‘Alright, I’m coming too.’ Hattie reached into her cleavage and produced a lipstick. She painted a coat of bright red gloss over her lips and pouted. Straightening Drake’s bandana, she gave his beak a fond stroke. ‘Nashville here we come!’
THE VILLAGE GREEN had been transformed and as the sun rose high in the sky and ignited the tableau beneath, the final touches were added to the stalls, stands and staging area, alongside colourful gazebos and marquees. Alf, Marjorie and Hattie followed the rows of pretty bunting and stumbled across the grass, their arms laden with boxes.
‘I’ll see thee over in the saloon later,’ Alf said, and with his thumbs hooked into his belt-loops, he swaggered off.
‘He thinks he’s John bleedin’ Wayne,’ Hattie mumbled and began to set out the prizes. A trestle table had been erected by the committee and as Hattie looked up at the sagging gazebo above, held precariously together with string, she hoped that weather didn’t change for their roof-like covering looked unlikely to hold up for long.
Marjorie opened the sliding door on a wooden barrel that spun on a pivot and deposited a pile of folded raffle tickets. ‘All set,’ she said with a smile. ‘Got the bag for the cash?’
‘Ticket money will be safely stored in my fanny pack.’ Hattie patted the bag strapped around her waist.
‘Ladies!’ a voice called out. ‘Dear Mrs Mulberry and Mrs Delaney too!’ Roger came towards them. A shoestring cord with decorative metal tips fastened his red-checked shirt and, with a wide gait, Roger’s strong legs strode confidently under the weight of a pair of leather chaps.
‘Has he wet himself?’ Hattie whispered as she stared in horror.
‘I hope he’s not wearing jeans beneath his chaps,’ Marjorie licked her lips, her eyes alight with the thought of Roger’s naked backside.
‘Of course he is!’
‘All ready for the off?’ Roger asked.
‘Aye, spinning the barrel and waiting for the action to begin,’ Hattie said.
‘Splendid, we kick off at two o’clock and the mayor will officially perform the opening ceremony.’ Roger nodded with satisfaction as he noted the abundant display of prizes. ‘Splendid,’ he repeated and seeing his family on the next stall, wandered away.
Hattie looked at Penny and her children as they greeted their father. All were dressed in shabby old country clothes and Hattie had a feeling that they’d only had to turn to their current wardrobes for their outfits for the day. Surely Roger could provide more adequately for his brood?
Music started up and stallholders’ eyes turned in the direction of the Grand Ole Opry Gazebo, where the Hollywood Hillbillies had climbed onto a stage. Guitars strummed and fiddles fiddled, as a cowboy squeezed an accordion and the group began to play.
‘It can only get better,’ Hattie said as she watched the elderly, white-haired ensemble stumble around to slowly prepare their routine. She looked at the other stalls and was encouraged to see that everyone had joined in with the spirit of the fete and dressed appropriately. Cowboys and cowgirls strutted their stuff as they prepared such delights as apple dunking and the coconut shy. At the Round Table events, a variety of games from wet sponge throwing to welly-wangling and worm-charming had been organised but Hattie was puzzled to see men dressed as fur trappers, lumberjacks, miners and gamblers. ‘Is there a Gold Rush?’ Hattie muttered to Marjorie. ‘They’ve got the wrong theme.’
‘Anything to thwart the vicar,’ Marjorie replied. ‘The round tablers hate his guts since he put a stop to their meetings in the church hall.’
‘Too much sacramental wine?’
‘They’ve been banned to the pub.’
‘High-five, a result for Reggie.’
A mound of gingham fabric moved across the green. Wearing a vast cotton pinafore, edged in lace that trimmed a matching bonnet, Joan set sail in the direction of the tombola. A long, lanky body followed. Arnie, dressed in black with an inflatable guitar strung over his shoulder, appeared from Joan’s shadow.
Hattie smiled. ‘The Cash family?’ she asked and turned to Arnie. ‘I’ll Walk the Line if you will, Johnny.’
‘Give me a fivers’ worth of tickets.’ Joan rummaged about in the pocket of her pinny. ‘I want first shout on the prizes.’
‘You’ll have to wait till the fete starts.’ Marjorie was curt.
Joan scowled at Marjorie and, turning to Hattie, asked, ‘Have you entered the cake competition?’
‘Hell, I almost forgot.’ Hattie dived beneath the table and produced a tin.
‘Be quick.’ Joan pointed in the direction of the cake tent. ‘You’ll just have time if you hurry, they won’t start judging till three.’
Hattie ran across the grass, steadying the tin in her hands; she didn’t want to jolt the smooth buttercream filling, nor the perfect layer of icing sugar dusted over the top of her cake. As she went past the beer tent, she noticed that the sign, Rusty Spur Saloon, had been replaced.
Reggie, who’d set up his bar and was now waiting for customers, saw Hattie and came out.
‘If it isn’t the most beautiful cowgirl in the countryside, running towards me on this fine afternoon.’ He leaned in for a kiss.
‘Watch my lippie,’ Hattie said and pulled away.
‘Time for a livener before things crack off?’
‘No chance, I’ve got the winner’s rosette on this baby and I’m late delivering it.’ Hattie held out her tin. ‘What’s with the name?’ She nodded towards the newly replaced sign.
THE BEST LITTLE WHOREHOUSE IN HOLLYWOOD
‘The vicar’s not going to like that,’ Hattie said.
‘Bugger the vicar, it will bring in the crowds.’
‘Expect a Gold Rush.’ Hattie smiled and nodded towards the members of the Round Table. ‘See y’all later.’ She hurried away.
With her cake safely delivered and crowds of visitors pouring into the fete, Hattie wandered back to the tombola. She stopped when she heard an announcement being made. The vicar stood on the stage alongside the mayor, and standing tall, began his welcoming speech.
‘Get on with it!’ a lumberjack called out from the now packed beer tent.
‘And it gives me great pleasure to ask the mayor to officially open our fete.’ Beaming, Roger turned to the mayor.
No one was listening. The visitors were far more interested in being first in the WI refreshment tent or participating in the games. A lively queue had formed at the tombola stall.
Suddenly, a crack of gunfire blasted through the air above the visitors’ heads. Several women screamed and flung themselves on their children. In the WI tent, members keeled over in shock, taking the cupcake display down with them.
‘Bleedin’ hell!’ Hattie cursed and crouched with the crowd. Her bouffant of back-combed hair fell over her face and she struggled to push the heavily lacquered layer out of her eyes. What on earth was happening?
‘So sorry, ladies and gentlemen, cowboys and cowgirls,’ the vicar’s voice rang out over the microphone, ‘the mayor has opened the fete with a starting pistol, but all’s well and he’ll now cut the ribbon.’
Boos and jeers followed as everyone breathed a sigh of relief that Battle of the Alamo wasn’t being re-enacted. As they composed themselves, the mayor was hurried off the stage and the Hollywood Hillbillies struck up a song. A troupe of local line-dancers came forward and, heel to toe, encouraged the crowd to join in, to a chorus of “Achy Breaky Heart”.
‘By heck, that woke us all up,’ Hattie said as she joined Marjorie on the tombola.
‘It nearly finished half the village off,’ Marjorie replied as she took money for tickets and spun the barrel.
‘Shame he didn’t shoot the flighty vicar,’ an elderly lady said as she dug deep, unfolded her tickets and scoured the prizes.
‘There’s plenty of time yet,’ Hattie said, taking the woman’s winning ticket and handed over a plastic water pistol.
‘Haven’t you got a bottle of whisky?’ the woman asked, affronted by her cheap prize
.
‘Try the Best Little Whorehouse in Hollywood.’ Hattie glanced at the lengthening queue and hurried the woman away.
‘Did you deliberately choose these prizes?’ Marjorie looked at the piles of neatly wrapped packages. ‘Are they all the same?’
‘Yes, they were a bargain, I did well to find so many and I kept to the cowboy theme too.’ Hattie grinned as yet another customer unwrapped a plastic pistol.
‘Only another two hundred to go,’ Marjorie said.
A small child held up her money and Hattie tucked it in her fanny pack. ‘Spin the barrel, sweetheart,’ she said and smiled at the line of waiting children. ‘Plenty of fun for everyone.’
23
Nancy was glowing. Her eyes were bright, and her mouth curved in a smug smile as she stood on the edge of the village green, watching the fete festivities get underway. Under any other circumstances, she would never attend a local event, preferring to save her money and maintain her presence at Marland Manor, keeping her well-trained eye on the staff to ensure that they didn’t slack. But today, she felt exhilarated. Life was sweet and had suddenly taken an upturn. She felt like celebrating and what better way than to be with a crowd of people enjoying themselves on a hot sunny afternoon.
John had told her that he loved her.
Finally, after all these years, he’d professed his undying love and she knew that it was only a matter of time before Venetia would feel the full weight of Nancy’s foot, currently clad in a cowgirl boot, kicking her out of her precious marital property and all the way into the divorce courts. John belonged to Nancy and she was as happy as could be.
Not only had John admitted his love, but he’d asked Nancy to help with his property business! He’d explained about his plans, to convert two buildings that he owned into apartments, and he wanted Nancy’s help. By raising finance on her own property portfolio, the money would provide cash flow to pay for the conversions. She would be repaid in full, plus generous interest. It was a win-win situation. Nancy grinned as she thought about the arrangement with John - she’d also got him to agree to her having ownership of one of the apartments.
It was the best deal she’d ever done, and Nancy felt like celebrating.
As country music blasted out, Nancy stepped forward. There must be a bar here somewhere, she thought as she passed the coconut shy, teeming with children hurling hard wooden balls. In a roped off area, the best-dog-in-show was being judged. Well-behaved Labradors, frisky spaniels and tail-wagging mongrels sat in a line, their owners anxiously waiting for the result, hoping for a rosette for Rover or Rupert. Nancy noticed an unruly black and white sheepdog. It wore a checked bandana and raced across the ring, barking loudly and causing a commotion. A cowboy swaggered after it, his roll-up smoking furiously as it bounced on his lips.
‘Stupid animal.’ Nancy stared at the dog and shook her head.
A few moments later, she found herself in the Best Little Whorehouse in Hollywood and, wandering past haybales heavy with seated drinkers, found a place on a stool at the bar. Reggie, dressed as the Sherriff of Hollywood, came forward. His smile matched his gleaming gold badge. He placed a coaster in front of Nancy and asked what she’d like.
‘I’ll have a bourbon,’ Nancy replied, keeping in character. Her “Annie Get Your Gun” outfit of sequin-trimmed vest, flouncy skirt and cotton blouse, was topped with a white hat. She had a fake sharpshooter in a holster, on a belt at her waist.
‘Comin’ right up, partner,’ Reggie said and he slid a tumbler along the bar. He filled it with ice and, with theatrical display, poured a good measure into the glass. ‘Buffalo Bill not with you today?’
Nancy smiled as she took a sip of her drink. Did everyone now know that she was an item with John? Had her days of deceit and the anxiety of discovery finally come to an end? ‘He’s working,’ she said as the liquor warmed her throat and built her confidence. ‘He’s got a lot to do, deals to sort, teams to organise, but may be along later.’
Reggie wondered who the hell Nancy was rambling about. Single as long as he’d known her, he’d not heard any gossip of her hooking up with a man. Not unless she was suggesting that John Hargreaves, her rumoured lover, was leaving his wife. That was something Reggie would like to see! From what Reggie knew of Venetia she’d annihilate her husband both financially and physically if he ever thought of stepping a well-heeled loafer out of their marital home. ‘Top up?’ he asked Nancy. Reggie was surprised when she nodded; he didn’t have the woman down as a drinker, but you could never tell. He poured a large shot into her glass then moved along the bar, where a crowd of gold miners were calling for pints.
CAMILLA WAS BORED. On the hottest Saturday of the year, she had no desire to sit in her garden being scorched under a blazing sun, nor did she feel like wandering around Butterly, amongst throngs of hot and frustrated tourists, as they took in the delights of the ancient market town. She flicked idly through a magazine, hardly noticing the text on the page. She was distracted. Her driving ban, and possible incarceration, was imminent and she knew that this time the magistrates wouldn’t be so lenient. She felt tired, frustrated and hopeless. With the loss of her licence would come the loss of her job and her home.
What did she have to do to get her boss to overlook her latest act of craziness? He’d warned her last time that any more upsets or bad publicity for the company and she’d get her marching orders. If only she could win her way into his heart and keep it there, he might change his mind. If Camilla was out of work, she’d never find another job in accountancy. Her references and police record would let her down and the well-paid benefits would all be history. She’d end up waiting tables or washing pots and God forbid that she move back in with her stepmother; life with the Witch wouldn’t be worth living - it would be the end for Camilla.
She had to do something. She thought about the fete in Hollywood, which would be well underway. Perhaps John would attend? He liked to support local events and if she hauled her arse over there, he might be in a more forgiving mood on the perfect sunny day and relaxed atmosphere of the fete. It had been impossible to approach him at work; he’d snapped and seemed angry, telling her to bugger off and start looking for another job, for there wouldn’t be a position open when she came out of prison.
Camilla considered her options, it had to be worth a shot. She’d take a drive to Hollywood, while she was still able to drive. If John was sunning himself, socialising with the locals and drinking a caseload of Pimm’s, she might be able to change his mind.
She sighed as she picked up her keys and smoothed her short crop of hair with her elegant fingers. Best foot forward, she told herself and, reaching for her designer bag, opened her front door and set off for Hollywood.
JOHN HARGREAVES WAS HAPPY. He sat in the back of his gleaming Mercedes and watched the Cumbrian countryside whiz by as his driver sped them to the fete in Hollywood. It would be good to have an afternoon of relaxation. The stress of the last few weeks was lifting and finally, thank God, he could see a way through his problems and look to the future with a successful outcome. John knew that it wouldn’t take long for Nancy to refinance her properties; she had great credit and financial standing and no difficulty in raising money. He’d already been in touch with his builders, telling the foreman to start preparing a schedule, for the work must be a priority as soon as he got the financial go ahead.
John’s more pressing worry would be in handling Nancy.
The stupid bitch thought she had power over him now and his biggest fear was any confrontation with Venetia. If Nancy stepped out of line, thinking she was the next Mrs Hargreaves, Venetia would eat her for breakfast, and it wouldn’t stop there. Venetia could bring him down. The nursing homes had Venetia’s name on the registered company, as a majority shareholder, something her father had insisted on when he set them up in business. John knew that he had to keep Nancy quiet but happy, until the property deal was done, and all the apartments sold.
John had secretly made the decisio
n to sell Castle Care Communities. He was confident of finding a buyer soon, for he’d already been approached by large consortiums wishing to add to their current portfolios. He could tell Venetia that he wanted to retire, hence the sale, and he had no doubt that she’d agree. She’d want them to spend most of their time at their home in Spain and once he wasn’t working, the sale of Castle Care Communities would enable that. But if Venetia had any inkling of his other life, she would refuse to sell, and he’d be stuck with her forever. Once the sale of the nursing homes went through, he could finally divorce Venetia and pay her off. Profit from his other business interests would be syphoned into his offshore accounts, well away from the hands of greedy women who thought they had control of him. He’d already instructed his agent to find buyers for properties that he owned away from the nursing homes and hoped that their sales would happen quickly, and the benefit would be directed into his accounts in the Cayman Islands. Offshore and out of the way. Which is exactly where John planned to be in the very near future. Venetia could have the house and her share of the nursing homes and Nancy would get paid back her investment. John wouldn’t settle any interest on Nancy, nor would he let her have an apartment. She had more than enough to cushion her fast approaching retirement and, best of all, she trusted him. John knew that Nancy would forgo any legal paperwork to do with her loaning him money. She was in love, and love, as they say, is blind.
His other worry, to complete his complicated lovelife, was Camilla. He’d been far too familiar with her and now she too looked likely to boil over and cause him grief. Camilla was in trouble and he had no doubt that she was facing an imminent prison sentence. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t come soon enough for he needed Camilla locked up and out of his life. Her house in Butterly was a massive asset and would sell in an instant. The market town attracted second homeowners like flies, and he knew that he’d get a handsome return on what had been one of his cheapest investments many years ago. The money would accumulate in his escape-plan-pot. Years ago, he’d transferred the deeds of Camilla’s house from the company to his own name and no one was any the wiser.
Hattie Goes to Hollywood: Shenanigans, fun & intrigue in a new mystery series! Page 20