Grace Smith Investigates

by Liz Evans

  There was a slightly damp bath-sheet and a couple of hand- towels tangled up with a jogging suit in a corner. Bandaging the sheet at breast level, Amelia dabbed her arms dry with one of the others and sat on the floor to buff drops from the legs.

  ‘Pretty perfect, isn’t it?’ she said, raising the left one and rotating her ankle.

  There’s nothing like being your own number-one fan. ‘Not bad,’ I agreed. ‘Do you work out?’

  Amelia laughed. ‘Not the leg. But thanks anyway. I was talking about the tan. I had it applied this morning. There’s a scrumptious little place behind South Molton Street that can make you look like a zillion dollars.’

  The sound of car doors slamming and the odd ‘hello’ was drifting up from below. I suggested I’d better be getting back. ‘Mrs. Reiss has taken me on as casual help for the evening.’

  ‘Then casually help me. Please. I need someone to rub cream on my back. Mother will lecture about accepting the inevitabilities of age; Bone will probably carve her initials in my skin, the mood she’s in. And if I ask Stephen ... well... we could get distracted, if you know what I mean.’ She gave me an oblique smile, half teasing, half coy, whilst hugging the towel a fraction tighter to outline her body with more definition. ‘It’s still as good as the first year we met.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’

  ‘Oh, I know. I mean, when I look at some of my old girlfriends ... on their third or fourth divorce ... How about you? ... Anyone special?’

  ‘No.’ Images of Kevin Drysdale smiling at me over that candlelit table nudged treacherously in my mind. ‘Yes. I mean, there is someone special. But we’re not together. There are complications.’

  ‘A wife?’ Amelia asked, tipping a pool of cream into her palm and sweeping it up her arm with smooth strokes.

  ‘Yes. Not that that’s the problem. The relationship’s more or less over. It’s ...’ I must have been missing Annie’s ear more than I’d realised. I heard myself telling Amelia I’d blown the boyfriend out by giving him a ultimatum. ‘No more quickies. A relationship or nothing, I said.’

  ‘And he chose nothing?’

  The legs were getting the cream treatment now. I admitted to the back of Amelia’s bent neck that I didn’t actually know what he’d chosen. ‘Half-term, you know. He has to keep up a happy families act.’

  It sounded pretty pathetic as I said it. Almost as bad as being suckered by the old my-wife-doesn’t-understand-me routine.

  ‘He has children?’

  ‘Don’t they all.’

  ‘All the best ones, I suppose. I mean, once you get past a certain age, if no one else has got there first, you start wondering what’s wrong with them, don’t you? Not that I was ever in that situation. I just knew ... the first time I saw Stephen ... he was the one. It was the same for him. He couldn’t get enough of me; still can’t. Here ... do my back, there’s a sweetie.’

  The bottle fumbled between us, slippery with cream. A stream of white oily gunge splattered on to my jeans.

  Amelia gasped. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry ...’

  ‘It’s OK. They’re used to it.’

  Hot water and a soaked towel succeeded in spreading the mess over most of my stomach and down my knees.

  ‘Did it stain?’ Amelia asked. She’d abandoned creaming in favour of heated hair rollers. ‘There’s a fabulous shop in town, it recycles clothes, so even quite poor people can afford designer labels. I take all my out-of-date outfits there. They had Versace jeans for fifty pounds last time I was in. I’ll give you the address.’

  I had my own little second-hand shop actually; where they did second-hand chain-store jeans at two quid a pair and dug a well with the profits. But I thanked her anyway and watched fascinated as she started to lay out rows of brushes along the dressing table. Michelangelo could have painted the Sistine Chapel with less.

  ‘Well, I guess ...’I tried to leave again.

  Amelia waved me down. ‘Don’t go. I’ll need you to check my blending is OK. I can’t go to my own party with hard edges, can I?’

  The make-up was dabbed, powdered and blended on the backs of her hands until she’d achieved the effect she wanted, and then applied to the face.

  The face-lift scars disappeared. The eyes seemed to grow larger, long-lashed and shaded to a subtle smokiness. The cheek bones sprang into sharper relief. Lips became fuller, outlined in one colour, filled in another, glossed in a third. Perfume rose from pulse points in ten-pounds-a-time sniffs. The rollers came out and the hair was twisted and pinned into a casual fall.

  ‘Now the clothes ... those first ...’ She pointed to a pink box.

  I burrowed under tissue paper as soft as marshmallow and drew out a pair of tiny lace-trimmed satin briefs. The shop receipt fluttered out with them. They worked out at about five pounds per square centimetre, by my calculations.

  There was no room for a bra. I fastened her into the cream silk dress and provided a balance whilst she stepped into golden sandals. ‘Now - the final touch.’ She tipped the contents of the velvet bags out, inserted gold drop earrings into her lobes and clasped a heavy necklace around her throat. ‘Stephen’s birthday present last year. There. Finished. How do I look?’

  She looked incredible; a doll modelled in cream and gold - and conceived no more than twenty-five years ago. ‘Unbelievable,’ I said truthfully.

  Her face lit up with real joy. ‘It is good, isn’t it? The best ever. I knew whatever I had to do, it would all be worth it in the end.’

  Consciously or unconsciously, one manicured nail traced the outline of the now invisible scars behind her ear.

  I checked my watch and found I’d been up here for two hours. ‘Don’t you think we should be going down?’

  ‘Sure.’ With an excited giggle, Amelia grabbed my arm and squeezed us together. ‘Just let me take a proper look.’

  She twisted the key in a wardrobe door. It swung open revealing a full-length mirror on the inside. Our joint reflections stared back at us.

  Amelia looked like a million pounds. I looked like you couldn’t have got back a ten-pence deposit on me.

  The bathroom steam had drawn the grease into my hair, making it obvious the roots needed retouching - all two inches or so of them. My nose was sitting in the centre of a pale-purple and yellow island of bruising in an otherwise anaemically pale skin. The wine-stained blouse was still erratically patterned in pink splodges as well as being unevenly buttoned so that I looked lopsided. And the jeans were now two-tone: dry denim to the knees and water and oil stains from there on upwards. I was either going to be taken for the resident bag-lady or the latest in couture slick.

  ‘Come on, let’s party ...’ Amelia dragged me towards the hall. ‘Hang on tight, I don’t want to arrive head over heels showing all my you-know-what.’

  She dug in harder to my arm and took the stair banister with the other hand. We made a slow entrance to the back dining room. There were a few people helping themselves to food and drinks from the tables, but most of the guests were out on the lawns. They were seriously swish. By the looks of it Joan had gone over to the most expensive country club in the district and banged the dinner gong.

  ‘Come on,’ Amelia murmured.

  We made our way out on to the terrace, still arm in arm. Dusk made itself felt sooner on this patio area, which was in the deeper house shadow. Some of the Japanese lanterns on the flagstones and amongst the terracotta planters had been lit and were sending out a soft glow that was attracting the early summer insects.

  Amelia moved to the edge of the balustrade and stood quite still. I’d have said she was totally in control, if she hadn’t been gripping my hand with a squeeze that had cut off the feeling in my fingers.

  A couple of people nearest the terrace noticed her. One raised a Rolexed wrist in greeting. She didn’t appear to see them. Her gaze remained fixed out over the lawns and flowerbeds, apparently entranced by the trad jazz band in striped blazers and straw boaters who were blowing up a storm in the pavilion
at the far end of the gardens.

  Gradually the gentle roar of conversation started to fade as more and more groups noticed Amelia, stopped talking and turned to stare. The band got the message at last, and responded in the most spectacular style. With a crash of cymbals they marked a second of total silence.

  Then the applause started; spontaneous tiny pockets of pattering that spread out, joined together and turned into a glorious chorus of slapping skin. With a gentle sigh from parted lips, Amelia released me, drew herself up and walked the few steps to the terrace stairs, nodding and smiling to each group.

  It was a brilliant entrance.

  I just hoped it was spectacular enough to ensure no one had noticed me. Because amongst Amelia’s new fan club, I’d noticed Kevin Drysdale’s familiar figure. And even if I wasn’t sure what footing our relationship was currently on, I had my conceit. After the black-plastic-bag ensemble last time, I preferred not to be seen looking like a damp bag of chips today.

  Stephen had walked forward to meet his wife at the foot of the steps. Possessive pride was written large all over his normally serious face. She laid one hand on his arm and allowed herself to be led around the gardens. It was very much a grand progress.

  ‘Can you believe this party? It’s so naff.’

  ‘Hi, Bone,’ I said without turning my head.

  She drooped herself over the balustrade next to me and watched the procession. Amelia seemed to be acting as a magnet, drawing the rest of the guests behind her like streams of iron filings.

  ‘Champagne buffet and jazz bands ... and a barbie! It’s well prehistoric. Claudia’s parents had a Thai party last month. The guests had to wear Thai clothes and they had genuine Thai musicians and dancers. Her father even flew in a chef from Bangkok to supervise the food.’

  ‘Why don’t you stop trying to keep up with Claudia and just do what you want to do?’

  I knew the answer before I asked the question. Because at fourteen you want to be one of the pack. Come to think of it, it’s a pretty good place to be when you’re pushing twenty- nine. Unless the pack turns on you. But enough of my former career - Amelia’s acolytes were heading back towards the balustrade. And Kevin was with them.

  ‘You sound like Gran,’ Bone said, kicking the stonework. ‘Why don’t you get out of my face and get yourself a life?’

  ‘Is that what you tell your gran?’

  ‘No.’ Unexpectedly she grinned and the attractive kid under the sulk appeared. ‘I wouldn’t dare. See ya.’

  She whirled round and disappeared through the French windows. It seemed like a good move. Kevin was getting nearer by the second.

  The catering supervisor tried to direct me behind ‘salads and quiches’.

  ‘Sorry ... emergency ... loo ...’I trilled, heading for the hall. I glanced back. Amelia was trailing the flock up on to the terrace.

  ‘It’s in the garage ... you must all come and see it... it’s just so fabulous ... it’s one of the joys of being married to a man who just adores giving me presents ...’

  They were coming through. I darted into the library and locked the door. Feet tramped past. They’d already had enough drink to make any entertainment acceptable; even if it was only standing around making purring sounds over Amelia’s new white Merc.

  There was a telephone extension in here; it seemed a pity to waste the opportunity. I dialled the local CID office on the off-chance Zeb might be working the late turn. He was.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve been ringing and ringing your office. Annie could be here any minute. She isn’t, is she?’

  ‘No. I’ve good news and bad news. First - Annie’s changed her mind. You’ve got a reprieve for a couple of days while she trawls the West Country for dodgy dealers.’

  ‘Yes!!’ I could feel, if not see, Zeb punching air on the other end of the line.

  ‘Also ... have you ever noticed Annie’s frying pan? The swishy job; all stainless steel and ceramic bits? Well, you’d better go and buy a new one. And see if you can find anything to clean scorch marks off kitchen surfaces.’

  ‘What! Ohmigod, I’ll kill them.’

  ‘Well, it’s boosting the clear-up figures, I guess. Commit the crime, then solve it. But if you end up in the dock, Annie might just get to hear. Best to get rid quietly if you can, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I guess ...’

  ‘Glad you think so ... Listen, Zeb, Annie mentioned you’ve a sister who works for an airline, that right?’

  ‘Tally. One of the twins. What about her?’

  ‘Just that I need a bit of info. It would probably sound better coming from you.’

  ‘Me? Why should I want ...’ Zeb was a bit naive, but he wasn’t slow. He got the message: Squatters + Request For Information = Blackmail.

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘I would.’ I gave him a second to decide which was the worst scenario, then said: ‘Got a pen handy? I need to know if a Kristen Keats or Julie-Frances Keble flew out anywhere over the weekend of first May. Probably a Far Eastern destination but I can’t be certain. Will Tally be able to check Gatwick and Stansted airports too?’

  ‘How the hell would I know? Who says I’m going to ask her anyway? You wouldn’t really drop me in it with Annie. Would you?’

  He was just far enough this side of unsure for me to be certain he’d ask. Whether this Tally would deliver was another matter. As a last thought, I asked him to get Bridgeman checked out for that weekend as well. After all, I only had Stephen’s word for the sequence of events - and clients had been known to lie. In fact, most of mine seem to make a speciality of it.

  ‘I really should hate you,’ Zeb moaned.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to get in line. There’s better men than you out there waiting to hate me. Phone me at home or leave a message at the office. Must go, or the chilled champagne and smoked salmon will be gone.’

  A cautious recce of the hall confirmed that most of the guests were still out the front. I whipped back the other way, intending to get myself some supper and find a quiet bush at the end of the garden that I could eat it under. I was frustrated by the sight of Joan Reiss on the terrace talking to Larry Payne.

  It wasn’t so odd they should know each other, I guess. They had a lot in common - money. However, it made things a bit tricky, since I’d told Payne I was a private detective. Joan, on the other hand, thought I was the world’s sloppiest part-time cleaner. And Stephen would presumably prefer her to go on thinking that ...

  I started to retreat again and got cut off by the catering supervisor.

  ‘Do you have any intention of working this evening?’ she hissed between clenched teeth.

  ‘Sure thing.’ I darted behind a table. The move put a long curtain between myself and the duo on the terrace, although I could still hear Payne’s bullish tones.

  ‘Reversed drainage, see, that was your problem, Joanie. See those flagstones ...’ A heavy shoe stamped out two hard thumps on the paving stones. ‘Set wrong ... you get the wrong canter and it doesn’t matter how many pipes and drains you mess around with ...’

  ‘Yes ... well I’m sure Amelia was very grateful to you for sorting things out so promptly ... Have you tried the lobster? I believe it’s particularly ...’

  ‘These amateur johnnies don’t know that ... or they don’t give a shit... make it look pretty and grab the cash fast, that’s their motto ...’

  ‘Actually, I believe Stephen stopped the cheque until the work was redone ... Perhaps you might care to try the barbecue ...?’

  ‘There’s no substitute for experience ... get yourself a professional ... saves a bloody fortune in the long run ...’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure you’re right, Larry. If you’ll just excuse me for a moment ...’

  ‘Have you seen those stonework joints? Master mason couldn’t have done better ... here, take a look ...’

  They headed along the terrace to the far corner, Larry with the enthusiasm of a bull scenting a herd of cows on t
he pull, and Joan with the resignation of the perfect hostess whose arm is being held in a vice-grip.

  I slipped back to the front. Amelia’s audience were collected in front of the garage making oohing noises over her car. It gave me the chance to get across to mine and hook out the sunglasses from the parcel shelf. On the way back, I helped myself to a long black lacy scarf hanging in the cloakroom. With both ends crossed under my chin and flicked down my back, and the spectacles pushed into place, I could have passed for Audrey Hepburn - in very dim lighting. At any event I hoped I looked sufficiently unlike Grace Smith to get past Larry Payne.

  Selecting a plate of nibbling tit-bits at random and grabbing a glass, I darted through the French windows and plunged into the densest clump of rhododendrons.

  I wasn’t alone.

  CHAPTER 31

  Somebody had left a wheelchair in here. Its elderly occupant had been dozing peacefully until I crashed through. Now his scraggy neck jerked and lifted a round face the colour of polished beechwood. Blue eyes with the slight opaqueness of early cataracts twinkled as they peered doubtfully at me. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. I can’t abide it when I forget.’

  ‘I’m Grace Smith.’ I sat myself cross-legged on the leaf mould by his feet and offered the plate. ‘Fancy a nibble.’ We grazed in companionable silence until he nodded off again over a goat’s-cheese brioche. Beyond the bushes I caught glimpses of feet and snatches of conversation.

  ‘... nobody goes to San Marino any more. It’s far too crowded.’

  ‘... I see Minnie Drysdale has decided the grass isn’t greener after all. Of course, I always thought she was mad to leave him. He’s been desperate to get her back, you know.’

  ‘... you need balsamic vinegar. I specifically told her that. Would you believe the wretched girl actually drenched it in that ghastly brown stuff they serve in fish and chip shops. My God, where do they find these au pairs ...’

  ‘... Uncle Alfie? Where are you, Uncle Alfie?’