Bunburry--Drop Dead, Gorgeous

by Helena Marchmont

  Her eyes filled with tears, but she was smiling properly now, and she stretched out and patted his arm.

  “Thank you. Thank you for saying something. Everybody’s so kind for the first week or two, and then they forget about it, and they expect you to forget about it as well.”

  She looked round, out to the street, but there was no sign of any passers-by. “Why don’t I make us both a cup of tea – and we can have a chat and a piece of that wonderful fudge.”

  “I’d like that.”

  She turned to the shelf of glass jars of loose-leaf tea. “Now then, Darjeeling, Earl Grey, Lady Grey, Russian Caravan, Lapsang Souchong –”

  Alfie was about to ask for a green tea when the door opened and a gaggle of women hurried in, laden with shopping. There wasn’t a table big enough to accommodate them all, so they started joining two tables together, dislodging the lace tablecloths and scattering menus.

  “Another time,” murmured Alfie. “You’re going to have your hands full with this lot.”

  Theresa quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but she was still smiling. “I’ll hold you to that. I’d love to talk to you about Thomas, my husband. He was a wonderful man. So many people are embarrassed if you try to talk about someone who’s passed over, but I don’t think you’d mind.”

  “I’d very much like to hear about him,” Alfie assured her.

  She patted his arm again and then approached the tables, efficiently straightening the tablecloths and righting the menus. “Ladies. Have you decided or shall I give you a few minutes?”

  Alfie left the tea-room feeling strangely uplifted. He had only ever spoken to Oscar and Philip about losing Vivian. He sensed that Theresa would be a sympathetic listener. Perhaps she had the right idea, and it helped to talk to people about it. Maybe that was something she had discovered during her psychiatric treatment. Perhaps that led you to think of the future.

  Two streets away was Debbie’s beauty salon. He decided that he was going to do it. He was going to book himself a pedicure. But when he got to the salon, the blinds were down and the “Closed” sign was up.

  Disappointed, Alfie headed off back to Windermere Cottage, but he had scarcely turned the corner when he bumped into Debbie and her poodle.

  The dog jumped up on him, wagging its feathery tail.

  “Perro, down!” commanded Debbie. “Sorry, Alfie.”

  “It’s fine,” said Alfie, stooping to scratch the dog behind its ears. “Perro and I are friends.”

  The dog licked his wrist.

  “He doesn’t like everybody,” said Debbie. “But he’s a very good judge of character. Poodles are very intelligent, you know, even more intelligent than Border Collies.”

  “I can see that,” said Alfie, rubbing Perro’s head. “You’re far too smart to be bothered rounding up sheep, aren’t you, boy? You’re enjoying your day off.”

  “Day off?” repeated Debbie in surprise.

  “Yes, I just passed the salon and saw you were closed.”

  “I told you last night, today’s the inauguration of my new Royal Blowtox Treatment with Mrs Mosby.”

  She sounded a little hurt that he hadn’t remembered, and he hurried to rectify his error. “It was so noisy in Rakesh’s that I had a bit of difficulty hearing. I missed that it was today. I was calling by to see if I could make an appointment.”

  “Of course,” said Debbie. “What a thoughtful present for your girlfriend. Are you booking a facial for her? Although I’d really recommend Botox before those frown lines get any deeper.”

  “Betty’s not my girlfriend,” said Alfie automatically.

  “Oh,” said Debbie. “Not your girlfriend?”

  “No, and in any case she’s just left Bunburry.”

  “Oh,” said Debbie again. “Good – good dog.” She bent to pat Perro.

  “I –” Alfie hesitated. He had never ventured into the salon, but when the blinds were up, he could see that the interior was very pink. It wasn’t remotely like Oscar’s spa. “That is, do you cater for men?”

  Debbie seemed to be considering. “That would rather depend on the man.”

  “Well … me.”

  “And what did you have in mind? A full body massage?”

  “No, nothing like that,” said Alfie, alarmed that Debbie thought he had the wrong idea about the salon.

  “It’s very relaxing,” said Debbie. “Or a facial? There’s a peppermint mask that I’m sure you’d like, rather than something floral. Or an Ayurvedic head massage – that would help your chi to flow freely.”

  Perro was pulling at the lead in the direction of the salon.

  “Bless him, I was in such a rush to take him out that I forgot his biscuits.”

  At the word biscuits, Perro strained even harder.

  “Come along and we’ll sort out your appointment. I should be getting back to Mrs Mosby anyway,” said Debbie, setting off along the pavement.

  “Mrs Mosby’s in there?”

  “She’s relaxing with a facial. I locked the door so nobody could get in to disturb her.” Debbie fished the key out of her shoulder bag and carefully unlocked the door without making a noise.

  “Be very quiet,” she whispered to Alfie, picking Perro up. “I’ll check how her mask is doing, and then get the appointments book.”

  She crossed the reception area and disappeared through a set of pink curtains. And then there was a terrible scream and a thud. Debbie shot back through the curtains and hurled herself into Alfie’s arms. Perro scrabbled across the floor behind her – Alfie deduced that the thud had come when Debbie dropped the animal.

  “It’s all right,” said Alfie, patting Debbie’s back. “It’s all right. Just take a breath. There – better?”

  Debbie was trembling. She gulped. “Mrs Mosby!” she quavered. “She’s dead – she’s been murdered!”

  Alfie felt a ripple of panic. But he knew Debbie occasionally embellished the truth. She would never deliberately lie, but she could get carried away with the story she was telling.

  “I’m sure she’s only fainted,” he said with an assurance he didn’t feel. The salon was very warm – it would have to be if people were being offered full body massages.

  He gently pushed Debbie aside and strode across to the curtains, pulling them open. He took a step backwards, his stomach churning. Mrs Mosby was definitely dead. And she had obviously been fighting for her life.

  “Phone the police,” he said, his mouth dry. “Right now.”

  The treatment room was in chaos. Vials and pots lay smashed on the floor, with oils and lotions seeping out over the pink tiles. The massage table was overturned, towels and pillows soaking up the pungent liquids. Three large candles had toppled to the ground, one of them singeing the edge of a towel, before their wicks also succumbed to the dampness.

  And lying naked in the middle of it, her body contorted, her arms reaching out in supplication, was Mrs Mosby. She was lying face down, but her head lolled to the side, her skin a ghastly mint-green. Alfie stared at it in horror and gradually realised it must be the face mask.

  “I’ve phoned,” came a trembling voice behind him, and he jumped. “The police are on their way. Should we – should we cover her up?”

  Alfie shook his head, and tried to keep his own voice steady. “No, we mustn’t touch anything. We have to leave it to the police. He must have got out the back door.”

  “There isn’t a back door,” said Debbie faintly. There was a second’s silence and then she gasped: “Oh my God, oh my God, he’s still here!”

  She ran for the front door, Perro racing after her. The door slammed shut behind her.

  Alfie felt as though he had no power to move and follow Debbie outside. He had no means of dealing with a murderer, particularly not one so brutal as to kill an utterly defenceless woman. He held his breath,
praying that the police would arrive before he became the second victim.

  He could hear the thudding of his heart. That was all he could hear – not the sound of a footstep, the scrape of a door, the creak of a floorboard.

  There was nobody in the salon but him and the now-silent Mrs Mosby. But the front door had been locked. How could someone have murdered Mrs Mosby and escaped?

  7. The Dinner Party

  It wasn’t quite the dinner party that Alfie had planned. Over the past few months, he had got back into the habit of cooking, something he found relaxing. And a comfortable routine had grown up where one week his late aunt’s closest friends, Liz and Marge, would come around to Windermere Cottage to dine with him, and the next, he would go around to theirs.

  Jasmine Cottage was a haven of chintz and floral patterns. The dining room had a solid mahogany table, the seats of the mahogany dining chairs covered in green velvet. A glass-fronted display cabinet was filled with Liz’s Royal Doulton china and silverware. Dinner was always a substantial traditional meal: a roast, a stew, or local sausages and mash, followed by a fruit crumble, or treacle tart, or (Alfie’s personal favourite) Eton Mess, a delectable mixture of home-made meringue, whipped cream and strawberries.

  After dinner, they would move to the sitting room for coffee and fudge, often followed by a gin and tonic. Alfie would sit on the chintz-covered sofa, with Liz choosing one of the matching armchairs, and Marge perched on her rocking chair, the room dominated by a massive television on which the ladies watched their favourite crime box sets.

  Dinner in Windermere Cottage was quite different. The kitchen was the only room Alfie could tolerate, apart from the tranquil bedroom. It was a riot of colour, the walls covered in bold multi-coloured tiles, the woodwork and surfaces a rich purple, and the window blind bright scarlet. The large wooden table was plain oak rather than polished mahogany.

  Alfie had now personalised the kitchen by ordering the equipment he wanted, such as an ice-cream maker, a steamer and a coffee machine, in primary colours wherever possible. After selling his start-up, he indulged his long-held dream of travelling, and picked up recipes along the way.

  His plan for this evening was a spicy lentil soup, followed by aubergine stuffed with minced beef, and then an almond milk pudding with coconut and pistachio nuts.

  But he hadn’t had a chance to do any of the necessary preparation. After Debbie fled, he felt obliged to stay at the crime scene, reluctant to turn his back on the late Mrs Mosby, but equally disinclined to look at her. In the end, he let his eyes unfocus slightly and kept his gaze well above floor level.

  Eventually, he heard a car pull up outside. The salon door was pushed open and Alfie turned to see a uniformed policewoman.

  She exhaled loudly. “Alfie McAlister. Give me strength. Why is it that whenever there’s a murder in this village, you’re at the scene?”

  “Hello, Emma,” he said.

  “Constable Hollis, if you don’t mind,” she snapped as she came over to survey the trashed treatment room. She studied it methodically, then relayed the information over her police radio. Alfie smiled at her to show how impressed he was by her calm professionalism.

  She gave him a cold stare in return. “Have you touched anything?”

  Alfie shook his head. “Nobody has. I stayed here after Debbie ran off to make sure everything remained as it was. Well, that is, Debbie unlocked the door, and we probably touched it but –”

  “Where is Ms Crawshaw?”

  Still the same peremptory tone.

  “I’m not sure. She was in shock. She thought the murderer was still here, but I don’t think he can be. I haven’t heard a thing.”

  “Stay here,” she commanded, and crossed the treatment room, careful to avoid the body and surrounding debris. She disappeared through a second set of pink curtains and there was the sound of doors opening.

  “Cupboards, lavatory, all clear,” she announced as she returned.

  A handle clicked and Alfie jumped.

  “Emma!” wailed Debbie, standing at the front door with Rakesh beside her. “Oh, Emma, it’s awful. What can I do?”

  “You can start by giving me a statement,” said Emma curtly, although Alfie noticed she didn’t instruct Debbie to call her Constable Hollis.

  Alfie had to give a statement as well, and then felt obliged to escort Debbie home since she was still shaking with anxiety.

  He led her out of the salon where she stood bewildered, blinking up at the sky as though she had just been liberated from a lifetime underground.

  “I feel so dreadful,” she said, clinging to his arm. “Is it all my fault?”

  “Your fault?” repeated Alfie as they began walking along the pavement, nervous of what she would say next.

  “My bad karma. First, I found poor Mario Bellini, struck down in his prime. Bad intent and bad deeds lead to bad karma.”

  “But you had nothing to do with Mario’s death,” said Alfie.

  She squeezed his arm. “You’re such a comfort. But I was getting so cross with Mrs Mosby. She was being really nasty, and I didn’t like it, and … and …”

  Alfie wondered whether he should stop her talking. If she confessed to him, did he have a moral obligation to report her? Perhaps he could take advice from Philip.

  “Oh, Alfie,” she whispered, “I even thought of hurting her. I was going to press on her sciatic nerve, and that was really sore.”

  “A perfectly understandable thought to have if someone’s being difficult,” said Alfie in relief. “You don’t need to worry. These deaths are two completely unrelated incidents which have nothing to do with you.”

  “That’s so kind of you to say so. You’re the sort of person who spreads good karma. But I still think I need to get my aura checked.”

  “Yes, probably wise,” said Alfie.

  Perro trotted alongside them on the lead, seemingly no worse for having been dropped in the salon.

  “Rakesh was hopeless,” said Debbie. “I ran straight into the restaurant because it was the closest place, but, when I told him what had happened, he was as upset as I was – more upset. Although he gave me a mango lassi, and he gave Perro some chicken. You like chicken, Perro, don’t you, boy?”

  The poodle looked round at the sound of his name, his tongue hanging out in apparent agreement.

  Alfie was going to leave Debbie at her cottage, but she positively insisted that he come in and have a drink to ease the trauma.

  Alfie admitted that he could do with a drink to calm himself. He followed her into the small cottage, which thankfully wasn’t a study in pink although it had rose-coloured accents through bright floor cushions and crocheted throws.

  There was only one chair, which didn’t look very chair-like. It was a distorted X shape, with pads on the two upper spars.

  “Don’t try my kneeling chair,” said Debbie. “It’s configured for me, and it won’t suit you with your lovely long legs. Just grab a cushion, and I’ll get you that drink.”

  Alfie sat awkwardly crossed-legged on the massive cushion, and the poodle jumped up beside him and rested its head on his knee.

  “Have I stolen Perro’s bed?” Alfie asked as Debbie returned with two tall glasses.

  “No, but you’re very honoured. He’s not usually so friendly to visitors. I told you, he’s a very good judge of character.”

  She handed Alfie a glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” he said, knocking it back. Then, spluttering: “What is this?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s proper mineral water – I really don’t trust the tap water round here, whatever they say about the purification systems. I’ve put in four drops of Star of Bethlehem.”

  Alfie looked at her blankly.

  “The Bach flower remedy,” she expanded. “It helps to process shock.”

  Alfie needed it. It was a
shock to find himself drinking water when he thought he was being given either gin or vodka.

  “I can give you a remedy bottle to take away with you,” Debbie offered.

  “No, I’m sure I’ll be perfectly well processed by the time I finish this.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “I can’t yet see auras myself, unfortunately, although I’m working on it, but I sense from your serenity that you have a very strong heart chakra. You’re very open to love. Your energy is green.”

  “Green energy?” said Alfie. “That sounds more appropriate for Betty than for me.”

  He saw her lips tighten and realised he shouldn’t have made fun of her New Ageism.

  “Sorry,” he said. “As Shakespeare said, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy. I don’t know the first thing about chakras and auras.”

  “I can tell you all about them,” she enthused. “Why don’t you stay for supper?”

  He stood up. “I’d love to, but unfortunately I’ve got Liz and Marge coming round.”

  “Another time, then,” she said brightly. “Thank you for being there for me. I couldn’t have coped without your serenity.”

  He hadn’t been remotely serene. He had been shocked, horrified, and, when he thought Mrs Mosby’s assailant could still be around, downright afraid. Perhaps he should ask for that flower power stuff after all.

  “Thank you,” said Debbie again. She flung her arms round him and hugged him, pressing her head against his chest. He gave her a reassuring pat on the back, but she showed no sign of letting go.

  “Er … I have to get home to prepare dinner,” he said and her grip on him eased.

  But once outside, a glance at his watch told him he didn’t have the time to do the cooking he had planned. He retraced his steps to Deb’s Beauty Salon, now cordoned off with blue and white police barrier tape. He hoped Mrs Mosby was no longer there.

  The salon wasn’t his destination. Directly opposite was “From Bombay to Bunburry” which had the huge advantage of selling takeaway meals.

  Rakesh seemed even quicker than usual to greet him. “What a terrible business, Alfie. Terrible! Poor Debbie, she ran in here with her little dog, so upset. Such an upset for all of us.” He spoke very rapidly, as though he was reading from a prepared speech.