Pompomberry House
Page 13
“What does he call himself?”
“Angel. Angel Smith.”
Dear God.
“It’s a very good story actually. A light comedy about a couple who both hire the same private detective to investigate the other.”
“But wasn’t that Rafe’s idea?”
“No, not at all; Angel’s story is set in Ireland!”
Annabel continued rooting through the magazine, as if an article in a women’s mag was going to be the answer to all of our problems.
Suddenly, she became animated. “I know!”
“What?”
“Why don’t we write another story, and see if it comes true?”
“How would that help? We’d have to know who the villain is to make sure that he or she knows about the story. Unless you’re suggesting showing it to everybody ...”
“We don’t show anybody. That’s the point. If it’s Biff’s ghost, or any other ghost for that matter, the story will come true whether living people have seen it or not!”
I looked at her. She was a few eyeliners short of a makeup box. How could she possibly think that her idea was a good one?
For no apparent reason, Gulls Reach popped into my head. I remembered the old, ghostly lady. I remembered the birds on the island, and the evil glint in their eyes when they had looked at me. Was supernatural activity so completely unlikely? If seagulls could bear grudges — and I rather felt that they could — then perhaps I should consider the possibility that the unexplained could explain the yet to be explained.
“All right, fine,” I heard myself say. But first, I was going to go to the bathroom. I wasn’t tempting a demon on a full bladder. I collected my things together and made my way over to the pink door marked ‘Misses’.
I stared at my reflection. What are you doing Dee? What are you doing? This was absolutely insane. However, what other choice did I have? Annabel was clearly not going to co-operate unless we ruled out spooky activity. And what did I have to lose? We’d write a story, nothing would happen, and that would be the end of it. Unless Annabel was the perpetrator — which seemed unlikely when she was so drippy — the copycat would never even know that there was another story to act out.
My fringe was looking a little unruly so I tucked it under my beret with the other ill-behaved strands of hair.
“So, what shall we write about?” asked Annabel. A pen with a sparkling, fluffy pompom on the end was already in hand, ready to write about fairies, elves or whatever else existed in the mind of such a wishy-washy person.
“Um ...”
“How about, we write about people who are here in this bar, right now? To tempt the spirit into acting right away?”
“Why not?” I replied. The sooner I could get this crazy idea out of her mind, the sooner we could move on and start talking about something sensible, like how we might stop Montgomery Lowe from murdering Netta Lewis.
“Why don’t we write a story about the barman asking me out?” she asked, eyeing him up with a cheeky smile.
“We need to use something unlikely. Something that would never happen otherwise.”
“How about, the barman asking you out?”
I glowered.
No apology followed.
“What about, we write a story in which the barman gets up on the counter and dances the Macarena?” I suggested.
She giggled.
I proposed, “Once upon a time, two gorgeous young writers were sitting in a bar, when a cute barman in chunky green glasses, got up on the counter, and danced the Macarena.”
“It’s perfect!” she chanted. “Write it down!”
I took out my spiral bound notepad, and ripped out a page. Annabel immediately stuck a Minnie Mouse sticker to the corner. I passed it to her, and let her transcribe.
‘Two gorgeous, talented writers ...” she scribbled.
Wait! I didn’t say anything about ‘talented’. Now it definitely won’t work! Oh, who was I kidding? There was no way that this harebrained scheme could possibly work anyway.
Eventually, when she’d finished doodling a floral embellishment, she took out an envelope, slipped the story inside and then sealed it. Then she put it in the middle of the table.
We both looked at it, and then our gazes slowly made their way to the barman. He was a trendy type, using the only non-regulation part of his outfit — his bold green glasses — to convey that nobody could contain his touch of dash.
I realised that I was actually holding my breath. I turned back to Annabel. Suddenly, we both laughed, realising at just the same time that we were being a tad ridiculous. For a rare moment, we shared a smile.
“I guess it might not happen right away,” said Annabel.
“Perhaps we should amuse ourselves while we wait.”
“Perhaps.”
I thought about it for a few moments. What could I possibly find to talk to Annabel about, the only thing we had in common was The Book of Most Quality Writers and that wasn’t something that I enjoyed discussing — the low-light of my career. I studied her, with her perfectly smooth hair, and wondered how she managed to find time to be so well groomed. By the time I finished my newspaper work, did a little work on my novel, tidied the house and spent an hour reading, there was barely enough time left to wash my three-inch locks, let alone condition, style and polish them.
“How’s Rafe?” I asked, for want of anything better to say.
“Oh he’s good — great — good! Well, to be honest Dee, I don’t really know where I stand.”
“Have you seen him since the trip?”
“Oh yes, quite a few times. But that’s why I’m confused. After the trip, he told me it was just a ‘creatives’ fling’.”
“A what?”
“The embodiment of two great minds celebrating their combined talent ... A fleeting, frenzied fling. And then, the next time he saw me, we had another shag.”
“I see.”
“So, was it a fling or not?”
“I think I see what’s happening here.”
“You do?” she asked, her big brown eyes looking desperate and hopeful.
“Yes, Mr Maddocks is suffering from a chronic case of wanting to have his cake and eat it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wants both the perks that come with being single and the perks that come with being attached.”
“So it was an analogy?”
“Yes!”
“In which I’m a cake.”
“Yes!”
“Oh,” she said, looking put out. I saw her glance at her trim, size-ten waist for reassurance.
“You don’t have to put up with it you know.”
“I don’t?”
“No, you can tell him that if he’s not going to commit, he can sod off.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“It looks needy. The magazines are very clear on looking needy.”
“It doesn’t look needy, it looks strong! If you let him know he can walk all over you, then he will.”
“Is that why you left your husband?”
“What?”
“Was he walking all over you?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Yes.”
“You miss him, don’t you?”
“No, why would you think that?”
“No reason,” she said softly.
“How long are we going to give this guy to do the Macarena?” I asked.
“Shush!” she said, giggling. “You’ll ruin it if he overhears you.”
I was surprised to find that I was enjoying spending time with Annabel more than I expected. Nevertheless, I had things to do. I couldn’t stay here forever, hoping that a barman would spontaneously start shakin’ his shoulders.
“Annabel, on the off-chance that Biff’s ghost doesn’t possess the barman, can you think of any reason why anybody in the group would want to copy the storylines?”
“No.”
“Because at first, I t
hought the gnomes would help sell the book — a kooky stunt — but what happened with the pig and then the foot, was just sick.
She looked shocked. “None of the writers would do anything to harm ...”
Deep inhalation of breath.
“... the book!”
“Right.” I frowned. Best move on. “Well, the only other person who might know something is Biff’s killer,” I ventured.
“How would Biff’s killer know about the stories?”
“Well he was on the island, wasn’t he?”
“For a while.”
“What if he or she heard everything? What if the killer took copies of our work?”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. Why would anybody kill Biff? It’s all a puzzle.” Thinking about Biff again was like being punched in the stomach. I remembered our night watching Arrested Development and discussing the state of the world. I remembered how much I had liked him. “He was a nice man.”
“Biff wasn’t one of us though, was he? Why would the person who hurt Biff want to hurt us?”
“I don’t know, but we do know that whoever planted the foot was sick, and so was Biff’s killer. I think we should go to the police, both of us.”
“Why?”
“Because they don’t believe that Biff’s murder ever happened.”
“I can’t go to the police now, Dee! They’d wonder why I didn’t report the ... loss ... at the time! I’d be in a lot of trouble.”
“Well, you can tell them that you were afraid. I mean, it’s not as if you were one of the people who stayed and hid his body.”
“I don’t know, Dee. There is a dangerous force at work here, and I don’t want to anger it.”
“Look around you, Annabel! There’s no dancing barman. There is no ‘force’; it’s a person! And the sooner they get locked up, the better.”
“I can’t,” she muttered.
“Somebody might try to kill Netta Lewis!”
“I can’t,” she repeated.
“Well, it’s been nice catching up with you, Annabel, but I have to be getting on,” I told her, angrily getting up from my seat and slamming it into the table.
“Please, don’t be angry with me, Dee!”
“Annabel, a murder may very well be taking place as we speak and the police don’t believe me. And why don’t they believe me? Because there are no other witnesses to Biff’s murder.”
“Please don’t hate me! I didn’t hide his body.”
“Well, you may as well have done!” I shouted. I was half way out of the bar. Heads turned.
Annabel scurried after me, doing a peculiar tango on her tall heels. “Dee! Wait!”
“What?”
“Give me a few days. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Netta Lewis doesn’t have a few days! The voting ends on Saturday. If the copycat does want to kill her, it will happen before then.”
Suddenly, a look of shock crossed her face, as if she’d just realised something crucially important to the case. “I’ve left my shopping bag in there!”
“Right, well, you go and get that; I’m going home.”
Annabel disappeared into the trendy London bar and I turned away. The meeting had been a total waste of time. Almost immediately, I heard a cry. I hurried back inside.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. On top of the counter, the barman with the green glasses, wiggled his shoulders and stretched out his arms. I gawped as he performed move after move, culminating in “Hey! Macarena!”
Chapter 9
Telling the police about the Macarena was not an option. It would do nothing to soothe their opinion that I was deeply paranoid and ridiculous. I had no choice but to protect Netta Lewis myself.
With only three days left until the voting closed, I tried, with desperation, to get hold of Netta. I messaged her three times, beginning with a friendly request to speak to her, and finishing with an admission that I felt her life was in severe danger and that she must call me as soon as possible. None of my messages generated a response. I wondered if she even checked the email account associated with the campaign. Eventually, I added a post to her Facebook page.
The next morning, when I still hadn’t heard from Netta, I decided to do some investigating of my own. If I couldn’t contact the victim, the need to stop the killer was even greater.
I read seven news articles about the pig. Each one reported it as a terrible accident. Only one person seemed curious as to what a pig was doing on top of a cliff in the middle of the night — the farmer. I had to talk to that farmer.
Grabbing a reporter’s notebook and a gel pen, I hurried out the front door. Then I rushed back inside — in the excitement, I’d forgotten my wallet. Why had I wasted my life only writing about mysteries when being a detective was so invigorating?
I climbed into my Micra and turned the key in the ignition. Oh no, Gertie! Not today. She was a temperamental little 1999 model. I wondered if she’d always been moody, or was it her age?
Without even thinking, I called Gareth. By the time I’d realised what I was doing, it was too late — the line had begun to ring. Why had I even put his number into speed dial on my new phone? I can’t hang up now, or he might hear it ring and know that I changed my mind! Then he might wonder why. He might think I am struggling with wanting to break up. He might think he is still in with a chance. All my hard work showing him that it’s over will be wasted. Can’t have him think I’m wavering ...
No, there was only one sensible course of action — I would need to see the call through.
“Hello?” asked a deep, familiar voice. Did I detect a hint of excitement? Mind you, Gareth always sounded excited when he answered the phone, even when he knew it was going to be the bank or electricity board.
“Hey Gareth, it’s me.”
“Dee-dee-dee!” he sang out. Yay! He is excited.
“Gertie won’t start.”
“Bummer. Not again! Are you getting her taken into the garage?”
“No, I know I probably should, but I need to get to Dorset now.”
“Dorset, why?”
“I want to talk to a farmer about a pig.”
“Well, I’ll take you!”
“You will?” Yay! Oh, was I excited now? Was that a feeling I should heed?
“Sure, I’ll take you. I haven’t got a job yet.”
And there it was, the whole break up taking centre stage again. Of course he didn’t have a job ‘yet’. Why break such a well-entrenched habit?
“Dee?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want a lift?”
I thought about it. Spending time with my husband was going to make the separation harder in the long run, and quite probably give him the wrong idea, but if I didn’t accept a lift, I might not be able to grill the farmer for clues, and without clues, Netta Lewis might die. With only three days left before the voting closed — I had to act fast. I mean, sure, by spending time with Gareth I might be risking a little more ill-advised sex, but it felt like a small price to pay to save a life. “Yes please.”
I dug through my drawers until I found my best pair of jeans. They were snug-fit, rather than my usual baggy options. I decided to wear a lilac flat cap, because I knew it brought out the blue in my eyes. It’s not that I wanted my husband to fancy me; I just wanted to reassure him that I was all right during this difficult time.
The drive to Dorset was rather enjoyable. It was just like old times. Gareth singing ‘Wonderwall’ whilst I interjected the occasional Spice Girls lyric to wind him up. I noticed that his beer gut had shrunk a little. Did that mean he was missing me?
“Gareth?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever seen a barman dance the Macarena?”
“What? No. Why?”
“Just wondered.”
“Dee ...?”
“Okay. When I met Annabel, we put a sealed prediction in an envelope, saying that the barman would dance the Macarena ...”
“... and he did.”
Gareth looked at me for a few moments — a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Then a little laugh escaped.
“What?”
“You don’t seriously think that you and Annabel are altering the course of history with your writing, do you?”
“No, of course not,” I said, with a forced laugh. After a few moments silence, I added, “But how else do you explain it?”
“How did you decide what to put in the envelope?”
“We talked about it.”
“Well, then.”
“Well, then what?”
“The barman must have overheard.”
“Why would he have been listening to what we were saying?”
“To mess with you?”
“We were talking quietly, almost in a whisper.”
“And you kept your eye on the envelope the whole time.”
“Yes!” Then I thought about it. “Well, no, we went outside for a bit.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“And why would the barman open the envelope, anyway?”
“Nosy? Or maybe he was trying to find out who it belonged to. I admit, the barman opening the envelope and deciding to act on the prediction is unlikely, but it’s more likely than any other explanation.”
“It wasn’t even really a prediction, it was a story.”
“Dee ...”
“What?”
“Maybe we should take a holiday.”
We? “You know I can’t take a holiday, Gareth, not while Netta is in danger.”
Gareth studied me looking concerned, but he knew it would be best to change the subject. “So this farmer was on the news?”
“Yeah, he said he couldn’t understand how his pig got out to Durdle Door when his farm is inland. He’s frustrated because the police aren’t doing enough to investigate. Perhaps if he tells me everything he knows, there might be some sort of clue that will help me work out which one of them did it.”
“And you still think it was one of the writers?”
“I think it was Montgomery, but I don’t have a lot to go on. I’m not even sure that I have a motive. I need more evidence.”
“Well, at least the best woman is on the job.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”