Mango Kisses (10 page)

‘Has that happened to you?’

‘Not me personally but the firm has. Some people have no idea how much they’re worth until a professional sorts it out for them.’

‘I want you to do that for me.’

‘Mr Frobisher...’ Tiffany held up her hand sternly when he began to protest about the formality of her address. She had to keep this on a professional footing or the whole situation would be hopeless. It was bad enough that every time he looked at her she remembered strawberry kisses, the tender and gentle way his fingers caressed her cheek yesterday in the rain on the seafront. And that he’d run after her simply to say goodbye. Mangoes would never be the same again.

‘Yes?’ his voice prompted. Tiffany lowered her hand. ‘Mr Frobisher. I’m only doing this as a favour to my boss. I’m on holidays but he insisted I call in to see you. He knew I’d be in the area.’ Nearly the truth.

‘Did you tell him what else you planned to do here?’ asked Miles blandly and Tiffany frowned. No point trying to explain her spontaneous stupid decision to join the class. He knew far too much intimate detail about her already and she saw no need to explain herself. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured. But he wasn’t, she could tell by the gleam in his eye.

‘I was prepared to assess your situation but...’ She gestured at the papers teetering perilously close to an avalanche. ‘This will take days for even the most superficial assessment. After that it could be months. And I’d need internet access and a fax machine.’

‘I know. Have you got a laptop with you?’

Tiffany nodded. Against all Marianne’s objections, she, sad case that she was, couldn’t bring herself to leave it behind. ‘You don’t understand. It will be very expensive and if the result is what you seem to expect you’ll be paying my expenses from your own pocket, not the estate.’

‘Stay here,’ suggested Miles. ‘There’s plenty of room and I’ll feed you.’

He smiled cheerfully and appeared to think the problem solved.

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why?’

‘Firstly I haven’t said I’d do the work. Secondly...’ She paused. What was secondly?

‘Secondly?’

‘It’s unprofessional.’

‘Only if you make it unprofessional. Is that what you intend?’ His face assumed an expression of innocent enquiry while Tiffany knew her cheeks were glowing.

‘I’m on holidays.’

‘Do the boring stuff in the mornings and relax in the afternoons. How long have you taken off?’

‘Two weeks,’ said Tiffany. ‘But I’m talking about a very superficial assessment, nothing more. I’ll need a week, but as I said, the whole process can take months or even years. I can’t do that here.’

Miles flung his arms wide. ‘No problem. Stay as long as you like.’

‘Why don’t you find an accountant in the area? Surely there’s one in Birrigai.’ ‘The closest is 50 kilometres away and he wouldn’t be experienced enough. Or sober enough.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, it’s private. It’s hard to keep things secret in a small community. I want someone experienced, professional and unconnected in any way with this area.’

‘There is such a thing as client confidentiality,’ she said dryly.

‘I know but you’re here now. You and your firm have been highly recommended by a friend of my mother’s. Why not stay?’

‘It doesn’t seem right,’ was the best she could come up with. ‘I’ll have to consult with my boss.’ But she knew what Erik would say. It was his rotten idea in the first place.

He grinned happily. ‘You can use my phone. Mobiles don’t work here. I’d better go down to the shop and see what Boris is doing. Stay as long as you like and check out the boxes in the spare room if it’ll help. Second door, opposite the bathroom.’

‘You’re leaving me here alone in your house?’ Tiffany asked in amazement.

‘Of course. Pull the front door closed on your way out. You know where to find me.’ He collected the empty mugs and she heard the clatter as he left them in the kitchen. His head appeared around the door frame. ‘Of course I trust you in my house. I spent an hour kissing you yesterday, and you can tell a lot by a kiss. See you later.’

She heard him whistling as he went down the path towards the beach.

Miles headed straight for Xanthi’s and ordered a stack of hot, buttered raisin toast and coffee. That tea had barely hit the sides and he was absolutely ravenous. Amazing what a beautiful girl could do for the appetite. And not just any beautiful girl, one especially beautiful girl — Marianne. No, Tiffany.

Tiffany. Did it suit her? Absolutely. She was priceless; a treasure, a diamond, a pearl, a silky, slender, bright golden-haired delight with eyes the colour of storm-tossed ocean waves. In his house at this very moment, looking through piles of tedious papers and enjoying it. Miles laughed out loud. He could honestly thank his no-good, worthless father for the first time in his life.

When Miles entered the shop Boris was fiddling with a display of board wax. As the bell on the door rang his hand jerked and tins rolled clattering about the wooden floor. He spun around and his face went from wide-eyed trepidation to the more usual, plain wide-eyed apprehension of what life had to offer.

‘Oh it’s you.’ He darted about like some sort of manic spider, chasing after the rolling tins.

‘Who were you expecting?’ asked Miles mildly. ‘A customer?’

‘A weird chick was in here, man. Playing mind games. Government agent for sure.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘She was looking for you but asked for me.’

‘She found me.’ Boris came to the other side of the counter and stared at Miles intently. ‘Relax, Boris. She’s not with the government. She’s here to see me about money stuff. Boring but nothing to do with tax or anything like it. Relax. She must’ve thought I was you. Who knows? City people.’

The relief was palpable.

‘Yeah right. City slickers. Right. Fine. Good-oh.’

Miles watched Boris assemble the pyramid of board wax tins again and allowed his imagination to run free with the delectable notion that Tiffany had come looking for him this morning.

Before
she knew who he really was. She hadn’t been put off yesterday. She’d been interested in seeing ‘Boris’ again despite the pathetic kiss and the adolescent style gibbering. In that case, it shouldn’t take much persuasion to convince her to stay in his house. What a very delightful few days they could have.

Tiffany decided, after a superficial shuffle through the papers on the table and having sorted them roughly into piles of varying degrees of usefulness and importance, that the box under the table and the ones in the spare room could wait.

From what she could see so far Miles Frobisher’s father had been far from penniless. Why he chose to live in a rundown hotel was anyone’s guess. The most recent bank statements showed a very healthy sum even after the lawyer had paid off his debts. And they weren’t exorbitant; the man had lived frugally.

A call to the number on the card Miles had left confirmed what she suspected — no substantial debts beyond the last hotel bill and the funeral expenses.

‘Miles Frobisher, his son by Nancy Frobisher, is the sole heir,’ the lawyer told her. ‘There was no mention of any other children in the will. He made it when Miles was a child. I knew by the bank account there was a reasonable sum involved. I mentioned as much to Mr Frobisher when I delivered the deceased’s effects.’

‘How did you know where to find Mr Frobisher?’ asked Tiffany. ‘He hasn’t seen his father since he was a child. He’s even using his mother’s name.’

‘Grant Davidson kept in touch with Nancy. He kept her address updated in his notebook. We discovered she’d passed away only a few months earlier than he did. It was easy to find the son after that.’

‘Thank you very much Mr Givens,’ said Tiffany.

Miles had no idea. How would he react when he discovered his adored mother had kept secrets? But maybe she hadn’t responded to letters or calls from her ex-husband. Why keep him updated with their address? Odd. Unless he hired someone to keep tabs on her. He could afford it and she may never have known.

The notebook. Tiffany checked her watch. She had a couple of things to do before settling down to dissect Grant Davidson’s financial and personal details, another call to make, and it was past lunch time already.

‘Erik, hello.’

‘Tiffany! Enjoying yourself? Are you still away?’

‘I’m in Birrigai. I’m calling from Miles Frobisher’s house.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘Birrigai’s a nice place.’

‘I told you it was. And? What’s what with Frobisher?’

‘It’s very interesting.’ She leaned forward in the chair and picked up the top paper on the last pile she’d sorted. ‘I’ve only had a cursory look but the father had two very large bank accounts. There’s nearly two hundred thousand in one of them. Cash.’

‘Rather a waste of capital.’

‘Definitely, but payments go out as well. Looks as though he set up the accounts to run themselves. He also seems to have had investments. One of the accounts has regular payments going into it — dividends probably. The other one looks like a rental account. A name keeps cropping up that looks like a real estate firm. I’ll need more time to do any sort of proper assessment. I thought I could work in the mornings each day for a week.’

‘Sounds fine.’

‘You were right, Erik.’ He liked to be told he was right. It would stop him asking awkward questions about Miles Frobisher.

‘What’s he like?’

Or not. ‘Who?’

‘Our Mr Frobisher.’

‘He owns the local surf shop.’

‘I know but what’s he like? How old is he?’

‘I’m not sure. Thirties maybe.’ She hurried on. ‘Very casual about the whole thing. Says he doesn’t want any of the money. He and the father hadn’t seen each other since he was a child. He’s very bitter about it.’

‘He’ll change his tune if he becomes a millionaire overnight.’

Tiffany pondered the wisdom of that remark. Would Miles change overnight from a laidback beach-dweller to a high flying big spender? Would sudden wealth go completely to his head? Would money make him more attractive? With his looks and his body, megabucks would combine in an irresistible package. He’d be able to take his pick of women. Marianne, for example, would home in like a heat-sensing missile.

‘He might not be a millionaire at all.’

‘Find out. Keep me informed and if you need help, yell.’

Tiffany used the bathroom, scrupulously avoiding prying into the cabinet and averting her eyes from the open bedroom door, which was plainly the one he used, and not the spare room he’d invited her to enter. Miles was a reasonably tidy housekeeper. A few potted plants flourished in the windows, no cobwebs draped from the ceilings or layers of dust on the bookshelves, no grease-laden dishes stacked in the sink or peculiar smells emanating from the drains.

Three bedrooms, a living room he didn’t use much by the forlorn look of it; a kitchen, a bathroom and a large sunroom facing the sea, which was the life-centre of the house. She imagined most of his living would be done there. He’d pulled the curtains back and the elevated view down along the beach, from where the house sat on the rise of the headland, was staggering. Moving in for the duration was very tempting.

Tiffany went out the front and closed the door carefully. She walked around the side of the house and stood on the verandah for a few moments, admiring the view.

Miles could walk to work along the beach from here, after he’d gone for his morning swim or surf.
What a life
. Tiffany sighed. He’d stroll to work along the beach breathing crystal clear invigorating air while she travelled forty minutes by bus, breathing diesel fumes and fighting for a seat.

She returned to the front and walked past his car, neglected in the short driveway, to the road. Impossible to stroll along the beach in the shoes she was wearing today. Walking on the beach in her skirt and blouse didn’t seem right anyway. She was in work mode and this case was shaping up as fascinating.

Tiffany lengthened her stride to purposeful. She had to face it, her brain needed stimulation. She thrived on numbers, problems and calculations.

How long would it be before boredom set in and turned that idyllic existence into a life sentence of brain-deadening dullness, isolated from cultural activities beyond TV and the pub, from the buzz of the city, from the stimulation of other like minded people? Not long at all. No wonder that other accountant had taken to drink. She’d be sneaking off for a wild night with Fleur and the cross-dressing fraternity, make that sisterhood, in one of the dens of iniquity further north.

Tiffany entered the surf shop with a firm tread and the determination not to be side-tracked or seduced by a sexy, lazy smile and the memory of mango-sweet kisses. Boris, the real Boris, was sitting behind the counter reading a magazine. He looked at her dazed, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

‘Hello, is Mr Frobisher in, please?’ she asked with a friendly smile. No point scaring the poor chap.

Boris stared at her. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down alarmingly as he swallowed.

‘Not at the moment.’ He licked his lips. ‘Weren’t you looking for him earlier?’

‘Yes and I found him.’