Murder at the Maples: A Flora Lively Mystery

by Joanne Phillips

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s not here. I saw him go out half an hour ago. He goes to his book group on a Friday afternoon.’

  ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘I suppose it’s good you’ve seen the man in black for yourself,’ Joy said, ignoring Flora’s question. ‘At least now we have a witness on the outside too.’

  A witness? Flora was about to protest when Joy stood up. ‘I need to go,’ she said, and then she crept back along the gravel path towards the main building without even saying goodbye.

  Flora closed her eyes briefly. She heard shuffling in the hydrangea behind her and half-turned, expecting to see the squirrel again. There was nothing there. She stood and turned full circle. The prickling sensation returned to the damp patch on her back. Was someone watching her?

  ‘Hello?’ she said. Her voice sounded shaky. She said hello again, more firmly this time. No one answered.

  ‘Get a hold of yourself, Lively.’ She wiped her hand across her forehead and gave her shoulders a little shake. Then she jogged out of the gardens, telling herself she was only jogging because Marshall would already be annoyed at waiting so long. She glanced at Joy’s unit as she passed the hedging on the other side of the quadrant, and was surprised to see the warden letting herself out of the door. Why was Cynthia in Joy’s unit without her? Flora watched until the warden had disappeared around the corner of the building, then she ran forward and peered in Joy’s window. Her friend definitely wasn’t home. She shrugged. Probably just doing a security check or something. It stood to reason she would have keys to all the units on the complex.

  She thought about the warden’s frosty attitude earlier, and her sharpness the day she’d talked to her about Joy. Cynthia sure was a prickly character, primarily concerned about how the retirement village looked to “outsiders”. What if there was something about the Captain’s death that she was hiding? Something that might make her look bad. Maybe he’d slipped on some spilled water, or a sticking up bit of carpet, and she was trying to cover it up. Flora thought back to that horrible day and surveyed the scene in her mind. She was sure she’d have noticed anything like that, and the warden herself said the medics had been with the Captain in minutes. Not long enough for her to have carried out some kind of cover up.

  Flora reached the car park and stood in the shade of the topiary arch, lost in her memory. She could see it clearly, see the layout of the stairs from above and below. The warden had been the only person to actually see the Captain fall, she’d said so herself. But for the warden to have seen the Captain start his descent from the point Flora identified today, she would have had to have been standing right in the middle of the bottom of the stairs. Close enough to run up if someone tripped, surely? Perhaps not close enough to catch them, but close enough to break their fall.

  For the warden’s explanation to make sense, she would have had to have been standing too far away to reach him in time. Except the lobby wasn’t that large. Which could only mean one of two things: either the warden had watched the Captain fall and done nothing, or she was lying and she hadn’t seen it at all.

  And if that was the case, anything could have happened. He could have dropped dead at the foot of the stairs as he was about to climb them; he could have tripped over something at the top of the stairs; he could even have fallen from one of the balconies. Or, he could have been pushed.

  Flora shook the thought away. Just because the warden’s story didn’t make sense to her didn’t mean the Captain’s death was suspicious. The postmortem might reveal he’d had a heart attack or a stroke – it was impossible to second-guess it. Besides, Cynthia seemed like a woman of character; she’d been genuinely concerned about the Captain. Look how annoyed she’d been when Flora dropped the Captain’s personal papers on the floor earlier. She might be overprotective, and a little heartless where pets were concerned, but it didn’t make her a liar.

  ‘Flora bloody Lively, stop daydreaming and get in this freaking van. I’m going to strangle your dog in a minute, and this time it won’t be an accident!’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said as she climbed up into the cab and was greeted by an excited Otto in typical face-licking style. ‘It was Joy, she had something to tell me.’

  ‘Whatever. Buckle up.’

  She did as she was told. ‘Marshall, would you mind dropping me straight home? I’ve got a bit of a headache.’

  ‘You live a ten-minute walk away, Flora. If you were going straight home why did I have to wait around for you?’

  ‘Because, Mr Grumpy, I didn’t know I was going to have a headache, did I? Come on, it’s only round the corner.’

  ‘My point exactly.’ When they stopped at the traffic lights he said, ‘Are you sure you’re not just trying to get out of coming to the storage facility?’

  ‘It’s not that.’ She felt bad about leaving him to unload the Captain’s stuff alone, but Marshall was more than capable of dealing with it. The headache wasn’t a total lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

  Marshall drove on. He asked Flora if she’d seen the warden again.

  ‘I saw her but not to talk to. Why?’

  ‘Wondered if she knows what’s up with Richie. His message just said he wasn’t coming in, no detail.’

  Flora pulled a face. ‘She didn’t mention him at all, did she? Even earlier when we were in the Captain’s room. Which is odd, isn’t it? If he’s ill.’

  ‘Maybe he’s – what do you call it over here? Tipping the lead?’

  ‘Swinging the lead.’ Flora laughed. ‘You’ve been “over here” for nearly two years, Marshall. When are you going to start acting like a native? I’m sure it’s all an affectation.’

  ‘Will this do ya?’ he drawled, putting on an exaggerated Texan accent as they pulled up at the end of Flora’s street. She laughed again and shook her head. He wasn’t even from Texas.

  ‘Can’t you get a bit closer,’ she teased, knowing full well it was tricky to drive up the narrow road and get the van out again.

  ‘This is close enough,’ he said, leaning against his window. ‘So you’re finishing for the day, are you?’

  ‘Well, I am the boss.’

  ‘You’re lazy,’ he said mock-seriously.

  ‘I am not. I have a dog to look after and a mystery to solve.’

  ‘The mystery of the suicidal dogs?’

  ‘The mystery of how a sweet old man fell to his death,’ Flora corrected.

  Marshall dropped his eyes. ‘Right. Sorry. But you’re not really taking Joy’s story seriously, are you?’ He turned the key and killed the engine. ‘You don’t actually think that old guy with the ankle flappers is behind all this?’

  Flora picked up a wriggling Otto and popped him back in his carrier. ‘Honestly? I just don’t know. It all sounds like you said – her guilty mind playing tricks on her. But she’s genuinely scared, Marshall, and it’s making her ill. I’m going to do whatever I can to reassure her.’

  Flora passed the oversized canvas bag across the cab so she could climb out of the van. She came around to the driver’s side and held up her arms.

  ‘You’re getting too involved, Flora.’

  She thought: Tell me something I don’t know.

  ‘You’re blocking traffic,’ she told him, even though the street was clearly empty. ‘Better get a wriggle on.’

  ‘Flora Lively investigates,’ Marshall said, starting up the engine. ‘The mystery at the Maples.’

  She pursed her lips in mock disapproval.

  ‘Maybe we should turn Shakers into a detective agency. Beats a handyman service any day.’

  Flora shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted up at him. ‘Are you trying to be funny? Because this is actually quite serious.’

  ‘Well, good luck with it all.’ She could hear the laughter in his voice. ‘See you Monday. If you can drag yourself away from your investigation.’ He backed out expertly, then drove away with a triple beep of the horn.

  Cheek! S
he shook her head and strode past the rows of identical nineteen seventies bungalows. Her next-door-but-one neighbour was reorganising his garden gnomes, a regular weekly activity. He raised his arm in greeting and Flora called hello, but not before the familiar feeling of being a square peg in a round hole reared its head. There was no way she was ever going to fit in here: Sunnybank Rise was meant for retired couples and gentle middle-aged folk who enjoyed gardening and collecting figurines. Not twenty-nine-year-old single girls who wanted to play their music loud, have garden parties and hot dates, and fill their homes with funky vintage rummage-sale finds.

  Not that the hot dates were proving much of a problem. Heston still hadn’t called, and Flora was loath to make the first move. But if the afternoon’s activities went to plan, she might be able to find out where she stood with her favourite librarian and reassure Joy in one masterstroke of detective work. She smiled and slipped down the overgrown path to her mum and dad’s front door, lifting Otto out of the bag so she could root around for her key. Otto peered up at her adoringly and tried to lick her on the chin.

  ‘Listen,’ said Flora, wiping her face with her sleeve, ‘if you and I are going to get along there is one rule you must obey. No licking of my face. At all. And no peeing on handsome men. That’s an absolute no-no too.’

  ***

  Shrewsbury’s main library was right at the top of Castle Hill, a fifteenth-century Tudor building that once housed the town’s school. Flora loved the nooks and crannies offered by the haphazard layout: the deep window seats with their view of the web of lanes and side streets; the echoing stone steps that led from floor to floor. At the main reception she asked for Heston but was told he was on his break. She also found out that the book group was indeed meeting in the Old School Room and would finish in around ten minutes. Flora clattered up the stairs, pleased with her detective work. She’d wanted to talk to Mr Felix, and he was right here in the library with the group Heston had told her about. She could spend some time in the Darwin Room while she waited and look out for them both. Two birds, one stone – she was efficiency personified.

  She grabbed a book from the local history section and settled in a vacant window seat, tucking her feet up under her legs. In the street below, a woman was carrying a tiny Chihuahua on her arm like a handbag. Two weeks ago, Flora would have thought she was crazy – crazy and affected and very eccentric. Now she just thought it was sweet. She was actually starting to like having a canine companion. Maybe with a little friend waiting at home every night, panting and trying not to look guilty for chewing her mum’s best oak-framed armchair, she wouldn’t feel so lonely.

  She tried to focus on the book in her hand. Charles Darwin, it said, had been a pupil at Shrewsbury school, in this very building, but not a very distinguished one by all accounts. Her attention wandered again. She breathed contentedly, taking in the muted silence. In here people still believed in whispered conversations, not like most modern libraries. The computers were in a different room; the children’s section was far below. Up here, readers took their peace and quiet seriously. The ancient arched windows, set in places with thick, uneven stained glass, threw brightly coloured rays of sunlight across the dusty bookshelves. Her stomach took on that heavy, pulling sensation, like she needed to go to the bathroom, but also a kind of excitement.

  She dropped her eyes back to the page as someone began to limp down the aisle towards her. He didn’t get very far, she could see his feet turn towards a shelf on her right. His shoes were almost hidden under too-long trousers and next to his left foot was the rubber end of a crutch. Flora looked up. There, only four or five feet away from her, stood Mr Felix. He was already engrossed in a book with a green jacket, leaning over and resting it on top of a precarious-looking trolley loaded with large-print romances. Her greeting died on her lips when she saw what the old man was doing. In one hand he held a bitten-down pencil, and as Flora watched, Mr Felix, his eyes narrowed in concentration, made a note in the book’s margin. She moved her head slowly from side to side. Heston would have a fit. Defacing library property, he called it. In his eyes there were few worse sins.

  She craned her neck to try and see which shelf he was standing in front of. As far as she could tell it was all medical titles. He cut a surprising figure as a rule-breaker. Why not just take the book to the photocopier instead of writing in it? With his head lowered, Flora could see his pink scalp clearly. She remembered his attitude of mild boredom the morning of the Captain’s death, and pictured again his face the day he’d almost run Otto over. Annoyed, rather than mortified. Was there something shifty about him? Something other than merely worn around the edges and perhaps a little bitter? Flora stared, trying to see what Joy saw, trying to imagine how much he might have changed in sixty-odd years. It was impossible to tell.

  Flora turned her attention to the book Mr Felix was scribbling in. It had to be something really fascinating to be keeping him so absorbed. Maybe he was sick, trying to research information on a cure. What had Elizabeth said about all the parcels he received? Ordering vitamins over the internet. Sounded like he had a real interest in medical stuff. To get a better view, she dropped to her knees and crept forward, feigning an interest in the parenting section. If the Maples’ resident noticed she was even there, he gave no sign. Flora peered across the top of the trolley. On the front of the book was a picture of a plant. She still couldn’t see what it was called. She shuffled along a little more, keeping her face averted in case he looked up suddenly. How to Tame Your Testing Toddler, she read. Tantrums From Hell and How to Avoid Them. Flora shuddered. It wasn’t exactly a great advert for motherhood.

  Figuring she was close enough now, Flora grabbed a book blindly off the nearest shelf for cover, then shifted her body around, hoping for a quick look at the title of Mr Felix’s medical text before he noticed her. But she’d misjudged the distance completely and was now far closer than she’d realised. As she turned, her shoulder smashed right into the trolley, knocking it – and the old man – flying.

  Chapter 11

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Flora cried, jumping to her feet. ‘I’m so sorry!’

  Mr Felix was lying on the thin carpet, staring up at her balefully. The lower half of his body was entirely covered in books, while the trolley itself had mercifully fallen on its side between them. His single crutch had also been flung to the side; Flora retrieved it for him and laid it next to his hand. The old man looked so frail, she was sure he must have broken something. If the heavy wooden trolley had hit him … Well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Let me move this lot so I can help you up. I can’t believe it, I’m so sorry.’ She scooped a pile of romances to one side and offered Mr Felix her hand. He didn’t take it. While Flora scrambled to release him, he continued to glare at her. But then his expression cleared.

  ‘Aren’t you the girl who works for that removal firm? Shaky’s or something?’

  Flora didn’t bother correcting him, on the name or her position within it. She just nodded and smiled disarmingly, offering him her hand again. This time he allowed her to help him up.

  ‘What happened?’ he said. Flora frowned.

  ‘They really shouldn’t leave these overloaded trolleys cluttering up the aisles, should they?’ She shook her head and pursed her lips. ‘It was an accident waiting to happen.’

  The old man nodded warily. Perhaps he was wondering if she’d seen what he was doing to that book. Flora cast her eyes about, hoping for a glimpse of it. But there was no way to distinguish one single book from the mess of paperbacks and hardbacks cluttering the floor by their feet.

  Mr Felix was watching her carefully. His eyes dropped to the book Flora still held in her hand. It was the one she’d grabbed when she’d snuck up on him, and as she followed his gaze she was horrified to find herself gripping a thin paperback called Herbal Cures for STDs.

  ‘Take it from me, there aren’t any effective ones,’ Mr Felix said, grinning.

  Flora opened her
eyes wide. ‘And how, may I ask, would you know?’ She smiled. Thank goodness he was having a joke with her. If he realised she’d been spying on him it would be mortifying. Not to mention difficult to explain without getting Joy into trouble.

  ‘I know all about herbal medicine. Herbs generally. I brew up a mean cup of herbal tea. You should try it sometime.’

  Flora shoved the offending item back on a shelf. The wrong shelf, of course. Heston had told her about the Dewey decimal system, but right now Flora couldn’t give a stuff. Thank goodness Heston hadn’t seen her holding that book.

  ‘I’d better tidy this lot up,’ she said. Mr Felix helped her right the trolley and together they began to re-stack the books. Flora flung them back haphazardly, while her companion took his time. She pretended not to notice when he carefully slipped a particular title back onto its shelf, but she did make a note of its location: 635. She filed it away for future reference, then turned her attention back to Mr Felix.

  Now was her opportunity to ask about Joy. She just had to find the right way to get into it.

  ‘How are you settling in at the Maples?’ she said, making her voice nonchalant.

  ‘Fine,’ he replied.

  Hmm. Might need a more direct approach. So much for Marshall’s idea of her as some kind of investigator. So far she’d alerted the subject to her presence by showering him in Mills & Boon novels and was now struggling to think of a single clever question.

  Flora Lively investigates indeed!

  ‘What made you choose to move there?’ she said, inspiration striking.

  He replaced another book then stood back to consider. In the fall his comb-over had come loose and now it hung comically down the wrong side of his head. Flora tried not to look at it.

  ‘It seemed like an okay place to retire to,’ he said, leaning heavily on the crutch. ‘Although the food isn’t as good as they promised. They don’t cook everything on site, you know. Some of the meals are brought in.’