Expose! (17 page)

With that happy thought, I walked back to join my man.

17

The ballroom-cum-gymnasium was in virtual darkness when I stumbled back to my chair. A projector was trained on the only blank wall available above the makeshift bar.

An air of restless expectancy filled the room as someone on stage fiddled with a portable CD player—presumably the same machine that initially blasted out Cuban music—in an attempt to find a specific track from a Dionne War-wick CD.

I could have slipped quietly into my chair had it not been where Topaz had dumped her rucksack, which fell to the floor with a loud thud. “I didn’t want
him
sitting next to me,” she said in a low voice.

To my astonishment, the “him” in question was none other than D.S. Probes. It certainly explained Topaz’s childish gesture with her rucksack. The two were very distant cousins and had enjoyed a brief fling for which Topaz seemed to feel nothing now but disdain.

I stole a glance at Probes and even in the poor light, had to admit he was one man who
did
look very handsome out of uniform especially with his ginger hair fashionably coiffed in stiff spikes.

Accompanied by Dionne Warwick’s tearjerker, “That’s What Friends Are For” the slide show finally stuttered into action. Of course, I’d written Sammy Larch’s obituary, but even I wasn’t prepared to see just how big a role the old boy had played in the Gipping community during his ninety-five years on this earth.

From discovering his first snail in a Devon hedgebank at age five, we witnessed not just Sammy’s accomplishments in the snail world, but his dalliance with other Devon country pursuits—pole climbing, worm charming, the highly dangerous flaming tar barrel racing, and even a brief flirtation with hedge jumping.

As the show ended and the lights went up to tumultuous applause, a quick glimpse around the room showed there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Even Topaz had streaks of black mascara running down her cheeks.

Given Sammy Larch’s unpopularity when alive, I was once again reminded of how even a cantankerous old man, previously reviled in life, could assume a saintlike status after death.

Olive, Fleming, and Mr. Evans made their way on stage to stand alongside the band. Mr. Evans handed Olive the cordless microphone but she stood there, frozen.

Several moments dragged by. Someone in the audience coughed. Another bread roll sailed through the air and landed at her feet. A voice called out, “Get on with it, luv.”

Fleming threw his arm around her shoulder and took the microphone. “I know that Olive joins me in thanking you all for coming here tonight.”

I glanced over at Eunice and saw her stiffen. Robin patted her hand.

“It’s a strange feeling being up here without my dearly departed Scarlett. . . .” Douglas Fleming paused, seemingly close to tears. “But I’m sure, knowing her as you all do, she would have wanted us to carry on and have a good time.” He bit his lip and closed his eyes as if reliving some painful memory. Olive gently squeezed his arm in sympathy.

The room was silent. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop until a voice cried, “When’s the funeral?”

“Scarlett’s obituary will be in the
Gazette
tomorrow,” said Fleming. “Tonight is very—”

“I heard she’d been buried already,” came another voice from the floor. This prompted cries of disbelief and outrage. I heard “open casket!” “London caterer!” and “thirteen-pan steel band.”

“It’s a travesty!” shouted Phyllis Fairweather seated at the Women’s Institute table as the other members started banging on the table with their spoons.

Hadn’t I warned Douglas Fleming there would be trouble?

“It’s what she wanted!” Fleming’s voice cracked with anguish. “Who am I to take away her last dying request?”

Unfortunately, I was too far away from the stage to really see Fleming’s expression. He certainly sounded upset but if you ask me, he seemed to be putting on quite a performance. His audience certainly bought it, but I wasn’t sure if I did.

“Ladies and Gentlemen.
Please!
” Mr. Evans took back the microphone. “Some respect. This is a very tragic situation but as Scarlett would have said, ‘Let the party go on,’ and it must, because tonight we have a very special announcement. Barry?”

The words “Larch Legacy” flew around the room creating mass speculation on who was going to get the award. I looked over at Dave who had already got to his feet and was straightening his bow tie.

Barry Fir, aka Hogmeat, retrieved an enormous fake cardboard check the size of a small table from the side of the stage. Wonderguts began an enthusiastic—but short—drum roll as Ronnie Binns, crouching low and snapping photos, darted toward the stage. He promptly collided with Tony who had set up his tripod in the corner.

Olive pulled out a sheet of paper and began to read, “It is with great pleasure—” her hands were shaking, “That I am able to award the Larch Legacy and a check for five hundred pounds to—” Another crash of drums, “The Hedge-cutters of Gipping-on-Plym!”

The cutters tables exploded with cheers and whoops of joy. I thought I’d misheard and turned to Topaz. “What did she say?”

“Sssh,” Topaz hissed. “I’m trying to listen.”

“My father was always grateful to the cutters for preserving the beauty and heritage of our Devon hedgerows,” Olive said in a halting voice. “For helping keep the hedgerows safe for God’s small creatures and in particular, the snails we love. For the little red berries . . .”

As Olive droned on, my heart plunged further and further into my boots. I felt incredibly sorry for Dave who held his face in his hands, but more sorry for myself.

I had committed a journalistic snafu of monumental proportions.

I had taken a story given to me at face value.

My career was ruined.

Thank God we were seated at the rear of the room so I couldn’t see the reaction on the
Gazette
table, but I could definitely see Dave’s growing despair. Comforted by his cronies, there was a lot of alcohol being passed around—and a rain of bread rolls being thrown at Jack Webster as he swaggered to the stage.

It was all too much for Dave. He leapt to his feet. “You bloody thief!”

Topaz grabbed her rucksack and stood up, too, but promptly sat back down when Mr. Evans grabbed the microphone again shouting, “Thannnnk you, Olive. Ladies! Gentlemen! The buffet is ready in the next room. Load up your plates and let’s get this show on the road!”

The spattering of applause was swiftly drowned out by the mass exodus to the adjoining dining room and the promise of food provided by Helen Parker, who had taken over my former landlady’s catering business, Cradle to Coffin Catering.

“Vicky?” said Steve. “Can I bring you a plate of something?”

“No, I’m fine, but thanks.” My appetite had completely gone.

“You’ve got to eat, doll. Just a few nibbles?”

“Yes,
please
,” said Topaz pointedly. “And you’d better be fast. I’m told it was frightfully under-catered.”

Steve needed no further encouragement and set off in the direction of the dining room. Robin followed suit, leaving Eunice staring stonily into her lap.

I sat there in a stupor. I dreaded going anywhere near the buffet table where I was bound to bump into Wilf.

“I
told
you there would be problems!” Topaz gloated.

“What’s she talking about?” muttered Annabel.

“Nothing,” I said miserably. “Aren’t you going to get some food?”

“We’re waiting for the stampede to be over,” Annabel said, leaning in to Probes. “Aren’t we, Colin?”

“Evening, Vicky,” said Probes. “Ms. Potter.”

I tried to speak but was overcome by an inexplicable attack of shyness.

“Oh, hello. I didn’t recognize you out of uniform,” Topaz said with a sniff. Other than myself, Probes was the only person who knew Topaz’s true identity. Why he kept her secret was one of life’s great mysteries.

“Well?” Annabel gestured to Robin’s empty seat. “What’s going on with the sailor?”

“Sssh,” I said, quickly pointing to Eunice who now had her eyes closed.

“She’s not listening. Everyone saw you follow him out into the foyer.” Annabel gave an indulgent laugh. “Colin said you were huddled cozily together under the nook at the bottom of the stairs.”

“I d-d-didn’t say it quite like that.” Probes had the grace to blush. “Ms. Lake asked if I’d seen you and I said I had.”

“Personally you’re wasting your time.” Annabel glanced over at Eunice again and lowered her voice. “He’s a bit of a mummy’s boy.”

“He’s just attentive and kind,” I said, though I was beginning to think Annabel might be right.

“Colin has very kindly offered to help me with my exposé.” Annabel picked up a bread roll and began to pull it apart. “He’s with the Drug Action Team in Plymouth.” Of course, I already knew that.

“As a m-m-matter of fact, one of the reasons I am here tonight is because—”

“You should ask him about
Spain
, Vicky.”

My mouth went dry. “Spain? Why? What for?”

“You know, silly.” Annabel rolled her eyes. “Scarlett Fleming?”

“Oh, yes. Scarlett Fleming. No. Actually, I’m fine.”

“Vicky e-mailed the Foreign and Commonwealth Office,” said Annabel, as if I wasn’t sitting right next to her. “She’ll wait forever, won’t she Colin?”

“If I can be of assistance—”

“You’d better get to the buffet, quick.” Steve materialized at our table with two plates laden with steak and kidney pie, creamed mashed potatoes, and carrots. “The food is running low already. Where’s Topaz?”

“I thought she was with you.” I hadn’t noticed her slip away. “She’s probably in the ladies’ loo.”

“Her food will get cold.” Steve took Topaz’s empty chair next to me and edged it close. “Do you want some of mine, doll?”

“We’re off.” Annabel dragged Probes to his feet. “Come on, Colin.”

“Spain, you say?” said Probes thoughtfully.

I began to rise. “Wait for me—”

“Hang on, doll. I want to talk to you.” Steve put his hand firmly on my knee. His touch was electric and sent shivers down my spine. I was acutely aware of the smell of Old Spice and antiseptic. “God, you look gorgeous tonight.”

“Your food is getting cold.”

“Maybe I don’t care,” he said, staring at me with lust in his eyes.

“Honestly, Steve, you’re incorrigible.” I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re here with Topaz and hitting on me. Don’t you have any shame?”

Steve shrugged and gave me an impish grin. “She invited me and who am I to turn a lady down but”—his lips brushed my ear—“if you want the honest to God truth, she frightens me. She’s the one woman I would never want to be alone with. Unlike you.”

“And what about Annabel?” I said, reminding him of his swift liaison with her not so long ago and one I only knew about because Annabel bore the telltale morning after signs of stubble burn on her face.

“She forced me,” he said in deadly earnest. “But
you’re
different.”

“Because I’m not interested.” I tried to stand up but Steve kept hold of my knee.

“Dinner. Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up.”

“I’m busy.”

“Sunday! Come on, doll! You’re breaking my heart.”

“Somehow I doubt it.” I removed Steve’s hand from my knee. “Enjoy your pie.”

“I won’t give up,” he called out, as I headed into the dining room.

There was quite a feast. In addition to the usual Marks & Spencer cook-from-frozen nibbles provided by Cradle to Coffin Catering, the Women’s Institute had contributed homemade salads and baked goods. Naturally, each contributor’s name was written on a small white flag and stuck into the relevant dish. I noted that no one had touched Amelia Webster’s anchovy and gherkin piccalilli.

Apparently the delicious steak and kidney pie—served in commercial-sized stainless steel chafer dishes—was actually made from scratch by Gillian Briggs, who used to be a cook in the Women’s Royal Navy back in the 1970s.

The queue was a long one. As I tried to find the end, snatches of conversation drifted toward me: “Don’t eat the piccalilli,” “I heard Scarlett had plastic surgery,” and “It didn’t take Fleming long to get his feet under the table.”

At this last provocative remark coming from Pam Green, director of
all
Gipping Bard productions, I pretended to readjust my right sandal—no mean feat given the stabbing pain I endured from my whalebone corset in trying to bend over.

“That’s an unkind thing to say, Pam.” Barbara had her back to me. “Dougie has always been fond of Olive.”

“Fond of her money, you mean,” said Pam darkly. “I heard he was handling the Larch millions.”

“I doubt it, dear,” Barbara said. “Olive is my best friend and I’m quite sure she would have told me.” She paused for a moment, “
Who
said that? Was it Ruth?”