Expose! (2 page)

It was one of the reasons that I took my job as funeral reporter extremely seriously. Someone had to record a life—however insignificant—for posterity. Someone had to make that life
count
.

I pushed open the gate and stepped inside. Albert Square housed four marble tabernacles adorned with winged, trumpeting angels, a pyramid—Sammy Larch’s final resting place—made of granite guarded by two small sphinxes, three identical miniature Greek temples with ornate porticos, and a Gothic chapel choked with brambles behind rusting iron railings. All were crammed into a space not much bigger than Gipping’s village hall and knee-deep in weeds. The place seemed deserted.

For a horrible moment, I thought I must be in the wrong location until I spotted wheeled track marks—presumably left by some kind of trolley—in the tall grass hugging the yew hedge boundary.

I set off, surprised to find a further overgrown area tucked away around a corner. Albert Square was more of an L-shape and not a square at all.

Two figures and a hospital gurney stood next to the entrance of a stone burial vault carved with gargoyles. No doubt, pallbearers were an extra charge.

I recognized Douglas Fleming immediately. He was smoking a cigarette with a man wearing a Victorian frock coat, pinstripe trousers, and top hat who had his back to me.

“Morning gents!” I called out and walked over to join them.

Douglas Fleming saw me, gave a start of surprise, and dropped his cigarette into the tall grass. “Why, it’s Vicky! Goodness,” he said, grinding the butt under his heel. “What a piece of luck. I was going to come and see you later.”

The Victorian frock-coated gent turned to me and said, “Neil Titley, Esquire. Nice to meet you.”

“Hello.” I tried hard not to stare at the ghoulish-looking man before me. Kohl pencil-rimmed dark brown eyes with white face powder gave him a deathly pale complexion. His large Roman nose lay slightly bent and flattened as if someone had punched him full in the face and he hadn’t bothered to see a doctor.

“Allow me to introduce Vicky Hill from our local newspaper,” Douglas Fleming said.

“Gipping Gazette,”
I said, offering my hand.

“Delighted.” Neil Titley took it in his leather-clad own and held it just a little too long. I caught a whiff of cigarette breath. “Here’s my business card,” he went on, withdrawing a small white card from inside his frock-coat pocket. It was the cheap print-your-own variety, available at any railway station. “Funerals are only one service we offer—”

“Thank you, Mr. Titley,” Douglas Fleming snatched the card out of his grasp. “Hardly the right time to tout for new business.”

“Sorry, sir.” Neil Titley did not look sorry. He promptly withdrew
another
card and pushed it into my hand whispering, “We accept cash only. No credit cards. Tell your friends and I’ll give them a good price.”

“Good-bye,” Douglas Fleming said coldly.

“Good day to you both.” Neil Titley touched his top hat and, with practiced skill, collapsed the gurney with a snap. “May your poor wife rest in peace.”

“Your
wife
? Goodness. I
am
sorry!” I was stunned. I’d seen Scarlett Fleming only two weeks ago picking up first prize for Gipping’s Bottled Jam Boil-Off. She’d been in rude health judging by the fight she picked with Mayor Rawlings after her preserves had been initially placed third.

“Was it an accident?” I said gently.

Douglas Fleming’s eyes filled with tears. “It happened so quickly. One moment she was alive and the next . . .” He shook his head with despair. “I just can’t believe it.”

Nor could I.

Something wasn’t right. Pete Chambers, our chief reporter, had a hotline to Gipping Police Station, Fire Station, and morgue for accidents and fatalities. We also had informers dotted around Devon eager to earn fifteen pounds for any gossip worth printing.

Given Douglas Fleming’s stature in the community, it was astonishing that this tragedy might have passed by unnoticed had it not been for that mystery phone call this morning. It also occurred to me that whoever made that call was not here, either.

“I’ve written a short paragraph for your newspaper,” said Douglas Fleming. “I know there will be some people who won’t be happy that we didn’t have a big bash, but”—He wiped away a tear—“this is exactly what Scarlett wanted—a quiet funeral with no fuss.”

“Of course,” I said, thinking a lot of Gipping church goers would feel incensed about being cheated out of a slap-up meal especially since Scarlett Fleming was regarded as a local celebrity.

“My Scarlett led a very simple life,” Douglas Fleming went on. “She didn’t like to draw attention to herself.”

I stifled a snort of disbelief. Were we talking about the same person? My landlady, Mrs. Evans, ran a cleaning business called Doing-it-Daily and counted the Flemings as one of her clients. She always enjoyed gossiping about Scarlett’s glamorous lifestyle. The twice-weekly manicures in Plymouth to keep her acrylic nails in peak condition, the private yoga classes with a trainer rumored to have worked in Los Angeles, and her brand-new Range Rover Vogue SE with the personalized number plate, SCLTT.

“Scarlett always said that if she died before me”—Fleming swallowed hard—“ a quickie burial was her only request. Even her coffin is plain. Would you like to see it?” He withdrew a heavy ornate key from his pocket. “I can unlock the vault.”

“No thanks.” I studied Douglas Fleming’s expression. His face was etched with grief. This was not the time to question him further about the gory details. He was obviously still in shock.

“Perhaps I should come to your house this afternoon?” This would give me a chance to ring emergency services and get the real scoop on Scarlett Fleming.

“I’m going to the office,” he said. “Being alone at Headcellars with all those memories is more than I can bear. Come before we close, just before three.”

Mr. Fleming escorted me back to the car park in silence. It was only when we reached the lych-gate and he stopped to usher me through, that he spoke again. “I know I should have called you about this but I couldn’t face it,” he said. “How did you find out?”

“I got tipped off. A woman phoned but wouldn’t give her name. I was going to mention it earlier but somehow, it didn’t seem the right thing.”

“Tipped
off
?” Douglas Fleming frowned. “Who on earth . . . oh, dear.”

“Do you know who it could be?”

“I’m afraid I might.” Douglas Fleming turned pale. “Good God!” He lowered his voice and whispered, “Look no further. I believe your answer is over there.”

A silver Ford Fiesta was parked on the far side of the church car park in the shadows.

I was flabbergasted. “Doesn’t that car belong to Eunice Pratt?”

It was a well-known fact that she remained wildly infatuated with Douglas Fleming, her childhood sweetheart, but how she found out about this morning’s burial so quickly was anyone’s guess.

“Forgive me. I must go.” Douglas Fleming grabbed my hands and squeezed them tightly in his own. “Please, Vicky. I can’t deal with her now. Would you mind?”

And with that, he hurried to his Audi and leapt in, just as a slight figure with a lavender-colored perm scrambled out of the Fiesta shouting, “Dougie! Dougie! Wait!”

Mr. Fleming appeared not to hear. He gunned the engine and tore past her at high speed as if his life depended on it.

Eunice scurried toward me, her face shining with excitement. “It’s true isn’t it?” she cried. “Scarlett Fleming is dead. Dougie is mine at last!”

2

Eunice Pratt engulfed me in a warm embrace. Her pale blue twinset and beige skirt smelled strongly of lavender water and mothballs. She was so thin I feared she might snap in two.

Mrs. Pratt was not one of my favorite people. She was a bitter woman in her sixties with a nasty temper. She was also the love of my life’s—Lieutenant Robin Berry—aunt. Given that Robin adored her, it was important I keep on her good side. Of course, Robin and I hadn’t actually gone on our first proper date yet but it wasn’t for want of trying. On the two occasions we’d made dinner plans, he’d had to cancel at the last minute, due to “top secret naval business.”

“I can’t thank you enough, dearest Vicky,” Eunice Pratt cried.

“I didn’t do anything,” I said, gently extricating myself.

“Of course you did.” She beamed. “You gave me hope. If you hadn’t told me how Dougie felt, I’d never dared to dream.”

How horribly awkward! A few weeks ago, I
had
inadvertently hinted that the embers of her school day romance with Douglas Fleming may not have grown cold, but it was just a passing remark to make her feel special. Unfortunately, given the speed with which Douglas Fleming had peeled out of the church car park, it would appear that as far as he was concerned, those embers had definitely fizzled out.

“I had no idea Scarlett was ill,” Mrs. Pratt chattered on happily. “I wonder what she died of—probably her heart. She had high blood pressure, you know—and of course, that dreadful temper. Poor Dougie. Good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say.”

I hadn’t expected heartfelt sympathies but Mrs. Pratt’s callous remark got me thinking. “By the way, thank you for telephoning this morning.”

She looked blank. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Don’t you remember?” I said indulgently. I was used to dealing with these senior lapses of memory. “You told me to get a reporter to St. Peter’s immediately but didn’t want to leave your name?”

“Are you implying I made an
anonymous
call?” Mrs. Pratt said appalled.

“Someone phoned—”

“It was certainly not me,” she snapped.

The funny thing was, I actually believed she was telling the truth. Even if she had forgotten she’d made that phone call, Eunice Pratt would always leave her name.

Rather like her dead rival, Mrs. Pratt basked in the limelight and never missed an opportunity to plug her latest petition, no matter how inappropriate the circumstances. At Sammy Larch’s funeral I caught her handing out inflammatory flyers condemning the British government’s plans to add loudspeakers to the numerous CCTV cameras that were now installed throughout the country. “A shocking invasion of privacy!” Eunice claimed and I had to admit she could be right.

I wondered what prompted Douglas Fleming to suggest his former love had been the caller. “How did
you
hear about today’s sad event?”

Mrs. Pratt turned a mottled shade of red. “I was just passing by and recognized Dougie’s car.”

“Really? That was lucky.”
Hardly passing by
. Church Lane was off the main road and dead-ended in a field.

A peculiar feeling came over me. Surely there wasn’t anything sinister about Scarlett Fleming’s death?
Good grief!
What if Eunice and Douglas Fleming were having an affair? What if they’d knocked Scarlett off and he was only
pretending
to dislike her to throw me off the scent? Now I thought about it, Fleming’s hasty get-away exit from the car park had seemed staged.

“A lot of people are going to be disappointed that Mrs. Fleming wasn’t given a traditional funeral,” I said slyly. “Don’t you think that odd?”

“Why? She wasn’t very popular.” Nor was Sammy Larch, I thought, and people turned up in droves for his official departure. “I assume she’ll still get her fifteen minutes of fame on page eleven?” Eunice added.

“Yes. I will be writing Mrs. Fleming’s obituary,” I said. “I’m going to see Mr. Fleming this afternoon.”

“Good. I must pay my respects, too. I’ll come with you and bring one of my homemade cakes.”

“I might just phone him instead,” I said quickly.

“I’ve been learning to cook. She was a good cook, you know. But I shall be better.”

I checked my watch and gave a yelp of horror. Every Thursday morning, Pete held a Page One meeting. I was going to be late. “Sorry, Mrs. Pratt, I’d love to stop and chat but I have to dash.”

“Do call me Eunice,” she said, grabbing my arm. “Tell you what, why don’t you come for supper tonight and we can talk about this more?”

I hesitated. The thought of sitting amongst live chickens in a kitchen that smelled of damp dog, listening to Eunice fantasizing about a future with Douglas Fleming was not my idea of fun. But sometimes one had to make sacrifices to get the truth. I was quite certain my heroine, Christiane Amanpour, had endured far worse meals out on the battlefield.

“I’d love to,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

“It’s formal attire. Come at six.” She gave a happy nod. “I’m making monkfish medallions with tomato lemon coulis followed by snow eggs with pistachio custard and chocolate drizzle.”

“It sounds delicious,” I said—and alarmingly ambitious. Still, better than the usual liver and onions I got every Thursday night at Chez Evans.

“Yes. I’m having a practice run,” Eunice said, “And of course, Dougie
loved
fish Fridays at school.”