Expose! (11 page)

“Has she ever seen a doctor?”

“She doesn’t like taking her medication but there are other ways to handle her,” Mary said darkly.

“You mentioned a restraining order.”

“I told Eunice to leave Douglas alone, but she wouldn’t listen. She said he kept phoning her and inviting her over, but when she got there, he denied it and then Scarlett would call the police.”

“Do you think she imagined it?”

“What do
you
think?”

It sounded like Eunice was not only mentally unstable, but delusional, too. I felt terrible.
My God!
Could Eunice’s current state of mind be all my fault?

I had to ask. “Has Eunice ever been to Spain or does she know any Spaniards?”

Mary looked puzzled. “She’s never left Devon. Doesn’t even have a passport. Why?”

“I just wanted to rule her out,” I said. “It’s not common knowledge yet, but Scarlett Fleming died in Spain.”

Mary’s eyes widened. She actually smiled. “You think Eunice might have
killed
her?” She added hopefully, “How many years would she get? Life, perhaps?”

“But you said she didn’t leave Devon,” I quickly pointed out. “Did you know I saw her at the church this morning? How could she have known that Scarlett had died?”

“Because I told her.”

“You?”
I was flabbergasted.

“Oh, yes.” Mary nodded. “I saw one of those big fancy American cars from gangster films. It looked like a hearse.”

“When? Where?”
Idiot Vicky!
Why hadn’t I thought to question Mary about Go-Go Gothic?

“At Headcellars,” Mary said calmly. “Our lower meadow runs along the Fleming’s drive. I always put the cows out there after milking.”

I took my pencil and notebook out of my safari jacket and flipped it open. My heart was pounding. “What time was this?”

Mary paused and closed her eyes. When she didn’t speak for at least a minute, I feared all that sloe gin had sent her off to sleep. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open. “It was just before six.”

“That’s early,” I said. “Are you absolutely positive?”

Mary closed her eyes again. A deep frown creased her forehead. “An undertaker dressed in a Victorian frock coat helped Douglas load the coffin into the hearse.”

“The coffin was
in
the house?” I scribbled down
Body back from Spain?
Perhaps Go-Go Gothic provided that service, too?

Mary’s eyes snapped open again. “And then Douglas waved.”

“He
waved
? To whom?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“I often saw Scarlett that early in the morning. She liked to practice her yoga on the front lawn.”

The revelation hit me hard. What if Scarlett Fleming had never even got to Spain?

What if her husband killed her, right there, in her home? Wasn’t it true that most victims were killed by people they knew? Yet, why would Douglas Fleming wave?

There were two possible explanations. One, it implied he was guilt free and just being friendly. Or, knowing Mary passed by every morning, he hoped she’d tell Eunice. It could have been some kind of prearranged secret signal like “the dastardly deed is done.”

But, wait! “How did
you
know that Scarlett had died, Mary?”

“I didn’t. I just told Eunice I saw a coffin.”

I knocked back the rest of my sloe gin. It certainly helped to clear my head. “Was it you who called me this morning?”

“You? Why would I?” Mary gave an enormous yawn. “I think I need to close my eyes for a moment. Sorry dear. I’ll just put my head down on the table.”

Within seconds she was fast asleep, snoring gently.

As I left Dairy Cottage, my head was spinning. Robin would be devastated if Eunice turned out to be involved in Scarlett’s murder.

I felt sorry for them all and made a vow to be the kind of fiancée who truly cared for Robin’s family, warts and all. If Robin could love his mad aunt then, so could I. Perhaps I should offer to keep an eye on her when he was away at sea?

I imagined drifting up to the farm carrying a wicker basket filled with warm crusty bread, cheese, and pickles. In my fantasy, Mary was already dead and Eunice would be bedridden, living in the dining room downstairs and close to death herself.

I’d sit with her awhile, reading poetry aloud because she’d recently gone blind.

Or perhaps, read one of the many letters Robin wrote to me daily from HMS
Dauntless
. Naturally, I’d emphasize the parts where he praised my goodness and said how deliriously happy he was that we were to be married. In her final days, Eunice would give me a personal gift—the remaining family silver heirlooms. She’d have a huge stash upstairs. I’d hand them over to Dad, who would then forgive me for not following in his footsteps. Dad would cheerfully throw Robin and me a lavish wedding in an Italian castle, and we’d live happily ever after.

Satisfied with that little picture, I decided I would tell Robin that from now on, his aunt would be in my capable hands and that he no longer needed to bear the burden alone.

Tomorrow night’s Gala loomed before me. With Douglas Fleming escorting Olive Larch, Topaz could be right that feelings were going to be running
very
high, indeed.

I also realized I had nothing suitable to wear and checked my watch. It was just after nine-fifteen—not too late to take Annabel up on her offer of loaning me an outfit.

I had never been to the house she shared with Dr. Frost in Blundells Court, Middle Gipping. Annabel had been living with him for as long as I’d been lodging with Mrs. Evans. For a moment, I hesitated, as the memory of my landlady cavorting with her naked husband filled my mind in a kaleidoscope of ghastly graphic images. What if I caught Dr. Frost and Annabel having sex?

I decided against calling Annabel ahead of time. She just might say no, and I really needed to borrow a dress.

Turning into the narrow lane leading to Blundells Court, I whipped off a quick prayer to Our Lord and Savior that Annabel would be home and, most important, fully clothed.

11

Located behind Blundells Manor—one of the oldest Elizabethan houses in Gipping-on-Plym and now a school—stood three identical neat, redbrick houses with window boxes filled with red geraniums.

Annabel’s silver BMW and Dr. Frost’s silver Saab 9.3 were parked on the forecourt outside number one. Downstairs, the curtains were open and the lights were on. I could see a figure moving about.

Encouraged, I parked my moped, removed my helmet and goggles, put them in the pannier, and knocked on the front door.

“Vicky! Is everything all right?” Tall, silver-haired Dr. Frost stood in the doorway dressed in a pair of navy plaid pajama bottoms and a gray GIPPING GROWLERS sweatshirt. Wearing thick-rimmed glasses—he obviously wore contact lenses for work—and minus his white coat and stethoscope, the man had zero sex appeal. In fact, he looked positively nerdy.

“I tried to call Annabel’s mobile,” I lied. “I’m sorry. I should have phoned the house.”

Dr. Frost produced his white coat from behind the door and pulled it on. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Nothing like that.”

He heaved a heavy sigh of relief. “With Whittler gone and this flu bug going around, the morgue is full. I fear you’re going to be very busy when he returns from America.”

“Perhaps that’s why some people are considering do-it-yourself burial services.” I hadn’t thought of asking Dr. Frost’s opinion and whipped out my notebook.

Dr. Frost frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Some people are hiring freelancers to avoid the backlog.”

“But that’s terrible! Are you sure?” Dr. Frost shook his head with dismay. “I’m a Devon man and tradition is tradition. For many of the old folks, the country funeral and reception, is the highlight of their week.”

“Mind if I quote you on that?” I asked, pencil poised. “I’m writing a report on these new cut-price funeral outfits and the impact they may have on the local community.”

“Please do. Surely, we’ve not had one in Gipping?”

“Have you heard of Go-Go Gothic?”

“No. I have not.” Dr. Frost’s voice was heavy with disapproval. “This is most worrying. There are a lot of legal formalities, you know. You can’t just go and pick a plot and start digging.”

“That’s what I’m looking into.” I scribbled
legal formalities
on my pad. “Didn’t Annabel tell you about Douglas Fleming’s wife?”

“We make it a rule not to discuss work at home,” he said. “What’s wrong with Scarlett?”

“She had a fatal car accident.”

“Good Lord. When?” Dr. Frost ran his long fingers through his silver hair. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

“It happened in Spain last Sunday,” I said. “She was buried in Gipping this morning.”

“Buried this
morning
!” he cried. “But that’s not possible.”

“Are you saying she couldn’t have died in Spain?” I said sharply.

“No. She was very excited about some yoga retreat,” he said. “Scarlett came for a checkup last Friday. She was having problems with the downward dog position . . .” He fell silent at the memory.

“Why wasn’t it possible?”

“Scarlett was an avid churchgoer,” said Dr. Frost. “We sang in the choir together.” I duly scribbled this down, glad to add little touches of color to Scarlett Fleming’s obituary.

“Scarlett had something called a preneed funeral package,” Dr. Frost went on. “She was very clear about what she wanted when she died.”

“The open casket? The thirteen-pan steel band?” I ventured. “Did she tell you about it?”

“I signed the paperwork with Dougie,” said Dr. Frost. “Ripley and Ravish have a copy in their files.”

I made a note of that, too. “It sounds expensive.”

“Cherry oak caskets lined in red silk
are
expensive,” the doctor went on. “But I believe payment plans are available.”

So why did Fleming go against his wife’s wishes
?

Dr. Frost dramatically cleared his throat and said loudly, “Are you here to see Annabel?”

I spun round to see a masculine-looking woman in her late sixties, trying to keep up with her pale brown boxer who was straining at the leash.

“Good evening, Ms. Willows,” Dr. Frost called out. “How’s that knee?”

Ms. Willows just scowled and hurried past.

“You’d better come inside.”

I stepped into a meticulously tidy hall. A cream-painted table with a hollowed-out skull—used from what I could see for keeping keys—stood in the hallway. Framed abstract prints hung on walls painted a safe shade of magnolia. The carpet was a beige Berber twist and spotlessly clean. An empty wastepaper basket stood on the floor next to a pair of gold sandals.

This was nothing like Annabel’s last home at Beaver Lock Lodge, which had been filled with girly knick knacks, scraps of lace, and fluffy cushions.

“Annabel’s upstairs.” Dr. Frost bent down and picked up the sandals. “Please ask her to put these back in her cupboard.” I took them, surprised that her feet were so large. Poor Annabel! She had to take at least a size ten.

“Third door on the right,” the doctor went on. “You can’t miss it.”

The third door on the right was, indeed, hard to miss. It was covered in angel stickers and the word
Annabel
was stenciled on the outside in fancy twirls. How odd! Did this mean they kept separate bedrooms?

Tapping lightly on the door, I opened it and stopped dead. Annabel sat on the floor with her back toward me surrounded by cardboard boxes filled with designer handbags, still in their protective plastic bags.

I couldn’t believe it! I’d caught her red-handed!

My new best friend was a thief!

12

Mesmerized, I watched from the doorway as Annabel stuffed pink tissue paper into a Chanel handbag to plump it up. She was crooning, “You’re a beauty” and “Yes, yes, lovely,” as if the purse were a living object.