Murder at the Maples: A Flora Lively Mystery (2 page)

‘It’ll be all right,’ Flora always wanted to tell them. ‘Once you move in it’ll all get sorted in no time.’ And often she did say this, or something similar, and the customer would turn to her with a face so bright and hopeful. ‘Do you really think so?’ they’d ask. ‘Really? Will it?’

It was no wonder she got so involved. Her dad should have known better than to leave her the business. When had she ever been able to remain detached?

The bus pulled into the terminal with a screech of brakes and Joy lifted her head from the window and yawned. She had a crease down one cheek and smudges of black under her eyes. Flora said nothing. She took Joy’s arm, gave it a little squeeze, then steered her towards the zebra crossing, the river, and home.

***

The Maples Retirement Village was a sprawling maze of blocky, low-roofed units with a three-storey weather-boarded building at the centre. Its resemblance to a prison was uncanny, and unfortunate, because the Maples was in fact a highly desirable place to live out one’s retirement. Or so the literature claimed. Desirable or not, it was certainly expensive – when Joy had confided in Flora how much her own tiny unit cost per week, Flora was stunned, and she made a mental note to look into her own pension as soon as possible. She might be only twenty-nine, but it would take a lifetime to save enough to cover just a year of care in a place like the Maples.

Or, as Marshall called it, Sleepy City, where the residents’ every need was catered to, and there was no requirement to go “off site” at all if they chose. Sleepy City had it all: medical centre, hairdresser, general store, mini library, mobility shop. There was a communal lounge with a bewildering array of entertainment and craft activities on offer, a coffee shop and a travel agent called Coaching Dreams. Marshall said it made him feel ill: he had been against taking on the contract from the outset – Shakers, in his opinion, should be moving into a completely different business area. Flora had overruled him – he might be the manager but she owned the company. Besides, Flora loved the place. There was something so other-worldly about it, and she imagined it to be very American. Marshall, who actually was American and therefore not so impressed by all things USA like Flora, looked at her with a combination of pity and despair when she said this. Which was just about his usual expression anyway.

‘I can’t stay,’ Flora told Joy when they arrived at the Maples’ incongruously grand entrance of faux marble columns either side of a topiary arch. ‘I’ve missed about twenty phone calls from Marshall. There must be a problem back at the office that he simply can’t cope with. Being a man and all.’

Joy tutted. ‘You know, that’s just sexist, Flora. There’s no reason why being a man should affect his ability to do his job.’

Flora let the comment pass with a good-natured shake of her head. Joy had feminist views which went way beyond those usually held by women of her generation – it was one of the reasons they’d struck up a friendship in the first place, with Joy surprised and impressed by Flora’s unlikely status as the owner of a removal firm. ‘And you do all the lifting too?’ Joy had asked. ‘You don’t leave that to the men?’

‘Of course I don’t!’ Flora had heard this question far too many times. ‘I can shift a wardrobe down a flight of stairs single-handed. It’s all in the technique,’ she’d added when Joy eyed Flora’s slight frame dubiously.

Joy wouldn’t hear a word against Marshall, although Flora had her suspicions that this had far more to do with Marshall’s rugged good looks and undoubted sex appeal than Joy’s own personal equality affirmation programme.

‘Afternoon, ladies.’

Flora smiled at the old man who’d stopped outside Joy’s unit. The Captain was one of the Maples’ oldest residents, and also the most dapper. His neatly combed moustache emphasized a slightly hooked nose, and the medals on his left breast pocket shone proudly.

‘Happy birthday,’ he said, holding out a crisp white envelope. Joy took the card with a warm smile, and promised to join him later for “the play”.

‘Amateur dramatics?’ Flora asked, watching the Captain walk away, his erect posture making her straighten her shoulders.

‘Radio Four. Anyway, you should have told me you needed to get off.’ Joy rooted in her stiff leather handbag for her key. ‘I could have walked back here alone.’

‘Of course you could.’

Joy’s unit was identical to all the others except for bright red Venetian blinds and a hand-printed sign on the door which read:
Beware of the dog!
Flora leaned against the breeze-block wall. ‘I wanted to see you back safely. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re wearing your gloves again. Eczema playing up, is it?’

‘A bit. But before you start, I’ve still got plenty of tablets. It will clear up again in no time.’

‘You know what I think about all that. And what about your asthma? I just don’t think it’s right that you–’

‘Well, anyway.’ Joy cut her off with a wave of her hand. ‘If I can just find my key your duties are over for today. And I’ve got Otto to protect me, of course.’

Flora waited for her to open the door and for Otto, the pug with as much bounce as a saggy mattress, to start his customary yapping around their ankles. She liked dogs, she really did. Just not as much as she liked people. And she definitely preferred dogs when they were quiet.

But not this quiet. Joy called out Otto’s name and stepped inside. She stood in the centre of the small room, turning around in a slow circle, her face beginning to take on a puzzled expression. Flora followed and closed the door behind her. The silence was unexpected, but not inexplicable. Maybe the mutt was taking a nap. Or chewing a particularly tasty bit of slipper.

‘Otto! Otto, no!’ Joy clapped her hands to her cheeks and let out a piercing scream.

Curled up on the floor, close enough to Flora’s feet that she might have stepped on him, Otto was writhing in a desperate, choking panic, tangled up so tightly in the long cord of the blind his eyes were fairly popping out of his head. Joy lunged forward but Flora was closer. She dropped to her knees and tried to loosen the cord from around the little dog’s neck.

‘Get some scissors,’ she shouted. Joy veered off towards the kitchenette. ‘Come on, little man. Try and stay still. You’re only making it worse.’ But Otto was beyond hearing, his pitiful yelps cut off by the tightening band.

‘Is he bleeding? Has it cut him?’ Joy handed her the scissors, sobbing. Flora shook her head.

‘I thought that too, but it’s just the red cord.’ She snipped carefully, first releasing the animal’s neck then moving down to his paws. As soon as he could, Otto began to bark, which Flora took as a positive sign. She held him still with one hand and worked the scissors with the other. Joy stood by with a crocheted blanket, poised and ready to pounce.

‘That was close.’ Flora sat back on her heels and watched Joy cradle her baby. ‘How the hell did he get tangled up like that?’ She looked at her friend and pulled a face. ‘Joy, you should have those cords tied up. It’s really dangerous to leave them dangling.’

Joy glared at her, clearly rattled. ‘Well, I know that, thank you very much. And I did have them tied up – look, they wrap around that bracket there.’

Flora looked at the two-pronged bracket on the wall. ‘It must have come loose.’ She shook her head. ‘We’ll have to ask the warden to get someone to look at it. Poor Otto.’ The dog was panting in Joy’s arms, but apart from a slightly disgruntled countenance and a patch of missing fur where Flora had accidentally snipped it along with the blind cord, he didn’t appear to have suffered any serious injury. ‘You should get him checked out at the medical centre. Do they look at pets there?’ But when Flora turned back to Joy she found her friend staring fixedly at the wall.

‘Flora, I don’t think this was an accident at all.’

‘What do you mean?’ Flora pushed herself up to standing and gave Otto a little tickle under his chin. He closed his bug eyes in delight.

‘That cord didn’t come loose by itself. It was tied up this morning when we left. Someone must have been in here and let it down. Which means …’

Flora raised her eyebrows. ‘Which means what?’

Joy mimed wrapping a cord around her neck with her free hand and tipped her head to the side, tongue lolling. Then she pointed to Otto and put her finger to her lips.

‘Joy, Otto can’t understand what you’re saying. You can speak out loud.’

‘He understands everything,’ she whispered, kissing him on his head.

‘Well, it’s a shame he can’t talk as well, because then he could tell us exactly what happened. But you can’t be serious. Who on earth would try to hurt Otto?’ Flora looked at the pieces of red cord scattered on the beige carpet. For a second she imagined the dog up there still, wound even higher, dangling like a parachutist caught in a tree. She shook the image away with a shudder. Joy was regarding her with narrowed eyes.

‘I am deadly serious. And it proves I was right about him, Flora.’

‘Who? Right about who?’

But Joy wasn’t listening. ‘I knew it from the moment I saw him – it’s him and he’s come back to get his revenge. Otto is only the beginning.’ Her friend clutched the pooch to her chest so tightly he peered out from the blanket in alarm.

‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, Joy.’ Flora reached out and loosened her friend’s grip. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea and calm down. Joy?’

But Joy was staring out of the window, her shoulders and neck suddenly rigid with tension. The slats of the blind threw striped shadows across her pale face and her breath quickened, coming out in small pants, mirrored by the pug. Outside, the motorised buzz of a mobility scooter caught Flora’s attention. As she followed Joy’s gaze, Mr Felix looked up and lifted his hand in a tentative wave. Joy hissed and swept the blinds closed, plunging the room into darkness.

Chapter 2

‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been calling you for hours.’

Flora flopped into her worn leather office chair and spun it away from Marshall’s accusing face. What a day. And it looked like there wasn’t going to be any respite yet.

‘What, then?’ she said, spinning back to glare up at him. ‘What’s so urgent that you have to phone me on my day off? You’re always reminding me that you’re the manager, you’re responsible for the day-to-day running of the business, not me. But now there’s a problem you can’t cope with? Super-man Marshall? Surely not.’

Flora clamped her mouth shut and let the sudden silence wash over them. Had she just said all that out loud? Evidently if you imagined saying something often enough it would come out on its own one day.

Marshall’s eyes narrowed and he took a step back, glancing over his shoulder before crossing his arms in front of his chest. It was the briefest gesture, but Flora knew him too well.

‘Stuart and Steve can’t hear us, don’t worry. You’re not going to lose face in front of the lads.’

Oh, now he was angry. For just one second, just the tiniest second, Flora enjoyed the way his broad shoulders tensed and his lips, usually so full and smiling, became thinner as he stuck out his jaw. Damn, but he was good looking when he was angry. Such a shame he was also a complete pain in the arse.

‘I do not, nor will I ever, give a crap what those two think of me, but I’d appreciate it if you could restrain yourself from balling me out.’

Flora gritted her teeth, willing herself to keep her mouth shut. Sometimes it felt like Marshall was forcing her hand, trying to push her to do something about the intolerable situation they’d found themselves in. Her father had taken Marshall on just after her mum got sick, when he couldn’t keep running the business and look after his wife. But when Peter Lively had died only six months after Flora’s mum lost her fight with cancer, the business had passed to her. Flora knew her dad had trusted Marshall like family, but even though Shakers’ “manager” might be her Uncle Max’s stepson from a long-ago marriage, he sure as hell needed to try and remember who was really in charge.

She relaxed back into her chair and laced her fingers together. ‘Look, I’ve not had the best of days. So why don’t you just tell me what the problem is.’

‘It’s Rockfords.’

Flora’s stomach did a somersault for the third time that day.

‘What about them?’

‘They’re coming. Here.’

She looked around the office. Shakers Removals had premises under a section of Shrewsbury’s railway arches, one of five down-at-heel units tucked out of sight – and often out of mind – of the town’s more successful businesses. The glass-walled office sat at the top of a set of metal steps, perched above the warehouse below. It had been a hive of efficient activity back in the days when her dad was around. Now the whole place had an air of neglect.

‘Here?’ she said.

‘To Shrewsbury. They’re opening a branch right on our doorstep. This is bad news, Flora, the worse kind. We can’t compete with a multinational like that. No way.’

‘I don’t believe it.’ Flora pushed her cropped fringe off her forehead and rubbed her eyes. They felt gritty and sore. The bitten-down fingernails of her right hand found their way into her mouth again. Marshall rolled his shoulders and pulled a stacking chair across the room, positioning it on the other side of the enormous, paper-covered desk. He looked at her, his head on one side. He was wearing his fraternity sweater, the one with the eagle on it and the frayed cuffs, and his hazel eyes were concerned now, not angry. Flora forced a smile. Tears threatened, but she would not cry, especially not in front of Marshall. She looked up at the photos on the noticeboard. This business had been her father’s pride and joy; she still felt the need to make him proud almost a year after saying her final goodbye.

How could she make him proud if she let his business fail?

But no, there was no way she would allow that to happen.

She focused on the calendar behind Marshall’s head, willing her tears away. What she saw there brought a wry smile to her lips. Marshall, still watching her intently, raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘It’s funny now?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s Friday the thirteenth. I just noticed. The perfect day for bad news.’