“What about Vicky?” Annabel suggested. “With Whittler away, there’s nothing for her to do.”
“As a matter of fact, I went to a funeral this morning, which was why I was late. Scarlett Fleming died.”
“Good God!” Wilf ’s jaw dropped. “Wait a minute. You say the funeral has already taken place?”
“She was buried this morning in the family vault.”
Wilf swung round to face Pete. “When did she die? Why weren’t we informed?”
“No one told me,” Pete said with a shrug.
“But, young Vicky seems to know all about it.”
“One of my informers tipped me off,” I said. “I’ll get the full details later on today.”
“Isn’t Whittler still in Florida?” said Wilf.
I nodded. “Yes. But Douglas Fleming said she’d always wanted to be buried quietly with no fuss. He seemed in a hurry.”
“There’ll be a backlash from the traditionalists.” Frowning, Wilf clamped his pipe between his teeth. “Old Fleming comes from a big Devon family. I suppose Ripley took her to St. Peter’s?”
“No,” I said. “They used one of those new for-hire companies called Go-Go Gothic.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Wilf ’s pipe clattered to the floor. Annabel darted forward to pick it up and passed it back to him with a grimace. Surreptitiously, she wiped her hand on the side of the sofa.
“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” said Wilf. “Here! In Gipping!”
“Awful, isn’t it, sir,” I said.
“Isn’t that kind of thing illegal?” said Annabel.
“Not if they are following the rules implemented by the Funeral Planning Authority,” Edward declared. “Anyone can do it and frankly, with the economy as it is, I can’t say I blame them. Death comes to all of us and people tend to forget how expensive these things are. When my dad died, it cost Mum thousands of pounds to give him the whole shebang.”
“I was thinking about doing an exposé on these new, cut-price services,” I said slowly. I hadn’t been, but it suddenly seemed a good idea. “It’s bad enough with big superstores like Tesco moving in and putting the corner shops out of business.”
“We’ve got to move with the times,” said Edward. “It won’t be long until there’ll be virtual undertakers handling all the arrangements from Mumbai.”
“They’re called funeral directors, nowadays,” I pointed out.
“Not on my watch,” growled Wilf. “The Gipping Gazette is a traditional newspaper with traditional values.”
“How about this for a headline—GRAVESIDE GUERRILLA’S: GREED OR GRIEF?” I said, warming to my theme.
“Good idea, young Vicky. Let’s have a full report. Get to Plymouth. Find these guerrilla undertakers. Get photographs. Take them to lunch if you have to. See how they get their business.”
“Internet,” said Edward.
“A lot of the elderly don’t have computers,” I said.
“Don’t you think it strange that old Fleming should hire someone like that?” Annabel chipped in. “Sounds a bit fishy to me. Wasn’t Scarlet only in her sixties? What if her old man knocked her off?”
My thoughts exactly! Blast! I knew I should have spoken up.
“This is not the Plymouth Bugle, Annabel,” Wilf said coldly. Thank God I hadn’t spoken up! “We don’t want to start rumors. Dougie Fleming and I went to school together. He’s a decent chap. I was an usher at their wedding.”
Annabel turned a lurid shade of beetroot, which clashed horribly with her Nice ’n Easy natural copper red hair. Wilf really disliked her and it showed.
“You can help Barbara in reception, Annabel,” Wilf said. “Once you’ve gone home and got dressed properly.”
“Actually, I’m not going to be in the office much,” Annabel said quickly. “Am I, Pete?”
“That’s right,” Pete said. “She’s working on a big story.”
Wilf swung round to Pete and gave him the full force of his good eye. “And you think she’s got something?”
“That’s what she told me,” he said with a shrug.
“Facts? Photos? Evidence?” Wilf swung back to Annabel. “Well? What is this big story?”
“I’d rather not s-s-say,” she stammered.
“We work as a team or not at all,” Wilf said.
“I just don’t want to put anyone in danger,” Annabel mumbled.
“I suspect Annabel has an informer to protect,” I suggested.
Annabel shot me a grateful smile, “Yes. That’s right. I do.”
Wilf merely grunted, turned on his heel, and left the room.
“Right, let’s get on with our bloody day.” Pete’s face was grim. “Annabel, this scoop you are working on had better be good.”
“Oh, it’s good, all right.” Annabel gave a smirk. “It’s not really a scoop, I’d say it was more of an exposé.”
I wasn’t worried about Annabel’s so-called exposé. It was totally obvious she was lying to get out of fielding phone calls with Barbara.
We got to our feet. Annabel gave her dress a self-conscious tug and turned to me. “Vicky, can I talk to you somewhere private? It’s really important.”
As I followed her into the ladies’ loo, I suffered a flash of intuition. I immediately guessed what was so “really important.”
Annabel was still desperate for her elusive front-page scoop. With two nationwide exclusives to my name, she had become increasingly devious in her attempts to steal my thunder. Twice, I caught her following me on assignments and once she even tailed me to the dentist on my day off.
Annabel was going to try to muscle in on my investigation. I was sure of it! Fat chance!
I’d soon put her straight.
4
“Honestly, I am not going home to change,” Annabel said from behind the locked toilet door.
“I really can’t hang around,” I said. Call me prudish, but I hated conducting conversations in the ladies’ loo.
“Wilf is so transparent. It’s obvious that he fancies me. Men are like that. The meaner they are, the more they like you.” There was a rustle of toilet paper. “Did you know that seventy-five percent of sexually transmitted diseases are caught from toilet seats?”
“No, I didn’t. What’s so important?” To distract me from her ablutions, I took a closer look at the pale beige Gucci bag that Annabel had left on the wooden chair next to the hand washbasin. To my surprise, it was a designer knock-off, which was definitely a first. She usually only carried the real thing.
“I wanted to apologize.” Annabel started to pee. It was a delicate tinkling noise that made me cringe with embarrassment. “I know I’ve been a bitch to you from the start and I’m really sorry.”
This was completely unexpected. I didn’t know what to say mainly because I’d fantasized about Annabel apologizing to me for months, but not through a toilet door. She flushed, shouting, “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes!” I shouted back.
“I want us to be friends.” Annabel emerged from the stall to wash her hands. “I suppose I was jealous of you. Silly really.” She turned on the taps and studied her reflection in the overhead mirror as she pushed the soap dispenser and lathered up. “After you saved my life, I had this revelation.”
It was true, but it had been weeks since I’d rescued Annabel from almost certain death—weeks of having to put up with far more than her usual sarcastic comments.
“I know, I know, I should have said something sooner,” Annabel went on. “I was trying to pluck up courage.”
I was stunned. Who would have thought! “Is that why you’ve been following me?”
Annabel watched me via the mirror. Her green eyes widened with surprise. “Guilty as charged.” She laughed. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, you’re coming to the gala with me tomorrow night.”
“Are you joking? It’s hideously expensive.” It was also black-tie and I didn’t have anything to wear.
“Come on, we’ll have a laugh. I quite like the idea of flirting with Wilf actually—just to get him riled up.”
“What about Dr. Frost?”
“He’s working. As usual.” Annabel pulled a face. “He bought the tickets and told me to take a friend. You were the very first person I thought of.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I had to admit I was quite pleased.
“Just say yes. Please,” Annabel cried. “We’re both alone in the world, Vicky.”
I hesitated. She was right. It might be fun, plus it would be a good opportunity to see just how sincere her offer of the proverbial olive branch was. Besides, Dad always said, “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”
“Okay. I’d love to.”
“Excellent!” Annabel stepped closer and looked into my eyes. “Do you mind if I do something?”
“It depends,” I said instantly on guard. Topaz Potter, my so-called High Street spy and owner of The Copper Kettle café—was the last woman who had uttered just those words and she had tried to kiss me.
“I’ve been dying to do this.” Annabel reached for her handbag and pulled out a pink floral makeup bag. She grabbed a pair of tweezers. “Do you mind if I pluck your eyebrows? I’d love to make up your eyes, too. They’re the most incredible sapphire blue.”
“You’ve got nice green eyes,” I said lamely.
Annabel laughed. “They’re tinted contacts, silly. Seriously. People must compliment you all the time. Let me show you how to make the most of those cute little peepers.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “But I’ve got a lot to do this morning.”
“Sit down there and just trust me, okay?” Annabel moved her fake Gucci handbag and set out her brushes on the narrow shelf.
As she plucked, applied shadows, powder, and mascara, we chatted about Wilf and Tony’s obsession with snail racing.
Annabel made me laugh. True, it was usually at someone else’s expense but, for those few minutes in the ladies’ loo, upstairs at the Gipping Gazette, I felt I had a friend at last. Maybe she really had, suffered a revelation? It was only fair to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Just a touch of blusher and lip-gloss and . . . voila!” Annabel stood back to admire her handiwork.”
I gasped. The face that looked back at me in the mirror was actually quite attractive. “Is that really, me?” I couldn’t stop staring at myself.
Annabel whipped out her mobile phone. “Mind if I take a picture?” And before I could protest, she’d taken a quick snap. “Of course, if we had more time I could have done something with your dreadful hair.”
“It’s illegal to ride a moped without a helmet,” I said defensively.
“You really need to buy a car,” said Annabel as she deftly touched up her own makeup.
“I’m saving up.” Not everyone has rich boyfriends.
“Now we just need to revamp your wardrobe. That safari jacket has got to go. Who do you think you are? Christiane Amanpour?”
“It’s comfortable,” I mumbled. There was no question of me giving up my jacket. It had taken me months of traipsing around the flea markets in Newcastle, my hometown, in northern England to find one just like Christiane’s.
“Being fashionable is not about being comfortable,” Annabel scolded. “Anyway, I’ve got lots of clothes I never wear. I was going to donate them to the Salvation Army but you can have them. Thing is, they might be too big on top.”
As if to prove her point, Annabel plunged her hand down her neckline and started rearranging her breasts in her bra.
“Mrs. Evans is good at sewing,” I said hopefully.
“Why don’t you come over tonight?” she went on. “We could try on clothes.”
“That would be great!” I cried. “No, wait. I can’t.” I felt really disappointed. What a pity that I had this new look and no one was going to enjoy it.
“Hot date?” Annabel joked.
“I’ve already got plans.” For a second I fantasized that Lieutenant Robin Berry was not on maneuvers in the English Channel and that I was devouring him on a bed of monkfish medallions and drizzling chocolate sauce all over his—
“Are you all right?” Annabel said. “You’ve got a peculiar look on your face.”
“I was just thinking we could go to your place tomorrow lunchtime instead,” I said quickly.
“No can do.” Annabel picked up her handbag and brushed imaginary dust off the bottom. “I’ve got business in Tavistock.”
“Whatever for?” I said, puzzled. “Tavistock isn’t Gipping turf.”
“It doesn’t have to be. As Pete says, there’s a whole world out there. And anyway, I’m aiming for the big time,” Annabel declared. “You did it. Twice!” She paused in the doorway. “Oh! I take it you’ll be writing the obit for Scarlett Fleming?”
“Yes, why?”
“It might be an idea to look into why Fleming picked that weird limo company. Sounds suspicious.”
“I was going to,” I said.
Annabel smirked. “Don’t worry, Fleming’s all yours. I’ve got my hands full with this other thing.”
“If you need a sounding board—”
“I just might.” She flashed a beautiful smile and left.
I was flummoxed. What a turn-up for the books! How strange that all this time Annabel had been jealous of me. The Gastropod Gala tomorrow night was going to be fun—especially if she agreed to do my makeup, again.
I studied my reflection one more time. Surely it wasn’t that difficult to put kohl pencil around my eyes. After all, Neil Titley from Go-Go Gothic had done a good job of it and he was a man.
The assignment Wilf had given me was something I knew I’d enjoy—especially since he said, “Take them to lunch if you have to.”
For the first time I felt like a real investigative reporter. What’s more, if Douglas Fleming had hired Go-Go Gothic for sinister reasons, it would provide the perfect guise to discreetly ask some questions.
I pulled Mr. Titley’s business card from my safari-jacket pocket. There was a Plymouth phone and a post office box number. I didn’t expect him to answer so I just left a message telling him that I was interested in his services.
Next, I needed to prepare for my meeting with Douglas Fleming. He might think that a “short paragraph” about his wife was acceptable, but I knew otherwise. The obituary pages in the Gipping Gazette were read with great relish by the old biddies in the town and I wasn’t going to let them feel cheated.
The Flemings had been enthusiastic members of the Gipping Bards, our local amateur dramatic society. Since Barbara was heavily involved and fancied herself as the next Helen Mirren, I decided to start with her.
5
“You remember Sammy Larch’s daughter, Olive, don’t you?” Barbara said, pointing to a pair of thin, jean-clad legs attempting to clamber into the Gazette’s front window display. Olive’s slight body was completely masked by an enormous inflatable yellow snail.
There was a muffled cry of sorts. Barbara rolled her eyes in exasperation and shouted, “Just push it in, Olive. It won’t bite.”
“You can’t let her do that by herself!” Olive Larch was the same age as Barbara but quite frail. “We should help her.”
“My toe is playing up.” Barbara gestured to the counter that was covered in streamers and limp balloons. A helium tank stood on the floor. “We’ll never get this finished tonight at the rate she’s going.” She lowered her voice. “She’s so slow.”
What sounded like an indignant retort was muffled by the snail’s shell.
I hurried to Olive’s side and helped push the ungainly object through the narrow opening. Suddenly, it shot forward with a loud bang. Olive gave a shriek and toppled after it. She lay facedown without moving. For a moment, I thought she’d knocked herself unconscious, but with a supreme effort, she rolled over onto her back and lay there panting heavily.
“Are you all right?” I felt annoyed with Barbara. “Couldn’t on
e of the men have done this?”
“We’ve got to build up Olive’s strength,” Barbara declared. “This is the new Olive. She’s got to learn to live a little. Get wild.”
Olive gave me a look I could only describe as a silent appeal for help. But she did appear different from the last time I saw her at her father’s funeral. Her usual frizzy perm had been cut out. Her silvery gray hair now sported several heavy-handed black streaks. One was rakishly swept across her high forehead and secured with a butterfly barrette.
Gone were the dreary baggy skirts and shapeless tops that looked as if she’d served in the Chinese Republican Army. Today, Olive wore denim jeans, a bright red, short-sleeved shirt, and matching red pumps with bows.
I helped Olive out of the window and sat her down on one of the two ugly brown leatherette chairs that were a constant reminder that, where décor was concerned, the Gipping Gazette was stuck in a seventies time warp.
“Are you feeling dizzy?” I said. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
“Just a little out of breath,” panted Olive. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”
“Do you like her new look, Vicky?” Barbara said, seemingly unconcerned about her friend’s health. “I persuaded her to spend some of that money. It’s not doing any good rotting away in a bank.”
“Barbara, please don’t,” Olive whimpered.
“You look lovely, Olive,” I said.
“She’s got a lot of catching up to do,” said Barbara. “And I’m going to help her.”
I’d heard that Olive was an only child and ten years old when her mother died. Her father had forced her to keep house and kept her on a tight rein. They lived in virtual squalor despite the fact that Sammy Larch was worth millions after selling acres of marshland to a property developer. Unfortunately, the identical matchbox houses sank an inch a year. The residents fondly referred to their community as Little Venice but it was commonly known as The Marshes.
“Hair. Makeup. New clothes,” Barbara went on. “What have you done to your eyes, Vicky? Did you use eyeliner? Look at them, Olive. Aren’t they just something?”
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