Crazy Lady (5 page)

“What?”

“You know what I mean,” she is saying as she opens the basement door, then she stops as she takes in the sight of an open window. “Oh. Damn. She's gone again.”

A kind of peace has settled over the Button household by the time that Rick arrives and peers through the basement window on his way from the garage.

“It's all right. The crazy lady's gone,” calls Trina as she spots her husband's shadow, and he enters to find her sitting in front of a blank television, toying with Janet's spiritual figurine.

“I told you she was a nut,” says Rick in relief, but Trina's expression suggests that she has a different view.

“She's scared of something, Rick. Really scared.”

I
t's barely a twenty-minute run from Westchester to Dewminster on the bypass, but the aging bus driver steers with his knees and casually combs his hair with both hands as he takes the scenic route, meandering the wooded lanes and village roads like a Sunday excursionist, pausing to help passengers with loaded shopping carts and stopping for a “quick bite” at Moulton-Didsley's village store. “Best sausage rolls in Wessex,” he loudly announces as he switches off the engine, and a couple other passengers take him at his word. Then it's on to Lower Mansfield, where he gives his face a once-over in the mirror and detours for Molly Jenkins. “It won't take a sec,” he calls as he trundles the thirty-seater up a rugged cart track to a thatched cottage. “Only the poor old soul's going to the doc's in Dewminster.”

Daphne eyes Mrs. Jenkins cynically as the elderly, though apparently agile, woman boards without assistance, whispering to the driver, “Thanks ever so, Bert,” as she lays a friendly hand on his arm.

That's interesting
, thinks Daphne, noticing that neither fare nor ticket changes hands, and her skepticism deepens as the new passenger makes a space for herself in the front seat by squeezing a toddler onto her mother's lap.

“There's plenty of room at the back,” mutters the young woman angrily, but Mrs. Jenkins knows her place and is determined to fill it.

“I'll be all right here, luv,” she insists as she removes her hat to signify that she is settled, and she gets a nod of approval from Bert.

I wonder if there's a Mr. Jenkins
, thinks Daphne as she watches the couple chit-chatting like a pair of teenagers all the way to her destination.

“Dewminster Market Place,” sings out Bert, and Daphne dawdles for few seconds until the driver and his lady friend lightly link hands and slink together into the Market Café.

“I ought to be a private eye,” laughs Daphne under her breath, then she stops herself, asserting, “That's exactly what I am.”

“You might want to start with the church,” Trina suggested earlier, as if there might only be one in the small medieval market town, but Daphne has no other clues so she asks a traffic warden for directions to the nearest.

A bas-relief signboard atop the thatched lych-gate welcomes all to the parish church of St. Stephen's in the Vale, while inside the wooden structure the parish notice board announces that the Rev. Rollie Rowlands will conduct all manner of ecclesiastical services.

Daphne is momentarily fascinated by the conglomeration of swallows' nests hanging from the rafters before her eyes are drawn down the tunnel of ancient yew trees to the squat Norman tower of the centuries-old church, but she finds her view blocked by a man laboriously pushing his bicycle along the grave-lined path towards her.

“Sacrilegious to ride through the graveyard,” explains the wheezy man as he stops to get his breath at the gate.
“The kids do it,” he carries on between breaths. “No respect — no respect.”

Daphne sizes him up, a man with a paunch like a ten-month pregnancy, and realizes that although his numerous chins conceal his collar he is probably the vicar.

“Rollie Rowlands, rector,” he announces with an outstretched hand, dispelling any doubts as he rests his bicycle against the lych-gate. “Can I help you?”

“I'm inquiring about Janet Thurgood,” says Daphne once she's introduced herself, but the big man takes off his trilby to shake his head, and Daphne has a hard job keeping her face straight as his combed-over coiffeur falls in dis-array, leaving a monkish tonsure that is clearly more an act of God than Mr. Gillette.

“Sorry. Never heard of her,” explains Rowlands as he tries to flatten the wispy grey strands across his pate. “But I've only been here a few years. Mrs. Drinkwater who does the flowers will know.”

“You seem very sure,” replies Daphne, and the reverence in Rowlands' voice borders on fear as he explains.

“Mrs. Drinkwater knows everything there is to know about this parish.”

I guess that he and the flower lady have had more than a few words about the way he runs the church
, Daphne is thinking and is on the point of asking where she can find the august woman when Rowlands stuffs his wayward hair under his hat and hurriedly grabs his bicycle.

“She'll be arriving in five minutes to fix up the church for a funeral,” he continues, nervously checking his watch. “And if you'll excuse me, I have to leave now. Have to visit one of the parishioners — bit of an accident, sprained ankle, needs ministration. Mrs. Drinkwater will know about your woman I'm sure.”

“Just one or two questions…” starts Daphne, but Rowlands has swung a leg over his bicycle and is forcing the reluctant machine towards the roadway.

“Sorry… must dash.”

“Well, I'm damned…” mutters Daphne to herself as Rowlands stands on the pedals of the old sit-up-and-beg machine, a jumble sale donation, and hauls himself away.

Daphne spends the next few minutes reading the parish magazine and bracing herself for the arrival of Mrs. Drinkwater, whom she imagines to be a big-boned matron with a booming voice. By the time the woman arrives, precisely five minutes later, she is still large in Daphne's mind, and her stature is not diminished by the fact that she is driven to the gate in a stately black Rolls-Royce.

However, despite the precision of the flower lady's arrival, Daphne is temporarily nonplussed by the appearance of a childlike figure from the front passenger seat. It is only when the wizened curmudgeon opens her mouth and yells to the uniformed chauffer, “Stop dawdling Maurice. Get those flowers into the church before they wilt,” that Daphne steps forward.

“Mrs. Drinkwater?” she queries, and she's grateful that she chose a suitably serious grey tweed suit and one of her least ostentatious hats as she feels the weight of the diminutive woman's scrutiny.

“And you are?” demands the crone in an accent that totally refutes the supposed demise of the class system.

But Daphne can play that game and polishes her tone to reply. “I am Ms. Daphne Lovelace, OBE, at your service, ma'am.”

“Oh!” replies the woman snottily. “That's rather pretentious of you.” But she knows that she is outranked and concedes. “What exactly can I do for you, Ms. Lovelace?”

“Just call me Daphne,” she suggests and waits momentarily for reciprocation.

Mrs. Drinkwater was born with a Christian name, but she rose above such familiarities when she married into money and became a lay magistrate. Even her long-deceased husband, a local brewery magnate inappropriately named
Cecil Drinkwater, only ever called her “Dear” or “My wife.” And for most of her life Amelia Drinkwater has steadfastly resisted every attempt by family or friends to soften her.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Lovelace?” the flower lady reiterates coldly, and Daphne has no choice but to explain the purpose of her visit.

The name “Janet Thurgood” brings a cloud to Mrs. Drinkwater's face, and she quickly hustles Daphne under the lych-gate, as if sheltering from an expected thunderbolt, while darkly muttering, “She was an evil woman. Do you hear me? Evil.”

“Evil?” echoes Daphne questioningly.

“I don't speak ill of anyone,” says Mrs. Drinkwater. “But if I were ever to change my mind she'd be the first on the end of my tongue.”

“Oh my goodness,” breathes Daphne. “What on earth did she do?”

The tiny woman catches hold of Daphne's sleeve and draws her down with a conspiratorial whisper. “They say she murdered her children.”

“Intriguing,” says Daphne, her tone asking for more, but Amelia immediately backs off, crosses herself reverently, and recants. “But you never heard that from me. Everyone knows that I never speak ill of anyone.”

“Naturally,” replies Daphne and is tempted to push for more details, though she wonders if it's worth the risk, especially as she knows that she has a more accommodating ally in her camp.

“So, if that's all?” queries the ancient-looking woman as if daring Daphne to ask.

“Yes. Thank you very much,” says Daphne realizing that she has little prospect of gaining further information. But, as Maurice the chauffeur labours past with his arms wilting under the weight of a floral display, she seizes a final opportunity. “Can I help?” she offers, hoping to penetrate
Amelia Drinkwater's barricades under a camouflage of cut arum lilies, but the funereal arranger steps in.

“No, thank you. Maurice is quite capable. Now, if you'll excuse us.”

Plan B then
, thinks Daphne as she heads back to the bus stop, and is not at all surprised to find Mrs. Jenkins taking the return trip.

“Everything all right at the doctor's?” she queries mischievously and smiles at the confused look on the other woman's face.

It's nearly five by the time that Daphne opens a can of Purr for Missie Rouge, puts the kettle on for a pot of her favourite tea, and picks up the phone.

Eight hours' time difference, she mentally calculates before dialling, but she's forced to leave a message. Normality has returned to Trina's world, and she's on her daily round of bringing cheer to the elderly residents of North Vancouver.

“I see the old pecker is looking up this morning,” the homecare nurse jests as she showers Mr. Howlins.

The eighty-five-year-old beams toothlessly. “Not my fault, Trina. You could straighten a corkscrew with that smile of yours.”

“Yeah, right.” She laughs, giving his appendage a friendly tap. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Once upon a time,” he replies. “Once upon a time.” And ten minutes later, with the old man tucked under a blanket in front of a warm fire, she's on her way to clean up Mrs. Stewart.

“Sorry, had a bit of an accident in the bed,” says the septuagenarian without getting out of her chair.

“What a surprise,” mutters Trina
sotto voce
, saying aloud, “Never mind, accidents happen.”

“Do they, dear?”

“Every day apparently,” mumbles Trina as she pulls on rubber gloves and heads for the bedroom.

Back in Westchester, Daphne Lovelace pours herself a cup of Keemun tea musing, “It's the Queen's favourite,” and tries another phone call with Plan B in mind.

“Allo,” answers a foreign-voiced female, once Daphne has been connected to the apartment of David Bliss in St-Juan-sur-Mer on the French Côte d'Azur.

“Is that you, Daisy?” queries the Englishwoman, recognizing Bliss's Gallic companion, and within seconds she is talking to the man himself: Chief Inspector David Bliss, Scotland Yard detective turned author.

“David. How's the old novel coming along?”

“It's not easy, Daphne,” he says, but is too polite to add, Especially when people keep interrupting me. Instead he asks, “So, what can I do for you?”

“Janet Thurgood…” begins Daphne, then she gives a brief account of her meeting with Amelia Drinkwater.

“Just this once,” Bliss warns, once he's taken a few notes. “Try bugging Superintendent Donaldson at Westchester police station if you want anything else. I'm trying to work.”

“David. You sound cross with me.”

He softens with a laugh. “Not really. It's just that I didn't realize how difficult it was to write a book. And the commissioner has only given me a year off.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't worry. I'll make some inquiries and get back to you.”

RCMP Inspector Mike Phillips in Vancouver is also making inquiries. Janet's hasty departure from Trina's basement suite can mean only thing, especially in Sergeant Brougham's mind. “Why else would she have run?” he demands, spreading his hands wide to invite suggestions, but while most ten-year-olds might easily come up with a dozen possible reasons for a person not wishing to be
interviewed by the police, Sergeant Brougham has one and doesn't await contradiction. “She shoved him over the top, bet my pension.”

“It was a heart attack,” reminds Phillips, but that doesn't stop Brougham.

“Yeah, well, anyone would have a heart attack if they're chucked down a basement into a fish tank.”

Phillips lays a cautionary hand on Brougham's shoulder. “Dave, think about it. Roddy Montgomery was twice — correction, three times — the size of this woman. You saw her, for Chrissakes, she'd have a job pushing a few grams of pot. How the hell could she have pushed him over those railings?”

“You just wait till the DNA results come back,” continues Brougham, unfazed. “I'd bet my old granny that she was the one who attacked him. She certainly fits his description.”

“So do half the hookers and druggies of Vancouver, Dave. Anyway, the DNA will take at least a week, perhaps two. We'd better find her before that.”

The finding of Janet Thurgood has been on Trina's mind all morning, and with her daily doses of diarrhea and vomit behind her, the homecare nurse flipped through the section on disguises in her private eye's manual and prepared for a sortie into Vancouver's underworld.

Now she makes a final check of herself in the mirror, as suggested, and smiles at the result. A Yankees baseball cap, a pair of shades, and black lipstick top off her eye-popping luminous orange T-shirt, and a black leather miniskirt decorated with a rhinestone heart over the left buttock tops off a pair of fishnet stockings. The ensemble, confiscated from Kylie's closet, would be fine for a June evening, and she almost makes it to the front door before it dawns on her that it's late November, so she slings on an enormous faux mink that not only conceals
most of her costume but makes the baseball cap and shades look ridiculous.