Expose! (13 page)

“What on earth for?”

“My mum once said that one’s sexuality is the most precious gift you can give a man.”

“How quaint,” Annabel said, ushering me out of the front door. “But pointless. If a man doesn’t get it from you, he’ll just go elsewhere.”

“Mum says . . . used to say that, too.” I sighed.
“Men!”

“Yes!
Men!
We’re both alone in the world, Vicky,” Annabel said with a brave smile. “I’m so glad we’re friends.”

Placing the plastic bag in my moped pannier, I sped back to Factory Terrace. The more I got to know Annabel, the more I realized she was actually quite vulnerable. I knew she never heard from her mother who ran off with the local vet when she was just a child. Her father was in the navy and according to rumor he hadn’t seen her in years, either.

It was no wonder Annabel had a penchant for older men. She was searching for a father figure—married, or otherwise. It sounded like life with Dr. Frost was not all hearts and flowers. He wasn’t accompanying her to tomorrow night’s Gala
and
he was spending nights away from home.

With my borrowed black dress and jewelry safe in my moped pannier, I felt extremely cheerful.

Robin was going to fall madly in love with me. I couldn’t wait for tomorrow night to come.

13

As I pulled into the parking area behind the
Gazette
office the next morning, I was surprised to find Dave Randall’s Land Rover idling in the alley.

He beeped the horn twice and wound down the window. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he shouted, flapping a large brown envelope. “Got some great news!”

“I love news!” I parked my moped and strolled over. “What have you got?”

Dave looked as if he hadn’t slept or shaved for a week. His usual dark curls were matted and stuck to his head.

“I’ve been driving around England drumming up support,” he beamed, hardly able to contain his excitement. “We’re going to the Olympics!” Dave had harbored a lifelong ambition to have hedge-jumping accepted as an Olympic sport.

I was genuinely thrilled for him. “That’s wonderful!”

“The Olympic committee want to meet me in London next week. I can’t believe it. Do you remember when this was all a dream?”

I did. Dave and I were at the Three Tuns. I also remembered never to drink scrumpy again as that was yet another night when I narrowly missed surrendering my virginity to Mr. Wrong.

“If we’re quick, we can try to get you in tomorrow’s paper. Wilf and Pete don’t go to the printers until noon.”

“I know it’s top secret, but . . .” Dave beckoned me to step closer. He smelled of earth and damp leaves. “The jumpers are getting the Larch Legacy. It’ll be announced tonight. That’s what clinched it! Good old Sammy!”

“Are you sure?” I recalled the winner’s name was kept in a sealed envelope.

“I’m sure, all right,” said Dave. “Sammy tipped me off. We’ve named a new jump in his honor—the Larch Leap. It’s an updated version of the 1950s Western Roll. Not as streamlined as the Fosbury Flop but—”

“That’s amazing!” I knew once Dave got started rhapsodizing over his pet subject, I’d be there all morning. “You should come and tell Pete.”

“No need. It’s all in here.” Dave thrust the brown envelope at me.

“He might have some questions.”

“No thanks. Webster and his cronies are hanging out front.” Dave laughed triumphantly. “I can’t wait to see his face when he hears about it. Webster thought he had the Legacy in the bag.”

It was no secret that Jack Webster—one of Devon’s champion hedge cutters—and Dave despised each other. Since the former lovingly cut and laid hedges and the latter systematically destroyed them, it was easy to understand why.

Congratulating Dave on his exciting news, I cut down the side alley and came upon a wall of people—Jack Webster among them—waiting for the
Gazette
doors to open.

Even the morning rush-hour traffic was slowing down so drivers could try to get a look at Barbara’s window display. I had no idea that an inflatable snail from the Gipping Bards prop department could have generated so much interest.

The air was festive. Faces were pressed against the window and money was changing hands amid cries of “Killer’s slime looks good,” “Rambo’s got excellent form,” and “Wow! Seabiscuit is out of his shell.”

The front door was locked. I rapped smartly on the glass and Barbara—clutching a bottle of wine—darted forward to let me inside and promptly locked up again.

“We’re not quite ready for them yet,” she declared. “How are we doing, Olive?” Barbara rolled her eyes and whispered, “She’s so slow.”

Olive Larch was carefully arranging green plastic cups in a straight line along the counter with painstaking precision.

“I need a quick word with her about this year’s Larch Legacy.”

“I wouldn’t bother. She doesn’t know anything, dear,” said Barbara. “Glass of dandelion wine? It’s one of Phyllis Fairweather’s home brews.”

“Isn’t it a little early to start drinking?” It was only eight forty-five, plus, I knew from experience that Phyllis’s wine was lethal.

“It’s a Gipping tradition. Snail season officially kicks off today. Once the door opens, we’ll be taking bets in the nook for the first race on Sunday at the Three Tuns.”

“The punters already seem to be doing that outside.” I noted the corner nook had been made into a betting cubicle. The brown-spangled curtains were swept back to reveal a ballot box standing atop the plastic circular table.

Olive stepped back from the counter and admired her handiwork. “The cups are ready now.”

Barbara started to pour the urine-colored liquid into each one. “Olive? A snifter?” She passed her a cup. “Go on. Live dangerously.”

“I shouldn’t really.” Olive took a dainty sip and pulled a face. “It’s a bit strong.”

Someone hammered on the glass front door. Startled, Olive screamed and spilt most of the liquid down her white capri pants.

“Five minutes.” Barbara held up five fingers at the figures crushed against the glass front door. I recognized a couple of my younger mourner farmers—forty-something Bernard J. Kirby and his wife, Lily. Both wore green tops emblazoned with the logo GSRF. I also recalled the pair were serious hedge-cutters and Lily had come to blows with Dave on more than one occasion. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to come to the front door.

“You’ve been very busy, Barbara,” I said, gesturing to the walls and ceiling.

The reception had undergone a huge transformation. Colored bunting in green, silver, and black suspended from the crown moldings. Helium-filled green and silver balloons bobbed along the ceiling. GIPPING-ON-PLYM SNAIL RACING FEDERATION was written in giant letters on a green-silver-and-black-checkered banner that stretched along an entire wall.

Barbara beamed. “Olive and I finished decorating late last night.”

“How late?” I said, recalling Dr. Frost’s assignation. I’d left Annabel’s at around nine-thirty.

“We were here until ten. Of course, Olive had to come home with me and sleep in the spare room.” She lowered her voice, saying, “Hates being alone.”

Good grief!
Was Dr. Frost having an affair?

“Time to get the party started,” said Barbara, knocking back her cup of wine.

After promising to send Tony back downstairs to help with the betting, I made my excuses and escaped to the reporters’ room.

I couldn’t wait to see Pete’s face when I told him Dave’s exciting news.

14

I stepped into Pete’s office. “You’ll never guess,” I said, waving Dave’s brown envelope.

“I don’t do guessing games.” Pete didn’t look up, being too busy stuffing papers into a surprisingly smart leather briefcase.

“The jumpers are getting the Larch Legacy.”

“Bloody hell!” He looked up sharply. “How did you find out?”

“I have my ways,” I said modestly, and handed him the envelope. “It’s all in there.”

Pete tore it open and tipped the contents onto his desk. “We’ll have to use it next week.”

“You said you wanted something other than snails on Page One,” I said.

“There’s no time to go through it
now
, is there?”

“I thought you didn’t leave for Plymouth until noon.”

“Wilf wants to put the paper to bed early today. Get back for the Gala. Christ. I hate those fancy dos,” Pete grumbled. “Had to hire a bloody tux. The Larch Legacy can wait.”

“Did I hear Larch Legacy?” I stepped aside as our il lustrious editor—already wearing his fedora and ready to go—hastened over to Pete’s desk. Wilf picked up Dave’s press release. “What’s all this?”

Wilf picked up a PowerPoint presentation entitled “Proposed Olympic hedge styles,” with computer-generated illustrations bearing various captions such as—BOX-SHAPED, A-SHAPED, CHAMFERED, TOPPED A, and ROUNDED HUMP. These categories were broken down further into hedge species—holly, blackthorn, hazel, beech, etcetera.

“Do you know, young Vicky,” Wilf said, “it takes five hours to lay twelve feet of hedge and just a few minutes to destroy it.” He shook his head. “I must admit I don’t altogether support this barbaric sport, but it attracts readers, and that’s what the
Gazette
is all about.
Readers
. We’ll put it on Page One, Pete. Good work, Vicky. Oh! And good work on Scarlett Fleming’s obit, too.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Pete glanced at his wristwatch. “Bollocks. We’ve got to go.”

“Speaking of Mrs. Fleming,” I said, trailing after them onto the landing, “I have a few questions about her accident and wondered if I could contact the Spanish authorities.”

“The
authorities
?” Wilf stopped and swung round to face me. His good eye seemed to bore into my skull. “Good God, girl. Have you no feelings?” Wilf glowered at me with such displeasure I felt my face begin to burn. “The
Gazette
doesn’t want the gruesome details. Our obituaries are a celebration of life. Have you any idea how upset Dougie would be? The man is prostrate with grief.”

“The obituary will be in tomorrow’s edition,” Pete scolded. “You’re asking Wilf to pull it so you can add more
details
?”

“No. I just thought . . .” I bit my lip. “Sorry. You’re right. I was just curious.”

“Your time is better spent investigating these rogue funeral outfits,” said Wilf. “I want a full report on my desk next Thursday.”

“And photos. Don’t forget the photos,” Pete said with a nod, gesturing for Wilf to go ahead of him down the stairs. “Sorry about that, sir. Vicky tends to be overenthusiastic.”

“Keep her away from Dougie,” I heard Wilf say as he descended into the gloom of the hall. “That man’s heart is broken.”

I slunk back to the reporters’ room more frustrated than upset. Wilf’s schoolboy friendship was clouding his judgment.
Idiot, Vicky!
I should have kept my concerns to myself. Now I wouldn’t be able to make
any
international calls to Europe because the
Gazette
always received an itemized phone bill. Wilf had hauled everyone over the coals once for abusing the system and making too many personal calls—except for me of course. Dad had warned me of the dangers of caller ID.

I stifled the urge to kick the wastepaper basket under my desk. Wilf ’s orders meant I could only make inquiries abroad via e-mail and the Internet. It might take weeks to get any sort of answer.

The reporters’ room was empty. I could hear sounds of merriment seeping through the floorboards from the reception down below. No doubt Tony had got waylaid downstairs and was helping Barbara out.