Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  “Where’s the bride-to-be?” demanded Dora.

  “Here!” shouted Olive, but Barbara dug her toes in.

  Olive pushed Barbara forward. “I told you, I don’t want to.” Barbara threw off Olive’s arm.

  The others let up a chorus of “You must!” and “Madame Dora is so good.”

  The look on Barbara’s face was nothing short of murderous as she was forcibly manhandled into the chair. I hurried to her side, whispering, “It’s all rubbish; you do know that, don’t you?”

  The overhead lights were switched off, leaving just the tea lights to cast an eerie glow. The ladies sat where they could, and a hush descended over the room.

  Dora placed her hands over the crystal ball and closed her eyes. She was quiet for what seemed like an hour but was probably all of two minutes. Suddenly she began to sway in her chair, becoming more and more agitated, and then—her eyes snapped open!

  “I see blood!” she gasped. “A lot of blood! Blood on your shoes!”

  Barbara shrieked and tried to stand, but Olive—with remarkable strength—grabbed her shoulders and held on tight.

  “Where? Whose blood?” called out Florence Tossell, who was told in no uncertain terms to sit down and be quiet.

  “A lane. I see water. Lovers kissing,” wailed Dora. “Death!”

  A shiver ran down my spine. The gypsy was certainly putting on a good show. Olive kept Barbara locked firmly in her chair.

  “It’s that woman in Mudge Lane,” whispered Amelia. “Maybe she could help police like that psychic person on the telly.”

  “I see two men,” Dora boomed. “Dishonesty! Lies! One is not being true to you. He is not free. He is not for you.”

  “I’m not doing this!” Barbara jumped to her feet, practically tossing Olive across the room. “I’m just not.”

  She sped straight for the kitchen, leaving a buzz of speculation in her wake.

  “I’ll go after her.” My eyes met Dora’s, and I didn’t have to be psychic to see triumph reflected there. It was obvious who had sent Barbara the shoebox.

  Olive followed me into the kitchen, but there was no sign of Barbara or Steve.

  “Where is Barbara?” said Olive. “She can’t leave yet. There is still one more surprise.”

  “I thought she drove here with Ruth Reeves?” I said. “And you know she won’t get far on foot with her ingrown toenail.”

  “You’re right. Go and search the garden. She’s probably hiding.” Olive pawed at my arm. “Do you mind taking care of her? I really must get back to my guests. This is my party.”

  I decided not to point out that it was supposed to be Barbara’s.

  But Barbara wasn’t in the garden. She was standing under a streetlight outside Olive’s front gate being comforted by Steve—now fully dressed.

  I hurried over to join them. “Is she all right?”

  “Not really,” said Steve. “We can’t have the bride-to-be upset by some silly gypsy.” He put his arm around Barbara’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Let Steve get you home, luv.”

  “Let’s take her home together?” I suggested. “Maybe grab a nightcap. Or something? I really want to talk to you. Please?”

  “I’m happy to walk,” said Barbara in a dull voice. “You two youngsters go ahead and enjoy yourselves. What are you waiting for? Life’s too short.”

  “Steve won’t hear of it,” said Steve. Our eyes met, and I thought I saw a flicker of renewed interested captured in the streetlight’s yellow glow. “I suppose we could always come back for your car, doll?”

  “Or I could follow you?” I suggested.

  Headlights swept into view, and a sleek black Mercedes drew up alongside us.

  The window buzzed down, and Phil Burrows leaned out. “Hey brother! Where’s the party?”

  “What are you doing here?” said Steve coldly. “We’re just leaving—unless you want to stay now that the celebrity has arrived, Barbara?”

  Barbara shook her head. “I’m tired.”

  “I’ll keep an autographed headshot just for you,” Phil said, adding with a frown. “I’ve only brought fifty. Do you think that’s enough?”

  “Why don’t you go on inside, Phil?” I said. “They’re all waiting.”

  “Vicky!” cried Phil. “I didn’t recognize you. Love the dress. Very dramatic. You look stunning. Doesn’t she look stunning, Steve?”

  “Thanks,” I said, stealing a glace at Steve. As I feared, his expression was hard.

  “We had fun last night, didn’t we, Vicky?” Phil grinned. “How did you like that champagne?”

  Steve’s jaw hardened. “Come on, Barbara, let’s go.”

  “Phil’s making it up!” I said. “Wait!”

  But it was too late. Steve seized Barbara’s arm and fairly propelled her up the street to his car, with no heed to her ingrown toenail and whimpers of pain.

  Furious, I turned to Phil. “Why did you have to say that?”

  Phil laughed. “Steve’s so easy to wind up.”

  “Well—” I said. “Don’t.”

  “Where are you going?” said Phil. “Don’t leave me with all those boring old biddies.”

  I looked at him with disgust and, without another word, strode off to collect my Fiat. I was beginning to understand why the men disliked Phil so much.

  Back at my car I discovered that Ruby’s VW camper had practically boxed me in. It would take ages to ease my way out.

  It was the last straw. A lone tear trailed down my cheek.

  Was I actually crying over Steve? Or perhaps even Probes or Noah leaving town? Maybe it was my dad or missing my mum? Then there was Topaz, who now had a new friend. God, I sure had plenty to cry about.

  How pathetic! I was quite sure that Christiane Amanpour didn’t allow her personal life to get in the way of her job.

  Angrily, I wiped away my tear and threw back my shoulders. Pull yourself together, Vicky!

  I was over men and their games forever. My parents lived in Spain, and I wasn’t a child anymore. As for Topaz and Annabel—they deserved each other.

  What really mattered was solving Carol Pryce’s murder. Who was she? What really happened?

  But most of all—who killed her and why?

  34

  I woke up to the soft sound of rain pattering on my bedroom window.

  It was typical English weather for any outdoor summer event that had been planned months ahead. I could already picture the waterlogged showground, cars stuck in mud, damp tents, and fraying tempers.

  As I strolled into the kitchen, it would seem that Mrs. Evans’s temper was equally frayed.

  “That Mrs. Pierce practically accused me of being a liar,” she cried, dentures clicking into overdrive. “That’s twice this week that I’ve been told I’ve already cashed my checks! I’m beginning to think I’m going round the bend.” She seemed close to tears. “I suppose everyone was calling me a thief at Olive’s grand party.”

  “No,” I lied. “They were too interested in seeing Steve Burrows turn up as Butler in the Buff. Other than an apron, he was completely naked.”

  “No!” Mrs. E.’s jaw dropped. “Well, I never!” She started to laugh, as I hoped she might. “Naked, you say?”

  “Steve even did a dance routine to The Full Monty soundtrack,” I said. “He must have been rehearsing for ages.”

  “That sexpot Steve,” said Mrs. Evans with a chuckle. “Can’t keep his hmm-hmm in his trousers, but you’ve got to love him.”

  Yet another person who loved Steve! “Olive booked Madame Dora to come as well.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Evans brightened. “Was anyone asking for her fidelity potion? I always thought that Ruth’s John had a wandering eye.”

  “What fidelity potion?” I asked. “The dung?”

  “Dung? The notion!” Mrs. Evans looked toward the kitchen door and lowered her voice. “Well, that potion she gave me for my Lenny is already working. Madame Dora told me it cured her husband, too.”

&n
bsp; “You mean Jimmy Kitchen?”

  “She said he was a hard dog to keep on the porch. Those were her very words—‘a hard dog to keep on the porch.’ Toast?”

  “Two pieces, please.” I didn’t have the heart to tell Mrs. E. that judging by Jimmy’s rendezvous with Barbara the other night, Dora’s cure had been very short-lived.

  I suddenly felt fiercely protective toward Barbara. How dare Jimmy Kitchen just come back and play with her feelings? Maybe it was Jimmy who was driving the night they discovered Mildred Veysey lying dead in Mudge Lane? Maybe it was Jimmy who forced Barbara to take the blame, and because she was so infatuated with him, she agreed. Prisons are filled with women who will do anything for love.

  Maybe something had been going on between Jimmy and Carol Pryce? Perhaps Jimmy had lied to Barbara when he said he was estranged from his wife, and Dora found out?

  When I was younger, I never understood what made a woman stay with a man who betrayed her over and over again. One day Mum explained that in spite of all of Dad’s infidelities, she loved him more than life itself and knew, at the end of the day, he would always return to her.

  Annabel sauntered into the kitchen wearing her pink silk robe. She had wet hair and looked all scrubbed and clean. “Where’s today’s Gazette?”

  “Lenny doesn’t like anyone to touch it before he does,” Mrs. Evans declared. “Did you enjoy your shower?”

  Annabel looked surprised. “Yes, thank you.”

  “You smell nice. Is that a new shampoo?”

  I looked up sharply. Mrs. Evans oozed with insincerity.

  Annabel blushed. “It was a gift from a . . . friend.”

  From Mrs. Evans’s husband, I wanted to say. It must have been shampoo that was wrapped up in pink paper.

  Annabel joined me at the kitchen table and poured herself a cup of tea.

  “Ah!” said Mrs. Evans. “How handsome you look, luv!”

  I did a double take. Even though I’d seen many posters and even watched several short clips on YouTube.com, nothing prepared me for the sight of Mr. Evans dressed in the green multihued uniform of the Gipping Ranids.

  “Look at his little bells!” squealed Annabel. “Aren’t they darling?”

  “Did you buy those knee pads?” Mrs. Evans said suspiciously.

  “Don’t start your nagging, Millie,” snapped Mr. Evans, giving Annabel a wink.

  “I just spent hours sewing those bells on by hand,” Mrs. Evans said. Actually, she was wrong; I had. “We’ve got boxes of bells lying about doing nothing but wasting space.”

  Annabel scratched her head. “If you need the money, you could always sell them on eBay.”

  “eBay? eBay? I don’t want to sell them on eBay!”

  “Don’t be like that, Millie,” said Mr. Evans. “She means well, don’t you Annie, luv.” He reached out and ran his hands through her wet hair, accidentally pulling out a small clump. “Jesus. You’re molting.”

  Annabel leapt to her feet, mortified. “It must be that new shampoo you bought me.” She scratched her head again and pulled out another clump. “Omigod! Excuse me,” she shouted, and darted from the room.

  “Shampoo?” Mr. Evans shrugged and sat in her chair. “What’s she talking about?”

  “Tea?” said Mrs. Evans swiftly, handing Mr. Evans the newspaper. “Quite a front page we’ve got this week.”

  It wasn’t one of the Gazette’s better efforts. Page One was split vertically down the middle. A large photograph of the Gipping Ranids and their frog mascot was featured on the left-hand side, with photographs of the Georgian tea urns and Trewallyn chalice on the right.

  Both had headlines in equally heavy font: RANIDS READY TO ROCK! and SILVER SWIPE SHOCKER: TOWN REELS FROM DOUBLE WHAMMY!

  Underneath a minuscule photo of Annabel in the bottom right-hand corner was the caption—TURN TO PAGE 2 FOR HOW YOU CAN HELP STOP CRIME!

  “I pulled out the program.” Mrs. Evans passed me the centerfold that listed today’s attractions, which included both hedge-cutting and hedge-jumping displays, a snail exhibition, and a bottled-jam boil-off.

  A quarter-page advertisement carried a color photograph of the Trewallyn Trio with the announcement that work would start on Monday.

  “I thought we’d never raise enough money for that stained glass window,” Mrs. Evans went on. “It’s been years since the night of the great storm.”

  “Millie, come and see where they stuck old Phil Burrows,” chortled Mr. Evans, pointing at the fine print in the left-hand corner of the front page. “Page eleven. ON THE CEMETERY CIRCUIT WITH VICKY!”

  “Serves him right for leaving town!”

  “You won’t get any of us leaving Gipping,” said Mr. Evans. “Why would you want to go somewhere else? Everything you need is right here. Right, Vicky? You moved from a big city to come to Gipping-on-Plym. What does that tell you?”

  More than you could ever believe.

  “Not only did Phil abandon the Ranids,” said Mrs. Evans, “but he left his brother, Steve, to take care of their dying mother.”

  “Valerie Burrows?” I said, alarmed. “I thought she was still alive.”

  “She’s been dying for years,” said Mr. Evans.

  “Attention seeking,” Mrs. Evans chipped in. “And, of course, if you say anything, she’ll toss the ‘I’m dying’ card, and no one can argue with that.”

  Mr. Evans turned to page two and frowned. “Read this, Millie. What’s Annie talking about?”

  Following a bulletpoint list on how to keep your home burglar proof, Annabel had given her e-mail address promising “absolute privacy” should anyone have any information leading to the recovery of a pair of priceless Georgian tea urns and the Trewallyn chalice from St. Peter’s Church. The article stressed that the gypsies residing at The Grange had already helped police with their inquiries and were not involved. However, she welcomed comments on her Facebook fan page.

  “Load of rubbish! Of course the gypsies have stolen the silver,” said Mr. Evans with disbelief. “She needs her bloody head examined.”

  “I thought the same thing, Lenny.” Mrs. Evans’s voice held a note of triumph. “Annabel just doesn’t think things through.”

  The story went on to say that it was feared an international silver thief could be in the area and that he was highly dangerous. I had to read that sentence twice.

  “International silver thief! What’s that famous one called, Lenny? Something to do with the weather?”

  “The Fog,” said Mr. Evans. “Though I can’t imagine why he’d come to Gipping.”

  My thoughts entirely!

  Annabel returned having blow-dried her hair but still in her pink robe with a rolled-up copy of the Plymouth Bugle.

  “This just came through the letterbox, and I know how you like to read—Omigod—” Annabel turned pale. She scratched her head, and another clump of hair came away, but this time she didn’t notice, seemingly too preoccupied with whatever horror lay on the front page. “What a stupid, stupid cow!”

  “Give it here, silly lass,” said Mr. Evans, taking the newspaper from her. “What’s happened? Aliens arrived in Gipping?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all,” Annabel said brightly. “Excuse me, I have to get to The Grange.” Tossing the Plymouth Bugle onto the kitchen table, Annabel ran out of the door and thundered up the stairs.

  “She sounds like an elephant,” grumbled Mrs. Evans.

  Mr. Evans picked up the Bugle. “Bloody hell! Will you take a look at this?”

  “Well I never!” said Mrs. Evans. “That’s The Grange for sure!”

  Splashed across the front page was a series of grainy photographs of a figure dressed from head to toe in black. Headlines screamed TOFF TOSSES TRASH! GYPSIES BLAMED!

  The first image showed a tidy courtyard with a row of recycling bins. Each subsequent image showed the contents of said recycling bins scattered on the ground until the area resembled a tip. Even more telling was a link to a YouTube clip of the incident that I
resolved to take a look at when I could.

  An interview with gypsy human rights activist Dora Pike claimed that it was none other than the owner of The Grange, Lady Ethel Turberville-Spat, who was determined to get the gypsies evicted. Her ladyship could not be reached for comment.

  “I can’t believe her ladyship would do such a thing,” protested Mrs. Evans. “She’s upper class.”

  “No one takes any notice of this newspaper, Mrs. E.,” I said—although Annabel had seemed very upset about it.

  I wondered if the recycling sabotage wasn’t the only thing that her new friend Topaz was involved in. Dora had proven to be adept with a camera. What else had she been filming—a burglary or two, perhaps?

  I fully intended to find out.

  35

  Rain had given way to a light drizzle, and all roads signposted to the Morris Dance-a-thon were choked with cars, bicycles, and pedestrians.

  Along the narrow lane that led to the main gate, traffic was at a standstill, and when it was moving, it seemed to be at a snail’s pace.

  I must have double-checked that my homemade PRESS card was visibly displayed on the dashboard at least a hundred times.

  As I edged my way up the drive, I saw the reason for the holdup. Someone had erected a STOP! HIGHWAY ROAD-WORK sign next to an open gate that led into the field allocated for public parking.

  Standing at the entrance was my ex-heartthrob, Lieutenant Robin Berry, carrying a bus collector’s old-fashioned ticket machine. Dressed in neatly pressed jeans, a white shirt, and a flat tweed cap, Robin wore a red band diagonally across his chest emblazoned with PARKING £5.

  This demand was excessive and seemed to be garnering a lot of complaints. A few cars had even managed to execute eleven-point turns and were causing a massive jam as they tried to return to the main road.

  One driver stopped and wound down his window. “You’re press, aren’t you?” It was snail-racing fanatic Bernard J. Kirby and his wife, Lily. “Daylight robbery is what this is. There’s nothing in your paper that said we had to pay for parking.”