by Shelly Frome
There was no problem getting a seat and ordering at this hour. No trouble popping into the ladies room to freshen up and brush her hair. Right on schedule, her order arrived and helped ease away the hunger and the lingering chill and dampness.
But at any rate, she was on the move, which was her stock in trade. Far from what was doubtless expected of her by the opposition, and far from bailing out.
The only snag was getting hold of Miranda’s present address. With her fixation on makeovers, Miranda had apparently disposed of the last properties she’d renovated and gobbled up another in the vicinity. The question was where, provided, of course, that she was still okay. Given the best-case scenario, what country cottage in what part of town was she now tarting up? What results of “deferred maintenance” were being graced with central heating, fitted kitchens, brocaded curtains, and double-glazed windows? Not to mention the typical manicured privet hedges flanking a freshly laminated gate readied for a quick sale.
For Miranda, the trick was to live in one while she redecorated and workmen polished off the other. When that sort of thing grew tiresome, she’d flit back to the Connecticut hills, lodge at the B&B, and scout around for a new project, male or architectural or both. When that too proved trifling, she went flitting back once again, which, evidently, was the case at present, unless this time the act of flitting back had more ominous overtones.
Which, again, made her think of Doc’s mission of killing two birds with one stone.
Emily pulled out her cellphone, hit the designated numbers, and called Fiona, the always-in-the-know estate agent on Fore Street.
She found out that, yes, Miranda was active, but given the fluctuations in the market, she was only renovating one cottage behind the Teign Valley Glassworks. No, Fiona was not at liberty to reveal Miranda’s new mobile number, but Emily could probably get her precise address from the lads at the Pottery Road Garage where Miranda had her Jaguar serviced.
However, as it turned out, Miranda was not only very much alive and kicking, but someone else had been making inquiries about Miranda’s well-being only a short while ago.
“Rather had me in a bit of a muddle,” said Fiona. “The driver, a scruffy sod, apparently had been mucking about with my computer and pawing through my new listings. When I returned to my desk, neither him nor his guv—some dodgy bloke who’d been chatting me up—was anywhere to be found. Well, I tell you, I never.”
Returning to her car, Emily was soon on her way along the A382, tooling along toward the southern end of the bypass near the House of Marble. She covered the remaining distance in minutes, pulled into the Pottery Road Garage, and took a moment to get her bearings.
Up by the petrol pumps, she spotted the rear end of a beat-up Morris Minor. At first, she couldn’t be sure who was filling up his tank because her view was partially blocked by a lorry. As if obliging her, the lorry moved up to the far side of the pump island opposite and well past the little Morris, exposing Cyril’s smirking face.
Something glittered in his right hand and disappeared under a shammy, the kind of sheepskin cloth used to polish silver and chrome. Like an amateur magician, he whipped the shammy away, making the object appear and disappear a second time. The clumsy sleight-of-hand trick afforded her a fleeting glimpse of the short, nickel-plated barrel of a pistol.
A familiar, raspy voice cut through the garage and engine noises to Emily’s right, causing Cyril to cover up the gun and conceal it behind his back.
“Dammit, I thought I told you to ditch it or put it away!” Doc shouted.
Pointing directly at Doc, Cyril made an obscene gesture and deposited the gun in the trunk of the Morris, slammed the lid, snatched up a gas nozzle, and resumed his position at the pump.
As Doc appeared by his side, Cyril fended him off by pointing again, but this time in Emily’s direction. Following Cyril’s lead, Doc advanced toward her.
She could have backed out, driven around for a while until she was sure they were gone, and asked someone inside for Miranda’s address. But taking into account Doc’s control over Cyril, she was not about to be put off. Not out here in broad daylight at a busy garage.
She switched off the motor and stepped onto the pavement.
“What is this?” Doc said, moving right up to her. “Are you tailing me? Haven’t you had enough?”
“Just wondering if you’re through making your rounds. And if Cyril’s prize possession is going to stay in the trunk.”
“You’re killing me, you know that? When are you freakin’ gonna get off it?”
Calling out something unintelligible, Cyril slammed the petrol nozzle back into its cradle. He clapped his hands, either because he was itching to go or because he was egging Doc on. He cut over to the lorry, leaned against the tailgate, and folded his arms. When the surly looking driver suddenly emerged, Cyril banged his fist into his open palm, swaggered back to the Morris, got behind the wheel, and honked as the lorry’s motor revved up.
“Wise up,” Doc said, staring her right in the face, raising his voice over the mounting engine noise. “What you are is a tour guide who cuts out on her tour. A driver who is and is not for hire, and a sassy chick who’s got no leverage. No authority, no nothin’. So why don’t you do everybody a favor and hang it up?”
Emily let it go, not about to jump in again until she had something concrete to charge him with. She left him standing there and headed for the garage office.
Yelling as other revving motors joined the fray, Doc said, “So guess what, sister? You are damn well just asking for it!”
The feeble horn of the Morris beeped again. The lorry and a moving van rounded the far side of the petrol island and exited.
Doc strode over to Cyril as Emily reached the garage office. Caught between the petrol island and Emily, Doc hollered one last time. “Hey, forget about it. I am outta here.”
The Morris took off, tires screeching, with Doc on board. While making a pointless loop around the pump island, Cyril made another nasty gesture. The look on Doc’s face as it came into view was indecipherable. Completing the circle, the Morris whisked away, the whine of its motor strained to the limit, tailing off with a few taunting, farewell honks.
Before asking for directions to Miranda’s present whereabouts, Emily took note of Cyril’s concealed weapon and Doc’s backhanded tip. She also took into account what she had learned the hard way. Without leverage, without authority, anyone with anything to hide—like poor Harriet—can keep eluding you. As she’d done. As everyone had done. But, if they have no idea you’re after something, if you’re able to keep your feelings in check, this time you might actually catch someone off guard.
This she told herself and vowed to keep it in mind.
“How very odd to receive your call,” said Miranda, swaying a bit in her bare feet between the packing crates and freshly painted walls. “It must have been five days ago, surely, that you rang in the middle of the night. You were half asleep, I dare say.”
“But still coherent, I hope,” Emily said, warding off the odor of fresh paint.
“All the same, quite late for you, a bit early for me.”
For a moment, Miranda seemed thrown. Then it came to her. “You were to pop round for tea. Report on what your handyman found, if memory serves. Absolving me of negligence. And here you are on my doorstep, days later, having given me no notice at all.”
“Couldn’t get hold of your new number. Just tracked down your address.”
“Ah. Quite. Of course.”
Still standing in the middle of the pristine white living room, Emily watched Miranda as she gazed quizzically at her unexpected guest, let out a sigh, and wandered off into the empty, equally spotless dining space adjacent to the kitchen area.
As soon as Emily rang the bell, she’d been greeted by that same quizzical glance. Wrapped in a flimsy white robe, which did little to hide her ample bosom and willowy figure, Miranda had halfheartedly attempted to pull back her honey-blonde hair and pile mos
t of it on top. Wispy curls streamed down over her ears, adding to her usual blasé mode. But her lazy blue eyes darted here and there, which didn’t go at all with her purring, mellow tone. Neither did the occasional twitch of her lips. Anyone who’d spent any time with Miranda would have to admit she was not quite herself.
Shuffling back into the living room, Miranda had another thought. “Then how did you manage to find me? And why aren’t you at the fete with your clients? Doing your Twinning thingamabob?”
“I took a break. Felt guilty about not getting in touch. Made a call to Fiona.”
The quizzical look returned.
“You know, Miranda. The estate agent.”
“I see.”
Emily filled the ensuing silence by asking if there was any possibility she could have a cup of tea. She mentioned she was on a tight schedule, having had such a hard time locating her, and could really use a little pick-me-up.
“Hmm.”
Emily hoped that if Miranda was kept busy, she might be less wary. Given the awkward way things were going, it was worth a try.
“It seems, my dear,” Miranda said, meandering back over to the glistening kitchen, “one never knows when one might be called upon to be a proper host. At all hours, as it were.”
Emily took this remark to mean that either Miranda hadn’t yet gotten over Doc and Cyril’s untimely visit a few minutes before, or that the last thing she needed right now was Emily’s company.
“But not to worry,” said Miranda. “Kitchen’s not only fitted but tidied up. I’ll make us both a Tension Tamer. Ginseng and ginger root, chamomile flowers, and lemongrass. Do make yourself comfortable.”
Her tone was colored now by more than a hint of growing annoyance.
With Miranda out of sight and the clinking sounds of cups and saucers in the background, Emily surveyed the area. In addition to the crates that lined the walls, she noted the two white-wicker chairs in the far corner facing a flimsy-looking three-tiered, white-wicker stand that blended perfectly with the walls and ceiling and Miranda’s robe. Aside from the polished wooden floor, the only other thing that caught Emily’s eye was a packet of photos lying on top of the wicker stand embossed with that unmistakable logo—the black hands of a grandfather clock and antique red lettering promising prompt and courteous service. A trademark of the Meadow Street Pharmacy at the edge of the Green in Lydfield, Connecticut. Judging from the ripped envelope and its haphazard position, it may have just been delivered by Doc and hastily tossed aside.
Emily stopped short of reaching out for the packet when Miranda called, “Milk or lemon? One lump of raw turbinado sugar or a spoonful of honey?”
“Lemon and honey will do fine, thanks.”
“And then we’ll chat. Hear all about what actually brings you here. Nothing excessively tiresome, I hope.”
“Oh, no. Not at all.”
Emily sensed that anything directly implicating Miranda in any way would end tea time then and there. So she couldn’t allude to the phone call Miranda had apparently made to Chris nor the recent ones she may have received from Harriet.
At the sound of Miranda’s fake cooing, Emily sat down by the wicker coffee table as Miranda whisked into view, balancing the tea things on a white-wicker tray. Emily rose, intercepted Miranda and took over arranging the delicate pot and cups and saucers, leaning the tray against the stand to mask the photo packet.
Emily offered to pour. Miranda demurred, instructing Emily about the tea cozy and how “one had to wait till it was all properly hotted up.”
Another awkward silence as they sat opposite each other. Emily asked about the new spa in Newton Abbot.
Playing along, Miranda went on about the Aquaromaflow baths, smooth stones, and aromatic oil massage. Miranda then poured the steaming yellowish liquid into the fragile bone-china cups. “Now then, Emily. The reason for your popping in like this, my casual invitation aside. And your newfound—how shall I put it—cat-like stillness?”
“Sorry?”
“Rather as if you were about to pounce instead of the usual forthright, New England manner I’m accustomed to.”
Realizing she had to do something to get the focus off herself, Emily said, “I just wanted you to know there is no apparent negligence on your part.”
“No apparent negligence. Odd turn of phrase.”
“And, again, since I had no other way to reach you . . .”
“So you say.”
To steer the conversation to the GDC’s condo project, Emily alluded to the contrast between the development and Miranda’s unsold, half-timbered, multiple chimneys, and slate-roofed McMansion. She hoped the subject of the real-estate market might get Miranda to loosen up a bit. But it only caused Miranda’s eyes to go on another darting expedition.
While massaging her eyelids with her fingertips, Miranda said, “Is it local news on offer? Is that the gist of what’s summoned you here?”
“In a way.” Emily mentioned the GDC application and prospectus, and its probable acceptance by the Planning Commission by the middle of next week. But all Miranda could say to that was, “My dear, that’s a foregone conclusion.”
During the next pregnant pause, Emily would not have been at all surprised if Miranda chose to see Emily out before she had a chance to examine the photo packet.
With nothing else going for her, Emily said, “Miranda, do you still make that yogurt dish with dried fruit and nuts? The one you often whipped up while you stayed at the B&B? The tea is great but the truth is, I really am starving.”
“After, I gather, you’ve been on one of your interminable forays over hill and dale. Then drove here, ferreting out my address, tossing me a few bits and bobs, and now fancy my yogurt dish.”
“If you don’t mind.”
Miranda rubbed the back of her neck and closed her eyes. “I sense your unfathomable behavior is due to a modicum of disease. Breaking the word down to its true meaning—dis-ease.” Opening her eyes, Miranda added, “I shall bring you your dish. But you surely realize how perceptive I am and always have been.”
Once more, Miranda wandered into the kitchen. Emily snatched up the packet from the wicker stand and took out a handful of glossy prints. The first featured the plastic smile, lacquered-down do, and vanilla summer suit of Brian Forbes in all his glory. The other snapshots zeroed in on Brian pawing different parts of Miranda’s generously-endowed body on a dock somewhere on the Connecticut River. Some of the stills were less blatant, but it was more than obvious what was going on. Some blackmailing leverage vis-à-vis Brian and Miranda if they didn’t beak it off, with the approval of the development in the balance. Without warning, Miranda came fluttering out of the kitchen into full view. “Oh, damn,” Emily said, knocking over the tea tray.
“There, you see?” said Miranda, setting the white porcelain bowls on a crate while Emily dropped to her knees, holding up the tray to mask her attempt to shove the packet of photos back in place. “The body never lies, Emily Ryder. You are in a state, like a tightly coiled cat, surely.”
Miranda began putting everything back where it belonged. With the tea things sorted out and the bowls neatly rearranged, Miranda and Emily took up their respective positions. Skirting over the rising tension as best she could, Emily made cursory remarks comparing the weather and hiking in rural Devon with Connecticut’s northwest hills. Forcing down the pre-prepared yogurt, fruit, and nuts as if she was actually famished, Emily looked for an easy exit.
Miranda began massaging the back of her neck and flexing her fingers. “There, do you see?” said Miranda. “Your dis-ease has quite altered the flow.”
Miranda stood up, stretched her arms out wide and went into a half-limbering-up, half-dance routine, the same set of affected movements Miranda had performed on the front lawn of the B&B. Only this time, she was trying to cover up whatever had unnerved her—doubtless Doc and Cyril barging in on her, coupled with Emily, the cagey cat, suddenly dropping in as well.
Her voice and body strainin
g a bit harder, Miranda kept on. “This technique is akin to the Chinese watercourse way. Just as water follows gravity and rises effortlessly.”
She stretched high and in all directions and said, “It’s curious how you mentioned my slate roof during your sleepy, early morning call. And here you are with never a mention what your handyman actually found. Nor how you came by the GDC prospectus highlighting the salient features.”
She gave Emily ample time to respond, but Emily gave her nothing.
Straining even harder, Miranda gyrated to illustrate the difference between the rigid pine branch and the lithe and springy willow sloughing off heavy snow. The only problem was that, given the pressure of all that was apparently closing in on her, Miranda was so much better as the pine branch.
To break this up, Emily said, “Mind if I use my cellphone for a second? I have to check back with Silas and Pru, and the signal is bound to be less iffy here than the moorland terrain.”
With another reluctant sigh, Miranda ceased her routine and motioned toward the kitchen area to afford Emily a little privacy. Before letting matters go, however, she said, “Speaking of realty, you haven’t broached the subject of your mum and plans for the B&B either. Once again, ‘curiouser and curiouser’ as Alice, in the looking glass, would have it.”