Expose! (3 page)

As I sped back to the
Gazette
, my mind was spinning. A mysterious phone call, a much-loved wife practically buried in secret, a dubious funeral company, and an old flame so anxious to reunite with her former lover that she admitted to taking up cooking!

Call me suspicious, but I wondered if Douglas Fleming and Eunice were up to something. The question was could it involve murder?

3

It was well past nine by the time I rushed into reception.

“There you are,” cried Barbara Meadows, our sixty-something you’re-as-old-as-you-feel receptionist. Dressed in her usual shapeless, purple hand-knitted cardigan over a crimplene polka-dot dress, Barbara was perched on the edge of one of the hideous brown leatherette chairs. It looked like she was wrestling with an extremely large, deflated exercise ball. “Annabel has rung down twice wondering where you were.”

“Plym Bridge was closed. I had to go the long way around. But Pete knows.” I’d sent him a text and left an explanation on his mobile. Experience had shown that I couldn’t rely on Barbara or Annabel to pass on messages. The former genuinely forgot—and the latter pretended to.

“Hair, dear. Take this.” Barbara reached into her cardigan pocket and withdrew a tortoiseshell mirror and comb. She always wore her iron gray tresses scraped into a tight bun. “You look like you’ve just got out of bed,” she went on, with a knowing wink. Barbara always had sex on the brain.

I pretended not to hear. “No time,” I said, hurrying past.

Ignoring her cries of “You really should grow it,” and, “Men love long hair,” I left reception and tore upstairs.

The other reporters were already in Pete’s office judging by the angry voices coming from behind his closed door. Someone other than me was in the hot seat this morning.

I hovered outside—not eavesdropping, of course—just waiting for the right kind of lull so I could make my entrance.

“Find yourself another sports writer,” I heard Tony Per-kins yell. “I’m through!”

Pete’s door flew open narrowly knocking me off my feet. Tony stormed out and slammed it behind him, hard. His thin, pointed face was white with rage. With his lank, shoulder-length brown hair, a growth of stubble on his chin, and dressed in a tattered, old gray sweatshirt emblazoned with the logo GIPPING GROWLERS—our local football team—Tony looked even scruffier than usual.

I was just about to rap on Pete’s office door when an ominous voice stopped me in my tracks.

“What’s all this caterwauling?” Wilf Veysey, our reclu sive editor, emerged from his corner office. Dressed in his trademark brown tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, he cradled his Dunhill pipe in his hand. His one good eye zoomed in on Tony, giving me the chance to duck behind my desk out of Wilf ’s range of vision.

“Tony?” said Wilf sternly. “Come into my office and close the door.” I waited until Tony had done just that then, darted into Pete’s. This was bad. No one liked to disturb the great man.

Pete was standing by the window, shirtsleeves rolled up, wearing ancient jeans and gnawing on the end of a pencil. I hated this room. It was small, cramped, and stuffy and still smelled of stale cigarettes despite the fact Pete had given up smoking months ago.

“Well, good afternoon,” Pete snapped. “Glad you decided to stop by.”

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I left a . . . never mind.”
Blast!
Pete’s mobile was recharging on the top of his filing cabinet.

“Don’t get so stressed you silly thing.” Annabel was sharing the tartan two-seater sofa with Edward Lyle, our court reporter. Today, Annabel was dressed simply in a plain cream V-neck T-shirt dress that accentuated her curves. Gold chains hung around her neck and she wore espadrilles that laced up to her knees.

“I told Pete it wasn’t like you to be late,” she said, adding with a nasty laugh, “I expect you were on the trail of some new scoop.”

“I was, actually.” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. Annoyance flashed across Annabel’s face.

“Let’s get on with this week’s edition—and in the future Vicky, don’t go off without permission when you know you’re supposed to be
here
, at
nine
on Thursday mornings!”

“Sorry.” I refused to look at Annabel, but I heard a snigger. “Edward, budge up or get up,” she ordered, patting the tartan two-seater sofa. “Where are your manners?”

Without a word, Edward got to his feet and went to lounge against a bank of olive green filing cabinets against the back wall. Dressed in his usual smart khakis and pristine white trainers, today’s yellow polo shirt bore the helpful word
Thursday
.

“Well?” Pete demanded. “Did Tony leave? Stupid idiot.”

“He’s in Wilf ’s office,” I faltered.

There was a universal gasp of horror and a “Bloody hell,” from Edward who rarely cursed.

“Wilf?
Wilf?
” Pete regarded me with utter fury as if I had physically put Tony there, myself. “That sneaky bastard!”

“Wilf came out of his office,” I said gingerly. “He wanted to know what all the caterwauling was about.”

“Oh, great. That’s just bloody great,” Pete threw his hands up in despair and went and sat in the chair behind his desk. “That’s all I need.”

“Wilf is a fan,” Annabel whispered.

“Of what?” I said.

She gestured to Pete who was sifting through a stack of photographs on his desk. He selected one and held it up. It was an eight-by-ten photograph of a garden snail labeled SEABISCUIT. A plaque with the number one was stuck to the snail’s shell.

“This, believe it or not, is our lead story,” said Pete grimly.

“Snails? You’re joking!” I shrieked, expecting to be joined in by a chorus of ridicule.

“Let me explain, Vicky,” said Annabel. “Hedge-jumping ends on April thirtieth. From May until the end of August, it’s officially snail season.”

“
Snail
season?” I’d thought hedge-jumping was strange enough. Would I ever understand these bizarre country pursuits?

“Something to do with birds nesting and nature recovering,” Annabel went on. “Call it an enforced détente between the hedge-jumpers and cutters. Gives the men something else to think about. I must say I’m surprised you didn’t know this.”

“Thank
you
, Annabel,” said Pete. “We kick off with the GSRF—”

“The Gipping Snail Racing Federation, Vicky,” Annabel put in, adding in a low voice, “Tony accepted the role of scrutineer this season. Pete feels it’s a conflict of interests.”

“Are you finished?” Pete snarled.

“Sorry,” said Annabel. “But Vicky keeps asking questions.”

“Actually, that’s—”

“You can ask me afterward. I’m the bloody chief reporter, got it?” Pete said. “As I was saying, the Gastropod Gala is tomorrow night. The first race of the season will be on Sunday at the Three Tuns. Wilf has written some very exciting features on breeding and training. We’ll finish up the interviews with the owners today. Those will appear on pages eleven and twelve since there aren’t any funerals—thank you very much, Reverend Whittler.”

I raised my hand. “Actually, there is one obit—”

“Edward, what’s the latest on the Larch Legacy?” said Pete.

Annabel whispered in my ear, “The Larch Legacy—”

“I wrote Sammy Larch’s obituary,” I hissed. “I know what it is, thank you.” Once a year this highly coveted award—and five hundred pounds cash—was given to one of the dozens of local societies deemed worthy of recognition. With no guidelines or prerequisites, it was more a case of finding favor with the now—thankfully—deceased old man.

“The winner will be announced at the gala,” said Edward. “Being as it’s the last one, his daughter, Olive, wanted to make a big deal about it.”

Pete frowned. “That’s too late to get into this Saturday’s edition. By next week, it’ll be old news.” Pete slammed his hand down on the table. “Someone’s got to know who gets the award? Christ! Larch has been dead for weeks.”

“I already asked Olive,” said Edward. “She said the winner’s name is in a sealed envelope in the safe and she doesn’t even know who, herself.”

“Goddamit! Wasn’t last month’s Gipping Guessing Game calling on readers to vote on who might win?”

“Barbara won’t talk,” said Edward. “She padlocked the voting box.”

“Bollocks.” Pete slammed his hand down on the table again. “I need something else beside bloody snails on Page One.”

“I thought my CCTV report was going on the front page,” said Annabel in a sulky voice.

“Haven’t seen it.”

“I tried to give it to you last night.” Annabel batted her eyelashes. “Remember? When we were working late?” Annabel leaned over giving Pete an eyeful of cleavage, and pulled out a manila folder from yet another new handbag—Gucci, this time. She flipped through her notes and began to read, “New cameras have been installed on Plym Bridge, the industrial estate, the market square—”

“Yeah, but what’s your angle?” Pete said.

“Angle?” Annabel looked blank. “Um—well—there are a lot of cameras.”

“Latest statistic I heard was there are 4.2 million—and rising,” Edward chipped in. “That’s one CCTV camera for at least every fourteen people.”

“But not in Gipping.” Annabel glowered at Edward.

“I think it’s an invasion of privacy,” I said. “They’re talking about introducing loudspeakers, as well. Can you imagine—a voice coming from the void like God, ordering people to pick up their litter! Shouting at shop-lifters.”

“That’s stupid,” said Annabel, “You’re making it up.”

“No, she’s not. Do your bloody homework,” Pete declared. “Talk to the man in the street. Is the level of surveillance in this entire country becoming a nationwide Big Brother?”

“You told me to focus on Gipping-on-Plym,” Annabel whined.

“There’s a whole wide world out there! Do I have to tell you everything?” Pete rolled his eyes. “What’s your headline?”

“How about, CCTV? REALITY TV?” I suggested.

“Yeah. I like it. Good one.”

“I was going to say that,” Annabel snapped.

“Bloody hell!” Pete jumped to his feet. “Morning, sir.”

“Carry on, carry on.” Wilf walked in, followed by Tony looking smug.

Annabel and I stood up. She gave Wilf a flirtatious wave but was rewarded with a scowl as his good eye zeroed in on her short dress and lithe, tan legs.

“No need to get up,” Wilf said. We promptly sat back down. “Tony tells me we’re all set for this week’s Gastropod bumper edition.”

“Tony said that, did he?” Pete’s eyes flashed with fury. “Thanks for doing my job.”

“He had an excellent idea about running a weekly column about the challenges of being a scrutineer,” Wilf said. “Readers can phone in with their questions and Tony will answer them.”

Tony looked pointedly at Pete. “Should ramp up the circulation. People like to see their name in print.”

“And who is going to man the phones?” Pete said. “Barbara doesn’t have the time.”

“What about Vicky?” Annabel suggested. “With Whittler away, there’s nothing for her to do.”

“As a matter of fact, I went to a funeral this morning, which was why I was late. Scarlett Fleming died.”

“Good God!” Wilf ’s jaw dropped. “Wait a minute. You say the funeral has already taken
place
?”

“She was buried this morning in the family vault.”

Wilf swung round to face Pete. “When did she die? Why weren’t we informed?”

“No one told me,” Pete said with a shrug.

“But, young Vicky seems to know all about it.”

“One of my informers tipped me off,” I said. “I’ll get the full details later on today.”

“Isn’t Whittler still in Florida?” said Wilf.

I nodded. “Yes. But Douglas Fleming said she’d always wanted to be buried quietly with no fuss. He seemed in a hurry.”

“There’ll be a backlash from the traditionalists.” Frowning, Wilf clamped his pipe between his teeth. “Old Fleming comes from a big Devon family. I suppose Ripley took her to St. Peter’s?”

“No,” I said. “They used one of those new for-hire companies called Go-Go Gothic.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Wilf ’s pipe clattered to the floor. Annabel darted forward to pick it up and passed it back to him with a grimace. Surreptitiously, she wiped her hand on the side of the sofa.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day,” said Wilf. “
Here!
In
Gipping
!”

“Awful, isn’t it, sir,” I said.

“Isn’t that kind of thing illegal?” said Annabel.

“Not if they are following the rules implemented by the Funeral Planning Authority,” Edward declared. “Anyone can do it and frankly, with the economy as it is, I can’t say I blame them. Death comes to all of us and people tend to forget how expensive these things are. When my dad died, it cost Mum thousands of pounds to give him the whole shebang.”

“I was thinking about doing an exposé on these new, cut-price services,” I said slowly. I hadn’t been, but it suddenly seemed a good idea. “It’s bad enough with big superstores like Tesco moving in and putting the corner shops out of business.”