Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

  I hurried over to inspect them. One nightstand held You Are What You Eat, by Dr. Gillian McKeith, and The Abolition Of Britain: From Winston Churchill to Princess Diana, by Peter Hitchens. I’d heard of the latter bemoaning the end of the British Empire and all our traditions from education to immigration. I’d seen a copy on Wilf’s desk, and even my dad—who was more of a John Grisham type and rarely read nonfiction—had urged me to take a look, saying, “It’s official. England has gone to the dogs.”

  “What are you doing in here?” Annabel was watching from the doorway. She flipped on the light.

  “I was looking for the loo,” I said quickly.

  “It’s at the end of the hall,” she said. “Isn’t this room boring? The decor is so yucky.”

  I was about to tactfully agree but was distracted by

  Annabel’s new appearance. She had taken off her glasses and put in contact lenses. She’d also completely made-up her face—right down to applying a pale, shimmering lip gloss. Her scruffy jeans and T-shirt had now been replaced by a Juicy Couture sweat suit in a dark shade of plum.

  “You didn’t have to change for my benefit.”

  “I never allow anyone to see me without my makeup,” Annabel said with a sniff.

  “Dr. Frost must have seen you tonight,” I pointed out, neatly changing the subject.

  “He doesn’t notice anymore, so why bother?” I detected a note of sadness in her voice. “Anyway, I don’t care. Hurry up and go to the loo. I’ve already decided what you can borrow for tomorrow night.”

  Back in Annabel’s bedroom, I was surprised—and pleased—to find the boxes of handbags had not been moved after all. It suddenly occurred to me that Annabel had been far more worried about being seen without her makeup.

  “Wow!” I said. “What great handbags. Can I have a look?”

  “It’s a little business I have on the side.” Annabel gently picked up a cream-colored Louis Vuitton purse with its trademark chocolate-leather-and-gold LV monogram. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

  I went to take it but she snatched the bag away. “Did you wash your hands?”

  “Of course I did.” I held them palm up for her scrutiny. “Where did you get all this?”

  “A secret.” She smiled, then sat down on the bed. “Come sit.”

  I moved aside a red heart-shaped cushion with huggable arms. “You’re not doing anything illegal, are you?” I unzipped the Louis Vuitton bag to inspect the lining inside. Relief washed over me. This was definitely a fake—and not even a good one at that.

  Annabel laughed. “Don’t be silly. There’s nothing wrong with a little harmless copying.”

  She gestured to a small pink-painted desk where her laptop lay open. “I put them up for auction on eBay. Pick one and I’ll give you a good price.”

  “I don’t need one.” I refused to touch dodgy property. It was a matter of principle.

  “You can’t keep everything shoved in that tatty, old jacket pocket.”

  “Why not?” I happened to be very fond of my Christiane Amanpour safari jacket. “You should be careful, Annabel.”

  “Everyone who buys them knows they’re fake,” she said.

  “Those handbags are made in sweatshops using child labor,” I said. “The profits are used to finance terrorism and organized crime.”

  “Nonsense. My contact said a percentage of the profits goes to charity.”

  “And you believed him?” Annabel could be so naïve! “There’s a huge clampdown on counterfeit goods,” I went on. “Haven’t you heard of the Anti-Counterfeiting Group?”

  Annabel shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “The A.C.G. works closely with law enforcement and H.M. Revenue and Customs. They watch UK ports. There’s also the Border Agency, too. I’m warning you. You’re playing with fire.”

  “How come you know so much about it?” said Annabel suspiciously.

  Of course I did! I made it my business to know. Even though Dad dealt primarily in silver and jewelry, he had many friends in the import-export business.

  “It’s part of being an investigative reporter,” I said sternly. “I make a point of keeping up-to-date on current issues.”

  “Yes. You’re right, and I’m wrong,” Annabel sighed.

  “If money is going into your bank account, you’re effectively receiving money for counterfeit goods. You could go to prison.”

  “Prison!” Annabel’s eyes widened. She smiled. “Of course! Prison!”

  “It’s not funny,” I scolded. “I know people say that serving time these days is easy, but that’s not true.”

  “I read somewhere that being in prison was like being in a hotel,” said Annabel. “You can even take a degree.”

  “It depends on what category it is.”

  “What are categories?” Annabel cocked her head.

  “There are four—A, B, C, and D. Category A is for prisoners whose escape is highly dangerous to the public or national security; B is for those who do not require maximum security, but for whom escape needs to be made very difficult.” Dad had been in a category B.

  “And C? Go on,” said Annabel. “This is fascinating.”

  “C is for prisoners who cannot be trusted in open conditions, but who are unlikely to escape. Category D is more of an open prison. Some can even work in the community if they have an R.O.T.L.”

  “A what?”

  “A Release on Temporary License.”

  “I had no idea you knew so much,” said Annabel. “What category is Wormwood Scrubs?”

  “Why?” I began to feel uncomfortable. Wormwood Scrubs in London was one of several prisons where Dad had done time.

  “Just wondered. It’s always on the telly,” said Annabel. “What about our local prison in Dartmoor?”

  Dad had been in Dartmoor, too. I didn’t want to discuss prisons. It was too close to home. “Gosh. Is that the time?” I stood up. “I’d better go. I’m keeping you up.”

  “I thought you wanted to borrow a dress?”

  “I do. Yes. Thanks. I almost forgot.” I sat back down again.

  Annabel got off the bed and sauntered over to a mirrored built-in wardrobe. She opened the sliding doors. It was stuffed with clothes. There were shelves stacked with brightly colored tops and racks of shoes. I had a small, old-fashioned freestanding wardrobe that made my meager selection of clothes smell of mothballs.

  “Jack put in extra shelves just for me,” said Annabel.

  “Do you sleep in here?” I was glad to change the subject.

  “Sometimes. But really, I just keep all my lovely things here,” Annabel said. “Jack doesn’t like clutter. He says this room is mine to do whatever I want with. It’s like my own boudoir.”

  Annabel brought out two dresses and laid them out on the bed.

  “This is a lovely color,” I said, picking up a cobalt blue halter-neck, floor-length dress. It still had the price tag on it—though I noted it had been heavily reduced.

  “I’ve never worn it,” said Annabel. “I don’t know why I bought it. Its price was knocked down because of a stain on the hem.”

  I inspected the hem. There was a tiny black mark. “You can’t really see it.” I held the gown up to my face and looked in the mirror. The blue really emphasized the color of my eyes. It was a magnificent dress and, with the low cut back, I could just imagine Robin’s hands itching to wander over my bare flesh.

  “I’m not sure it will suit you after all.” Annabel snatched the dress away. “Frankly, you need to have bosoms to really carry off a halter-neck. Try on the black sheath instead.”

  “I’ll change in the bathroom.” My undies were still drying in Mrs. Evans’s airing cupboard and I was wearing my emergency underwear.

  “Don’t be silly. I won’t look.”

  The dress was strapless and held in place by an elasticized smocked bodice. It dropped to the floor, ending in a pool of excess material around my ankles. I felt swamped by the dress and disappointed.

  I knew I w
as being childish, but Robin would have loved me in the cobalt blue dress.

  I fiddled with the bodice. “It’ll never stay up.”

  Annabel slapped my hand away. “Use a safety pin.”

  “It’s too long,” I whined. “You’re so much taller than me.”

  “Wear high heels.”

  “I really liked the blue—”

  “Dress it up with jewelry.” Annabel went over to the pink painted chest of drawers and opened one. She retrieved an Egyptian-looking disk-shaped necklace and matching earrings. “Try these. Now, this is where your short hair will look good. People will see the earrings.” She leaned in closer. “What funny little ears you have.”

  I caught sight of both of us standing side by side in the mirror—Annabel was actually pouting at her own reflection—and felt a wave of insecurity. She was a tall, voluptuous, beautiful redhead—even if she did have large feet—and next to her, I looked like a boy in drag.

  “Are you disappointed that Dr. Frost isn’t coming?” I said.

  “He doesn’t like big social events. I think it’s because men hit on me and he gets jealous.” Annabel gave a heavy sigh. “I can’t help being attractive to men, Vicky. You don’t realize how lucky you are.”

  “Speaking of all your admirers,” I said, ignoring the backhanded compliment. “Did you get the message that Ronnie Binns expected to have lunch with you today?”

  “Ronnie Binns?” Annabel’s eyes widened. “The dustman ? Wanted to have lunch? With me?” She started to laugh. It was the fake kind I’d heard many times in theater pantomimes. I was instantly suspicious.

  “No. He didn’t want to have lunch,” I said coldly. “He was adamant you’d invited him. He even brought you flowers. Those flowers!” I pointed to the pink carnations on her desk.

  “Jack bought me those.” Annabel turned red. “For heaven’s sake, does it matter? Do you want the dress or not? I’ve got things to do this evening.”

  “Yes. Please.” An uneasy silence fell between us. I knew she was lying about meeting Ronnie Binns. I knew those were his flowers, but couldn’t think why.

  Annabel shoved the dress into a plastic bag, and I followed her downstairs where we found Dr. Frost—wearing his white coat—checking his reflection in the hall mirror. A black leather doctor’s bag stood on the floor by the front door.

  Annabel’s face fell. “You’re not going out, are you?”

  “Olive Larch,” he said. “She called in a frightful state. She can hear someone moving about the back garden.”

  “It’s probably a fox,” Annabel said, exasperated. “That’s twice this week. Can’t she phone a friend or something?”

  “It’s my job, dear.” Dr. Frost put his arm around Annabel and gave her a hug. “With her father dead and gone, she’s all alone.”

  “But, I’m alone.” Annabel scowled.

  “I can’t risk her having another of her episodes.”

  Annabel folded her arms across her ample breasts. “What time will you be back?”

  “I’m not sure.” He kissed her gently on the forehead. “Don’t wait up.”

  Annabel and I watched Dr. Frost get into his Saab and drive away. When I turned to say my goodbyes, too, I was surprised to see Annabel’s eyes had filled with tears. She wiped them away angrily. “Honestly, sometimes I think he loves his patients more than he loves me.”

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  “I’m used to it.” Annabel sighed. “Men! Sometimes I think you did the right thing choosing to be celibate.”

  Celibate? I knew Pete and Annabel called me the Ice Maiden of Gipping behind my back, but now I was celibate , too?

  “According to Cosmopolitan,” Annabel went on. “It’s quite fashionable these days to wait until marriage.”

  “Finally, the world is waking up to the importance of being celibate,” I said dryly. “You should try it.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “My mum once said that one’s sexuality is the most precious gift you can give a man.”

  “How quaint,” Annabel said, ushering me out of the front door. “But pointless. If a man doesn’t get it from you, he’ll just go elsewhere.”

  “Mum says . . . used to say that, too.” I sighed. “Men!”

  “Yes! Men! We’re both alone in the world, Vicky,” Annabel said with a brave smile. “I’m so glad we’re friends.”

  Placing the plastic bag in my moped pannier, I sped back to Factory Terrace. The more I got to know Annabel, the more I realized she was actually quite vulnerable. I knew she never heard from her mother who ran off with the local vet when she was just a child. Her father was in the navy and according to rumor he hadn’t seen her in years, either.

  It was no wonder Annabel had a penchant for older men. She was searching for a father figure—married, or otherwise. It sounded like life with Dr. Frost was not all hearts and flowers. He wasn’t accompanying her to tomorrow night’s Gala and he was spending nights away from home.

  With my borrowed black dress and jewelry safe in my moped pannier, I felt extremely cheerful.

  Robin was going to fall madly in love with me. I couldn’t wait for tomorrow night to come.

  13

  As I pulled into the parking area behind the Gazette office the next morning, I was surprised to find Dave Randall’s Land Rover idling in the alley.

  He beeped the horn twice and wound down the window. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he shouted, flapping a large brown envelope. “Got some great news!”

  “I love news!” I parked my moped and strolled over. “What have you got?”

  Dave looked as if he hadn’t slept or shaved for a week. His usual dark curls were matted and stuck to his head.

  “I’ve been driving around England drumming up support,” he beamed, hardly able to contain his excitement. “We’re going to the Olympics!” Dave had harbored a lifelong ambition to have hedge-jumping accepted as an Olympic sport.

  I was genuinely thrilled for him. “That’s wonderful!”

  “The Olympic committee want to meet me in London next week. I can’t believe it. Do you remember when this was all a dream?”

  I did. Dave and I were at the Three Tuns. I also remembered never to drink scrumpy again as that was yet another night when I narrowly missed surrendering my virginity to Mr. Wrong.

  “If we’re quick, we can try to get you in tomorrow’s paper. Wilf and Pete don’t go to the printers until noon.”

  “I know it’s top secret, but . . .” Dave beckoned me to step closer. He smelled of earth and damp leaves. “The jumpers are getting the Larch Legacy. It’ll be announced tonight. That’s what clinched it! Good old Sammy!”

  “Are you sure?” I recalled the winner’s name was kept in a sealed envelope.

  “I’m sure, all right,” said Dave. “Sammy tipped me off. We’ve named a new jump in his honor—the Larch Leap. It’s an updated version of the 1950s Western Roll. Not as streamlined as the Fosbury Flop but—”

  “That’s amazing!” I knew once Dave got started rhapsodizing over his pet subject, I’d be there all morning. “You should come and tell Pete.”

  “No need. It’s all in here.” Dave thrust the brown envelope at me.

  “He might have some questions.”

  “No thanks. Webster and his cronies are hanging out front.” Dave laughed triumphantly. “I can’t wait to see his face when he hears about it. Webster thought he had the Legacy in the bag.”

  It was no secret that Jack Webster—one of Devon’s champion hedge cutters—and Dave despised each other. Since the former lovingly cut and laid hedges and the latter systematically destroyed them, it was easy to understand why.

  Congratulating Dave on his exciting news, I cut down the side alley and came upon a wall of people—Jack Webster among them—waiting for the Gazette doors to open.

  Even the morning rush-hour traffic was slowing down so drivers could try to get a look at Barbara’s window display. I had no idea that an inflatabl
e snail from the Gipping Bards prop department could have generated so much interest.

  The air was festive. Faces were pressed against the window and money was changing hands amid cries of “Killer’s slime looks good,” “Rambo’s got excellent form,” and “Wow! Seabiscuit is out of his shell.”

  The front door was locked. I rapped smartly on the glass and Barbara—clutching a bottle of wine—darted forward to let me inside and promptly locked up again.

  “We’re not quite ready for them yet,” she declared. “How are we doing, Olive?” Barbara rolled her eyes and whispered, “She’s so slow.”

  Olive Larch was carefully arranging green plastic cups in a straight line along the counter with painstaking precision.

  “I need a quick word with her about this year’s Larch Legacy.”

  “I wouldn’t bother. She doesn’t know anything, dear,” said Barbara. “Glass of dandelion wine? It’s one of Phyllis Fairweather’s home brews.”

  “Isn’t it a little early to start drinking?” It was only eight forty-five, plus, I knew from experience that Phyllis’s wine was lethal.

  “It’s a Gipping tradition. Snail season officially kicks off today. Once the door opens, we’ll be taking bets in the nook for the first race on Sunday at the Three Tuns.”

  “The punters already seem to be doing that outside.” I noted the corner nook had been made into a betting cubicle. The brown-spangled curtains were swept back to reveal a ballot box standing atop the plastic circular table.

  Olive stepped back from the counter and admired her handiwork. “The cups are ready now.”

  Barbara started to pour the urine-colored liquid into each one. “Olive? A snifter?” She passed her a cup. “Go on. Live dangerously.”

  “I shouldn’t really.” Olive took a dainty sip and pulled a face. “It’s a bit strong.”

  Someone hammered on the glass front door. Startled, Olive screamed and spilt most of the liquid down her white capri pants.

  “Five minutes.” Barbara held up five fingers at the figures crushed against the glass front door. I recognized a couple of my younger mourner farmers—forty-something Bernard J. Kirby and his wife, Lily. Both wore green tops emblazoned with the logo GSRF. I also recalled the pair were serious hedge-cutters and Lily had come to blows with Dave on more than one occasion. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to come to the front door.