been here five minutes.”
She reached over and picked up Mrs. Lloyd’s gold-coloured letter opener. After admiring the pineapple on the end of the handle and holding the opener in both hands, she turned it over to reveal an inscription:
ARTHUR LLOYD, N. WALES GOLDEN PINEAPPLE AWARD, 1988
“What’s the golden pineapple award?” Florence asked.
“Oh, that was from the fruit and veg vendors association,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “Arthur belonged to that group for years, although what good it did him I could never tell. Still, it got him out of the house once a month or so, and I guess that’s something.”
“He had a fruit and vegetable shop, then, did he?”
“Indeed he did,” replied Mrs. Lloyd. “You’ll remember those days before the supermarkets took over, when there was the butcher, the dairy, the fruit and veg shop, the dry goods place. All separate, like. You’d go from one to the other with your basket.” After a moment she continued. “It was a lot more time-consuming, of course, but you bought just what you needed for the day and cooked everything fresh. There was no processed food and ready meals back then. And you got to socialize with the shopkeepers. That’s how I met Arthur, in fact. His shop was where the supermarket is now, just down the road from the manicure salon, and the post office was across the square, where it is now.” She sighed. “Oh, just thinking about it brings it all back. All the changes we’ve seen in the town over the years and not all of them for the better, let me tell you.”
Florence handed the letter opener back to Mrs. Lloyd who began to slit her way through the rest of her post, which seemed to consist mainly of bills, with one or two Christmas cards. She chewed thoughtfully on her toast and looked around the well-appointed dining room with its heavy drapery and dark, old-fashioned furniture. Soft morning light slanted through the tall windows and a carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the seconds.
“I was wondering how long you and Arthur lived here,” Florence said, breaking the silence. “The house is so big-it must have seemed very empty after he died.”
Mrs. Lloyd looked up from the last piece of her mail.
“He went much too soon, Arthur did,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “And he was practically a vegetarian, so it couldn’t have been his diet.” She set down her letter opener and wiped her hands on her napkin.
“We lived here from the day we were married. Of course, it wasn’t our house then, it belonged to Arthur’s aunt. A spinster, as unmarried women were called back then. We planned to stay with her just until we saved up the down payment for a little place of our own, but she grew rather dependent on us and, well, we just never left. And when she died, she left it to Arthur, and when he died, he left it to me.”
“You don’t have any children, do you? You’ve never mentioned them.”
“No,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “Sadly, Arthur and I were never blessed with children of our own, so there’s just my niece, Morwyn. Of course, she’s like a daughter to me, but it’s not really the same, is it?”
A small, soft sound coming from the front of the house attracted their attention, and two heads turned toward it, and then back to each other.
“Sounded like mail landing on the carpet, but the postman’s been,” Mrs. Lloyd said.
“Perhaps he forgot something and came back,” Florence replied. “I’ll go and see what it is.”
A few moments later she returned with an envelope which she handed to Mrs. Lloyd.
“Delivered by hand, it looks like,” she said.
“Oh,” Mrs. Lloyd replied, surveying the paper that littered the table. “What
did I do with my letter opener? Oh, there it is,” she said, turning over an envelope.
She slit open the envelope, pulled out a piece of paper, and then smiled.
“Oh! It’s from Harry. He’s inviting me out to dinner tomorrow evening.”
“Well, I hope you’re going to tell him you’re busy,” Florence said.
Mrs. Lloyd gave her a puzzled look. “But I’m not busy, so why on earth would I tell him I am?”
“Because Wednesday is the cut-off day for accepting an invitation from a gentleman for the weekend,” Florence said. “After that, you’re supposed to say you’re busy. Otherwise, it makes you look desperate.”
Mrs. Lloyd laughed lightly. “Desperate, is it? Oh, my dear Florence, no, I am not desperate, but I do enjoy a man’s company and how often these days does one invite me out for dinner?”
She looked at her watch.
“If I get my skates on, I can just make the ten thirty bus into Llandudno.”
Clutching the note from Saunders, she got up from the table and hurried off down the hall. Florence watched her go, and then began sorting the morning post into three little piles: one to keep, one to shred, and one to recycle. When she was finished, she set the pineapple letter opener squarely on top of the keep pile, and then settled back in her chair to finish her coffee.
Five
She’s taking a long time to get ready, Florence thought as she puttered about in the kitchen. With Mrs. Lloyd out for dinner, Florence thought she’d just have something light on a tray in front of the television. She’d read somewhere that the queen and Prince Philip often take their evening meal that way on a rare night off from their busy round of social engagements.
The sound of the doorbell startled her and she set down the bowl she had been drying and went to answer it.
“Well,” she said to the middle-aged man standing on the front step, “if you’re Harry Saunders, you’d better come in.”
“Thank you,” he replied as he stepped into the entry hall. “I didn’t realize Evelyn would have someone with her.”
“Oh, didn’t she say? I’m Florence Semble and I live here with her.”
Saunders’s eyes narrowed slightly and then he smiled at her.
“Well, I’m sure that’s very nice for both of you. Are you related?”
“No, we’re not. And if you’d just like to come through, she said to tell you that she’d be down in a minute. I’d offer to take your coat, but I don’t think she’ll be that long.” Florence led the way to the sitting room with Saunders following her, unbuttoning his coat as he went. He eased himself into the squishy depths of a floral easy chair, crossed his legs, and took in the details of the room under Florence’s watchful eye. A few moments later he stood up and crossed over to the fireplace and, after making a show of warming his hands on the gas fire, turned his attention to the items displayed on the mantelpiece.
He casually picked up the invitation to the spa opening, glanced at it, set it down again, and moved on to a figurine of a Siamese cat with a pink bow around its neck. He picked it up, tipped it over, and turned toward Florence, apparently about to say something.
She cleared her throat and fixed him with a steady brown eye. He returned her gaze with a blank, cold stare.
“Sorry.” Saunders grinned sheepishly as he returned the cat with its pointed ears to its mantelpiece home. “So many interesting, lovely things, couldn’t help myself.”
The sound of Mrs. Lloyd descending the stairs broke the awkwardness of the moment, and the two turned toward the doorway as Mrs. Lloyd, hand outstretched to Saunders, sailed through. She was wearing a long-sleeved turquoise dress with fancy pleating across the bodice, which put Florence in mind of some kind of mother-of-the-bride outfit. And something about her posture seemed different. She carried herself very erect, shoulders back in a way that looked stiff and somehow unnatural.
“Evelyn, my dear, how lovely you look,” Saunders said. “Shall I just help you on with your coat and we’ll be off?”
“Did Florence not offer you a drink?” Mrs. Lloyd asked. “Oh, Florence, whatever will Harry think of us? Harry,” she said, turning to him, “do let’s have a drink before we go. Let me see. I’ll bet you’re a whisky man.” She beamed at him. “Florence, why don’t you pour us all a whisky and, Harry, do take your coat off. There’s no rush, is there?”
“Well, our reservation is for seven thirty,” Harry said, pushing up a monogrammed shirtsleeve so he could consult his watch. “Still, I guess we have plenty of time. We’ll call for a taxi after we’ve finished our drinks. Oh, just a ginger ale for me, please, if you’ve got one.”
Florence walked over to the drinks table and poured two glasses of whisky and a ginger ale. With a glance at Harry, she abruptly left the room and returned a few moments later with a few ice cubes in a small cut-glass bowl.
“As you’re an American, I expect you take yours with ice,” she said curtly. He nodded and she added a few cubes to one of the glasses.
“Well, cheers, everyone,” said Mrs. Lloyd, raising her glass.
“Here’s to a very special evening,” added Saunders. Mrs. Lloyd smiled at him, then gestured to the other two that they should sit down.
“Now, then, Mr. Saunders,” said Florence, leaning forward with her arms resting on her knees, holding her glass in two hands. “Why don’t you tell us a bit about the part of America you call home.”
Saunders took a sip of his drink. “I come from sunny Palm Beach.”
“Palm Beach,” repeated Mrs. Lloyd. “I forget now. Is that in California? Sounds as if it should be.” She smiled at Florence. “Sounds so wonderfully exotic, doesn’t it, Florence?”
“Florida, actually,” Harry said. “You may be thinking of Palm Springs. That’s in California.”
“And what did you do in Palm Beach?” Florence continued.
“Well,” said Harry, meeting Florence’s eyes, “not too much of anything, really. You see, thanks to a trust fund from my mother’s side of the family, I’ve never really had to earn my living, although managing my investments portfolio takes up a lot of my time. So I get to do what I like and what I like to do is keep busy.” He smiled at Mrs. Lloyd. “Like playing bridge, and giving dancing lessons. All just for fun, really.”
He drained the last of his ginger ale and was about to place his empty glass on the table beside him when Florence jumped up and took the tumbler from him.
Saunders cleared his throat. “Now, Evelyn, I really do think we should be off,” he said.
“Yes, all right,” Mrs. Lloyd agreed. “Florence, while I’m getting my coat on, would you mind ringing the taxi? The number’s right there beside the telephone.”
A few minutes later Saunders was holding the front door open for Mrs. Lloyd, and the two disappeared into the night, Mrs. Lloyd leaving a whiff of Shalimar in her fragrant wake. This is bound to end in tears, thought Florence. Good thing I’m here to pick up the pieces.
She returned to the living room with a small tray and collected the glasses. She glanced at the table where Saunders had been about to set his glass and reached into her pocket for the little notebook she used to jot down to-do lists, the names of books she wanted to read, programs coming on the television she didn’t want to miss, and the countless other small details that made up her life.
Coaster, she wrote.
* * *
Snug in her best winter coat with its black mink collar, Mrs. Lloyd settled herself comfortably in the backseat of the taxi, holding her handbag with both hands on her lap. She turned slightly toward Saunders and felt a small frisson of excitement as their knees touched. Saunders smiled at her and gave her hand a friendly pat. They rode the short distance to the restaurant in silence, and as the taxi pulled up in front of the Red Dragon Hotel, Saunders withdrew a slim billfold from his pocket.
He took out a bill, folded it in half, and leaning forward, passed it to the driver.
“Here’s a twenty, driver,” he said, with a subtle e
mphasis on the twenty. “Keep the change.” Turning to Mrs. Lloyd, he told her to stay where she was and that he’d get the door for her. As she shifted toward the passenger door, Saunders leaned forward to adjust his coat and, as he did so, wedged the cheap, now-empty wallet between the seat and the side of the vehicle. He opened his door, walked around behind the car, opened Mrs. Lloyd’s door and, offering her his arm, helped her alight.
The driver smiled to himself as he watched this display of old-fashioned gallantry, then drove off. At the next streetlight he slowed and unfolded the ten-pound note Saunders had given him. It barely covered the fare.
“Tosser,” he muttered under his breath.
* * *
After hanging up their coats, Saunders and Mrs. Lloyd entered the welcoming, cozy warmth of the hotel dining room. Mrs. Lloyd had had lunch there many times and the restaurant staff nodded to her as the couple crossed the heavily patterned, carpeted floor to a table under one of the tall windows. In daylight, the window tables offered a clear view past the car park to the new Llanelen Spa beside the River Conwy.
Harry pulled out a chair for Mrs. Lloyd and, when she was seated, gently pushed it back into the table. As he took his place across from her, she looked eagerly around the room, hoping that someone she knew would be there to see her being taken out for dinner on a Saturday evening by a gentleman with such good manners. When she didn’t see anyone she knew, she turned her attention to the large menu that the waiter had placed in front of her.
“Hmm. Not sure what I feel like this evening, but I think I’ll have the melon as a starter and then I might have…” She raised her eyes to Harry and was taken aback by the way he was gazing at her.
A Killer's Christmas in Wales Page 3