THE FLOWER ARRANGER AT ALL SAINTS a gripping cozy murder mystery full of twists (Suzy Spencer Mysteries Book 1)

by Lis Howell

  ‘Well, never mind, Frank. Maybe Phyllis will stop trying to persuade you eventually. She’s got me roped in for the Bible study group though, not to mention the flowers. Tell you what, you can do a good Christian thing anyway and help me unload the shopping.’

  Frank Bell made a grumbling noise, and then started heaving bags into the house. Funny, thought Monica. He was usually quite good-tempered. But something was eating him tonight. She hoped he’d cheer up for Easter Day.

  * * *

  At 6 Tarn Acres, Kevin and Janice Jones were bathing their toddler daughter and the baby and feeling excited about the Easter Festival. Kevin was getting the children a bit too worked up, his wife thought, as bath water slopped on to the carpet and Zoe, aged three, shrieked with hysterical laughter. Janice felt her sweatshirt getting drenched. She was red-faced and perspiring, conscious of her excess weight as she crouched by the bath. She had been working hard. The Easter eggs had all been hidden round the house for the hunt after church the next day and, as ‘born again’ Christians, she and Kevin were looking forward to Easter Day.

  ‘What’s Nick got planned for the service?’ Janice asked her husband.

  ‘Well, there’s the Easter Anthem and I suppose we’ll have to sit through the usual old rubbish. But he’s talking about some of the Songs of Fellowship stuff during communion, on guitar. That should shake them up a bit.’

  ‘Good thing,’ said Janice heartily. But her mum, who farmed just outside the village, would be there on Easter morning. She wouldn’t appreciate the music. Her mother had always been a bit unhappy about Kevin’s brand of Christianity. He wasn’t a Tarnfield boy, of course, which didn’t help. Janice had met Kevin at college in Yorkshire. He’d been her first and only boyfriend and she had loved him from the day of their first date. He’s my husband, Janice thought, and I’ve got to support him. He for God only, me for God in him, like John Milton said. And that was all there was to it.

  ‘Did you get the baby shampoo when you went up to Lo-cost?’ she asked him.

  ‘I think we’d better use our shampoo, love, with lots of water added. They’d run out when I got there.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Their children splashed happily, unaware of the shadow that had crossed their mother’s face. She had seen plenty of baby shampoo on the shelves a few days earlier. If Kevin hadn’t got any, why had he been away so long?

  * * *

  So Tarnfield was settling into its Saturday night routine. But in the church, Phyllis Drysdale was dying, her eyes fixed on the thing piercing her left hand.

  4

  Later Easter Eve into Easter Day

  It is better, if the will of God be so, that ye suffer for well-doing, than for evil-doing.

  From the Epistle for Easter Even, 1 Peter 3:17

  In The Briars, Suzy Spencer sat with her head in her hands at the kitchen table. To his own surprise, Robert Clark had found it quite easy to deal with his gatecrasher. He’d been amused to hear the expletives punctuating the clear Tarnfield evening and, far from being distraught and flaky as he’d feared, she seemed to be coping well.

  ‘I’m OK, really I am. I’m just so sorry.’

  ‘Well, at least you missed the variegated holly bush. That was Mary’s favourite.’

  ‘I’m glad about that. But your fence will need completely replacing.’

  Robert found he was smiling. Now with the fence to be repaired, there would be something to do in the two long weeks left before college started again. Apart from his Thursday evening creative writing class, there was nothing in his diary. And sorting out this mess would be more interesting than marking assignments.

  Suzy stared at him. ‘You think it’s funny?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do. I watched you come down the hill. I could see the panic on your face. I didn’t recognize you at first. But then you stopped. Or the fence stopped you, to be accurate!’

  ‘God, it was awful! The car just kept rolling. I turned the ignition off but it had its own momentum. I hadn’t a clue what to do!’

  It was good of him to take it so well, Suzy thought. Mary Clark would have made a huge fuss.

  ‘Would you like coffee?’ he asked. ‘It might help you get over the shock. I assume you’ll want to drive home. The car doesn’t seem too damaged.’

  ‘Coffee would be nice. That’s another stupid thing, not being in the RAC or AA or anything. That was something Nigel used to sort out. But as long as the car goes, I don’t care. I’ve got to drive to work on Tuesday.’

  ‘What is it you do exactly?’

  ‘I’m a part-time producer on daytime TV. It’s the sort of job that makes people at dinner parties treat you as a moron. Or a dangerous dumber-downer.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘Absolutely not! Bondage and body piercing are the real issues of our time!’

  Robert wasn’t sure if she was making fun of him or herself. He put the kettle on.

  ‘I’d better drink up and get away,’ she said. ‘It may be getting dark, but if the car’s stuck there for more than half an hour the whole village will know about it.’

  ‘They will anyway, Mrs Spencer.’

  ‘Actually, it’s Ms,’ Suzy said. ‘But people don’t use titles in my job. Anyway, Ms is much more appropriate now my husband’s buggered off to Newcastle to live with his PA.’ He might as well know, she thought. It would mean another raised eyebrow, but there was no point in him thinking that a man was going to appear any minute, give him a cheque, and carry her off home.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not, not very anyway,’ she said. ‘And my problems aren’t in your league. Nigel’s still alive, more’s the pity!’

  Ouch. How gross! The shock was making her gabble. To get over her faux pas, she added, ‘I came to Mary’s funeral, you know. You must have been devastated. She was an amazing woman.’

  ‘Yes, she was.’

  ‘She got my daughter Molly into Sunday School. And she persuaded Jake to do some gardening. She was certainly a forceful lady. I wasn’t really her cup of tea of course, but she talked me into going to church.’ I’m trying too hard, Suzy thought, he must know his wife never really took to me! I always wondered why she was so keen to get me into the congregation at All Saints.

  Robert passed the coffee and an overloaded plate of biscuits. He looked at the woman sitting in his kitchen. She wore flared jeans with patches on, and her hair could only be described as two-tone. She had one long earring, but the other had been a casualty of the accident. Or maybe not. Maybe she’d forgotten it anyway. He’d heard Mary saying Suzy’s house was a tip, toys and books everywhere, and the TV on in the afternoon.

  ‘I’m sure Mary liked you,’ he said, looking away.

  ‘Oh, come on! Of course she didn’t. She hated daytime telly. I certainly wasn’t her sort. Mind you, I respected her. She was pretty formidable and she certainly got me organized.’ Where was this stuff coming from? Why couldn’t she just make soothing noises like everyone else?

  Robert looked back at her. This was a very different approach from the usual condolences. But Suzy had reddened. She said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had a bugger of a day. I didn’t mean to be rude . . .’

  ‘It’s OK, you really don’t have to be tactful with me,’ he said quietly. ‘Actually I get sick of everyone pussyfooting around.’ He smiled. They both knew Mary had criticized Suzy roundly behind her back and he suddenly felt there was no point in pretending. And Suzy looked so crestfallen at her indiscretion. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know my wife could be very bossy sometimes. Just because you love someone doesn’t mean you’re blind to their faults. Anyway, people are bigger than the sum of their parts.’ It was such a change to be able to tell the truth. One of the problems of a community like Tarnfield was the conspiracy of kindness — everyone subscribed to the same story. Mary Clark was universally agreed to have been wonderfully efficient and the backbone of the church, and that was all there was to say. The real Mary had got lost in the myth
.

  Suzy’s eyes widened in surprise — and relief. She hated trying to say the right thing. And why was talking to the bereaved so hard? Especially to someone like him, who looked you in the eye and smiled. Social lies required complicity, but he wasn’t going to help her utter platitudes. What is going on here? she thought. One minute I’m yelling rude words and my car is covered in planks, and the next I’m sitting here talking to this man like a confidant. Yet she was touched by Robert’s openness, and his realistic love for his wife. If only she felt like that about Nigel. But she never thought of him as bigger than the sum of his parts. His parts were always running the show, anyway.

  There was a sudden sharp ring from the doorbell. Robert said, ‘Excuse me,’ and got up and left her. She could hear him welcoming a woman with a posh voice, and explaining to her about the fence. Jane Simpson, she thought. She heard the bustle and smelt the perfume before the grand entrance.

  ‘Dear me, Mrs Spencer, what a state the garden is in! How awful! Poor you, Robert!’ Jane Simpson turned imperiously away from Suzy to monopolize Robert’s attention. ‘I came round to talk to you about Phyllis Drysdale’s Bible study group. I think Nick would prefer an Alpha course, which would be so nice with the meals and the entertaining and so on. I think Phyllis is such a nuisance, really. I’m sure Mary would have made her move with the times.’

  Robert smiled. It was amazing how his dead wife could be invoked to endorse almost everything. He opened a kitchen drawer and took out a printed card with his details and handed it to Suzy.

  ‘Let me know about the insurance.’

  ‘Of course,’ Suzy said, and looked at the card. He was so efficient it was painful. He and Mary Clark must have been an awesome combination. Mr and Mrs Perfect.

  ‘Thanks,’ she added, standing up. ‘I’d better be going.’

  Robert took her to the door in silence. He seemed preoccupied. He must want to get back to Jane Simpson, Suzy thought, she’s more his type. Her eye caught the coat rack in the stained-glass vestibule with Robert’s mac and anorak hanging on coat hangers, surmounted by two tweed hats. He’s rather an old fart, she decided. For a nanosecond in the kitchen the coffee, the good humour and that hint of sensitivity had fooled her.

  The car looked all right except for a dent on the bonnet. Suzy turned the ignition key and put it into reverse and, after coughing a bit, it heaved itself out of the rut made by the fence’s foundations and chugged normally. She felt much better inside her own car, surrounded by the kids’ mess, back in her own world. The whole encounter had been disturbing. Of course, she had had a shock — so no wonder she had chattered on like that. But hadn’t she been a bit insensitive? Then again, why lie to him? That wasn’t her style, and he wasn’t stupid. And it didn’t really matter anyway. She and Robert Clark were unlikely ever to do more than nod to each other at church. But still . . . Suzy made a face at herself in the driving mirror. Trust me to open my big mouth, she thought.

  As she drove past Phyllis Drysdale’s bungalow she thought how odd it was that the lights weren’t on. It was completely dark. It would be great if poor old Phyllis had finished the church flowers and was out having a good time. Phyllis was a kindly person despite her stuffy manner. A few weeks earlier, Suzy had been let down by Sharon Strickland for babysitting, and Phyllis had offered to take Molly to the bungalow to see her new kitten.

  ‘We’ve called the pussy cat Flowerbabe,’ Molly said ecstatically.

  Calling the cat after Molly’s hideous doll had been an even greater act of kindness than the childminding, Suzy thought. Tonight, she hoped Phyllis was visiting someone nice in Tarnfield, but she couldn’t imagine who that could be. She put the dark bungalow behind her, accelerated, and drove on, down the hill towards that waiting bottle of wine.

  * * *

  Suzy passed a silver convertible without noticing. Yvonne Wait, dark and glamorous, was at the wheel, driving home from her weekend shift at Norbridge General. She observed Suzy Spencer’s car and Suzy’s face creased in concentration, and smiled to herself. As usual Suzy had been too harassed to see what was going on around her, unlike Yvonne, who had just spotted Kevin Jones outside Lo-cost. That had amused her. Kevin hadn’t clocked Yvonne driving past and, if Yvonne was right, he’d been in rather a compromising situation. Interesting! Yvonne liked knowing things about her neighbours. You never knew when these things would come in handy.

  Yvonne parked in the garage she’d had built next to her detached Georgian house. It was good to be home. It had been a busy day at the hospital, where she had had the misfortune to be working on Saturday reception because of the Easter holidays. As usual, people had been bloody stupid. The public was ghastly at the best of times. To crown it all, a stupid old man with a minor burn had complained just because Yvonne had raised her voice, which had led to an idiot foreign doctor gabbling on at her in pidgin English for about ten minutes just when her shift was about to end. And Yvonne had reasons for wanting to get home early tonight.

  Her elegant house was at the end of the High Street. It had been her parents’ house and her father had used it as his dental surgery too. It was one of the most beautiful buildings in Tarnfield, the only significant one left from the place’s heyday. Now all that was gone and, decade by decade, Tarnfield had shrunk to become an agricultural village, though the parish church had retained its importance.

  Opening the thick black front door with its shiny brass fittings, she found a note on the mat from old Phyllis Drysdale about her bloody silly Bible study group. Still, Yvonne had her reasons for attending. She decided to read it before winding down with a drink.

  Phyllis wrote in shaky longhand, thanking Yvonne and listing the other people. The usual suspects, Yvonne thought contemptuously, pretty much the same people who helped with the flowers plus a few dreary men. There was dowdy Monica Bell from the wood yard — a tedious woman who thought she was indispensable, but who had gone to seed in her fifties, or so Yvonne thought, crossing her own long, shapely legs. With the callousness of the naturally beautiful she could afford to be contemptuous of Monica. Then there was ‘Lady’ Jane Simpson of Tarnfield House, whose faded grandeur never failed to amuse Yvonne — who had made her own very sensible financial provisions for the future. Property, that was the secret. She had no time for people like Jane Simpson who lived beyond their means and let their houses go to pot. Oh, little Daisy Arthur was joining them. Daisy was pretty in a girlie way, but with no real style. Inconsequential, really. Tom Strickland was a dirty old man who had once accosted Yvonne in the alley behind the church. He fancied his chances but she hadn’t been interested despite his showing off about the other women he’d bedded. Then there were those two silly queens, Alan and Stevie, from Church Cottage. Though they might prove productive . . . And of course there was Robert Clark, the not-so-merry widower. Now there was potential if only he would smarten himself up. And toughen up too. All this grief was ridiculous, especially when most people knew Mary Clark had been a bossy bitch.

  So the Bible study group might come in useful. Not to mention the odd bit of flower arranging. Yvonne liked to know everything that was going on, and people gossiped as they trimmed and wired. Oh, here was one surprise — Suzy Spencer, whom she’d just passed in the car. Suzy was well known for being a complete mess, at least according to Mary Clark, with those two kids and the tasty husband who’d done a runner. No wonder. So she was going to the Bible study group too. Interesting.

  All very promising! But tonight Yvonne had other things on her mind. In an hour, her married lover would arrive. As a key administrator at the hospital he was rather a catch — and very useful. He’d packed his wife off on holiday to Spain for Easter, staying at home on the grounds of extra work, which left him and Yvonne the night to themselves. She went into her marble bathroom and started to run the steaming hot water. Five minutes later she stepped into the bath and lay there, Junoesque, while the foam frothed around her. She sipped at her cold glass of Sancerre.

  Smiling
to herself, Yvonne shut her eyes and let the warmth of the water lap round the most intimate bits of her luscious body.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Daisy Arthur parked her car outside her mother’s house in Tarn Acres where she had lived since coming home from college nearly two years ago, and dashed inside.

  ‘I’ve got an hour before I go out,’ she called to her mum, who was preparing for a nice evening watching TV and finishing some quilting.

  ‘Where are you off to, Daisy?’

  ‘I’m going round to see Nick the Vic. I’m sure he’ll be interested in what I’ve planned for tomorrow’s Sunday School lesson.’

  Nancy Arthur sighed. She’d worried that Tarnfield would be too boring for her daughter once she left college. But though Daisy was supposed to be looking for a job somewhere more exciting, she seemed to find the village completely absorbing.

  It was the church. Mrs Arthur didn’t like Daisy being so involved, but there was nothing she could do about it. Daisy was working at Lo-cost, Tarnfield’s only shop, and showing little sign of moving on. A boyfriend would change all that, her mother thought, but there was no one on the scene. Daisy had never really found anyone to live up to her father. She’d been his favourite, and they had been close, until a heart attack had caused his premature death while she was at university.

  If I didn’t have ME I’d be more help to her, Nancy Arthur thought. But as it is, I’ve got chronic fatigue and I’m marooned here. And it’s not as if I really belong in Tarnfield; although I’ve lived here for thirty years, I hardly get hundreds of invitations. Nancy rarely went further than the garden gate and since Daisy had come home, there was even less need to go out. Her daughter was a little bit over-protective but Nancy had her visits from the district nurse, as well as Babs Piefield who was in the Neighbours’ Support Scheme and who visited frequently. Sometimes a little too frequently, thought Nancy wearily. But Babs always had plenty of information to pass on. Thanks to her, Nancy knew all about the changes at All Saints.