Into the Clouds

by Marilyn Leach

  She wondered at the possibility that she and Hugh, in being lost, may not have been squarely in the middle of where they were supposed to be at that moment. She had a sense of that, and yet it seemed silly, not a reasoned idea.

  A home in Timsley, nicely dressed people, a something slipped into the letterbox, an angry gentleman, an impressive car, a handsome man who put her spinning, who raced after the other car, and the cat couple: hardly a congruent line of logic. Yet, an idea had come into her thinking. Could the Stanfords be the last people to have seen Olivia? They were an older couple, and he had worn a distinctive tie. Many people from Timsley had come to the event and they had been at the church during preparations.

  “I must seek the matter out,” she muttered.

  “You say something, love?” Hugh asked.

  With the ferocity of a sudden clap of thunder in a spring storm, the vicarage doorbell invaded the treasured moment.

  Hugh sighed.

  “I’ll get it.” Berdie pulled away and made way to the front door, deciding not to grumble, but cherish the past uninterrupted hours shared with Hugh. “Lillie,” Berdie greeted her unexpected guest at the opened door. “Come in.”

  “Must get on, but just wanted to tell you that Mrs. Mikalos was not seen by any local doctors nor admitted to any of the area hospitals, including their morgues.”

  “Well done, Lillie.” Berdie looked past Lillie’s shoulder to see Granville Morrison and his idling black car with the word Transport painted on the side. He and his brother were the newest entrepreneurs in Aidan Kirkwood’s village services. “Having dinner with Loren in Timsley? Setting out plans for the Aunt Margaret visit, are we?”

  A blues guitar reverberated from Berdie’s bag in the hallway at the same moment Granville sounded his horn.

  Lillie turned in a flash. “I’ll tell you all about it later,” she called while walking briskly to the taxi.

  “Good, I’ll look forward to it.” Berdie closed the door and lunged toward her bag just in time to hear Hugh’s voice.

  “What is that?” he called.

  Berdie grabbed her mobile and put it to her ear.

  “Mrs. Elliott.” A hoarse gasp of air. “She’s in danger,” the graveled voice caller was no playful lad.

  “Who’s in danger?” Berdie tried to keep her wits about her.

  “She’s in danger,” the wheezing caller repeated. “No police.”

  “Who is this?” Berdie hoped she didn’t sound alarmed.

  A coarse wheeze and a click were the only response.

  “Who was at the door?” Hugh asked as he bounced into the hallway.

  Berdie shoved her mobile in her bag. “Lillie,” she worked at appearing nonchalant. “She’s already gone.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Hugh’s question bored into Berdie’s veneer, but she held her own. “I just hope Lillie and Loren get on well at Aunt Margaret’s.”

  “Someone on the mobile?” He pointed to her bag.

  Berdie was not about to tell him the whole of it. “I have no clue who the person was.” She laughed hoping Hugh would not catch the nervous edge of it.

  He smiled. “Oh, I had one of those the other day.”

  “You did?”

  “Some bank, I think it was a survey. Those computer generated calls, so garbled and impersonal. Invasive, as well.”

  “Yes, invasive,” she improvised.

  “Care for a cuppa?”

  “Splendid.” She could use one.

  “I’ll put the kettle on.” Hugh advanced toward the kitchen.

  Berdie sank to the bottom step of the hall stairway. She pulled her mobile out and tried to retrieve the call but it showed as number withheld. “She’s in danger, no police,” she repeated the words to herself. “Dear Lord, have mercy.”

  ****

  Despite the warm morning sun, Berdie pulled up the collar of her short spring coat as a light gust of wind wrapped its cool fingers round her neck. She took a sip of the tea that filled the cup of her flask. “Anytime now, Linden, I’ve got a church committee meeting in just under an hour,” she said to keep her senses awake.

  His call earlier this morning was brief, but his voice held a sense of urgency when he asked her to meet him here at Olivia’s house. And now he was late.

  She hoped the brown liquid would give her a jolt of energy. She hadn’t slept especially well last night. “She’s in danger. Lord, protect her,” Berdie had prayed in the night. “No police means it’s up to me.” Then a gentle reminder floated through her semi-consciousness. “That is, rather, You and me.”

  Another wisp of wind urged her to take a larger gulp of warm tea. She considered getting inside the car, but decided the coolness was keeping her attentive. Pulling her mobile from her coat pocket, she telephoned Lillie, only to get her voice mail. “Probably packing, or already off.” Berdie pushed the mobile back in her pocket.

  She felt as if someone watched her. She turned toward the Finch house. Ah, yes. Berdie waved at the inquisitive Billie Finch, who stood at her large sitting room window still in her dressing gown. The woman hastily returned the wave and scurried off.

  “Linden’s late, but Mrs. Finch is dead on time.” Berdie leaned against the car and scanned the street where wheely bins sat on the garden edges, waiting for the dustcart to grind its way up the road and collect a week’s waste.

  An especially forceful gust of wind lifted the lid atop the wheely bin at the edge of Sir Percival’s garden and scattered rubbish everywhere.

  “Oh, bother.” Placing her tea on the bonnet of the car, still warm from engine heat beneath it, Berdie chased after the loose papers that fluttered near her. She gathered the newspaper sheets, a take away menu, numerous carrier bags, and stuffed them back in the bin. In doing so, something caught her eye. In bright red letters Joe’s DIY was printed on one of the carrier bags.

  Berdie pulled it back out. The bag was clean despite being in the rubbish. “That’s Joe Lawler’s tiny do-it-yourself home repair shop in Aidan Kirkwood. Why is it in Barlow’s rubbish?”

  A car turned onto the road and stopped just behind hers.

  Berdie quickly stuffed the plastic in her coat pocket and tightly closed the lid of the bin.

  Linden emerged from the car followed by a small lad. “Sorry I’m late,” he apologized. “This is my nine-year-old son, Phillip. Phillip, this is Mrs. Elliott.”

  The lad’s brown-blond hair did a little salute as the wind whipped past. “Good morning,” he said with no luster.

  “Hello, Phillip.” Berdie smiled.

  The fellow looked a bit peaky.

  “Phillip stayed home from school today with tummy ache,” Linden explained, “but he felt well enough to come with me.” He winked.

  “I’m helping Daddy find Tiddles,” the boy amended in a somewhat somber tone.

  “Find Tiddles?”

  Linden handed a key to Phillip. “Go on inside and have a good look round, Mrs. Elliott and I will be there straightaway.”

  As the lad sauntered to the door, Linden rubbed his forehead and spoke in a quiet voice. “I think Tiddles has gone missing. Just what we don’t need.”

  “Missing?”

  “Oh, it seems unlikely. Hopefully he’s just hiding in the house somewhere, at least that’s what I’ve told Phillip.”

  “What makes you think Tiddles could be gone?” Berdie sipped the tea.

  “Yesterday afternoon, Elise came here. She couldn’t find the cat so she just put the opened tin of cat food on the floor. I stopped on the way home from working late and I couldn’t find him, nor was the food touched.” He took a deep breath. “I called him several times, did a cursory whip round, but no Tiddles to be seen.”

  “So you’re saying he may have gotten out?”

  “That’s it, I’m not sure. We’ve been in and out. I suppose he could have slipped through. I mean if he’s truly missing he would have had to.”

  “Yes, well. It’s a large house. His caretaker i
s gone, perhaps he’s off somewhere having a good sulk.” Berdie was being generous.

  Even sulking cats get hungry. But if he had gotten out, it seemed likely that he would have returned by now looking for breakfast.

  Linden took steps up the drive, Berdie with him.

  “Are neighbors familiar with Tiddles?” Berdie was now working a missing cat investigation, as well.

  “Sir Percival certainly was. He complained that the silly thing pursued his doves and he threatened to do in Tiddles if he touched foot on his grounds.” He pointed to Sir Percival’s back garden. “Look at his large dovecote. Him and his precious birds. What cat wouldn’t be curious?”

  Berdie could clearly see the dovecote sitting atop a high pole. “And kytes are deadly to doves.”

  Linden squinted. “For any number of species.”

  The mortally wounded black kyte tumbling from the sky dropped vividly into Berdie’s memory. It didn’t bode well for the cat. “Poor Phillip.”

  The boy’s father nodded. “Oh, and by the way. We’ve told the children their grandmother has gone on holiday.”

  “Of course.”

  Berdie and Linden reached the front door.

  “Anything gathered from Olivia’s mobile telephone numbers?”

  “If I needed Elise’s number, or my own, I’d know where to look,” he offered with sarcasm. “And her bank. That’s about it.”

  “Nothing gained from the address book?” Berdie took the last sip of tea.

  “No. It was primarily businesses, tradesmen, that kind of thing. Would you like to look at it?” Linden opened the door.

  “Yes, please.” Berdie stepped inside, Linden behind her.

  A child’s faint voice could be heard. “Tiddles, where are you?”

  “I’m going to help Phillip.” Linden pointed to a hall table. “There’s the address book.”

  “When I’m done with this I’ll help as well,” Berdie assured. She didn’t leaf through the pages. She went straight to letter Z in the alphabet, and then X. “Ah.” Berdie eyed the page closely. A telephone number was scribbled on it with no name or identification of any kind. “Thank you, Mrs. Mikalos, for being rather predictable.” Berdie pulled the carrier bag from her coat pocket. Using a nearby pen, she wrote the telephone number down. In a blink, she pushed her flask lid into her pocket, pulled her mobile from the other, and dialed the number.

  “Thank you for your call,” a kind recording said. “Please leave your message.”

  Even more predictable. “Yes,” Bertie rattled off her mobile number. “I look forward to your discreet response to my call.” She shoved the mobile and bag back in her pocket.

  Assisting Phillip and Linden gave Berdie a reasonable enough excuse to nose around Olivia’s bedroom again. Everything was just as it was on Sunday. In the en suite bathroom she opened the medicine chest. There was an empty spot where a bottle of tablets had stood when Lillie and she scrutinized the cabinet on Sunday. “Missing.”

  She went back to the kitchen. “It seems both Tiddles and some tablets have gone missing,” Berdie reported to Linden quietly as she spied the still full dish of cat food and inspected a kitchen window. “You didn’t move any medication, by chance?”

  “Why would I do that?” Linden frowned.

  “And neither you nor your wife saw the cat scurry out.”

  “No, I’ve told you that.”

  “Linden, I think you need to consider that there may have been an intruder.”

  “No, nothing shows signs of being disturbed. They would have taken the telly, computer, any number of things.”

  “It’s not that kind of intruder.”

  “What other kind is there?”

  “Did anyone other than you and your wife have a key to the house?”

  “No.” Linden was sharpish. “Not that I’m aware of,” he said in a more civil manner. The man sat on a near-by chair. He seemed overwhelmed with this new development.

  “Why don’t you and Phillip go look for Tiddles in the back garden and I’ll just poke about the windows and doors?”

  He shook his balding head. “Why won’t the police get involved?”

  The air caught in Berdie’s throat and she swallowed. “Police? As they said, they’re not willing at this point. But Linden, think of me as your private investigator right now. And Lillie, as well. In time, the police will get involved.”

  “You’re right. I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”

  Berdie smiled. “Out you go, then. Fetch Phillip and search the back garden.”

  The large front sitting room window was her next candidate for an intruder’s place of entry. And, it would seem, this particular intruder was keen that Mrs. Mikalos stay in good health, thus alive. And yet, one who would hold her against her will? No ransom note. It didn’t make a great deal of sense.

  “Mrs. Elliott,” Linden interrupted as he entered the room. “Come see this. I don’t believe my eyes.”

  “What is it?”

  Linden didn’t respond. He briskly stepped to the back garden.

  Berdie followed.

  “Look.” He pointed to the back of the property. “What do you make of that?”

  Berdie scanned the scene. Tidy flower beds, a fence, neatly mowed green lawn. There was nothing exceptional. “Yes?”

  “The fence!”

  “Yes?”

  Linden gestured with both hands toward the tall wooden fence that stood guard between the back gardens of Olivia and Sir Percival. “There. That’s my mother-in-law’s tree.”

  All Berdie could see were stubs of tree branches sticking up beyond the fence. The arbor looked like some giant’s razor had made a clean even stroke straight cross.

  “Not really much of a tree,” Berdie said.

  “It was tall and majestic, very old, very grand.”

  Then Berdie understood. The pillaged tree of Linden’s mother-in-law was beyond the fence.

  Linden’s forehead furrowed. “He’s gone and moved the fence, taking a piece of Mother’s garden for his own and done the tree. He said kytes were nesting there.”

  “Who?”

  “Blasted Barlow.” He blinked. “Sorry, Mrs. Elliott.”

  “Mr. Barlow seems to stimulate all sorts of murky vocabulary.”

  “And well he should.”

  “Why do you think Sir Percival is responsible for this?”

  “He’s gone round after round with my in-laws about that tree. But more importantly, he’s carried on accusing them of stealing his land. Since Mr. Mikalos passed, he’s been relentless toward Olivia. He claims the property lines are wrong and part of Mother’s garden belongs to him.”

  “And does it?”

  “No.” Linden threw the word like a dart going for its target. “Well, I’ll have words with that brute.” He turned on his heel.

  “Linden,” Berdie caught his arm, “even though you have a right to be upset, a dust up with Sir Percival really isn’t going to help find your mother-in-law at this moment, is it?”

  Linden blew out a large huff.

  “I’ll deal with him.” She had no idea how, where, or when and hoped Linden wouldn’t ask her. “Leave the matter to me.”

  “Daddy,” Phillip called out woefully from near the house, “I don’t think Tiddles is here.”

  Berdie let go of Linden’s arm. “It sounds like Phillip needs a kind word.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “Linden,” Berdie salted her words with reassurance, “we’re never without hope.”

  Linden sighed. He looked none too sure of it. He made his way toward Phillip.

  Berdie stared at the fence. What on earth was going on? Was Percival Barlow dove obsessed, land hungry, or even mad? Was there more to it? Could he be tied into Olivia’s disappearance? Berdie eyed Sir Percival’s home. Could Olivia be in there? No, even if Barlow was involved, he wouldn’t hold her in his own home. Too risky. She shook her head.

  There was something missing, some thread or threads t
hat hadn’t shown themselves yet. And she had some knots to untie concerning Barlow before approaching him. Berdie squeezed the plastic bag in her pocket. “Joe’s DIY may be just the fingers needed to untie one of those knots.”

  However, the church garden committee meeting was soon to take place, and she must fly. A quick adieu to Linden, and then she had to be off. It wouldn’t do for the vicar’s wife to be late.

  ****

  Berdie fumbled her mobile in her coat pocket that hung on the back of the chair in which she was seated. She glanced at the ancient and faded wall fresco that adorned a tiny section of the south wall of the church’s nave. Saint Aidan was presenting the Gospel to hungry souls with large eyes and wearing peasant dress. She wondered if Aidan, even though a saint, would have endured the present meeting at which she was in attendance at Hugh’s behest.

  “Horrible lemonade,” Bridget McDermott, co-chair of the committee announced. “Rather embarrassing, that.”

  When Mr. Webb had introduced a wedding package scheme to help beef up church funds, the garden committee was appointed to oversee the first event, simply because it was an outdoor wedding to be held in the church back garden. Now, the committee, whilst in the throes of planning it, had spent the lion’s share of the last hour discussing the Ascension Sunday activities.

  “My young grandson can make better lemonade than the slosh served there,” Mrs. McDermott went on.

  Berdie remembered little Duncan Butz at the fete asking about balloons and holding his third cup of the “horrible” stuff. “What was wrong with the lemonade?”

  “I take it you didn’t have any, then.” Bridget lifted her chin. “I should think the vicar’s wife would have made a point of at least tasting it.”

  Of all the women in the church, Mrs. McDermott had a real knack of winding Berdie up. “Quite busy, actually,” Berdie quipped. “Far more to do than imbibe at the treats table.”

  Mrs. McDermott crossed her arms.

  “Terribly sour,” sweet Maggie Fairchild interjected. “It made my eyes water a bit.” She gave a slight shudder. “I had one sip and discreetly disposed of it.”