Expose! (5 page)

“You remember Sammy Larch’s daughter, Olive, don’t you?” Barbara said, pointing to a pair of thin, jean-clad legs attempting to clamber into the
Gazette
’s front window display. Olive’s slight body was completely masked by an enormous inflatable yellow snail.

There was a muffled cry of sorts. Barbara rolled her eyes in exasperation and shouted, “Just push it in, Olive. It won’t bite.”

“You can’t let her do that by herself!” Olive Larch was the same age as Barbara but quite frail. “We should help her.”

“My toe is playing up.” Barbara gestured to the counter that was covered in streamers and limp balloons. A helium tank stood on the floor. “We’ll never get this finished tonight at the rate she’s going.” She lowered her voice. “She’s so slow.”

What sounded like an indignant retort was muffled by the snail’s shell.

I hurried to Olive’s side and helped push the ungainly object through the narrow opening. Suddenly, it shot forward with a loud bang. Olive gave a shriek and toppled after it. She lay facedown without moving. For a moment, I thought she’d knocked herself unconscious, but with a supreme effort, she rolled over onto her back and lay there panting heavily.

“Are you all right?” I felt annoyed with Barbara. “Couldn’t one of the men have done this?”

“We’ve got to build up Olive’s strength,” Barbara declared. “This is the
new
Olive. She’s got to learn to live a little. Get
wild
.”

Olive gave me a look I could only describe as a silent appeal for help. But she did
appear
different from the last time I saw her at her father’s funeral. Her usual frizzy perm had been cut out. Her silvery gray hair now sported several heavy-handed black streaks. One was rakishly swept across her high forehead and secured with a butterfly barrette.

Gone were the dreary baggy skirts and shapeless tops that looked as if she’d served in the Chinese Republican Army. Today, Olive wore denim jeans, a bright red, short-sleeved shirt, and matching red pumps with bows.

I helped Olive out of the window and sat her down on one of the two ugly brown leatherette chairs that were a constant reminder that, where décor was concerned, the
Gipping Gazette
was stuck in a seventies time warp.

“Are you feeling dizzy?” I said. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

“Just a little out of breath,” panted Olive. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”

“Do you like her new look, Vicky?” Barbara said, seemingly unconcerned about her friend’s health. “I persuaded her to spend some of that money. It’s not doing any good rotting away in a bank.”

“Barbara, please don’t,” Olive whimpered.

“You look lovely, Olive,” I said.

“She’s got a lot of catching up to do,” said Barbara. “And I’m going to help her.”

I’d heard that Olive was an only child and ten years old when her mother died. Her father had forced her to keep house and kept her on a tight rein. They lived in virtual squalor despite the fact that Sammy Larch was worth millions after selling acres of marshland to a property developer. Unfortunately, the identical matchbox houses sank an inch a year. The residents fondly referred to their community as Little Venice but it was commonly known as The Marshes.

“Hair. Makeup. New clothes,” Barbara went on. “What have you done to your eyes, Vicky? Did you use eyeliner? Look at them, Olive. Aren’t they just something?”

There was also something very “Annabelish” in the way Barbara was taking charge of poor Olive. It was as if I was looking at myself forty years on. I wondered if Olive had ever had a proper boyfriend, too.

Swiftly changing the subject I said, “Where did you find the inflatable snail?”

“It was a prop when we did the musical version of
The Magic Roundabout
,” Barbara said. “I found it in the Gipping Bards storage unit on the industrial estate. I’m glad to see we now have CCTV cameras installed over there. We’ve already had one break-in this year.”

“Speaking of the Gipping Bards,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you about Scarlett Fleming. She was a very active member, wasn’t she?”

“Still is,” Barbara parked her ample rump on the arm of Olive’s chair. “Unfortunately, Scarlett always hogs the plum roles. She was far too old to play Cleopatra.”

“Actually, I’ve got—”

“Scarlett is a very good actress,” Olive protested. “She and Dougie have been very kind to me ever since Daddy—” Olive’s eyes filled with tears. “They’re like family.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to break the news especially in light of the fact that poor Olive had only lost her father a few weeks ago. “I’m glad you are both sitting down because I’ve got something very upsetting to tell you.” I paused to take Olive’s hand. Squeezing it gently, I said, “I’m afraid Scarlett Fleming has died.”

Barbara’s jaw dropped. “Scarlett Fleming is
dead
?”

Olive gasped and began to pant heavily. Her eyes widened in panic as she struggled to breathe.

“Oh, no! She’s having one of her episodes!” Barbara flew to Olive’s side and grabbed her hand. “Breathe in . . . breathe out . . . breathe in—Vicky go and get some water—breathe out.”

I scurried downstairs into the basement kitchenette. By the time I’d found a clean glass and returned, Olive seemed to have suitably recovered. She held a silver hip flask in her hand. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes, bright.

“I remembered the brandy,” said Barbara, waving the glass away. “I always keep it under the counter if ever you need a quick nip.”

“I shouldn’t really,” Olive said, taking another sip. “Daddy didn’t approve of me drinking.”

“He didn’t approve of most things,” said Barbara darkly. “But you’re free of him now.”

“Barbara!” cried Olive with dismay.

“Well, it’s true,” said Barbara. “You were like a virtual prisoner in that house. Time to live a little. Time to have some fun. You might even fall in love! Wait a minute . . .” Barbara paused for thought. I could almost hear her brain cells turning. With a cry of delight she said, “What about Dougie Fleming?”

Olive turned pink. “Oh!”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit soon for that?” I said hastily. “He only buried his wife this morning.”

“We’ll wait a few weeks, of course,” Barbara said beaming. “Life’s too short to grieve.”

Olive’s pink flush deepened to a dark red. “Scarlett
did
always say if anything ever happened to her, she’d like me to take care of Dougie.”

“You never told me that.” Barbara’s voice was heavy with accusation.

“I just thought she was being nice.”

It looked like Eunice might have a few rivals in her bid to win back her old flame.

“When’s the funeral?” Barbara said. “It’ll be a big one, mark my words.”

“Mr. Fleming buried her this morning. It was a very quiet affair.”

Olive’s face crumpled. She began to cry. “Scarlett loved peonies.”

“I don’t believe it!” Barbara cried. “You must be mistaken.”

“Mr. Fleming said she’d insisted on a no-fuss funeral.”

“No fuss? Since
when
?” Barbara scoffed. “She told the Bards she wanted an open casket and a thirteen-pan steel band.”

“And a big party with lots of champagne,” Olive chipped in.

“
And
a slide show of her life—”

“Like we’re having in Daddy’s honor tomorrow night at the Gala.”

It all sounded very expensive to me. “The cost of funerals has really gone up,” I said. “Perhaps their financial circumstances had changed and he just couldn’t afford it.”

Olive pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “Do you know what happened?”

“I bet it was a car accident,” Barbara declared. “She drove far too fast on these twisty lanes. Perhaps she met a combine harvester—”

“No!” squealed Olive, flapping her hands wildly. “Don’t tell me the details!”

“I’ll find out this afternoon,” I said.

“I heard she was going on a yoga retreat,” Barbara said. “So they can’t have been that financially strapped.”

“Have either of you ladies heard of a company called Go-Go Gothic or seen an American Cadillac driving around the area?”

“Here? In Gipping?” Barbara said, adding wistfully, “Jimmy Kitchen had a convertible. One night, we drove to the beach with the top down.”

Fortunately, the front door buzzed open, sparing us from Barbara’s infamous Jimmy Kitchen the-one-who-got-away reminisces. Olive screamed and leapt out of her chair.

“Oh!” She clamped her hand over her nose. “What’s that terrible smell?”

I knew that smell very well. Boiled cabbages.

Barbara darted back to her post behind the counter and grabbed a box of Kleenex.

“Morning ladies!” Ronnie Binns, Chief Garbologist of Gipping County Council, strolled in clutching a cheap-looking bouquet of pink carnations and a large manila envelope.

Dressed in a pair of pristine gabardine overalls and thigh-high waders, Ronnie’s face and hands looked unusually clean, even his baldpate shone. But it would appear that even soap and water could not erase his customary cabbagelike aroma.

“Can I help you, Mr. Binns?” Barbara said, holding a tissue over her nose.

“I’ve got a date with Annabel Lake,” he said shyly.

“She’s not here.”

Ronnie scratched his head. “I suppose I could wait.”

“You’ll have a long one,” Barbara said. “She’s gone all day.”

“But she promised to take me to lunch.” Ronnie’s shoulders slumped. Even his carnations seemed to droop. Presumably the flowers were for Annabel, which I thought rather touching.

“At ten thirty in the morning?” said Barbara.

“I’ve been up since four,” Ronnie sounded indignant. “I changed my rounds for her.”

Olive started to titter nervously and Barbara certainly seemed to be enjoying Ronnie’s pain.

I stepped forward. “Perhaps you got the day wrong, Mr. Binns?” It was obvious that Ronnie was smitten with Annabel, and as my mum says,
“You can’t choose who you fall in love with.”
Even so, I couldn’t imagine Annabel ever agreeing to a date with Ronnie.

“No. She phoned.” He pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket. “See? I wrote it down. Said she had something very important to ask me.”

I took the crumpled—and grubby—note. He was right. The date and time were correct. “Perhaps she meant your office, not this office?”

Ronnie brightened up. “Oh, yes. More private, like.”

“You’d better hurry up in that case,” said Barbara. “What’s in that envelope? A love letter? ”

Olive tittered again.

Ronnie scowled and slapped the envelope down on the counter. “Tony said you needed headshots for the newspaper.”

“Oh! Is it Rambo?” Olive cried with delight. She scurried over, her face alight with enthusiasm. “Let me see. What’s his form?”

Ronnie pulled out an eight-by-ten photograph of a garden snail. “We’ve got a good crack at the championship this season. Now that—no disrespect—” he touched his forehead at Olive, “Your father—God rest his soul—is not racing Seabiscuit.”

“Dougie is going to run Seabiscuit now,” Olive beamed.

Ronnie’s face darkened. “I thought Fleming was banned for another season for cheating.”

“It was all a misunderstanding,” Olive said quickly. “Dougie appealed to the committee and his name was cleared.

“Excuse me,” I said. “How can one cheat at snail racing?”

“Each snail is handicapped,” Olive said. “Small weights are sewn into their racing silks.”

“So, he’s going to succeed as Chief Marshal, after all?” Ronnie grumbled.

“It’s what Daddy wanted and you know that Daddy always got his own way.” Olive made another silent appeal to me for help.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Binns,” I said smoothly, stepping forward and snatching up the photograph. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

I took Ronnie’s arm and propelled him toward the front door.

“I wondered if you saw an American Cadillac on your rounds this morning,” I said trying not to inhale.

“A what?” Ronnie seemed momentarily taken off guard.

“Today is Thursday. Don’t you usually do Upper Gipping on Thursdays?”

“Mondays.” Ronnie squinted down at me and readjusted his overalls. It suddenly occurred to me that Ronnie might have made the mystery phone call. With thigh-high waders that snug his voice could easily go up an octave or two. “I might have seen something,” he went on. “It depends.”

“It’s just a question,” I said. “There is no money involved.”

“In that case, no.”

Ushering Ronnie out of the front door I watched him—and his pink carnations—climb into an old blue Ford Escort parked a few yards down the High Street. Glancing across the road, I noted The Copper Kettle was open for business.

Of course! Topaz was bound to have heard some gossip about the Flemings. What’s more, it was the first Thursday of the month and I was positive that several of the Women’s Institute often popped in for a quick cuppa after their weekly knitting meeting.

Given that Scarlett Fleming had also been a member of the Women’s Institute, I could almost guarantee news of her death would cause quite a stir.

6