Into the Clouds

by Marilyn Leach

  ****

  Berdie crept close to the rear door where the security pad was located, keeping both her small torch and her black-clad body low. She pulled the dark cap down so it nearly touched her ears.

  Getting out of the house and down the drive without Hugh being aware had been a feat despite the chamomile tea Berdie poured down him before bed. If he had any idea at all what she was doing at the moment, he would probably disown her.

  Yet here she was in gear worn by thieves and shod in her old fleet-of-foot plimsoles; hardly what she’d wear to church on Sunday. And if she were honest, she savored the adrenalin rush that coursed through her being, knowing her investigation could save lives. She focused all of her energy into the task at hand. “Lord forgive me,” she whispered and lifted the security pad cover with her gloved hand. “Even David ate the shew bread, and it is for Lillie.” She pulled her glasses down her nose a tad. “S-T-O-B-B-W-O-R-T-H-3.” She pressed the buttons carefully.

  A click at the latch let her know the door had unlocked. So far, so good.

  Berdie swallowed, turned the handle, and gave a gentle push. It opened. Softly, she pushed the door wider and stepped inside the dark house. With the same quiet precision, she closed the door behind her.

  Torch still held low so as not to be seen through windows, she recognized all the fittings of a kitchen. No red alarm lights and no security camera. Thank God. An electric kettle and coffee maker sat on the counter alongside several biscuit tins. Upside down cups littered the sink draining board. “Nothing more than a breakroom really,” she whispered softly and moved on.

  The hall had two lowly lit wall sconces, decorative security lighting, no doubt. The front entrance of the house was at the far end. She thought surely this was the main hall.

  Deep cherry wood panels covered the lower half of the walls, dark magenta paint the upper, a polished wooden staircase on the left. Glint from a gold frame drew Berdie’s gaze to a large romantic painting of an embracing man and woman.

  “Not a cat rescue, then,” she whispered.

  Near the front door, a side table held a sign done in hand calligraphy. Welcome. Please be seated in the drawing room.

  Berdie recognized a door that looked to be the entrance into the drawing room and gently pushed it open. The squeak of it could equally have been rumbling thunder. She grimaced. It was opened enough to squeeze through sideways, which she did with baby steps, to prevent more alerting noises.

  Inside, security sconces cast a sepia glow across the room. The whole of it looked like something found in a National Trust brochure for a stately home. From chandelier to silk cushions, it was all here behind closed brocade drapes. “Definitely not a cat rescue.” A clock ticked. Everything about the room said titled, refined, civilized, and moneyed. So just what were people seeking when they seated themselves in this room?

  A picture began to form in Berdie’s mind. It was Livy and Olivia, each sitting alone on the gracious couch. Both nicely dressed, just in from their nearby homes, one in her mid years, the other somewhat younger, and both not short of a bob or two. One discontented, according to Lillie, and the other? “Christmastide lunch.” Berdie remembered Billie Finch’s words. Her thought spilled out in a soft voice. “I say. Could it be?”

  Berdie spied a far door that, by its placement, looked to be an entrance to a possible dining room. She whisked plimsole-quiet through the length of the drawing room, while anticipation heightened. With every sense on high alert, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  Unlike the previous two spaces, there were no security lights, just a low blue glow accompanied by a muted resonating hum. Unmistakable.

  Leaving the door slightly ajar, Berdie pulled her torch to waist height. A grand cherry wood desk, overstuffed chairs on one side, a gracious swiveled office chair on the other announced the room was tastefully decorated. Blue reflected off the shiny surface of the desk from the square that declared its presence. “Now we’re getting to it. What secrets will you unveil?” she whispered in the direction of the computer. Without ado, Berdie sank into the upholstered office chair and eyed the computer monitor.

  Her index finger lightly danced on the enter key and Timsley Social Club Alliance scrolled across the screen, attended by two handsome couples smiling like they had just won the pools.

  Her brain shouted, Aha. But her tongue whispered, “I thought as much.”

  And beneath the title in bold letters were the assuring words: confidential, discriminating, rewarding.

  “They forgot to add desperately dangerous.”

  Berdie eyed the little white rectangle that held the pesky declaration: password. She put her small torch in the grip of her teeth, shining on the keyboard, both hands now available to begin her dig for valuable information. Her first attempt, Stobbworth 3, yielded no joy.

  A noise started her.

  She paused. Or perhaps not. She sat solidly still, ears vigilant.

  S-q-u-e-a-k.

  Berdie’s pulse tripped. The sitting room door!

  The adrenaline rush she had savored earlier became a controlled panic. Her mouth went dry as she ripped the torch from it and turned it off.

  Almost inaudible, but they were there; slow, deliberate footsteps. And it seemed they moved in the direction of this room.

  Berdie sprang from the chair. She eyed the door still slightly open.

  There was another step.

  She made a brisk move to the wall, squeezing herself tightly against it. Pressed against the door frame on the hinged side, she was sure the intruder would hear her heart pounding.

  The steps stopped. A torchlight fell across the floor of the dark room, the steady hum of the computer agitating the still night.

  Berdie pulled her capped head around to the edge of the door. Her gaze locked upon the shadow cast by the uninvited guest from the backlighting provided by the drawing room sconces. The torch was in the right hand because the left hand hung to the side. No apparent weapon. The silhouette looked somehow familiar.

  The door opened wider.

  She pulled back. Her legs felt as if they were made of butter, but she planted herself solidly and used the wall to stabilize her body.

  The man stepped through the entrance. He took several steps forward, his backside now in view.

  Berdie swallowed. The Lord is the strength of His people. Take the offensive!

  She leapt from behind the door, shoved the narrow end of her torch into the back of the bulky figure, and growled “Hands up” in as deep and bold a baritone voice she could muster.

  The figure’s hands shot straight into the air, their torch creating a shaky circle of light on the ceiling. “Don’t be hasty,” he puffed in an unsteady voice.

  Berdie knew that voice, and the clothes he wore. It suddenly fit the silhouette. She relinquished her feigned baritone voice. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  The figure spun round and flashed his torch in Berdie’s face.

  She tried to shield the glare with her hands.

  “Shells, bells, and little fishes, I should have known,” Constable Albert Goodnight bellowed.

  “Shh.” Berdie put her finger to her lips.

  Lowering his torch from her eyes, Berdie could see his startle melt to relief. Then, as if remembering the uniform, his bushy brows knit in consternation. “And here you are, right in it.” He straightened. “Mrs. Elliott, I’m placing you under arrest.”

  Berdie’s shoulders slacked. “Albert, if you please…”

  “Don’t Albert me.” His tone was a blast of foghorn. “Constable Goodnight.” The unkempt mustache bounced with each word.

  “Lower your voice,” Berdie scolded in a whisper. “You’ll wake the whole of the neighborhood and neither of us need that at the moment, do we?”

  Goodnight’s stare could have bored holes in wood.

  “There’s work to be done here.”

  Goodnight stabbed his finger to his authoritative police insignia. “I’ve got this.
”

  “Yes, you do.” Berdie became even more dogged. “And I’ve got this.” She jammed her index finger into the side of her head.

  “A dark knit cap?”

  Berdie pursed her lips. “Intelligence.”

  Goodnight reared back and sneered. “We’ll just see how smart you are when I put the cuffs on ya’.”

  “No, no.” Berdie held a palm up. “By intelligence, I mean that I have stealth information that can unlock this case. We must find Lillie.”

  “We?”

  “Lillie’s my best friend, and I need to bring her to safety.”

  Goodnight smirked. “Guilt. You feel guilty. Something, I reckon, a vicar’s wife like you knows well.”

  “Call it what you will,” Berdie snapped.

  Goodnight began zipping his torch round the room. “How’d you find this place out, then?”

  “A tip.” Berdie hesitated to go into detail.

  His torch came back to her. “A snarky gravel eater?”

  Berdie knew she surely wore her surprise. “He called you?”

  “Woke me from sound sleep. Thought it a prank, but he was dead keen it was urgent.” The constable lifted his chin. “Tell me one good reason I shouldn’t haul you in right now.”

  Berdie wanted to put her hands on her hips, get in his face, and bawl, “Because you need me to resolve this whole mess.” But she mentally sat on herself and took a totally different tack. “What better way to stop silly village tittle tattle? The village cowboy, indeed. And what a feather in your cap. You solve not one, but three missing person cases in one go. I can be the one to get you there.”

  Goodnight perked.

  Berdie knew it was a bit devious, but she had gone this far, and she was desperate.

  “No more starter pistols or parking violations for you, Detective Inspector Goodnight.”

  The constable turned his head askew and eyed her as if deliberating. She could tell by the rub he gave his chin that he was tantalized.

  Berdie optimized the moment. “Give me the next thirty minutes with you here. If I fail to get crime solving material into your hands, take me in.” Berdie swallowed. “But if I find anything of substance to break this investigation, and you get the credit for it, my being here needn’t leave this room.”

  Albert Goodnight studied Berdie. He ran his tongue across his front top teeth and gave a cluck. His brows lifted making them join together as one. “Twenty minutes.”

  Berdie felt a shot of relief zip through her whole being. Now she could do her work under legal protection. She raced back behind the desk. “I’m working at the computer.”

  Goodnight nodded. “Whatever this information, it better be good.” He began spinning his torch about, again looking at the surroundings.

  Berdie let out a long sigh. Not only finding Lillie and the others, but also her whole career, her position in the church, even her place as much adored wife all depended on the next twenty minutes. “Good and gracious Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner,” Berdie breathed and fingered the keys.

  “What’d you say?” Goodnight spilt torchlight on the desk.

  “Praying.”

  Goodnight snickered. “And I should think so, too, vicar’s wife.” Goodnight did a general pry about the room.

  Berdie tried numerous ideas for the password, but nothing succeeded. An ache in her tense shoulders began to edge up her neck. She closed her eyes. “Queens Gardens,” she breathed and struck the keys. No, it didn’t work. Time was slipping away.

  “Now would you look at this?” tumbled from Goodnight’s moustache-ridden lips. “Lined up like a family’s young ‘uns.”

  “What?” Berdie glanced at Goodnight, who steadied his torchlight on a long row of gold frames filled with photos.

  “Starlight, Bentley, Orangeade.”

  “Orangeade?”

  Goodnight bent closer. “Orangeade, Nineteen eighty three. They’ve engraved name and date on each frame.”

  Berdie realized what he was observing. “Their cats, the Stanfords’ personal pets, and the year they were born, or departed,” she spoke to herself more than the constable.

  Goodnight moved the light from portrait to portrait. “This is barmy.”

  “This is brilliant.” Berdie stood. “Which one is the most recent arrival?”

  “What?”

  “Tell me the name and date of the cat that is closest to today’s date.”

  “Here.” He nodded. “Dewberry. What kind of a name is that for a cat?”

  Berdie tapped the corresponding keys. “What year?”

  “Twenty twelve.”

  It didn’t work. No entry. Berdie drummed an open palm on the desk. Think. “Which cat has the oldest date, the firstborn?”

  “Firstborn?” Goodnight leaned toward the frames and chuckled. “Fancy a firstborn cat.” Moving one to another, the beam of light made the frames glisten. “Here’s the little bundle. Xerxes, nineteen sixty six.”

  Berdie entered the words and numbers. A sense of utter stay of execution wrapped itself warmly about her when the screen opened up. “Thank God. We have lift off.”

  “Righty-o,” Albert chirped absently, still pondering the cat portraits.

  Berdie beheld the icons as she seated herself again. Female Client Profiles. She clicked on it and her fingers flew on the keys, Olivia Mikalos. Yes, there was her picture and all her pertinent information, right down to her favorite flower. Plus there was some kind of code: WD, NFC NCC, I, S. The word, ACCEPTED, followed.

  Berdie pushed the flash drive into the port and pressed Save As, copying the folder to her stick.

  She typed in Livy’s name. Picture and particulars were there, and though the word ACCEPTED followed, her coded letters were slightly different. S, NFC, NCC, I, S.

  Then she swallowed. Her fingers could barely type it but she had to do it. Lillian Foxworth. Berdie leaned closer and drew her hand to her mouth. There was Lillie, her beautiful picture, her information, her code. S, NFC, MFC, I, S. But in big letters near the bottom, were the words DENIED CLIENT SERVICES.

  “Why?” Berdie said louder than intended.

  “Why, what?”

  Berdie jumped. So buried was she in her investigative processes, she had almost forgotten Albert was skulking about.

  He steadied his torch on the chandelier overhead. “That cost more than a few quid.”

  Berdie had no time to explain to Albert. She grappled with the first question that made her brain itch. Why had Lillie applied with the dating scheme to begin with? Berdie reviewed the last few weeks with her friend. She was feeling ignored by Loren. Nothing unusual. She had an apparent case of the humdrums. Yes, Berdie recalled Lillie fussing that everyone but she had meaningful vocations. She needed change, a challenge? Yes, or why else run off to Portugal? OK, so she had applied. Why then was Lillie rejected? Thank God she was, but why?

  “What made her different from Livy and Olivia?” she whispered.

  “You say something?”

  Berdie considered the codes of the women. It was a single identifiable difference in each woman’s profile. First letters were the same for Lillie and Livy. S. Olivia was WD. What would a dating agency have as their first entry? Dating agency. Of course. S for Lillie and Livy. Single. WD for Olivia. Widowed. “Their status,” Berdie reasoned aloud.

  “A fair amount of status I’d say, going by this lot of goods here. They’ve got plenty of dosh.”

  Berdie ignored the constable and continued the codes. All three had NFC. What would be valuable information for bilking, victimizing? No something? No funds collected. No fixed conditions. No foreign connection. Connection? Lillie had MCC but Livy and Olivia had NCC. They had no something, but Lillie had M something. “The opposite of no?”

  “Yes,” Goodnight blared. “Jumpin’ monkeys! How much more you gonna ponce about on that computer?”

  “Much, more.” Berdie repeated the fellow’s words and perked. “Lillie had many or more and they had none.” She became co
nscious of the constable’s inquiry. “Just a bit, Albert.”

  Berdie focused. NCC as opposed to MCC. What connections did Lillie have much of that Olivia and Livy did not? Legal, vocational, social? Social! Multiple Community Connections. Olivia had few friends. Livy appeared to have few and just her cousin from all appearances. Lillie had a serious relationship with Loren, friends, strong ties with the church, village notoriety.

  Realization bolted through Berdie like lightning. The Stanford’s primary interest in coming to the church the day before the fete wasn’t fund raising for the cat shelter. That was secondary. They were vetting Lillie. And they discovered, with all her links and ties to the community, that she wasn’t swindle and disappear material. They used the church and fete for their own wicked means. “The cheek!” Berdie said under her breath despite the fact that she wanted to cry it out.

  “What is this setup, anyway? A cat house?” Goodnight laughed at his own joke.

  Berdie went to the next icon, Male Client Profiles, and clicked. “This setup is a bait and skate,” Berdie quipped.

  “What?”

  “It’s a dating service. A very exclusive, highly confidential, bait and skate.”

  “Bait and skate?”

  “Women of means, concerned about appearances and despairing for companionship, are set up through this agency with apparent gentlemen, of a Casanova flare, who win the ladies’ hearts.” Berdie continued her browse of male clients. “Then they rob their vulnerable pockets and run. To get what they want, I dare say they may even bump some off.”

  “Blimey.” Goodnight’s tone moved from a casual investigation to deadly serious.

  “It looks as if they have legitimate clients sprinkled in. It’s a cover, of course.”

  “Right.” Goodnight drew his torch close into his body. “Bump them off, you say.”

  Berdie found Gavin Broadhouse, but no pertinent information, simply a list of his “matches”, including Olivia Mikalos. She looked a bit closer. Discharged was in bold letters near the bottom. What was that about?

  She typed Mr. Moore’s name and his photo came up under the name of Clive Moore, and again, no particulars. But his “matches” revealed several women, including Livy and Olivia.