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

by Caroline James

  ‘No, the rota is skeleton staffed, and Nancy insists on doing all the medication rounds; it’s about all she does.’

  ‘Is she qualified to do that?’

  ‘Yes. Nancy’s a registered nurse and she could delegate some of the medication duties to an agency nurse, but I’ve only ever seen that happen when she very occasionally goes away.’

  Hattie watched Grace pick up the tea pot, refresh it with hot water and top up her cup. The carer held both hands to her drink. ‘Nancy rules the roost,’ Grace said. ‘The residents are terrified of her and the staff are at her beck and call.’

  ‘Do the staff respect her?’

  ‘They pretend to, but she’d get a lot more out of people if she treated them with a bit of kindness.’ Grace put her cup down and picked up the last of her scone. Licking clotted cream from her lips, she lowered her voice. ‘Might help if she spent a bit more time doing her job rather than on the job, if you know what I mean.’

  Hattie thought about Nancy’s eyes lighting up as John Hargreaves sped up the steps and realised that she knew exactly what Grace meant.

  ‘Close to the boss, is she?’

  ‘Stuck to him like glue.’

  ‘Not very discreet then?’ Hattie frowned.

  ‘She likes us all to know about her affair, probably thinks it gives her power.’

  ‘Does his wife know?’

  ‘Venetia?’ Grace turned her head and with her dark brown eyes wide, stared at Hattie. ‘That stuck-up cow is worse than Nancy. She calls in occasionally, turns up to open the summer fete or hand out cards at Christmas, but never stays for long.’

  ‘Does she engage in conversation with anyone?’ Hattie asked.

  ‘Not with the likes of us, we’re way down her social pecking order.’

  ‘But she visits the other homes in the Castle Care Communities group too?

  ‘Not that I know of. I’ve got to know the managers of the other places over the years. They have group meetings at Marland Manor. I serve them refreshments and listen to the gossip, when Nancy’s out of the room.’

  ‘So, they like a bit of tittle-tattle?’

  ‘Aye, especially about their boss. But John Hargreaves is elusive, and they’ve never met his wife.’

  ‘Did you ever come across Barry Delaney?’

  ‘The op’s director?’ Grace asked. ‘Yes, I was very sad to hear that he’d died.’ She frowned. ‘To be honest, we were all shocked when we heard that it was suicide.’

  ‘You liked him?’

  ‘I did, we got on well and I often sat and had a cup of tea with him.’

  ‘Did he seem happy?’

  ‘Aye, he always spoke well of his wife and he adored his daughter.’

  ‘Camilla?’

  ‘Yes, that’s her name, she works in the business at head office, doing the accounts, I think. He was popular with the staff, always remembered a name and had a kind word to ask after our families; he talked to the residents too.’

  ‘Did he visit often?’

  ‘Oh, about once a week, I’d say. He did a check over things, spent time with Nancy, but always had a meal with the residents; the only management I ever saw to do that.’

  ‘Was he close to anyone there?’

  ‘Hard to say; he visited Jim Leighton-Scott, a lovely old fella, no relatives that I knew of, but Barry walked with him in the garden, when Jim was well enough to walk.’

  ‘Is Jim still alive?’ Hattie asked, sensing an opportunity.

  ‘No, he passed away recently, not long before Barry, now I come to think about it.’

  ‘Heart attack?’ Hattie raised her eyebrows.

  ‘No, in his sleep, I hear it was peaceful. I wasn’t on duty that night.’

  ‘Was Nancy there?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Nancy deals with all the deaths and she lives in an apartment on the top floor.’ Grace sniffed disdainfully. ‘A real fancy place they say, I’ve never been invited though.’ Grace drained her cup. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d best be getting on my way,’ she said. ‘I’m on a late shift and there’ll be hell to pay if I don’t clock in on time.’

  Hattie stood to thank Grace and dismissed the woman’s offer of payment for their refreshments. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ Hattie said with a smile, ‘but if you hear or see anything that you think is odd, will you give me a call?’ She rummaged about in her bag for a scrap of paper and wrote down her number.

  ‘Are you a private detective then?’ Grace asked.

  Hattie shrugged. ‘I’m just helping a friend.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Grace replied and tucked the note into her pocket. ‘We could do with a Miss Marple around here; there’s always something afoot in the area and that bunch of thick-soled plods over at the station in Marland haven’t a clue when it comes to policing.’

  Hattie thought that Harry the Helmet would be fuming if he heard his work discredited in such an offhand manner.

  ‘I’ll be off.’ Grace turned and held up her hand to wave. ‘Make sure you keep Alf busy, that lump of a lout is bone idle when he chooses to be.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ Hattie said with a smile as Grace ambled away, noting that she was as equally dismissive of her brother as she’d been of the local police. Grace hadn’t had a good word to say about Nancy nor Venetia either, but she did appear to genuinely care for the old people at Marland Manor.

  Hattie picked up her bag and, having paid the waitress for their tea, rummaged around for her car key and sunglasses. She stepped of the café, where the heat from the hot July afternoon shimmered on the road running through the centre of Butterly. Hattie hesitated in the shadow of the doorway before stepping out. The sun burned into the pale, freckled skin of her unguarded shoulders.

  ‘Bloody hell, I’ll frizzle,’ Hattie said, to the amusement of a group of teenagers heading into the café. ‘Out and about without my factor fifty.’

  Hattie thought about the pond that was under construction at the back of her cottage and visualised ripping her clothes off and plunging in. If this weather kept up, she’d put a rocket under Alf’s spade in the hope of getting the pond finished. There was a good chance that she’d soon be floating alongside Drake, to combat the heat. Hattie’s ginger hair and fair complexion were no match for the burning rays of the summer afternoon and, with a sigh, she hurried to find her car and return to the cool of her cottage.

  12

  John Hargreaves looked at his watch and sighed. He’d been pacing the floor in the hallway of his Victorian home, on the outskirts of Penrith, for the last twenty minutes in the vain hope that his wife, Venetia, would appear at the top of the stairs, dressed and ready to go out.

  ‘Venetia!’ he yelled. ‘We’re going to be late!’

  ‘Oh, do stop fussing,’ his wife called out as she strode across the galleried landing. Dressed in a smart navy dress with white piping at the neck and hem, she swept down the stairs, running her hand along the polished wood of a curving banister, hand-crafted in the finest oak. ‘They’re hardly likely to start without us,’ she said as her Louboutin’s clicked across the Minton-tiled floor. ‘God knows why you insist on going to these things, they bore me senseless.’

  John glared at Venetia. He shook his head in frustration as he ushered her out of the house and down to the driveway, where his driver was waiting. The uniformed man leant on the sleek bodywork of a silver Mercedes.

  He gathered himself as his employer appeared and hurried around the vehicle to open the rear passenger door for Venetia. John followed and climbed in beside her.

  As they sped along the main road to Marland, John pondered why he did turn up at these events. A resident at Marland Manor was celebrating their one hundredth birthday and Nancy had arranged a party. The local press would be in attendance and John knew that it was advisable to have his own smiling face in the media. If truth be told, John couldn’t care less about the birthday, nor the resident, but it was quite an occasion to have such an elderly person under their care. Very few residen
ts reached that age. He stared out of the window as the lush Cumbrian countryside stretched before him. Dotted with sheep, it rose gently to the undulating fells, partly shrouded in cloud. The atmosphere in the car was cloudy too with Venetia prattling away, her words deliberately indecipherable to John, for he had no interest in anything she might say.

  John wondered how much longer he could put up with Venetia; she was an expensive asset that no longer gave any value. He’d consulted with his solicitor on more than one occasion about the possibility of divorce but the thought of the enormous settlement that she’d demand made him shudder and, given his present circumstances, life without Venetia wasn’t an option. Venetia had helped set up the business in the early days and without her father’s generous gift of financing John’s first property, there would be no Castle Care Communities today. Venetia had helped with the paperwork and even worked in their first nursing home. Her administrations skills were good and she’d created the blueprint for everything that followed. But as the years went by and despite constant trying, their hope of a baby Hargreaves to inherit the business had come to nothing. Venetia lost interest in work and occupied herself with the ladies who lunch circuit, charity dinners and fundraising affairs. She enjoyed being the benevolent queen and, in her own opinion, was an integral part of Cumbrian society. John, whose philandering and obsession with sexual encounters that didn’t include his wife, was certain that Venetia hadn’t a clue about his extra marital affairs.

  He was also certain that she had no idea about the precarious position the business was in. The borrowings against his properties, funding his obsession with owning more, had reached an all-time high and with little hope of his investments rising considerably in value, given the current political climate, John feared that his business was teetering on the brink of ruin.

  He had to find ways to generate more income.

  The nursing homes were cash cows, easy money if costs were stripped to the bone. But to ensure a constant supply of fees, they had to appear to be looking after every possible need that a resident might have. He spent a considerable amount of time falsifying reports to the governing body, the Care Quality Commission, and ensuring that their inspectors only saw the surface of the business and not what actually went on.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’ Venetia nudged a bony elbow into John’s arm. ‘Honestly, I wonder why I bother. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have any press at this pathetic party today.’ She shook her head. ‘They only turn out because of my social standing; do you really think that the mayor would be coming if I hadn’t asked him?’

  John didn’t care if the mayor turned up or not, but Venetia had a point. It made good press and subliminally stayed with readers skimming the news. It was perfect marketing for anyone thinking of placing an elderly resident into care.

  When they arrived, the driver helped Venetia from the car. The mayor’s car was parked at the front and John was annoyed that they’d arrived late and hadn’t been there to greet him. It was bad form, but no doubt Venetia would worm her way out of it and wrap the mayor around her little finger.

  As they went up the steps, Nancy appeared in the doorway. John prayed that she would keep to the script they’d agreed and not be overly familiar. Venetia wasn’t stupid and if she had the slightest inkling that Nancy was queering her pitch, there’d be trouble with a capital T.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Hargreaves,’ Nancy said as she held the door open. ‘The mayor has already arrived and is taking tea with the residents.’

  ‘Are the press here?’ Venetia asked as she waltzed past, with John trailing behind.

  ‘All present and correct and cameras poised.’ Nancy glared at the retreating figure of Venetia.

  John felt Nancy’s hand trail across his backside. With a look of annoyance, he flicked it away. ‘Behave yourself!’ he whispered.

  ‘Tell her you’ve paperwork to sort and send her home in the car when it’s finished; we can have a couple of hours in my apartment.’ Nancy ignored John’s hand and, with a smile, reached out and brushed the front of his trousers.

  ‘For God’s sake, woman, be more discreet,’ John hissed.

  At that moment, Grace Dent moved slowly across the hallway. She carried a birthday cake, covered in candles. ‘Afternoon, Mr Hargreaves.’ Grace dipped her head. ‘It’s a busy afternoon for you.’ She looked from John to Nancy with a knowing smile.

  ‘It’s time you got rid of that woman,’ John said with annoyance as they watched Grace head towards the party in the lounge. ‘Surely she’s due to retire?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Nancy replied. ‘She’s got years in her and is as cheap as chips, works around the clock and the residents like her. Think of your profit margins.’

  ‘John, darling,’ Venetia called from the party, ‘the cake is being cut and they want us in the photo.’

  ‘Fuck,’ John sighed under his breath as he heard his wife.

  ‘I’ll be happy to,’ Nancy whispered, ‘but first…’ She took John’s arm and led him to the celebration.

  13

  The noon sun was harsh and bright rays bounced off the much-worn paving stones surrounding the cottage. Hattie wore dark glasses, baggy cotton shorts and a thin strappy vest. Her pale skin was slathered in a high factor sunscreen and a wide-brimmed straw hat flopped over her face. She held a folding fan in her hand and flicked it in an arc, to create a cooling breeze. The fan had been a gift from Hugo on one of their cruises, purchased in a market in Hong Kong where they’d disembarked for the day. Hattie sighed when she thought of her late husband and wondered what he would make of her life now. No doubt he would approve of her spending money on the cottage, for Hugo had wanted Hattie to live in comfort for the rest of her days.

  Too bad he wasn’t here to share it, she thought, as she swiped at a hovering wasp.

  On the other side of the garden, Alf was hard at work. He’d spent days marking out the pond with a landscaping rim and, using an excavator, had dug down to the required depth. Now, he was endeavouring to get the lining smoothly into place, in the gaping hole that had once been a lawn. With the sleeves of his shirt rolled high on darkly-tanned arms, Alf’s moleskin trousers had been replaced with a pair of multi-pocketed cargo shorts and his heavy boots abandoned for a pair of lightweight Wellingtons.

  ‘I’ll soon have it filled with water,’ Alf said as he tugged and pulled. ‘It’ll be the jewel in your estate.’

  “Estate” was a generous description of her modest garden, but Hattie appreciated Alf’s comment. Gone was the neglected chaos that surrounded the cottage when she’d first moved in and now, nature appeared to have reasserted herself amongst the tidy borders and freshly planted shrubs. In a short space of time, Alf had created a decent area for Hattie to sit and enjoy the lovely sunny days. His work on the pond had been rapid and Hattie, not given to praise, was amazed at his progress. She watched him attach a hose to an outside tap and as he turned it on and water sprayed into the pond, Ness became excited and ran around in circles. Drake was nearby and began to quack as he waddled over to see what all the fuss was about.

  ‘Like liquid magic,’ Alf called out as he wedged the hose under a stone, then stood back to watch the pond slowly fill.

  ‘Don’t you need to treat the chlorine?’ Hattie asked, conscious that tap water wasn’t ideal for plants and wildlife.

  ‘All in hand,’ Alf replied. He took a roll-up from behind his ear and fumbled about in his many pockets for a match. Scratching it over the stone, it sparked into life and Alf lit-up, dragging deeply. ‘I’ve added some of that fancy eco-friendly treatment, that will sort all that out,’ he said and blew a smoke ring. ‘There’s plants to go in too.’

  Drake was poking his beak into a collection of flowering rushes and water lilies, that sat in containers, waiting to be placed in the pond. Pots of Mare’s Tail, Crowfoot and Bur Weed were also lined up around the edges and Alf shooed the duck away. ‘There’ll be nowt left if that one starts scratting about,’ he mumbled to Ness
, who sniffed at the plants too and wagged her tail. ‘We’ll give it some of this.’ He syphoned rainwater from the butts around the cottage, into the pond. ‘Old Drake will soon feel at home.’

  Hattie had drifted into a warm stupor as Alf worked. Suddenly, footsteps on the path stirred her and she sat up to see who’d come into the garden. It was Marjorie and as she turned the corner at the side of the cottage, her face lit up.

  ‘Oh, this is splendid. What an asset to the property.’

  ‘It’s hardly Kew Gardens.’ Hattie shuffled along the bench to make room for her neighbour.

  ‘It will be by the time Alf and I have finished our work,’ Marjorie said. ‘You look nice and cool.’ Marjorie eyed Hattie’s cobbled together outfit. Dressed in an immaculate linen sundress, Marjorie sat down and reached into her bag. ‘I’ve sketched out my plan for a garden room. It will have large glass doors opening up to steps, leading into this area, and the pond makes a perfect focal point.’

  Hattie frowned as she studied the paperwork. ‘How much is all this going to cost?’

  ‘You’ll get your investment back when your property doubles in value, and think of the pleasure this additional space will give.’

  ‘Aye, you’ll be wining and dining the village nobility.’ Alf chuckled as he altered the angle of the hose. ‘Lover’s Lane will be full of traffic as folk clamour to get an invite; you’ll be able to charge for garden tours and afternoon teas, overlooking the water.’

  ‘Dream on, Alan Titchmarch,’ Hattie said. ‘You’re both getting far too carried away.’

  ‘We don’t need planning permission to do this,’ Marjorie continued as she studied her sketch, ‘it’s really just a standard conservatory and with the beautiful stone flags outside, to use as a base, the build won’t take long.’

  ‘Best crack on, before madam changes her mind.’ Alf pinched his roll-up and flicked it over the garden wall.

  ‘I intend to.’ Marjorie folded the paper and placed it back in her bag. ‘I’ll need access to funding, so have your bank account ready - we must begin while the weather holds.’