Flossed (Alex Harris Mystery Series) (13 page)

“You two certainly get around. Did you manage to see Tom?”

“Yes, we did. He was kind enough to give us a tour of the church and the school,” I said.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Jobeth beamed and I felt fairly certain the church and Tom were her favorite subjects. “Though, correct me if I’m wrong, but you two don’t strike me as churchgoing women.”

“Oh, we are. We’re Catholic, you see,” I said.

“Yes. Christmas and Easter, no doubt,” Jobeth said with a mocking tone. “You young people are all alike. Martine was all enthusiastic about coming to our church when we first met her but then she stopped coming and we didn’t see her until the cookout the other night.”

“But Tom was…” Sam started to say until I uncrossed my legs and gave my sister a good kick under the table, hitting Jobeth instead.

“Ouch! What on earth!” Jobeth bent to look under the table.

“Sorry, I was just trying to get into a comfortable position. Guess I’ve been sitting here too long,” I said feeling the color rise in my cheeks. Sam gave me a what-the-hell-is-going-on look.

“You were about to say something, Sam?”

“Oh, no. Nothing.” My sister smiled.

“Well, like I said, people today just don’t take commitment to Christ seriously. Why, in our very own congregation we, too, have parishioners who choose only to show their heads for the holiday services. We’ve tried to do our best, but well, with some it’s just impossible to alter their ways. Much like the two of you, I would guess.”

“Excuse me?” Sam said, the color rising in her own cheeks but for an entirely different reason. I knew when my sister was about to blow.

“Don’t take offense, Samantha.” Jobeth patted Sam’s thin hand with her own chubby one. “Let’s face it, you young women just don’t have the time for worship, or so you say. I think if more people would find the time, the world would be a better place.”

“I just don’t happen to think I need to sit in a church every Sunday listening to some pompous, pious man who has never been married and probably never lived in the real world try and tell me how to live
my
life. I don’t think I’ve done such a bad job of it on my own without benefit of the church.” Sam put her dessert fork down a bit too loudly and drew stares from several women at a nearby table.

I looked at my sister and rolled my eyes.

“It’s so easy to find excuses, isn’t it?” Jobeth smiled snidely.

I felt the need to jump in before Sam started a fistfight right there at the club. “We were both raised in the church, Jobeth. Catechism, Holy Communion, the whole bit, but you’re right, we do make excuses for not going to church more often. For me, and for Sam, I guess, we just don’t get much out of it.”

“Well, that’s the fault of your church. Now we—Tom—makes sure his sermons have something for everyone. And we have many groups within the church to fit the needs of the entire congregation. Perhaps you should think of joining a different religious organization. You might be pleasantly surprised.” Jobeth popped the last piece of coconut cake into her mouth, having decided earlier lunch wasn’t necessary as long as there was dessert.

“Maybe you’re right,” I offered. “Perhaps I’ll look into some other church when I get home. It may be just what I need.”

“Hmmm. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have some volunteer work to do upstairs. Hope to see you again before you leave. And please, feel free to come to our service this Sunday. It starts at seven-thirty.” Jobeth lifted her sizable self from the chair, patted her mouth daintily, and walked away without leaving any money for her cake.

“What a bitch,” Sam said under her breath, though loud enough for me to hear. “Why did you try to kick me?”

“Because it’s obvious Jobeth doesn’t know Tom counseled Martine. If she did, she would probably badger him to death for all the details and I just wanted to spare him that ordeal. I think the guy probably has his hands full what with a wayward flock and his sanctimonious wife.”

“She just makes me so mad. The nerve of her.”

“Well, hold that mood for a while longer. You’re going to need it.”

Sam looked at me. “Why?”

“Because the next person on our list is Jane Tillingsworth.”

Chapter 20

Jane Tillingsworth stood in her front garden as we drove up. A good thing considering we knew the street but not the exact house. Garden. I liked that. It sounded very lovely and European. From now on I would refer to my own yard as my garden as soon as I got home.

We decided to tell Jane we had just stopped by Wanda’s but no one was home. I just hoped Jane hadn’t just been over to Wanda’s for tea and cookies, but judging by the amount of dirt all over her, the chance seemed slim.

The Tillingsworth house was smaller than the others in the area but nicely kept. It was built of a cozy brick, which looked very old but probably wasn’t. Green wooden shudders hung on all the windows with little wrought-iron clasps to keep them in place during a storm. Large rhododendrons formed a nice border along the front and the walkway was edged with pansies, or were they petunias? Though I loved them I am not good at identifying flowers, with the exception of lilacs. They’re my favorite.

Jane looked up as we approached, the scowl permanently in place. “Over at Wanda’s, were you?”

“Yes, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone home.” I held my breath and hoped we didn’t get caught in the lie.

“I saw her drive away about twenty minutes ago. You must have just missed her.”

“We got a little lost trying to find our way back to the main road,” I lied again.

“Yes, it can be a bit tricky. Lots of blind alleys around here.”

“Blind alleys?” Sam asked.

“I believe you Americans call it a dead-end or cul-de-sac.”

“Oh. Yeah, we noticed,” I said.

Sam and I stood there in awkward silence while Jane continued to pull weeds.

“Well, that’ll have to do for now.” Jane rose to an upright position. “I’ve been at it for hours and my back is killing me. Care for a drink? I was just about to have one. You might as well join me because the summer school down the road gets out in about a minute and you’ll be in a gridlock behind all the mothers picking up their little ones.”

Without waiting for an answer, Jane gathered up her things and walked to the front door. Sam and I followed just as two little things—dachshunds, at a better look, yapped at our feet.

“Don’t mind them, they don’t bite but they’ll lick you to death. Just push them away.”

I bent down to pet the two tiny little bodies. One male, the other female, they were dark brown in color with a long coat. True to Jane’s warning, they proceeded to lick my hands, feet, and face when I bent closer.

“Tennison, Morse! Stop that right now. The pair of you.” The two dogs jumped off of me and ran toward the kitchen. “They’re just puppies. I got them about six months ago.”

I recognized the names from two British shows I used to watch on PBS. “I like their names. I used to watch
Morse
and
Prime Suspect
.”

“Yes, two of my favorite shows as well. What’ll you have? I’ve got coffee, tea, water, Pepsi.” She looked up at us while she kicked off her dirty green boots.

“Whatever is easiest,” I offered as we followed Jane into the kitchen. Tennison and Morse were sitting in two little baskets by the back door.

“Tea it is, then. Why don’t you go through to the lounge and I’ll bring it in.”

Assuming the lounge was the living room, Sam and I went in and took a seat. The room was heavy in chintz and houseplants. They were everywhere. The floors were hardwood, highly polished, and in good condition, with several rugs scattered around. Beside the plants, Jane liked pictures. Framed photos occupied every place not already taken by a plant. Sam reached over and turned on a small lamp on an antique table. Though it was summer, and still afternoon, clouds had rolled in seemingly within seconds and darkened the room. One thing we were beginning to understand since our arrival in Belgium was the weather—never take it for granted because it could change, literally, from one minute to the next.

The house, though charming and warm, was not the large monstrosity the other ex-pat families seemed to live in. There was a small formal dining room off to one side forming an L-shape, and other than this good-sized room, kitchen, and garage, there didn’t seem to be anything else on the first floor, or
rez-de-chaussee
, as it was called in Belgium. Obviously, all ex-pats didn’t have the same perks-package.

“Here we go.” Jane carried a flowered tray laden with a delicate china pot and three cups and saucers. She reached behind her and turned on another lamp. “It looks like rain.”

“Has it been forecast?” I asked.

“You don’t need a forecast in this country,” Jane said abruptly. I took no offense as I was realizing it was just her style. “You just look out the window several times a day. The weatherman never gets it right anyway, changes too quickly. Much like England.” She poured tea for us and seated herself on the floor in front of the coffee table.

“What part of England are you from?” I took a sip of a marvelous blend.

“Manchester. A very gloomy place, but there you have it.”

If memory served, I knew Manchester indeed was a bit gloomy and very industrial. Probably not the place where Jane picked up her very polished accent.

“Have you been in Belgium long?” I asked then.

“Several years. We like it.” Jane’s long fingers wrapped around a small milk pitcher. She poured quite a bit into her cup. “We bought this house, so I guess we’ll stay for a while.”

“I would imagine it’s a lot easier for you to go home than it is for people like Wanda,” I said.

“I don’t go home. There’s nothing in Manchester I want to see. We do go to London often. Shopping, Malcolm’s family. Belgium is very expensive but I guess we’re lucky to be able to go over as often as we do.”

Sam asked, “Do you take the Chunnel? I’d love to give it a try.”

“Be my guest. Ever since they had that fire, I’ve been loathe to use it. We usually take the ferry.”

I gave a shudder, being trapped in a tunnel or being tossed around on a boat, I couldn’t decide which was more unappealing.

“Have you ever been to the United States?” I asked as I reached for a cookie on a plate matching the teapot and cups.

“Once or twice,” was all Jane offered and knowing more prodding would cause a debate pitting the U.S. against the UK, I changed the subject.

“This is a lovely room,” I said, thinking it didn’t match with what I had assumed would be Jane’s taste in decorating. The young woman herself was actually wearing clothing today that matched and wasn’t hard to look at. Maybe it was hard to find ghastly colors in gardening wear. Her hair looked tamer as well, today devoid of all the goopy hair products.

Jane looked at the room like she was seeing it for the first time. “Thanks. It’s a bit crowded. I need to move some of the plants but I just never seem to get around to it.”

Tennison and Morse came into the room and made a beeline for me. Jane was about to chase them away but I told her it was okay.

“So have you been keeping yourselves busy? Americans seem to be so enchanted with our part of the world.”

“Yes, we have. We’ve gone to Bruges and we’re hoping to go to Antwerp and Holland if the guys can fit us into their schedules,” Sam said somewhat skeptically.

“Ah, yes. Your husband was working with the police inspector on Saturday night, wasn’t he? I take it he’s still at it.”

“Yes, he is. I keep reminding him we’re on our honeymoon, but he can’t help himself.” I laughed. “Actually, it’s okay. My sister and I have to admit we’re very curious about the whole thing.”

“Curiosity, ah yes. You Americans do like sticking your nose into it.”

I gave a quick glance at steamroller Sam, but apparently my sister was more amused than incensed by Jane’s attempt at American-bashing.

“So you’re playing amateur detective, are you?” Jane continued.

“Well, actually,” Sam began, “my sister is somewhat of an expert where murder is concerned.”

I smiled faintly going for the modest look. “Not an expert, but I have had my share of involvement with murders.”

“So you work for the police, then, as well?” Jane asked in a somewhat bewildered stare. “I thought you owned some kind of work agency.”

“Yes, we do. But I’ve had the unfortunate experience of stumbling, literally, onto a body. A client of ours, as it happens, and then one of our employees worked for a family where another murder was committed.”

“You must have the inside track then. So tell me,” Jane said over the rim of her teacup showing a bit of curiosity herself, “are they any closer to identifying the murderer?”

“Not that anyone has told me.”

“Hmmm. I hear the funeral’s tomorrow,” Jane said. “Are you going?”

“Me?” I asked. “No. I would imagine it’s just for the family. How did you know about it?”

Jane reddened just slightly before recovering. “I called Paul last night. To see how he was doing. Martine’s family is driving him absolutely batty. I have a feeling they suspect him of her murder.”

“And you? Do you think he did it?” Sam asked. I wondered how long it would take my sister to tire of pussyfooting around.

“Not bloody likely,” Jane said with just a tad of trepidation in her voice. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“We understand they were having problems.” On impulse I decided to throw in the suggestion of abuse and see where it got me. A nasty look followed by a mind-your-own-business was probably what I was in for. “And it’s been hinted at that he hit Martine.”

Jane slammed her teacup down onto the saucer sending the two dogs leaping back into my lap and tea-flavored milk over the table. “Paul bashing Martine about? Are you absolutely mad? Who told you such rubbish? You don’t even know these people! What gives you the bloody right to accuse Paul of….” She jumped up and ran to the kitchen returning a moment later with a dishtowel. Jane furiously mopped up the mess.

“Jane, calm down,” Sam said, her own voice raised. “
We
didn’t say anything. Someone else mentioned it. You don’t think Paul hit his wife?”