Murder at the Maples: A Flora Lively Mystery (25 page)

Max carried on, with Flora hanging on every word. ‘Do you remember those little envelopes that used to come around when you were a kid? Well, maybe they weren’t so popular by then, but back in the late seventies and eighties it was the main way for charities to collect. They’d drop an envelope through your door and come back to collect it the following week. People would put in whatever they could afford. Ten pence or ten pounds – it was anonymous and very effective. I can’t remember how she got caught, but the police started to investigate this woman – Cyndy, her name was. Cyndy Baker. Cyndy with a Y. Very affected, I thought. They found she’d been running this scam for five years, all over Shropshire, changing the name of the charity every so often, printing these little envelopes at a dodgy printer’s in Birmingham. With so many victims it was a really tough case to bring to court. But they did.’

‘And Vasco got her off? How?’

Max shrugged. ‘I’ve told you before, he’s clever. I guess he found some loophole or other, I don’t remember the ins and outs of the case. But when you told me about that Wishes charity – what was it called?’

‘The Six Wishes Foundation.’

‘Right. Well, it struck a chord. Because that’s really similar to one of those fake charity names. Different number, it might have been seven wishes, or eight or something, but the rest is the same.’

Flora stared at Max, her mouth dropping open. ‘So you think Vasco remembered the charity scam and decided to set up his own? Maybe the name was subconscious, just hanging around in his memory from years ago.’

‘You’re the expert in all that subconscious psychology stuff, not me. But yes, I think you might be on to something. At the very least, it should be looked into. Someone with Vasco’s past, and two old people leaving their money to a charity that doesn’t seem very easy to pin down. I think the police would be interested, don’t you?’

Flora agreed. She nodded when Max offered her another cup of coffee, feeling a weight lifting from her shoulders. Finally, she had something concrete. She could go to the police now with a credible reason for being suspicious. Not just that an old man like the Captain was unlikely to fall down a set of shallow steps. Not just a gut feeling. And if Max came with her, a former councillor and pillar of the community no less, they’d have to take her seriously.

‘You know,’ she said while Max hunted in the cupboard for some biscuits, ‘at first I was quite enjoying investigating all this. I mean, it was horrible, of course, what happened to the Captain, and I’m not saying I enjoyed that side of it. But trying to work it out, solving a puzzle, it’s kind of addictive.’

‘I’m sensing a “but”.’

‘Too right. It’s like this huge pressure, especially when you’re the only one who thinks there’s anything wrong. Everyone just believed the warden’s explanation that the Captain tripped and fell and that was the end of it.’

‘And that may still turn out to be the case, Flora,’ Max said. ‘All this, it’s only a theory. Besides, even if there is something untoward about the old man’s will, there’s no reason to assume someone would kill him for it. It wouldn’t really be necessary, would it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said he was in some kind of special care. I think it might be safe to assume that his death was fairly imminent.’

‘You’re right. It’s all too horrible to think about. Maybe they were just too impatient to wait for nature to take its course.’ Flora frowned. ‘Anyway, it’s just as well I’m not really a private investigator. I don’t have the stomach for it.’ Max raised his eyebrows and she shook her head. ‘Oh, nothing. Just Marshall, teasing me as usual. Saying we should open up a private eye branch of Shakers.’

‘Well, I hope to God you’re not seriously thinking about it.’ Max looked horrified.

‘You think I’m that rubbish?’

‘No.’ He set down her coffee and put his hand on her back. ‘I think you’re the only family I’ve got left. I need to know you’re safe.’

‘You’ve got Marshall too.’

Max smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You know what I mean. You just take care, okay? Promise me.’

They agreed that Max would be the one to phone the police on Monday morning. He had a contact there so he’d make the initial call. ‘They’ll probably want to come and see you, Flora.’

‘Good,’ she said. And she meant it. The sooner someone official was involved, the sooner she could wash her hands of the whole thing.

Now all she had to worry about was Joy and her imminent move.

An intractable old lady with a guilty conscience or a possible murder? It was hard to know which was the most difficult to handle, to be honest.

***

‘Tickets please.’

Flora rooted around in her bag and pulled out the return ticket to Shrewsbury. She handed it to the conductor with a smile. He didn’t even bother to meet her eyes. She noticed an enormous spot on the side of his nose and grinned to herself. Serves him right for being so grumpy.

She settled back to watch the scenery fly past. Fields, more fields, backs of houses, fields. She’d be glad to get back to the hustle and bustle of the town, the air filled with evidence of human life, even if it was just exhaust fumes.

She thought again about those little charity envelopes Max had talked about. She could picture one, red text on a white background, sitting on the hall table waiting to be collected. What kind of a person fakes a charity envelope and has the audacity to turn up and collect it? Unimaginable. What was her name? Cyndy-with-a-Y. Cyndy Baker. And she got away with it, too. Flora sighed. That was the real crime, when you thought about it.

For want of anything better to do with her hands, Flora reached into her bag for her notepad and pen. She laid them on the table in front of her and wrote: Cyndy Baker. She underlined the Y and turned it into an evil face with slanted eyes. A thought occurred to her, a thought so horrible and ridiculous she tried to dismiss it instantly. It refused to go away. She stretched out her legs, full of a sudden energy, and accidentally kicked the man opposite. He held his paper to the side for a second and looked her up and down. Flora forced a smile. The man nodded and carried on reading.

Flora looked back down at the notepad.

Underneath Cyndy’s name she wrote another.

Cynthia Curtis.

She drew a circle around the two Ys.

Cyndy with a Y. Cynthia with a Y.

And then, her hand shaking slightly, she wrote: Richie Baker.

She underlined both Bakers twice, three times, four times, her pen digging deeper into the page. She wanted to jump up and run to the end of the train; she wanted to scream. Tucking her hands under her thighs she forced herself to breathe, to calm down. Her face was on fire, the back of her neck like ice. She tried to swallow but there was no saliva.

It was too much of a coincidence to be ignored.

She looked out of the window and watched a bird fly alongside the train. It swooped away, doubled back, then flew over the carriage and out of sight. She looked back at her notepad.

Cynthia Curtis was Richie Baker’s aunt. If she was his father’s sister, Baker would be her maiden name. Cynthia with a Y; Cyndy with a Y. One could easily be a shortened version of the other. The name, and the connection with the Maples, and by association the Six Wishes Foundation, plus the Vasco factor. She had it. Flora felt a shift in her consciousness, as though a curtain had suddenly been lifted to expose a whole new world. Cyndy would be an affectation the warden had distanced herself from, with good reason if she was once again involved in a fake charity.

Was that why Cynthia had needed the solicitor involved? To play it safe, keep them from suspicion? She thought about how well protected the people behind Six Wishes were. In almost two days of searching, Flora had failed to find so much as a name to connect to it. Could the warden have done this alone? It was impossible to say. Flora wrote Vasco’s name alongside the others. He must be in this up to his scrawny neck, taking care of the residents’ wills once they’d somehow been coerced into leaving their estates to Six Wishes.

Just how did they manage that, anyway? Flora felt her stomach turn over as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Guilt, that was how. Playing on their kindnesses, the causes they had spent their lives supporting. For Ida it was cats. Flora could just imagine the warden telling her about a brilliant charity doing wonderful things for sick animals, probably producing pamphlets and all sorts of other materials to support it. Six Wishes would need a website – the elderly residents of the Maples were pretty handy when it came to the internet. Someone thinking of donating their life savings to a charity would want to look them up first. Flora wondered if Cynthia had involved anyone else in the scam. Photos of rescued pets; a phone call from the so-called president of the foundation, perhaps, thanking her for her generosity. And then Mr Vasco to make it all official. Nothing to do with the retirement village, a complete outsider, to maintain the illusion it was all above board. Perhaps he offered his services for a discount, via a leaflet or a card the warden would leave lying around in their rooms …

Guilt. And perhaps a touch of psychology. Why leave all your money to some nameless distant relative who never visits, who in all probability doesn’t even know you exist? Why not do something good with your nest egg, something worthwhile? For the Captain it was a no-brainer, as Marshall would say. Ex-military, no family, he’d devoted his life to the service of queen and country. The warden was perfectly placed to know exactly which buttons to press.

And then, just sit back and wait for them to die. If all your targets were in Special Care, you could be sure, as Max had pointed out, that you wouldn’t have to wait too long.

The train slowed down and stopped just outside Shrewsbury’s centre. Flora sat on the edge of her seat, chewing a nail. The man opposite was still reading his paper; she envied him his innocent calm. Looking out across the backs of industrial units, two thoughts hit Flora simultaneously.

One: the warden had been lucky that both Ida and the Captain had died so soon after she’d secured their signatures on the wills.

Two: surely this luck was a coincidence too far?

Had Cynthia progressed beyond fraud and turned to murder as well? Flora felt sick at the thought of it. Cynthia, too greedy and impatient to wait for them to die naturally, easing them on their way. The Captain – how exactly had she managed that? A sleeping tablet slipped in with his breakfast, banking on his insistence on walking down all those stairs, perhaps. Or had the warden been walking with him, helping him … helping him on his way with one well-timed shove?

Flora swallowed and wondered how many more there had been, or how many were already set up and ready to be dispatched. It made her blood run cold. Maybe Joy’s fears about the third floor weren’t so farfetched after all.

Joy. Who was herself about to be moved to the third floor due to poor health. Sitting on a healthy sum after Eddie’s death last year, no family to speak of, already depressed and demotivated. Not to mention holding a guilty secret that coloured her view of everything she saw. Wasn’t she an ideal target for the warden’s evil scheme? Flora suddenly remembered Cynthia appearing behind them the day Joy confessed all about the Joan of Arc club. How long had she been there, and how much had she heard? If she knew everything, all she’d have to do would be talk about a wonderful charity for bullied children – or better still, bullied children from poor families who really loved dogs. She could make up whatever she wanted, and the Six Wishes would be back in business with a new incarnation, ready to receive its latest bequest.

Chapter 16

‘Elizabeth? I’m sorry to be a pain, but can you do me a favour and find Joy?’

Flora had jumped on a bus outside the station, impatiently dialling Joy’s mobile again and again. But either Joy was ignoring her or she wasn’t near her phone, so Flora had called the Maples’ reception instead. Figuring it would be quicker to catch the bus to the other side of town than go on foot, Flora was now hovering near the door ready to dash off as soon as they reached her stop.

‘I don’t think she’s here, Flora. Bear with me, I’ll just go and check.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ Flora shouted, but it was too late. She could hear Elizabeth’s shoes click-clacking along the corridor. Flora glared at the phone in her hand.

‘Damn it.’

A woman with a toddler on her lap looked up at her disgustedly. Flora pulled an apologetic face and turned back towards the front of the bus. Traffic was heavy and progress maddeningly slow. The car in front of them – an ancient Ford with smoke billowing out of the exhaust – indicated and stopped to let out a passenger. Right in the middle of the road. Flora bit her tongue to stop herself from swearing again. She looked at the phone, willing the receptionist to return. If she could just talk to Joy, tell her not to speak to anyone about Aubrey – and more importantly not to talk to any solicitors, or indeed the warden – it would buy them enough time to get the police involved. But she needed to see Joy for herself. There was something inside her, some pressing weight on her chest, that wouldn’t ease up. Flora didn’t even want to think about what it was trying to tell her.

But when Elizabeth came back she had bad news. ‘Joy’s not here, sorry. I didn’t think she was, to be honest.’

Flora could have strangled the woman. ‘Okay, no worries. Did you check her unit?’

‘No.’ Elizabeth laughed. ‘I got halfway there and remembered. What a dizzy Lizzy I am.’

The bus started up again, almost throwing Flora off her feet and into the lap of the woman behind, which was already occupied by the howling toddler. ‘Oh, my goodness! I’m so sorry.’ She gave the distressed boy a gentle pat on his arm and his mother drew him back as though Flora had tried to hit him. Passengers two or three rows behind were starting to stare at her now. She looked away, her face burning.

‘Elizabeth, could you just tell me where Joy is? I really need to know.’

‘Oh, sure. She’s gone off with the warden to visit her solicitor. Said something about signing her will. Poor old dear, this moving up to the third floor really has upset her, hasn’t it? You were right about that. I saw her at breakfast and she kept talking about doing the right thing … I was a bit worried about her, to be honest.’