Having lived most of her sixty-plus years as a spinster—a fate that terrified me given my own unsatisfactory status—Olive was certainly making up for lost time.
Leaving my car behind Amelia Webster’s white Mini Metro, my heart gave a little leap. Steve’s VW Jetta was parked on the opposite side of the street.
Steve was always popular with the older ladies. He had a knack of making them feel young and sexy, but even so, it was highly unlikely he would have been invited to an all-girls hen party.
There was only one reason why his car was parked here tonight.
Me.
Steve was so predictable! Somehow he’d found out about Barbara’s party and was determined to win me back.
I deliberately avoided looking in his direction and pretended I hadn’t noticed his car. Now that I knew he was still interested, I wasn’t sure if I was that bothered after all.
Olive—wearing a diamanté barrette and a long navy evening dress—greeted me at the front door. The dress code had called for “formal attire.” Fortunately, Mrs. Evans had found something for me to wear courtesy of the Gipping Bards costume department—she’d reworked an elaborate black silk ball gown from
The Phantom of the Opera
.
“Quickly!” Olive cried, dragging me inside. “Barbara is coming with Ruth Reeves, and they’ll be here any minute.”
“I thought Barbara already knew about her party tonight,” I pointed out.
“Yes, of course she does. But we’re still going to shout ‘Surprise!’”
Olive was almost beside herself with excitement. “Florence, go and stand watch from the loo. The window overlooks the street.”
Florence Tossell did as she was told. She looked very nice in a long-sleeved, silver, ankle-length sheath, with clip-on diamond earrings that, to my practiced eye, were the real thing.
“Vicky!” commanded Olive. “Go through into the sitting room and tell them to keep quiet until Barbara arrives.”
I found it hard to believe that the Olive Larch that stood in front of me brimming with self-confidence and shouting orders was the same timid little creature of only a few months ago. Inherited wealth tended to have that effect on people.
“Wait.” Olive peered at my outfit and frowned. “Didn’t Gillian Briggs wear that for the Bards production of
The Phantom of the Opera
?”
“Do you think anyone will notice?” I said, feeling self-conscious. “I don’t own a long dress, and Mrs. Evans took out the whalebone bodice.”
“Oh well. Never mind,” said Olive. “It would have looked better with long kid gloves.”
I headed for the sound of excited chatter and pushed open the door.
Of course, I knew everyone and everyone knew me—and the dress. Despite the fashion faux pas, I was greeted with the usual warmth that members of the public greet the press in the wild hope they might be singled out and mentioned in the newspaper.
Olive’s bungalow was stuck in a seventies time warp. The walls were clad in fake wood. A brown shag-pile carpet covered the floor.
Propped on the mantelpiece above a tiled fireplace stood a giant poster of Wilf and Barbara. Each image had been photographed separately but superimposed over a large red heart encompassed by flowers.
Clearly, Olive’s newly acquired computer skills extended to Adobe Photoshop.
French windows led to a small handkerchief garden. It was still light enough outside to appreciate the wooden tubs of colorful begonias set at perfect intervals around the perimeter of a crazy-paved patio.
Bowls of peanuts and crisps were placed on various tables throughout the room. A large iced cake inscribed with the initials “W & B” and decorated with pink roses sat on a plate of paper petals atop the teak sideboard.
It was very touching, and had I not known differently, I would have been very excited for Barbara and her new life.
There were fifteen of us all dressed per Olive’s instructions and even a few pieces of antique jewelry that had probably not seen the light of day for a very long time.
Annabel was not coming. Never one of Olive’s favorite people, her invitation had been given in a very offhand manner, using the “don’t feel you have to come” and “I won’t be offended” ruse.
However, I’d been surprised and a little hurt for Mrs. Evans on learning that she’d only been invited to “do the dishes” rather than attend as a guest. Twice I had to spring to Mrs. E.’s defense on overhearing her being accused of losing checks.
“I told her the money had cleared through my bank,” grumbled one.
“I did, too!” said another. “And she still insisted on seeing a copy of the check!”
“Frankly, I think Bill Trenfold might have something to do with it,” declared Florence Tossell. “Is it just me who noticed that he seems to have his own collection schedule? Someone should complain to the post office.”
Barbara arrived with the appropriate fanfare of shouts and whistles closely followed by whispers of incredulous consternation given that Barbara’s version of formal attire was a long cotton dirndl skirt and white ruffled blouse with a plunging neckline. She wore her long gray hair loose, large hoop earrings, and armfuls of gold, jangling bracelets.
There was a momentary pause of shock amid comments of “What is she wearing!” and “She looks just like one of those gypsies!”
Olive was the first to rally round and stepped up to clip a white veil onto the crown of Barbara’s head. “There! Now you look bridal,” Olive declared. “Let’s find you a drink.”
“Are you okay?” I whispered to Barbara.
Barbara held her head high. “Let them talk,” she said defiantly. “They’ll soon have something far more shocking to talk about than these clothes!”
Barbara may still be engaged to Wilf tonight, but it looked like his days were numbered after all.
“Put on Frankie!” shouted a voice. Moments later, the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” joined the excited chatter of Barbara’s friends.
Amelia Webster, dressed in a plum velvet ensemble piece, emerged from the kitchen with a tray of sherry glasses filled with an orange liquid that looked vaguely familiar.
“There’s plenty more coming.” Amelia giggled. “Let’s just see how
special
these cocktails are!”
There was a murmur of excitement as glasses were snatched off the tray. I took a sip, and just as I was trying to place the unusual taste, Frankie’s “Fly Me to the Moon” was abruptly cut short and replaced by Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff.”
The kitchen door flew open. Steve sashayed in wearing nothing but a frilly white apron. There was a united gasp of horror followed by cheers, then laughter.
Underneath that frilly white apron, Steve was stark naked. His flesh was white as marble, and his solid thighs and firm calves ended in nicely shaped feet with neat toes.
I was stunned. Clearly, Steve had not been laying in wait for a chance to woo me back. He was Olive’s featured entertainment—her butler in the buff!
Steve had obviously been studying the various dance routines from
The Full Monty
, although, thankfully, his apron stayed firmly in place throughout. However, the occasional twirl afforded us a bird’s-eye view of dimpled buttocks, which caused squeals of shocked delight.
I even found myself cheering along with the rest of them and couldn’t help thinking what a good sport Steve was. He had an excellent sense of rhythm and was very funny. Barbara seemed to be back to her old self, leading the chant of “Apron off! Apron off!”
Luckily, Steve did not oblige. He also did not look in my direction once, and although I was relieved to see that he had obviously not killed himself on my behalf, I was surprised at the speed with which he’d recovered from our breakup. Mrs. Evans was right.
After Steve had danced to the entire soundtrack of
The Full Monty
—even running up the wall and doing a backward flip—he disappeared into the kitchen, only to emerge a few moments later with a tray of salmon pinwheels and sausage rolls.
Passing them around the room, Steve put up with the occasional slap and tickle from the ladies with his usual good humor.
Steve’s popularity made me wonder if I’d made a mistake in pushing him away. These older women had far more experience than I in the romance stakes. Mum always maintained that eventually the fireworks fizzle out and that what mattered most at the end of the day was companionship and someone to make you laugh.
Mum had a point, and Barbara was living proof that passion only brought heartache and misery.
At last, tray aloft, Steve headed in my direction. My stomach gave a funny jump. I braced myself for a torrent of compliments about how I looked. “That was a great performance,” I enthused.
“Salmon pinwheel?” said Steve with a polite smile.
“They look delicious.” I took one but found I’d suddenly lost my appetite. “You were wonderful.”
“I’ll do anything for good old Babs.” And with a nod, Steve just turned away. I couldn’t believe it!
“Wait!” I reached out to touch his arm, and yes—there it was, that
tingle
. “Is everything all right?”
“Never been better, Vicky,” said Steve.
Vicky?
Not
doll
? “The weather looks like it will hold for tomorrow’s Morris Dance-a-thon.”
The
weather
?
I struggled to find something to say but could only manage, “Thanks so much for talking to your friend at Plymouth morgue. It really helped.”
Steve frowned. “Not sure I follow.”
“Your friend? The one who told me about Carol Pryce? I might have a couple more questions for him about the sodium hydroxide?” A sudden burst of laughter from Barbara reminded me that I wanted some information on Mildred Veysey’s death, too. “I also wondered if you had access to old coroner reports. From the sixties?”
Steve shook his head. “Sorry, Vicky. You’re talking to the wrong guy. Don’t you know a few people in the police force? I am sure they could help you.”
Blast!
So he was taking the passive-aggressive path. How childish! I felt intensely annoyed but more than a little bit scared. Steve had always been
there
. Maybe I had really blown it.
“It’s not for me,” I pleaded. “It’s for Barbara.”
“Why?” Steve said sharply. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“Possibly,” I said. “I know you care about her. I thought you might be able to help.”
“You’re right. I do,” said Steve. “I’ll go and have a word with her right this second.”
“No!” I cried. “Don’t do that.”
Good grief!
That would be disastrous. “In fact, I’d rather she didn’t know about this for the time being.”
“Nice try, Vicky,” he said quietly. “But I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not going to happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“The days of using me just for information are over.” Steve shook his head with sorrow. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some ladies to attend to.” And, with a short bow, Steve—and his white, dimpled buttocks—disappeared into the kitchen.
So that was that.
To my astonishment, my eyes began to sting with tears.
A sudden commotion signaled that more excitement was in store for Barbara, but I just felt numb. I couldn’t stop thinking about Steve. I’d never
really
wanted him in the first place, so why did it bother me now? Was I one of these awful women who were only interested in a man I couldn’t have? Wait! Didn’t I just accuse men of the exact same crime?
Madame Dora and Ruby—clutching a canvas bag—strolled into the room. Both were dressed remarkably like Barbara—a fact that did not go unnoticed by several of the ladies present. Barbara’s expression was stony. Things were about to get ugly.
“Tonight’s readings are on the house!” cried Olive.
There were yelps of excitement along with “Clever Olive!” and “Maybe she can tell us who stole the church silver!”
Whilst Dora stepped out into the garden to “ready her mind” for the evening ahead, Ruby helped Olive set up a collapsible card table and two chairs in the middle of the room. She put the canvas bag on the floor and pulled out a pack of tarot cards, the crystal ball—wrapped in a velvet tablecloth—and some tea lights.
“How’s your husband’s charm working?” asked Ruby. “Ronnie, isn’t it?”
Olive turned pink. “He’s not my husband. Yet.”
“Don’t forget he’s got to keep that dung on his head for twenty-eight days.”
At last all was ready. The curtains were drawn closed. Candles were lit. Dora reappeared from the garden, settled into the chair, and placed her hands on the table.
“Where’s the bride-to-be?” demanded Dora.
“Here!” shouted Olive, but Barbara dug her toes in.
Olive pushed Barbara forward. “I told you, I don’t want to.” Barbara threw off Olive’s arm.
The others let up a chorus of “You must!” and “Madame Dora is so good.”
The look on Barbara’s face was nothing short of murderous as she was forcibly manhandled into the chair. I hurried to her side, whispering, “It’s all rubbish; you do know that, don’t you?”
The overhead lights were switched off, leaving just the tea lights to cast an eerie glow. The ladies sat where they could, and a hush descended over the room.
Dora placed her hands over the crystal ball and closed her eyes. She was quiet for what seemed like an hour but was probably all of two minutes. Suddenly she began to sway in her chair, becoming more and more agitated, and then—her eyes snapped open!
“I see blood!” she gasped. “A lot of blood! Blood on your shoes!”
Barbara shrieked and tried to stand, but Olive—with remarkable strength—grabbed her shoulders and held on tight.
“Where? Whose blood?” called out Florence Tossell, who was told in no uncertain terms to sit down and be quiet.
“A lane. I see water. Lovers kissing,” wailed Dora.
“Death!”
A shiver ran down my spine. The gypsy was certainly putting on a good show. Olive kept Barbara locked firmly in her chair.