Hattie Goes to Hollywood: Shenanigans, fun & intrigue in a new mystery series!

by Caroline James

  Reggie stood outside the pub, talking to a group of customers who were enjoying a drink in the evening sunshine. Hattie saw him as they flashed by and was sure he was chuckling.

  Village folk were clearly familiar with Marjorie’s driving.

  They skidded to a halt outside the vicarage, just as Joan Roberts eased herself out of the passenger side of a white van. Arnie, solemn faced, sat behind the wheel.

  ‘Over here!’ Joan called out. She used a walking stick to help her stand and carried a carrier bag over her arm. ‘Got a few French Fancies for us to have with a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Need a hand?’ Hattie asked and took the bag as Joan reached out to grab a handrail by the steps.

  Roger stood at the top of the steps and beamed. He held his arms out in welcome. ‘There you all are,’ he said and, turning to Hattie, asked, ‘Is it windy?’

  Hattie scowled and tried desperately to tidy her hair. She resisted the urge to tell the vicar to bog off and trooped behind Marjorie and Joan as they made their way through the door.

  ‘Come and join everyone in the lounge,’ Roger said and hurried ahead.

  The lounge was at the back of the Victorian house. It was a big room and at some stage in the property’s history, a wall to the kitchen had been replaced with an archway giving clear access to a chaotic scene, where a young woman was racing around piling plates and cups onto an old pine table. A kettle whistled on the hob of an Aga that hadn’t been cleaned in months and a well-worn dog bed lay close by, lumpy with discarded toys and half-eaten strips of rawhide.

  ‘She’s never been one for housework.’ Joan nodded towards the kitchen and leaned heavily on her stick as she whispered to Hattie. ‘Come and sit next to me.’ With a free hand, she grabbed Hattie’s arm and plonked them both on a sagging sofa.

  Hattie assumed that Joan referred to the vicar’s wife and searched the faces of the men and women making themselves comfortable on an array of seats in the two rooms.

  ‘Which one is she?’ Hattie whispered.

  ‘Who?’ Joan replied.

  ‘The vicar’s wife.’

  ‘The one with the pony-tail and daft expression.’

  Hattie looked around the room. The only one that fitted Joan’s description was the young woman in the kitchen, in her mid-twenties, who looked extremely fraught.

  ‘In the floral smock?’ Hattie asked with astonishment.

  ‘Aye, she’s pregnant again.’

  ‘But she’s much younger than the vicar.’

  ‘Pushing them out like popcorn,’ Joan said, ‘but you’ve got to admit that the vicar is a bit of alright.’ Joan winked. She looked around for her carrier bag and found it still attached to Hattie’s arm. ‘Take the fancies into the kitchen for me; they’re loading the table with cake.’

  Hattie stood up and eased through the melee.

  ‘Mrs Mulberry, do say hello to my wife.’ The vicar caught up with Hattie. ‘Penny! Over here, dear, I’ve someone I want you to meet.’

  The young woman turned from the stove, where she’d replenished a boiling kettle, and, wiping her hands on a grubby tea-towel, turned to greet Hattie.

  ‘Hello, it’s so lovely to meet you at last. I’ve called at your cottage to welcome you, and have left cakes, but I never seem to catch you in.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry about that,’ Hattie said. She wondered what had happened to the cakes and suspected Alf, Ness and, no doubt, the duck too. ‘Well, here I am.’ She smiled.

  ‘It’s so kind of you to help with the fete; we need all the support we can get.’

  Hattie thought that Penny probably needed an army to assist with all the tasks that were expected of a vicar’s wife, including the maintenance of a huge home and supporting her husband’s many charitable causes, let alone finding time to look after the hordes of children she could see beyond the kitchen windows, running wild in the garden.

  ‘They’re not all mine.’ Penny followed Hattie’s gaze and laughed. ‘We act like a sort of crèche at these meetings.’

  Hattie considered that it was way past bedtime for most of the little people playing in a damp sandpit and hanging off the branches of a rickety old apple tree.

  ‘I’ll introduce you to Josh and Hannah later,’ Penny said. ‘They’re over by the shed.’ She pointed to two small children, dressed in pyjamas and sandals. They shared a reading book and the little girl, who wore pink-rimmed spectacles, pointed with excitement as her brother turned the pages.

  A dog bumped against Hattie’s legs and his wet nose nuzzled at the sequins on her trainers.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Penny pushed the animal away. ‘Bertie is always on the hunt for titbits and he can smell the cake.’

  Hattie thought that Bertie should stick around. Joan’s fancies would be flying to the floor anytime now, once tea was served and folk tucked in.

  ‘Everyone!’ the vicar called out, ‘let’s start the meeting.’

  There was a rustle of feet as people gathered, some reaching for notepads. Roger took his position, centre stage in the group and called the meeting to order. Parishioners made themselves comfortable, their eager ears waiting for Roger to speak. Hattie sat beside Joan and Marjorie perched on the arm of their sofa.

  ‘Good evening,’ he began. ‘I’d like to welcome you all, especially those who haven’t assisted with the fete in the past. As you know, many people who have helped in prior years are no longer in the village and we urgently need new helpers.’

  ‘Barry was the main man when it came to be organising the fete,’ Marjorie whispered to Hattie. ‘They’ll struggle without him.’

  ‘I’d like to welcome Mrs Mulberry, a new resident in the village, who some of you may have met.’ Roger smiled at Hattie. ‘She lives in the cottage in Lover’s Lane.’

  There was a polite ripple of applause.

  ‘Now, the date for our event has been confirmed as the first Saturday in August, so there’s not long to put everything together.’ Pens scratched on pads as the date was noted. ‘I’m delighted to say that the Hollywood Hillbillies have agreed to play on the day, for a very modest fee, which they usually take in kind.’ ‘Pork pies by the truck load,’ Joan said.

  ‘Given that we shall be entertained with country and western music, might I suggest we have a similar theme throughout?’

  There was a murmur of approval and Hattie had visions of the assembled committee kicking their heels in buckles, belts and Stetsons.

  ‘The Holly Bush has kindly agreed to run the bar and the W.I. is hosting a refreshment marquee.’

  Roger began to list the participating activities and allocated responsibilities. Hattie breathed a sigh of relief when she learnt that she was excluded from the organisation of line-dancing, apple-dunking and wellywanging. Her job, assisted by Marjorie, Roger told them, was to organise a tombola stall. It was a task that required much input, Roger explained, for the tombola was a big fundraiser at the fete.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Hattie said to Marjorie when the meeting had ended and they sat with cups of tea. ‘We have to organise tons of prizes. Where on earth are we going to get them from?’

  ‘I generally nip to the pound shop, it saves the endless trek around the village, knocking on doors.’ Marjorie sipped an Earl Grey and held up her hand when Joan, who hovered nearby, offered cake. Hattie reached out to take one.

  ‘That’s a good idea, you can do that again.’ Relieved that her workload was minimised, Hattie sank her teeth into one of Penny’s rock buns.

  ‘No chance, I haven’t a bean to spend, let alone finance the tombola.’ Marjorie stood and wandered off to see if there was anything stronger than tea in the kitchen.

  ‘Enjoying it?’ Joan plonked her ample bulk on a chair beside Hattie. ‘Your first time, getting involved with village life.’

  Cutting-edge stuff, Hattie thought as she gulped her tea, hoping that it would wash down the heavy sponge. Penny’s buns wouldn’t win prizes in the cake competition.

  ‘I see you get on w
ell with your neighbour,’ Joan said.

  ‘She seems very nice.’ Hattie wasn’t sure how to reply to Joan’s cross-examination.

  ‘Have you met Camilla?’

  ‘Marjorie’s step-daughter? No, not yet.’

  ‘Nice girl,’ Joan said, ‘went to school with the vicar’s wife.’ She nodded towards Penny, who was chasing around the room with a plate of cakes and two tired children hanging from the hem of her dress.

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely.’

  ‘She’s very good-looking too, Camilla, but she’d more interest in boys than schoolwork.’ Joan lowered her voice. ‘Great surprise to us all that she did well in her exams and went on to study accountancy, considering how bad things were at home.’

  ‘Things were difficult at home?’ Hattie leaned in to hear better.

  ‘Constant rows with that one.’ Joan nodded towards Marjorie, who was wandering around with a glass of wine in her hand. ‘Camilla adored her father but loathed Marjorie, the woman he left her mother for.’

  Hattie was intrigued and wanted to know more but Joan had started to munch through a laden plate and Hattie waited patiently. ‘It must have been hard for Camilla,’ Hattie said. ‘I wonder why she didn’t live with her mother instead of moving in with Barry and

  Marjorie.’

  Joan put a half-eaten bun back on her plate and stared at Hattie. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Camilla’s mother, Helen, who was Barry’s first wife,’ Joan paused and shook her head, ‘she died.’

  Hattie was stunned. ‘I didn’t realise,’ she whispered. ‘Poor Barry and how sad for Camilla at such a young and impressionable age. Was it sudden?’ ‘Sudden?’ Joan raised her eyebrows.

  Hattie’s heart pounded as realisation dawned.

  ‘I’ll say it was sudden,’ Joan said. ‘She committed suicide.’

  HATTIE DECIDED that it was time to leave the meeting. She looked around for her lift and found Marjorie in the kitchen. She had a glass of wine in her hand and by the look of the empty bottle on the table, it wasn’t her first drink since they’d been there.

  ‘I’m ready for the off, are you?’ Hattie said.

  ‘More than, just give the word.’ Marjorie knocked back her drink.

  ‘We’d better say goodbye to our hosts.’

  Hattie found Roger and Penny in the garden. Roger had Hannah on his shoulders and didn’t look very happy as she pulled on his hair, with sticky little fingers that hadn’t been near soapy water all day. Penny chased across the lawn after Josh, who was riding on Bertie’s back.

  ‘Thank you, both!’ Hattie called out. ‘We’re off now.’

  Without waiting for the couple to tear themselves away from their children, Hattie and Marjorie beat a retreat and hurried down the steps to Marjorie’s car.

  ‘I think I’ll walk,’ Hattie said. ‘I could do with some fresh air.’

  If truth be told, Hattie could do with a stretcher. Her legs were like lead. She was so tired that she worried she might fall asleep on the curb. But the thought of Marjorie’s driving, after consuming the best part of a bottle of Pinot Grigio, made Hattie decline a lift.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Well, if you insist.’ Marjorie flicked a key fob.

  ‘Just one question before you go.’

  Marjorie looked glassy-eyed as she turned to Hattie, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Helen Delaney committed suicide?’

  Unperturbed, Marjorie looked past Hattie and into the distance. ‘I didn’t think it was relevant,’ she said. ‘Not relevant?’ Hattie was angry. ‘Both of your stepdaughter’s parents take their own life and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning?’

  ‘It might have clouded your investigation into Barry’s death.’

  ‘Or helped it. Did Helen leave a note?’

  ‘No, not that I’m aware of, Barry never mentioned one.’ Marjorie sighed. ‘I’m tired,’ she said and opened the driver’s door. ‘Let’s speak tomorrow.’ With a half-hearted wave, she got into her car.

  Hattie stood on the pavement and watched Marjorie drive off.

  ‘She’s a rum ’un,’ a voice called out and Hattie turned to see Joan, heaving herself down the steps. ‘If you’re worried about the tombola, me and Arnie can help.’ Joan smiled as Arnie’s van pulled up alongside them. ‘We’ve one or two things in the shop that are past their sell-by date.’ Joan manoeuvred herself into the vehicle. ‘You just let me know,’ she called out as Arnie pulled away.

  Hattie began to walk and thought that she might take a rain-check on Joan’s kind offer. Well-thumbed pages of faded Mills & Boon books and a curling pork pie might not be the sort of thing the good folks of Hollywood would expect to win in a tombola.

  She headed for the pub. A quick livener would pick her up for the walk home.

  As usual, it was busy at the Holly Bush and Hattie had to ease her way through the drinkers to get to the bar. Reggie’s face lit up when he saw Hattie approach.

  ‘Evening, beautiful, what can I get you?’

  ‘Something soothing that will ease the confusion I’ve just left behind, ideally with a kick to get me across the green and back to the cottage.’

  ‘You need a Reggie Special.’ He turned and began to mix a drink.

  Hattie thought that it was “Reggie’s Special” that had put her in this state in the first place, but she happily took the glass he held out and began to drink.

  ‘Down in one, for best effect.’

  The drink scorched down Hattie’s throat and her eyeballs leapt from their sockets as bells rang in her ears. She felt like she was hallucinating back in the shaman’s tepee. ‘Bloody hell, Reggie,’ she said as she recovered herself and gripped the bar, ‘what in God’s name did you put in that?’

  ‘Just a little pick-me-up,’ he said. ‘I had a couple myself, earlier.’

  Life was flooding back to Hattie’s limbs and she felt a warm glow in the blood now pulsating through her veins. ‘One for the road, if you please, landlord,’ she said and, with tingling fingers, held out her glass.

  ‘Shall I come over later?’ Reggie whispered as he refilled her glass.

  ‘No chance. I’ve got tons to do tomorrow and I need a good night’s sleep.’ Hattie tossed back the drink and placed the empty glass down. She blew Reggie a kiss and left the pub and as the cool evening air blew across her flushed face, she began to run. Her sparkly trainers glittered in the moonlight as she flew through the village and turned into Lover’s Lane.

  Whatever Reggie had put in that drink needed bottling, Hattie thought, as she sprang over the gate and up the path to her cottage.

  Quack! Quack!

  The duck sat on the front doorstep and ruffled his feathers in greeting, as Hattie approached.

  ‘Bugger off back to the pond!’ Hattie yelled as he rose up and began to circle. ‘You’ve got a home to go to and it’s not here.’

  She side-stepped the duck and raced around to the back door.

  For a moment Hattie thought that water had pooled in her garden and was transfixed by a beautiful sight, as rays of light beamed on dewdrops that covered the lawn. The silver reflection created a welcoming oasis against the open fields and woods beyond.

  She flung herself into the kitchen then ran up to her bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time. Hattie went over to the window and, drawing the curtain to one side, looked out and down at the garden, where the duck was still making a commotion. Perhaps, she thought as she stared at the bird, like herself, the duck needed a new home and a fresh start? Hattie shrugged off her clothes and piled them on a chair then turned off the lights and climbed into bed.

  First thing in the morning, she’d have a word with Alf.

  9

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Alf stood with his hands on his hips and stared at Hattie.

  ‘Of course I’m sure or I wouldn’t be asking.’

  ‘A pond will
take up the best part of your lawn at the back.’

  ‘You can stick a couple of benches either side, so I’ve somewhere to sit.’

  ‘Someone looks happy.’ Alf nodded towards the duck who was parading around the grass in a circle, head held high, strutting his stuff as he flapped his wings and quacked. Ness sat by Alf’s feet and watched the performance.

  ‘It’s as if he knows.’ Alf tool a pencil from behind his ear and a notebook from his pocket, and began to sketch out plans for a pond.

  ‘A psychic duck.’ Hattie shook her head. ‘That’s all we need.’

  ‘You do know that a male duck is called a drake?’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘This fella here is a drake not a duck. Ducks are female.’

  ‘I’ll call him Drake then; it sounds sophisticated.’ Hattie wore her old duffle coat and as she tucked her hands in the pockets, her fingers touched something hard and sticky.

  One of Joan’s fancies.

  ‘Here, Drake!’ she called and threw a handful of crumbs. Drake and Ness scrambled to scavenge about.

  ‘You’ll have every duck in the vicinity parading around the pond, once word gets out in duck-land that this fella has a new pad.’

  ‘We’ll worry about that when it happens.’ Hattie thought about the possible influx. Her favourite Chinese meal was pancakes, hoisin sauce and shredded duck meat, but for once, as she looked at Drake, her appetite didn’t kick in.

  ‘I’m off to see if I can catch the vicar’s wife,’ Hattie said.

  ‘How’s your detecting coming along?’ Alf looked up from his drawings.

  ‘Marjorie is tight-lipped about something.’ Hattie frowned. ‘It seems Barry’s first wife committed suicide too.’

  ‘Hell, I didn’t know that. Is it a coincidence?’ Alf raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Who knows? But none of it feels right.’