Ring and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 6)

by Stella Whitelaw

  “I suppose I could bind you over, or issue some kind of bond. I’m not sure. The curator of the collection at Broom Water House will be along tomorrow to identify the garment. You are more or less trustworthy.”

  Stay serene, I told myself. More or less trustworthy was a step forward. I produced a serene smile, fringed with sincerity and trustworthiness. It was a difficult procedure, especially when I was seething with anger.

  “How kind,” I said. “You obviously know an honest citizen when you see one. Years of experience.”

  James looked at me sharply, to see if I was taking the michael. I kept looking the same look, straight at him. One day I would fall apart just hearing his name. I wanted him around forever. As the song goes, if we could not be the best of lovers, perhaps we could be the best of friends.

  I would lay down my life for him. Maybe he would do the same for me. A glint of silver flashed across my eyes. It was odd. No idea why. There was a sting of regret.

  “I’ll bring the curator to your shop tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Make sure you are there and the dress is there.”

  “You’ve got me worried now,” I said, slinging on my shoulder bag. “I may have to sleep at the shop. It would be awful if someone broke in overnight. If the dress is that valuable, the sooner the curator has it back the better.”

  “Changed your mind?”

  “No,” I said, with resignation, “I’ll look after it. I want it to last another two hundred years. How much is it worth?”

  “Several thousand pounds, I guess. It’s difficult to put a price on antique clothes until you come to sell them, and Broom Water House are not selling.”

  “And to think I nearly put my usual six pound price tag on it,” I said. “Sorry, only joking. I wasn’t going to sell it. Too beautiful for common merchandise.”

  “Do you want a lift anywhere?” James asked, thawing a couple of degrees.

  “No, thank you. I need a walk. By the way, I left some gloves behind a hundred years ago.”

  “I’ll get Seargeant Rawlings to check lost property.”

  A walk via Latching library. It was still open. I wanted to look up lost pets on the Internet. I might get lucky.

  The rows of terminals were busy, mostly with foreign students mailing home in various languages. I had to wait in an impatient line even for a short-hold thirty-minutes-only terminal. I went straight to Google and keyed in “Pets lost”. It was heartbreaking. I couldn’t bear to read about all the lost Rovers, Flopsies and Tiggers.

  “Pets found” was more encouraging. I hoped the finders and losers would get together. “Pets for sale” was even more illuminating, with lots of Chihuahuas on offer. Several were from reputable kennels that I recognized. There was one that stood out from the others because chihuahua had been spelt incorrectly, twice. Chiwahwas was a phonetic spelling, how it sounded. I took down the name, H. Ford, and the phone number. I spun through a few other websites but there was nothing of any interest.

  There was a sleeping bag at the shop for emergencies, and this was definitely in that category. Doris’s shop was closed, so I couldn’t get any extra milk. Supper was going to be frugal unless I treated myself to a Mexican. It made sense, as Miguel’s restaurant was only two doors away, but he would want me to be his guest and I could not accept another lovely meal from him.

  The chemise dress was still on its lonely stand. I took a closer look at the exquisite stitching and the fine material. It was amazing that it had lasted so many years. My shop did not sell sheets so I made do with a shroud of bubblewrap. The dress needed protection not only from the polluted atmosphere but also from prying eyes.

  I phoned the dealer who could not spell chihuahua and he was chatty enough. Yes, he’d got a couple of nice little puppies. He couldn’t keep them because his kid was allergic to dogs. He’d let them go cheap.

  This sounded promising. “I’d certainly like to see them, Mr Ford,” I said. “You say that one is long-haired?”

  “Like a little ball of fluff, he is,” the man chuckled. “Proper little puffball. I can bring ’em over if you like. Where are you? Latching? That’s not far. I could pop them round any time.”

  Problem. I did not do PI business at my shop. I do not do business at my home. Whatever I do work-wise should not be traceable to either address.

  “The puppies are actually a present for my sister, a surprise present, and I don’t want her to see them,” I said smoothly.

  “I quite understand, miss. You just say where and I’ll be there.” Mr Ford chuckled again at his rhyming pattern. He sounded pleasant but if they were the stolen puppies, then he was a thief and might get nasty.

  “How about the amusement arcade on the pier?” I said, thinking of Jack being around. My stalwart mate. “You might win a few bob while you wait, if I’m late.” This was catching.

  “Okay by me. How about midday? Then I’ll still have time for a drink at a pub. You’ll love these puppies soon as you see them.”

  “How much did you say for them?”

  “Thirty pounds.”

  “Is that each or for both?”

  “Come off it, miss. Thirty pounds each. These are pedigree puppies.” He chuckled some more.

  “Have you got their documentation?”

  “’Course I have. I’ll bring it along, don’t you worry.”

  We rang off after mutual confirmation of the time and place. Tomorrow was going to be busy. If I survived the night.

  *

  Clean jeans, clean sweater, and I was ready for words with Miguel. No black dress and kitten heels this visit. Maybe he would understand. I locked the shop carefully, back and front, making sure no one could see the dress.

  “Jordan,” he said, his eyes lighting up. He was moving fast around the tables for his size. “I adore to see you but this not good time. Come back tomorrow.”

  “I’ve come as a customer, Miguel. Allow me to pay, please. I need a quick supper.” It was blurted out, not at all diplomatically.

  “Please, Jordan, I plead with you. No supper tonight. This is bad night. I am three staff down. Bad cold, bad back, this influenza stuff. I am doing everything. Sorry, Jordan. Please go home.”

  I can be a quick thinker on some occasions. This was one of them. The dress was safe for the time being. My appetite took second place as I produced my trump card.

  “Where do you want me? In the kitchen, or out front?”

  Not quite the right way to put it but fortunately Miguel does not have that kind of mind. His dark brown eyes, which had already brightened, lit up a few more degrees.

  “Jordan, you are my angel. The kitchen is desolate. No one, only me, rushing about like a hot cat. I will tell you everything to do. I will make the cooking proper if you do arranging on plates…” His fractured English was deteriorating.

  “I’ll wash salad, prepare vegetables, put dishes in the machine, anything you say,” I said, following Miguel into the kitchen. “I can cook rice.”

  “You are perfection in a basket.”

  I might have been perfection but I was no short-order cook. I rolled up my sleeves and put on an apron. The next three hours were more than hard work. It was like being incarcerated in hot sauce, smelling of spice and peppers and garlic and turmeric, intermittently stirred, constantly leaping from hot pot to hot pot. Steam was coming out of my ears but I became a dab hand at arranging the side salads and the relishes.

  Miguel occasionally, on the run, found time to plant a warm kiss on the back of my neck. “My angel!” he repeated, at frequent intervals. It was heady stuff.

  At some point later, I felt the pressure easing. Orders were slowing down, meals finishing. I was making pots of coffee and people were going home. Euphoria swept over me, along with tiredness beyond description. Standing up sleeping was not out of the question.

  Miguel guided me to a chair at the back of the restaurant and put a simple dish of rice and vegetable jambalaya in front of me. He poured a glass of wine.

&nbs
p; “Finish now. Eat. drink, and I pay you,” he said.

  “I don’t want paying,” I said.”I want to ask a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Will you sleep with me tonight?”

  *

  That really shook Miguel. He could not believe what he was hearing. This was not my day for saying things in the right way. A gentleness fell over his eyes. He’d been trying for months, maybe more than a year, to talk me into some sort of relationship. And he had given up, lost hope.

  “Jordan, you mock me,” he said.

  “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that kind of sleeping. I was asking you to keep me company. I have to sleep at the shop tonight and I’m a bit scared in case someone breaks in.”

  The story of the 1799 chemise dress came out and he nodded understandingly. He was sipping from my glass of wine, as dead beat as I was. We were both too tired to do anything but sleep. I should really be helping with the clearing up before he went home to bed, not asking him to sleep on the floor of my shop.

  “There are two selections,” he said. I loved it when he used funny words. “I go home and get many pillows and duvets. You cannot rest on a hard floor without some comfort. Or, we take valuable antique dress to my flat in the car and rest the night in peace.”

  It was a tempting option. I didn’t know he had a flat. It was asking for trouble. I did not want to have to fight him off. He was always so kind in every way.

  “I didn’t know you had a flat,” I said.

  “Right on the seafront. One of the new ones in the rebuilt Georgian terrace. On the first floor with a small iron balcony for watching the waves.”

  It was a seduction of words and images. I’ve always wanted a balcony with a sea view. I would do almost anything for a balcony. To sit watching the sea, with a glass of wine at one’s side, the newspaper, a good book, maybe some jazz playing low in the background… my idea of heaven.

  I knew the terrace he meant. It was an architectural triumph. After years of pulling down Georgian houses and putting up red-brick monstrosities, some genius had kept the frontage of a sweeping terrace but completely rebuilt behind it, providing a dozen or more luxury flats. They were very expensive. More noughts than I would ever see in a lifetime.

  Miguel put his hand across the table and covered mine. "I will fetch the pillows,” he said, nodding. “It is more simple.”

  I accepted gratefully. “Thank you. I’ll clear up in the kitchen.”

  I went all out with the lemon Cif, cleaning everything in sight. The skin on my lingers wrinkled and my nose twitched. Perhaps I should have asked James to sleep guard with me. But no, he was busy elsewhere, wasn’t he? Looking after the citizens of Latching, his job and his pension.

  It was, I suppose, an easy sort of night. Miguel arrived with mountains of bedding. He’d changed into casual clothes. We made a nest on the floor of my office, but left the door open so that I could still see the dress on its stand. Miguel was asleep in seconds. He looked so kindly in sleep, an arm flung back, his dark face in repose, his curly hair stark against the white pillow.

  It took a while for me to relax. Every bone ached and I expected each moment for someone to break a window, or for Miguel to lunge at me with intensely poetic Latin passion. But neither happened. I fell asleep and at some point in the night I moved against him and his arm came round me. He murmured something. It was very comforting.

  *

  A loud knocking woke me. I staggered to my feet, trailing duvet. DI James was at the door of the shop with the curator from Broom Water House. Their silhouettes were clear against the window. I had slept in a tracksuit, so I was fully clothed but tousled.

  I unlocked the door and opened it. It was a lovely morning, fresh, clean, bright. Maybe spring was on its way. I needed daffodils and cheerfulness.

  “Hello,” I said. “Your dress is safe. No one blasted their way in last night.”

  DI James stepped into the shop. “You slept here last night?” He was taking in my unkempt appearance.

  “Yes,” I said. “I didn’t want anything to happen to the dress while it was in my shop. I felt responsible for its safety.”

  James introduced the elderly curator, a Mr Arthur Williams. He was overjoyed to see the dress. He kept exclaiming about its perfection. Of course, I agreed with every word. We had a lot in common.

  Mr Williams had brought a huge cardboard container in which to transport the dress back to Broom Water House, and layers of tissue paper. I was sorry to see it go. It had added class to my establishment.

  “You have taken good care of it, Miss Lacey,” he said. “Thank you so much. We are absolutely delighted to have it back in such good condition. You have no idea… We’d like to thank you with these free admission tickets. You and a friend, or your partner…” For a moment he looked confused.

  “How kind,” I said, coming to his rescue. “We’d love to come. And I’m so glad the dress is going home. I wonder what tales it could tell us.”

  “Many delightful tales, indeed,” said Mr Williams with a benevolent twinkle.

  It was as the curator was organizing the removal of the dress into a van that Miguel woke up and made an appearance. He had slept in short navy pants, very Latin. He looked swarthy and hairy and still sleepy.

  “Benuos dias,” he said, stretching lazily. “This is a lovely morning.”

  Those few words were dynamite. I dare not look at James’s face. Yet, why not? My life was mine. James didn’t care. He didn’t show any personal interest in me. I was merely an irritating PI, a thorn in his side.

  “I trust you slept well,” said James, his eyes sweeping over Miguel’s disheveled appearance, his voice like cracked ice.

  “Why not? With such an angel at my side…” said Miguel, stretching. “Breathing blossom in my ear.”

  I decided not to explain. It seemed easier. At least, I was fully dressed. And I had a busy morning ahead. Twelve midday with the dog man, Mr H. Ford, on the pier.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, gentlemen. I have a lot of work to do. Miguel needs a cup of my excellent coffee before going home, and you, DI James, no doubt have a lot of police calls upon your time. Nice to have met you, Mr Williams. I hope you have had your alarm systems updated.”

  “Indeed, indeed,” said Mr Williams, feeling on safer ground. “No one will be able to steal the dress again. Though why it was dumped on your doorstep is still a mystery, and how they got the dress away is also a mystery.”

  “A mystery is a puzzlement that only the blessed can solve,” I said.

  “Who said that?” said James, turning at the door, his face etched in a storm of sunlight.

  I took in the sense of him, the sight of him, with heady abandonment.

  “I did. I made it up. Do you like it?”

  “It could grow on me.”

  Fourteen

  Miguel went home in the shambling morning light with his mountain of bedding. It was a wonder that DI James had not given him a parking ticket. I assumed, from the somnolent goodbye, that Miguel was going home for an extra twenty winks. Perhaps he never got up till midday. It wouldn’t have surprised me. The pace in that kitchen had been frenetic.

  It was a relief, although tinged with regret, to see the dress go. James disappeared without a further word, just a curt nod. Miguel did not look awake enough to drive, but drive he did, a long silver Mercedes, filled to the roof with pillows. Back to his rebuilt Georgian flat with a balcony overlooking the sea.

  Maybe Doris had been right. It could be a life of ease beckoning me, apart from the odd emergency stint in his kitchen, which I would do gladly. Miguel might teach me to cook, take me to South America to meet his family, lavish me with roses and wine. Perhaps life was coming up buttercups and daisies, except for one thing. He was not the right man. Not at the moment, anyway.

  The shop looked empty without the dress on display. I had got used to it and decided to look out for something striking to stand in its place. Maybe the theater would len
d me a gown if I gave them an advertising spot for a coming show. I was still on their voluntary list for front-of-house workers, but they had not called me of late. A little bird whispering…? Could it be they did not trust me anymore? I had been involved when their theater manager died, rather publicly.

  Something was happening to the air outside. It was warming up. The council had put some old rowing boats along the pedestrian shopping areas and filled them with spring flowers. They were splashed with the yellow of daffodils and straight little dwarf tulips with frilled red petals. Spring… just the word lifted my melancholy. It meant that summer was on its way and soon I would be walking the beach barefooted, feeling the water on my skin, catching seaweed between my toes.

  I did an eight-minute walk of the pier but no one was waiting around with a box full of puppies. The amusement arcade was always busy whatever the time of day. I went over to the security booth, where Jack was incarcerated with his bags of money. He gave me a wave and keyed in the code to open the door. He was already making the coffee.

  “Hi Jack,” I said.

  “Hiya babe.” I didn’t mind it from him.

  “I haven’t time for coffee,” I said. “I’m meeting a contact who has two puppies for sale.”

  “Call me if he gives you any aggro.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Someone had to be rescued from under the pier,” he said, peering at me over the jar of instant. “It wasn’t you, was it?”

  “Me?” I said, all innocence. “What would I be doing under the pier?”

  He was not taken in. “I could have got you out. I’ve got a trapdoor down to the superstructure. It’s in case there’s a fire and I need a quick escape. You should have let me know you were there.”

  “I never thought,” I said with an apologetic shrug.

  He shook his head as he stirred the brown brew he called coffee. “What’s your mobile for? Give me a call. Always give me a call.”

  “I will,” I said.

  “Wanna come out for a drink tonight?” he called as he closed the door. He was paranoid about being robbed.

  I nodded but made my escape. Puppies came first.