Murder at the Maples: A Flora Lively Mystery (5 page)

‘Come on, let’s go and get some drinks sorted.’ Flora led the old lady into the kitchen, away from Marshall who looked fit to burst with frustration at finding the job half done. She suppressed a smile, and asked Vera if she had any biscuits. Marshall could damn well sort it on his own for once.

‘Have you heard from Celeste lately?’ Flora said, tipping custard creams onto a china plate. ‘I haven’t had so much as a postcard since she left Melbourne.’

‘I think she wrote to me last month, I’m not sure.’ Vera began to search in a drawer overflowing with papers and magazines. Flora pursed her lips.

‘I tell you what, why don’t I get some boxes and help you pack up the kitchen while the boys are loading up the rest of the house?’

Vera nodded gratefully, stroking the ornate cross like a talisman. By the time Flora returned she’d made a tray of hot drinks and was perched on a kitchen bar stool that all but disappeared under the folds of her caftan.

‘So tell me,’ Vera said while Flora started on the kitchen drawers, ‘why exactly is your company called Shakers? It’s a rather odd name, isn’t it? Conjures up images of one’s precious belongings being shaken about in the back of that little van of yours.’ She laughed nervously, then went back to sipping her tea.

Flora smiled. Their “little van” was in fact a seven-ton pantechnicon, inside which Vera’s radically reduced possessions would indeed rattle around if they weren’t well strapped down.

‘Are your family religious, perhaps?’

Flora shook her head. ‘It’s nothing like that. My dad had a weird sense of humour, is all. It’s called Shakers as in “Movers and ...”. See?’

Vera face was blank. ‘Not sure I follow.’

‘Movers and shakers – it’s a saying for people who are on the up. My dad started the business from nothing. He thought of himself as a bit of a mover and a shaker, I guess. And then with the moving reference …? Well, anyway. Shakers it was.’

Vera seemed disappointed with the explanation. She picked up a yellow printed leaflet and began to read. Flora sighed and went back to the packing. By rights the contents of Vera’s house should have been ready to load – she hadn’t paid for any extras – but Flora didn’t mind. She had been hoping for some news of Celeste, though. The letter Vera had mentioned hadn’t turned up yet, and the old lady didn’t seem very interested in discussing her globe-trotting great-niece.

‘So tell me more about the people at the Maples,’ Vera said suddenly. Flora noticed that her hand as she set down the cup was shaking slightly. Poor old thing. A move like this, all on your own … it was enough to make anyone anxious. Making her face bright and encouraging, Flora described some of the residents, and mentioned the various classes and activities they offered at the retirement village. She told Vera about Joy, leaving out Otto’s horrid accident and Joy’s current obsession with poor old Mr Felix, of course. Vera’s face broke into a smile when Flora recounted their trip to the funicular railway and how terrified she’d been.

‘You are a silly. That journey up the cliff only takes about two minutes.’

Flora grinned and shook her head in a gesture of self-deprecation. ‘I know. Celeste would despair of me.’

She carried on painting a picture of the Maples as the residence
du jour
for Shropshire retirees. Which it was, really. Whatever Marshall said.

Speak of the devil.

‘If you’ve quite finished, we could do with a hand out here.’

Marshall, looking grubby and dishevelled – not so far from his usual look, just slightly hotter – appeared in the doorway and raised his eyebrows at Flora. ‘You’d be more use in the van than standing here drinking coffee.’

‘Oh, my dear man,’ protested Vera, ‘carrying furniture is not a woman’s job.’

Marshall gave Flora a meaningful look and stalked away.

Idiot. Flora patted Vera’s hand and said, ‘Don’t mind him, he’s American,’ which seemed to do the trick. Mollified, the lady of the house leaned back against the counter top and sipped her tea.

Outside, the van was already half loaded. Flora jumped up and quickly surveyed the strapping down and the loading order to make sure all was okay. Richie sat in the cab reading a newspaper, taking his job description just a bit too literally, perhaps. Flora made a mental note to have a word with him about the more general nature of his role at Shakers.

Before long they were on their way, with Vera following in an electric blue motability super-mini.

‘She must have some dosh stashed away,’ Richie said as the old lady overtook them on the Minsterly Road. ‘No family to help her move?’

‘Most of her family live in Canada,’ Flora said. ‘She could have gone with them but she was too attached to the church.’

Richie had turned the radio on before she’d even finished her sentence.

Flora slumped back in her seat with a sigh. Marshall winked at her in the mirror, then lay back on Vera’s sofa and closed his eyes. She smiled and shook her head, then put her hands over her ears trying – and failing – to block out Richie singing along to ‘Bat Out of Hell’.

***

Vera’s arrival at the Maples was marred somewhat by a grim piece of news, delivered in person by the warden herself.

‘There’s been another accident,’ Cynthia said. She’d been waiting for them by the topiary arch, pulling Flora aside the minute she stepped down from the van. ‘Another pet. It’s a terrible coincidence, after Otto’s little mishap, but this time it’s far worse.’ She smiled at Richie and gave him a little wave, which Flora thought odd until she remembered that Cynthia was Richie’s aunt. The warden turned back to Flora just as Vera pulled into the car park behind them.

The warden waved to her newest resident, her smile still firmly in place. ‘Your friend is on the warpath,’ she whispered to Flora. ‘I think you should have a talk with her. She’s starting to make the other residents anxious.’ With this cryptic warning, the warden nodded to Richie and walked off in the direction of the main building. Richie jumped down from the cab and followed without a word. So much for getting him to help with the unloading.

The residential units were arranged in a quadrant around a patch of well-tended garden the residents all shared. Newly planted maples in every variety dotted the area, not much more than saplings at the moment, but in twenty years or so they would provide privacy, shade and a riot of colour. Not that any of the current residents would be here to see them, Flora thought sadly, but at least efforts had been made to soften the concrete and the boxy architecture.

There was access to the rear of the properties, but it was strictly for emergency vehicles. Flora had queried the logic of this – it meant each new resident had to have their belongings carried through the gardens and along the gravel paths, not much fun for anyone in the rain, and not very practical either. But the warden was adamant: what if a resident was taken ill while Shakers’ van was blocking the access road? Flora was too desperate to secure the contract to argue, much to Marshall’s disgust when they moved in their first resident.

Which had been Joy, of course, and here she was now, hurrying across the courtyard waving her arms frantically.

‘Flora, thank God you’re here. It’s happened again. You won’t believe it. This time it was Merlin, poor little mite. Electrocuted, he was. Right there in his bed while Dolly was at her yoga class. Dead as a door nail.’

‘Yoga?’ Vera had joined them by the arch. ‘Oh, that’s not my thing at all.’

Joy looked Vera up and down – Flora could see her taking in the bright caftan and the heavy iconography. Joy raised her eyebrows then turned back to Flora.

‘Who ...?’ she began. Flora dived right in, pulling Vera forward eagerly.

‘Joy, this is the lady I’ve been dying for you to meet.’ Oops, wrong choice of word in the circumstances. ‘Vera, meet Joy Martin, my absolute favourite person in the world. She’s been here for almost six months now, so if anyone can show you the ropes, she can.’ Oops. Another bad choice of word, considering Otto’s recent mishap. ‘Joy, meet Vera – Vera’s moving in today so she’ll need someone to take her under their wing.’

She linked arms with Joy and started walking her back towards her own unit, calling over her shoulder to Vera, ‘The boys will be ready to unload now, why don’t you start showing them where you want your things?’

But they’d only taken three steps across the garden when Joy shrugged her off. ‘What on earth was that all about, Flora? You’re acting like a demented person.’

Flora sighed. ‘Look, Vera doesn’t need to hear anything upsetting, okay? It might really spoil it for her. Can’t you remember how you felt the first day you moved in here?’

Joy shrugged and carried on walking. ‘Do you want to hear what happened to Merlin or not? I know you don’t really like dogs much, but–’

‘Joy! That’s not fair. I do like dogs. I think Otto is a little treasure.’ Flora fell into step beside her friend. She smelt of soap and lavender, and Flora inhaled the scent as they walked. It reminded her of something intangible, like the memory of something you’ve never had. She picked a leaf off a privet hedge as they passed.

‘Go on then, what happened to Merlin?’

‘Oh, what’s the point? You’ll just say the same as the warden. He was old, he shouldn’t have been chewing on the TV cable …’

They reached Joy’s unit and Flora waited for her to unlock the door.

‘You’re wheezing,’ she said as they stepped inside. ‘Are you taking your tablets?’

Joy pushed the door closed behind them, gently nudging a yapping Otto back into his basket. She gave her pooch a loving pat, then turned to glare at Flora. ‘I’m fine. Stop nagging. It’s Dolly you should be concerned about, not me. Otto was lucky – we got back in time to rescue him. But it looks like Mr Felix is branching out, trying a different modus operandi. We need to figure out how to stop him doing it again.’

‘Joy, please will you stop it with all this Mr Felix nonsense. Look at you – your skin’s flaring up, your asthma’s getting worse, and I’m still not happy about you keeping it a secret from the warden like this, no matter what you say about Special Care. I’m worried about you. Really worried.’

‘You’re worried? Try being in my shoes.’

Joy headed for the kitchenette and filled up the kettle: her reflex when under duress. The sight of her friend’s pronounced back hunch brought a lump to Flora’s throat. She remembered Joy confiding that getting her hair done was an ordeal, even with the specially designed basins at the Maples’ on-site salon. The hunch got in the way, she said, and she never failed to get a complete soaking. But it was important to look nice, important to keep on top of her weekly shampoo and set, one of the little rituals that gave her a sense of security, of normality.

‘Eddie would hate to see me without my hair done,’ Joy had said. And even though Eddie had been dead six months, she had meant it in earnest.

‘Of course, it’s all my fault,’ said Joy. Her words floated out of the kitchenette, rising along with the volume of the boiling kettle. ‘Poor Merlin. Maybe if Aubrey had got what he wanted with Otto he’d have left Merlin alone. But now … I just don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘What,’ said Flora, leaning against the wall by the fridge, ‘are you rabbiting on about?’

The kettle reached boiling point and clicked off. Joy turned to face Flora. She had tears running down her cheeks.

‘It’s my fault, that’s what. It’s my just desserts. I’m a terrible, terrible person and I’m going to be punished for my sins.’

Flora couldn’t believe her eyes. Joy never cried. This was the woman who had been so stoical when she moved from her three-bed bungalow that Flora hadn’t been able to sleep for a week, so touched was she by the woman’s strength. She’d been married for fifty-nine years. Fifty-nine years seeing the same person every day, in the same home, sharing breakfast, sleeping side by side. And then one day he was gone, and she had to sell up because she couldn’t bear to see the garden he had tended so lovingly – all one and a half acres of it – go to rack and ruin. She had to leave all those memories behind and move to a one-room unit in Sleepy City, and yet all day the woman had run around making cups of tea and offering biscuits and enquiring after Stuart’s wife who was expecting their first child any day.

She was amazing, and Flora cared for her like family. But now she was breaking her heart because her friend’s dog had suffered a tragic accident? Well, you didn’t need a psychology degree to see that this was repressed grief.

Flora put her arm around Joy’s narrow shoulders. The older woman felt frail under her layers of clothing. Her faded blue eyes, usually so bright and mischievous, were screwed up tight and disappearing inside wrinkled eyelids. Tears spurted out over her cheeks. It just about broke Flora’s heart to see her like this.

‘That’s okay, Joy. You let it all out. It’s time you did, that’s all. You’ve been so brave, but it does you no good to hold it all in. I know what it’s like, believe me. Eddie wouldn’t want you to put on a brave face every day. It’s fine to let it out.’

‘What are you blathering on about?’ Joy pulled away and looked at Flora as if she were the crazy person. ‘Eddie? What’s he got to do with all this?’

‘Well ... I,’ stammered Flora, ‘I just thought, you know, you being so upset ...’

‘Oh, Flora, you are barking up the wrong tree this time. Barking! I’m sorry Merlin, wherever you are. It was all my fault, but I’m going to try and put it right, I promise.’

Alarmed, Flora made her voice as firm as she could. ‘Listen, Joy, you’re not making any sense and you’re starting to really scare me now. If you don’t calm down and tell me what the hell you’re talking about I’m going straight to the warden to ask her for help.’ She bit her lip. ‘You don’t want her thinking you’re losing it, do you? What about the third floor?’

This had the desired effect, and although Flora felt bad for using Joy’s fears against her, she was relieved when her friend gave herself a little shake and turned to pour out the tea.

‘You should sit down, Flora,’ Joy instructed. ‘There’s something you need to hear.’

Chapter 4

‘It was the summer of nineteen forty-seven.’