‘What the hell were you doing in there? What was all that “Flora has reservations” nonsense? That’s not what we agreed.’
Marshall shrugged. ‘I was improvising. Anyway, it’s true, isn’t it?’
‘True is not the way to go here. We needed a cover story. Good job I was on the ball.’
‘Oh yes, your cover story got us in there home and dry. Look at us, sitting at the reading.’ He did a mock double-take. ‘Doh! How did we get out here?’
Flora slumped against the wall. ‘It’s really frustrating. I bet you a hundred pounds what’s in that will would go a long way to reassure Joy about the Captain.’
‘Done.’ Marshall spat on his hand and held it out for Flora to shake.
‘Yuk!’ She pushed it away. ‘Anyway, why are you here, exactly? I hope it wasn’t just to sabotage it for me, Marshall, because this happens to be really important.’
‘You’ve sure got a great opinion of me.’ He shook his head. ‘Why is it so important to you, Flora? Why do you care so much?’
‘You wouldn’t understand. I just want to find out what’s in that will. I can’t explain it, I just need to know.’
‘Your investigator instinct?’
She shrugged off the joke. ‘You go back to Shakers. I’m going to hang around here a bit longer, see if I can quiz the warden when they come out. You never know, she might take pity on me and spill the beans.’
‘Like hell she will.’ Marshall turned to go, then stopped and looked back. ‘Flora?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Later, alligator.’
‘In a while.’
Flora didn’t watch him leave. She’d already had an idea. She jogged down the terrace and slipped into a narrow alley between two three-storey town houses. The alley, she was pretty sure, led to the back of the offices on School Gardens. And from there, if memory served her correctly, she might just be able to sneak a peek into the back of Mr Vasco’s office. As she ran she pulled out the wig she’d shoved in her pocket earlier. Why not? She pulled it on her head, laughing. The reflection of a red-headed stranger glanced back at her from a dark window. Maybe this new person would have better luck as an investigator, because Flora sure wasn’t doing such a great job so far.
Chapter 14
Mr Vasco’s voice was easily discernible, droning on and on in legalese. Flora, perched on top of a huge metal dustbin, was almost glad she wasn’t inside the stuffy office instead. She’d climbed up and risked peering in just long enough to check she was in the right spot, then settled down close to the open window. She was just starting to worry that she’d missed the meat of the reading when Vasco’s tone changed.
‘“I, Solomon Wares, residing in Maples Retirement Village, Shrewsbury, hereby revoke all former wills and testamentary dispositions made by me and declare this to be my last will and testament on the seventeenth of April two thousand and twelve.”’
The sun didn’t reach the alley behind School Gardens but that wasn’t why Flora shivered. Hearing the Captain’s own words read out like that was spooky enough, but the date made it even worse. This will was written the day before he died.
‘“I appoint William Vasco to be sole executor of this will, and my estate should be distributed as follows.”’ Mr Vasco cleared his throat. Flora was hardly breathing. ‘“I give absolutely all of my real and personal property, whatsoever and wheresoever, to the Six Wishes Charitable Foundation.”’
Flora’s head jerked up. The Six Wishes Foundation? The Captain had left everything to the same charity as Ida? How odd. Hadn’t there been anyone at all, no distant relatives or close friends? She forgot about her theory that the beneficiary might be behind the Captain’s death and mourned his aloneness. At least her mum and dad had her to carry on after they’d gone. How tragic to leave behind no one at all. To be reduced to naming a charity for every penny you’d scrimped and saved and worked for, for your whole life.
Although what about Joy, and all the other friends he had at the Maples? What about his medals? She listened to Mr Vasco drone on about witnesses and probate, but there was nothing else of interest. No small bequests at all. Maybe Joy was right – maybe he really had been depressed.
So much for proving the third floor was a safe and happy place to be.
She began to climb down from the bin, gripping on to the window ledge for support. In a way, she was relieved. At least this meant there was nothing untoward about the Captain’s death. No one benefiting meant no motive. She’d cleared up the mystery, even if it wasn’t much of a mystery at all. Judging by the warden’s new-found overzealous attitude to medication, it was most likely the Captain had taken some kind of mis-dose of his medication and suffered a dizzy spell at the top of the stairs. Maybe Cynthia really did see him fall and just didn’t reach him in time. Flora suddenly became aware of how ridiculous she must look, clambering over a dustbin, listening in at windows, Marshall’s mum’s scraggy wig perched on her head. All for nothing. Her overactive imagination was only half the problem: it was Joy’s she needed to deal with.
She planted her feet safely on the ground and brushed the dust off her backside. As she stuffed the wig in her bag she noticed a shuffling sound coming from a pile of cardboard stacked further up the alley. Rats, no doubt. Flora remembered hanging out behind the library buildings as a teenager, being teased mercilessly by the tough-nut guys who found – and chased her with – a dead rat. She grimaced. Horrible things. Keeping her eyes on the towering stack of discarded packaging, she edged towards the end of the alley. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud, and the narrow space, dingy enough to begin with, was bordering on dark now. Especially in the shadows cast by the looming walls overhead. She’d have to creep past the rat to get out to the lane. She pushed her hand through her itchy hair and took a steadying breath.
Just then the cardboard began to move. Flora watched as piece after piece fell away from the wall, and out from behind it emerged a low-crouched figure. She screamed – a strangled, breathless sound – and flattened herself against the wall. Not a rat but a man. A man who was running now, reaching the end of the alley and turning left, out of sight, leaving Flora stunned and shaken.
A man wearing a dark blue hoodie with the hood pulled low over his face.
Had she disturbed a tramp? She didn’t hang around to find out. Flora jogged to the end of the alley, glanced left to make sure the coast was clear, then headed right, as fast as she could, back towards the safety of the shoppers on the high street. She looked over her shoulder two or three times to make sure neither Mr Vasco nor the warden had seen her: they must have heard her scream outside the office window. Hopefully they’d put it down to teenagers. High jinks.
It wasn’t until Flora was seated in Caffè Nero, nursing a reassuringly frothy latte, that the full implication of what had happened in the alley dawned on her. The man she’d seen fleeing the mound of cardboard had not been a tramp at all. It was obvious, whichever way you looked at it, that he had been watching her. Spying. The discarded packaging provided the perfect hiding place, the ideal vantage point to see what she was up to.
And what had she been up to? Spying on Mr Vasco, listening at an open window to the private reading of a will inside a solicitor’s office. Her face burned with shame. What crazy idea had brought her to this? For all she knew the hooded man was plain-clothes police – she could be in real trouble over this. She’d been hanging around the retirement village, asking questions about the Captain … Her hand flew up to her mouth as a horrible thought struck her. Cynthia had said the police had been all over the Maples: maybe the postmortem had proved his death was suspicious and now they were keeping tabs on their suspects. After all, this wasn’t the first time she’d been followed – couldn’t the man from the alley be the same as the person who’d trailed her through the back streets of Shrewsbury a week ago? Maybe they’d been watching her for a while.
Flora took a sip of coffee, wincing as it burned her throat. The queue in the cafe
was right out the door now; a draught blew in and flapped at the hem of her linen trousers. She thought about it again then shook her head. No, that couldn’t be it. The police didn’t operate that way. An officer would have told her to step down from the bins back at Vasco’s office and demanded to know what the hell she thought she was doing. But soon her relief turned to anxiety again: if not the police, then who? Why would anyone be spying on her? Unless …
The heat in the latte did nothing to counteract the chill that crept over her skin. She watched the hairs on her arms lift up. Suddenly every detail seemed distinct: the veins on the backs of her hands, like a pale blue-green road map; the freckles that spotted her skin. And as her eyes focused in, then out again, Flora saw the glaring fact that had been missing from the picture all along.
Someone was following her for one simple reason: she was on to them.
***
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I know I’m letting you down here. But I’m pretty sure if you were still around you’d be just as curious as I am.’
Flora smiled up at the photograph on the noticeboard then wiped her eyes on her sleeve. The truth of what she’d said lifted her heart a little – hadn’t Peter and Kitty brought her up to be fascinated by people, inquiring and interested, determined to look deeper than surface explanations, no matter what the situation?
Sometimes she’d been interested to the point of being irritating, of course. A memory made her smile again: herself aged eleven, trying to solve the “mystery” of the strange noises that came from her parents’ bedroom on a Saturday night. She’d been so sure it was a ghost she’d spent hours at the library trying to trace the history of their house on Windmill Lane. Maybe an old mill worker, cut down in his prime, was trying to speak to the living?
She’d driven her parents crazy with questions. Not content with the explanation offered – extra-loud snoring – she’d stayed awake one night and crept in, torch in hand, to find out for herself.
‘That made for an interesting conversation, didn’t it?’ she said to the photo. Her dad stared down at her, his proud gaze fixed forever.
The computer fired up, slow and clunky. Flora filled the kettle while she waited, too edgy to sit for long. The past twenty-four hours had seemed interminable – she’d been worrying at the Captain situation from all angles and sorely needed to find a resolution.
Fact: she’d made a bit of a nuisance of herself after the Captain’s death and someone – either at the Maples or connected with someone there – must have overheard. Fact: someone had been following her, almost certainly trying to find out what she knew. And if that was the case, there must have been something suspicious about the Captain’s death after all.
Fact: if she was on to them, and they – whoever they were – knew it, then she may well be in danger too.
In the middle of another disturbed night, Flora had started to wonder about the Six Wishes Foundation. Wasn’t that the only thing that linked the Captain and Ida and Mr Vasco? Two deaths and a dodgy solicitor – there had to be something there. A clue. The rest of the night she’d held Otto tightly, sleeping in fitful snatches, dreaming of dogs tangled up in a never-ending string of bright red liquorice that moved on its own and grew tighter and tighter every time the poor beasts struggled.
Marshall broke her reverie with a cheerful, ‘Hey, there,’ and a request for coffee.
‘There isn’t any.’ Flora held out the canister to show him. ‘Someone’s emptied it and didn’t bother to get any more. Typical.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me. What’s eating you today? Oscar keep you up again?’
‘It’s Otto, okay? Is it so hard for you to remember a simple name? Got too much on your mind have you? Like secret assignations with our rival and nemesis.’
‘They’re only our nemesis if they actually manage to bring us down, Flora.’ Marshall smiled and threw himself into a chair, spreading his hands wide. ‘Last time I looked, we’re still here.’ He was back in his usual combo of worn jeans and college T-shirt but somehow he seemed better put together than usual. Flora inspected him surreptitiously from the other side of the room. He’d had a haircut. And his pale green T-shirt looked freshly washed and possibly even ironed. Then she noticed his shoes: black and white Converse. She smiled.
‘Got a date later?’
He pulled a puzzled face. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Nothing.’ Flora laughed and sat down at her desk. The computer was fully operational now, flashing messages about viruses and updates and emails waiting to be read. She ignored them and pulled up Google. Typed Six Wishes Foundation into the search box and hit enter.
‘That’s so weird.’
‘Huh?’
‘Come and look at this.’
Marshall rounded the desk and leaned over her. She could smell his natural scent of heat and something spicy, with faint notes of cologne on top. Definitely a date. She felt his chest pressing against her shoulder and shifted away.
‘“The Six Wishes Foundation”,’ Marshall read. ‘Isn’t that the charity you said the Captain left all his money to?’
Flora nodded. She pointed at the screen. ‘But it doesn’t say anything here about servicemen and women.’
‘Should it?’
‘That’s what I overheard. When Vasco was talking after he’d read the will he called it the “Six Wishes Foundation for ex-servicemen and women”. But hold on.’ She clicked on the menu then shook her head. ‘No, nothing. Marshall, this is really weird.’
He turned around and sat on the desk. ‘Go on.’
‘Okay. This is the charity that Ida – the old lady who died at the Maples at Christmas, remember? – this is who she left all her money to, right? But Joy said Ida was a cat lover, and that she’d left it to a charity for sick animals. I remember reading about it. It was in the papers.’ She shook her head again and pulled a face. ‘But I heard Mr Vasco myself, and he was reading directly from the Captain’s will. Ex-servicemen and women, he said. How can it be the same charity?’
‘Search again. Maybe there are two with the same name.’
‘There aren’t. I checked just now. And look, Marshall. There’s nothing on the About page to say what the foundation does. Don’t you think that’s odd?’
Marshall said nothing. He pursed his lips and gazed at the screen. ‘There’s a donate button. Pay through PayPal.’
‘So?’
‘So, if you donated something it would take you through to their merchant account and give you an email address at least.’
Flora raised her eyebrows, impressed. ‘Okay. But I’m only donating a fiver.’
‘You’re all heart.’
Marshall watched while Flora filled out the online form and waited for it to process. She sighed. ‘There’s nothing. Six wishes dot org, that’s it.’
‘Shove over – let me have a look at that website.’
She huffed as Marshall practically sat on her lap, and vacated the chair. ‘What do you think?’ she said, chewing on a nail.
‘I think this strap line – “help make wishes realities” – is so vague it could apply to anything.’ Marshall sat back and looked at her. ‘This Vasco fella – was he Ida’s solicitor too?’
Flora cast back to her conversation with Joy. ‘You know, I’m not sure. I just assumed he was because Joy said this mysterious man in black had visited her on Christmas Eve. Is it better or worse if he was?’
‘No idea. But we should find out.’
‘How?’ Flora looked out of the window for inspiration, but Marshall was tapping away at the keyboard, and then he picked up the phone.
‘What are you doing?’
He tipped his head to the side and winked. Flora sat on the desk and slipped her hands under her thighs.
‘Hi there. Can you hear me okay?’ Marshall spoke into the phone from a distance of about a foot, putting on an American accent totally unlike his own. Flora rolled her eyes, but she leaned in to listen all the same.
‘Is that t
he Marples care home? Oh, Maples, right. I’m trying to trace my mom’s cousin’s aunt’s grandma – her name is Ida …’ He looked up at Flora and mouthed, ‘Last name?’
‘Smith.’
‘Ida Smith. My mom’s pretty sure she’s been staying in that there care home of yours in – where are you, Shrewsbury?’ He pronounced it Shrew-wus-berry. Flora smiled. What a loon.
‘What are they saying?’ she whispered.
‘Ah. Oh, right. Ah my. Okay, then. And do you have a number for them? Thank ya kindly. Have a nice day, now.’
By the time he ended the call, Flora was shaking her head in despair. ‘Marshall, you are incorrigible. This is serious, you know.’
‘Well, I know that! I was doing my bit for the investigation.’
‘“Have a nice day now.” What are you like? Was it Elizabeth who answered? You’re lucky she didn’t recognise you.’
Marshall’s expression turned serious. ‘Ida Smith, she was very sorry to tell me, died of heart failure on Boxing Day last year. My mom’s cousin’s aunt’s grandma was a very generous lady who donated all her worldly goods to charity, and I have the number of her legal representative right here if I need more information.’
Flora and Marshall stared at the number he’d written down on a scrap of Shakers headed paper. Flora shrugged. ‘Go on then.’
Marshall dialled and held up the phone. They bent their heads together, listening to it ring out. Flora inhaled Marshall’s spruced-up scent again and closed her eyes briefly. A woman answered.
‘Vasco and Co solicitors. How may I help you?’
Flora reached down and pressed the End Call button. She looked at Marshall.
She was close enough to kiss him.
Startled, she jumped away and headed to the opposite side of the room and the empty coffee canister. Where the hell had that thought come from? She was overwrought, was all. All this so-called sleuthing was starting to take its toll on her nerves.
Murder at the Maples: A Flora Lively Mystery Page 18