Expose! (31 page)

“Olive
Larch
? I don’t believe it!” Melanie’s jaw dropped. Since she hadn’t been at Friday’s Gala—nor had Dr. Frost for that matter—she wouldn’t have seen Fleming and Larch together. “I always thought if he ever remarried, it would be that awful Eunice.”

“What about the restraining order?”

“That was Scarlett’s doing.” Melanie retrieved a plastic bag of celery from her desk drawer. “A couple of months ago—right out of the blue—Eunice started coming here a lot.” I cringed knowing full well this would have been after I’d implied Fleming still had feelings for her. “They’d been school sweethearts, you know,” Melanie went on. “Eunice made him laugh. I knew he liked her, but God knows why. Still, takes all sorts. Then one day, Scarlett got wind of what was going on and put a stop to it.”

“This is great. You’ve been really helpful.”

“Oh! It’s nearly three. I must close up,” said Melanie. She paused. “Funny he should end up marrying Olive, though. I never saw Dougie as the gold-digging type. Just goes to show you never really know someone.”

On that score, I couldn’t have agreed with her more. Popping the tape into my pocket I thanked her and left.

The next few hours dragged as I waited for darkness to fall. Even though I knew Headcellars was empty, it would be foolish to attempt a daytime break-in.

I spent my time thinking about the Douglas Fleming I thought I knew and liked. Dad, too, said no one really knows anyone. As I heard giggles and “You are a devil, you are,” coming from the Evans’s bedroom, I was beginning to think he was right.

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Headcellars was located at the bottom of a dell and reached via a long, twisty narrow lane flanked by overgrown hedgerows.

I’d never been spooked by the darkness. I wasn’t superstitious nor did I believe in ghosts but I had to admit as I came upon the Tudor house silhouetted against the night sky, it was definitely creepy.

Clouds scudded across the sky showing glimpses of a three-quarter moon, which illuminated Scarlett’s famous—and now tortured—maze garden. I could quite see why she’d been furious with Dave and his jumping friends. Although the carefully clipped sculptured animals remained untouched, the neat box hedges in geometrical shapes lay in ruins across the front lawn.

Leaving my moped next to the stone wall on the left side of the house, I was struck by the utter stillness of the night. All I could hear was the sound of a few cows munching, along with the occasional moo coming from the field next door. On the horizon I could see the lights of Dairy Cottage.

My thoughts flew back to Mary Berry and the morning she claimed Fleming gave her a cheery wave as he loaded his wife’s coffin into the American Cadillac. Why did he want Eunice to know that Scarlett was dead if he already planned on marrying someone else? It didn’t make sense.

I turned my attention back to the house and breaking in. Under the gables was a fancy alarm unit. I’d expected as much and had come prepared, silently thanking Dad for all those hours of training. Naturally, I was also dressed for the part in black leggings, black polo sweater, black balaclava, and thin, black gloves. I wore a fanny pack around my waist holding a Mini Maglite, Swiss Army penknife, screwdriver, and a wire coat hanger.

I started off by walking around the perimeter hoping to find a stray window open. Often with listed buildings, there were so many nooks, crannies, and windows dotted here and there, not all could be armed.

At the rear of the house was a forecourt in front of a converted barn that now served as a two-car garage. A decorative wishing well formed a centerpiece. Its tiled pitched roof covered in honeysuckle.

Fleming’s black RS Audi Avant was gone—presumably he’d taken that to Cornwall—but Scarlett’s expensive Range Rover stood outside. Considering she was the only one who drove it, I was surprised it was not in the barn.

Retrieving my Mini Maglite from my fanny pack, I played the beam along the redbrick walls and up the side of the house. A nightlight burned in an upstairs window then suddenly went off, only to reappear in another part of the house a few moments later.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Prickles went up and down my spine. Every sense in my body switched to high alert. Hadn’t Topaz, Sadie,
and
Mrs. Evans claimed the place was haunted? The notion was stupid
.

I waited for what seemed like eons but the light remained where it was. It was probably one of those new timer switches. There had been a crop of burglaries recently and perhaps Fleming thought word of his absence might reach the wrong ears. By leaving Scarlett’s Range Rover outside and the inside lights on, it would give the appearance that someone was home.

Satisfied with my logical explanation, I made my way to the far side of the house and came across a small frosted bathroom window on the ground floor. The top hinged section was latched open. I always marveled at why the general public usually decided not to arm these little buggers. They
always
provided a way in—especially for someone like me. Hadn’t Dad nicknamed me The Little Rat when I used to help on the occasional night jobs?

I clambered up onto the windowsill, stuck my arm through the narrow opening, and, using my specially adapted wire coat hanger, reached down to lift the lever. The lower window popped open. It was tiny, but I squeezed through without any problem.

Once inside, I was glad to find the bathroom door was open. This was extremely lucky since it was often the actual act of opening that door into the rest of the house, which triggered the alarm.

I peered into the corridor and to my surprise, noted the Flemings did have a motion and heat-sensored alarm system—I could see the units built into the coving—but those telltale green and red lights were flashing and therefore, not armed.

I thought about turning the overhead lights on but decided against it. Even though the house was isolated, if I could see Dairy Cottage, they could certainly see Headcellars and of course, there were other farms in the neighboring area, too.

After several futile tries—one door led down to a cellar—I found Fleming’s study. It was the last room at the end of a long corridor. Glad to see heavy velvet curtains drawn tight across a large casement window, I went over to his oak desk and decided it was safe to switch on the green banker’s light.

The room was more of a library than a study. There was a large inglenook fireplace filled with dried flower arrangements. Two entire walls were covered from floor to ceiling with books. A tapestry stretched across a third. On top of a long wooden cabinet stood a glass, framed display case filled with earth, leaves, and what looked like hamster furnishings. I went to take a closer look.

There was a miniature house, exercise wheel, and tiny jungle gym. Two large snails and several babies were nibbling on lettuce leaves. Presumably one of them was the famous Seabiscuit. It was hard to tell. To me, all snails looked alike.

I pulled out Fleming’s chair and sat down. The drawers were locked but easily opened with my Swiss Army penknife. The first had the usual pencils and sticky notes. The second was filled with unopened bills. Many envelopes were stamped FINAL NOTICE. I pulled out bank statements and discovered all carried hefty overdrafts. I opened a manila envelope. It was Douglas Fleming’s life insurance policy and had been cashed out six months ago.

Basically, the Flemings were practically bankrupt. Dad always said that money was often the main cause for divorce—and murder. It was no wonder Fleming had wanted to marry wealthy Olive Larch and not poverty-stricken Eunice Pratt.

My eye caught a British Telecom envelope. Withdrawing the itemized statement, I recognized the phone number of Dairy Cottage immediately having seen it on my caller ID enough times these past few days.

I stared at it for several moments. Eunice had been telling the truth. The time of each call was registered as early morning or late afternoon.

Working in a farming community, I’d learned a few things about a typical farmer’s day. With a jolt, I realized that those calls coincided with the daily milking schedule when Mary was bound to be outside with her cows. No wonder she had scoffed at Eunice’s claims ! Yet, why would Fleming call from home when his wife was bound to be around? Even though Mary said she often saw Scarlett doing her yoga in the garden, making secret phone calls seemed a bit risky. Why hadn’t Fleming phoned Eunice from his office?

Unfortunately the statement cut-off date was the week prior to Scarlett’s death. But I was sure the calls must have continued. Eunice had said as much.

I made a final search of the third drawer and pulled out an old tobacco tin. Inside were several keys—presumably spare house, office, cars—and, thankfully, the heavy ornate clef key to the Fleming vault. Slipping it into my fanny pack, my eyes were drawn to a dark blue vinyl wallet stamped BRITISH AIRWAYS. Inside was a one-way economy ticket—paid in cash—from London Heathrow to Rio de Janeiro in the name of Sydney Pember. The departure date was this coming Thursday!

I was seriously baffled. Was Fleming going to flee the country under an assumed name? Surely, he couldn’t be planning on getting rid of Olive so quickly?

Good grief!
Olive already suffered from a weak heart. What if the physical exertion on her wedding night was too much for her? Or worse—what if Fleming had decided to get rid of her on their honeymoon? The cliff paths along the north Cornish coastline were treacherous. All it would take was one little push.

There was a sudden loud clunk. A violent shudder started under the floorboards and continued up the wall in front of me, ending in a mind-numbing groan. A series of gurgles! The whoosh of rushing water! Had the house not been empty, I would have sworn it was a toilet being flushed.

I leapt to my feet, paralyzed with fear. Every hair on my neck stood up. Gooseflesh coated my arms. Directly above my head came the sound of slow, heavy footsteps. My heart hammered so hard in my chest I thought I was going to die of fright.

My God
. It was true. Headcellars
was
haunted!

I shoved everything back into the drawers and slammed them shut, switched off the banker’s lamp, and tore out of the study. I raced along the corridor as if the hounds of the Baskervilles were hot on my heels, flew into the bathroom, and scrambled out of the window, not even bothering to relatch it.

I didn’t look back until I stopped my moped at the top of the drive to catch my breath.

My hands were shaking so much I could hardly hold the handlebars. I did
not
believe in ghosts. I did
not
. There had to be some logical explanation.
Think Vicky think!

And then it hit me. Maybe Scarlett Fleming wasn’t dead, after all. Perhaps it had been
her
footsteps I’d heard upstairs? Was it conceivable that the two of them were in this scam together?

Scarlett never went to Spain. Neil Titley had sworn that it had been a woman who had booked Go-Go Gothic’s services and Melanie had denied any knowledge. Scarlett got Neil’s number from Sadie Evans when the two used to chat while having their nails done at Polly’s on the Barbican. Scarlett must have booked her own funeral!

As I’d suspected all along, Fleming’s grief—despite a couple of dramatic performances—had seemed incredibly short-lived. There was the sudden friendship with Sammy Larch—despite everyone knowing that Scarlett couldn’t stand him. What about the night the old boy died? Fleming took Olive to the Nag and Bucket while Scarlett may well have pushed her father down the stairs but I could never prove it. It was pure fluke that Dr. Frost had been too preoccupied with getting back to the Imperial Hotel in Plymouth to examine Sammy’s body properly.

But where did Eunice fit in? Why would Fleming keep calling her?

Despite telling myself otherwise, I was thoroughly spooked by this evening’s developments and would have preferred a visit to St. Peter’s churchyard in broad daylight.

There was no time for nerves. With that one-way ticket to Brazil a mere two days away, I had to move fast.

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