Murder at the Maples: A Flora Lively Mystery (4 page)

‘Are you planning a trip?’ Flora nodded at the list.

‘No. Why?’

‘Looks like you’re leaving someone instructions for looking after Otto.’

Joy’s face assumed a closed-off expression. ‘As if I’d leave him after what just happened. How could you even think it?’

‘Well, I–’

‘He’s everything to me, as well you know. I have to make sure Otto is safe. That’s my number one priority.’

‘I know that, I was only–’

‘They’re for you,’ Joy said suddenly, almost shouting. ‘I know what you’re going to say but you must, Flora, you must. I can’t keep him here any longer, he’s in too much danger.’

Flora looked down at her hands. She watched a vein pulse near the base of her thumb. This had to be handled very carefully.

‘Joy, is this about Mr Felix again? Because if it is–’

Joy jumped off the sofa, jolting Flora’s arm and knocking her Subway into her lap. The old lady’s handbag slipped to the side and landed upside down on the floor. Joy ignored it.

‘You’re a good girl, Flora. You look out for me like family, but there are things about me you don’t know. I’m sure what happened to Otto wasn’t an accident, and I’m equally sure that man was responsible. And I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before he tries again.’

‘Joy, I can’t look after a dog. Not even for you. I’m just not … I don’t know what to do with dogs.’

She dropped to her knees to retrieve the contents of Joy’s handbag, noticing as she did so that her friend wasn’t wearing her gloves today and that her skin was raw and peeling. It was hardly surprising that the eczema had flared up after all this stress, but Flora’s heart sank. What else would be flaring up soon? This wasn’t a time for secrets. Flora sat back on her heels and nodded at Joy’s hands.

‘Have you told them yet?’

Joy tutted and turned away. ‘He’s no trouble at all. And I’ve written it all down for you.’

‘I’ll take that as a “no”, shall I?’ Flora scooped up the rest of the contents – tissues, antique mirror compact, ancient lipstick, humbugs, a purse the weight of a house brick – and plonked them back in the bag. The blue plastic tube she held on to, waving it in the air to get Joy’s attention. ‘I thought we’d talked about this. You can’t keep something like chronic asthma a secret, not when you live in a retirement home.’

‘Village,’ said Joy stubbornly. ‘It’s a retirement village, and I am completely independent here, as you can see.’ She swept her hand to take in the room, with its bed crammed in one corner and tiny kitchenette in another.

‘Joy, what happened to Otto was a horrible accident. He must have jumped up and ... well, who knows what really happened? But no one did this to you, or to him. I don’t like to hear you talking this way. It scares me.’

Joy looked away. She sucked in her cheeks, then picked a piece of fluff off the sleeve of her pale green cardigan. ‘Well, you’d better be going, I suppose. Things to do. People to see.’

Flora sighed and stood up. She noticed she’d dropped chilli sauce on her jeans, but doubted Joy would let her stick around and mop it up now. Should she take the blasted dog, just to keep her friend happy? It was out of the question. She’d never had a pet, and right now – still living in her mum and dad’s old bungalow, feeling like an impostor in someone else’s home – was not the time to start. Besides, Joy needed the pug with her. They were devoted to each other – they even wheezed in unison. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

‘We’re moving a new resident in on Monday,’ she said brightly. ‘Vera’s a lot of fun, you’ll love her. She’s my best friend’s great-aunt – you’ve heard me talk about Celeste, right? The one who’s travelling?’

Joy grunted and shuffled to the door behind her.

‘Oh, look! How lovely. Someone’s brought you flowers.’ Flora picked up the daffodils and handed them to Joy. The response from her friend was totally unexpected: Joy leapt back as though Flora had tried to thrust a knife at her, not a slightly droopy bunch of flowers wrapped in brown paper, and shoved the yellow blooms clean out of Flora’s grip.

‘Get rid of them,’ she hissed.

‘Joy, what on earth …?’ Flora looked at the flowers by her feet, astonished to see Joy grinding the petals into the door step with one sturdy shoe. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Not daffodils. Not narcissus. No.’ She ground and stamped until the flowers were nothing more than a pulpy smudge of yellow and green. Flora lowered her head, trying to see Joy’s face. Her expression was nothing less than terrified.

‘Joy, what are you doing? What’s going on?’

But Joy didn’t answer. She was staring at a point over Flora’s shoulder. Flora took another look at her face, then followed her friend’s line of vision. The brown wrapping paper had fluttered away and was wedged in a bush across the path. The young maples rustled in the breeze, and another, more insistent buzz, sounded beyond them. Appearing and disappearing behind hedges as it motored along the path on the other side of the quadrant was a bright red mobility scooter, and bumbling across the tops of the manicured privet was the unmistakable pale ginger hair of Mr Felix.

Chapter 3

‘What is that boy doing out there in the van?’

Monday morning and Flora was at work bright and early, determined to start the week in a positive frame of mind. She would not let this Rockfords thing drag her down. Joy’s close call with Otto, and her resulting weird behaviour and obvious paranoia, had played on Flora’s mind all weekend. This morning she’d woken up with her priorities realigned. Shakers was a business. It didn’t have to represent her father’s hopes and dreams; she didn’t have to feel so responsible all the time. All they needed to do was tighten their belts and start touting for new customers harder than ever before.

As for Marshall, Flora planned to do what she always did. Ignore him.

Which was harder than it sounded. Like now, he was sitting in her chair, which he knew drove her crazy, swinging his long legs and chatting on the phone: the office phone.

‘What,’ said Flora again, ‘is that boy doing out there in the van?’

‘Hold on a minute, sweetheart,’ Marshall said into the receiver. Sweetheart? By the time he turned to Flora she was as mad as hell.

‘If you don’t mind me interrupting your personal calls, I just thought you might be able to shed some light on the fact that there’s a strange man – well, boy – driving our van around the car park. If it’s not too much trouble.’

Marshall rolled his eyes, whispered something into the receiver, then put down the phone. He said, as if talking to someone very stupid, ‘That’s Richie, isn’t it? The new driver.’

‘What?’ Flora jerked her head to tell him to get the hell out of her chair. Marshall eased himself up in no hurry whatsoever. ‘What new driver?’

‘You’re gonna have to keep your eye on the ball better than that, Flora. What with Rockfords coming and all ... you’re losing it, girl.’

‘Do not call me “girl”. And I am not losing it – can you drop the attitude and tell me what’s going on?’

‘Richie is the new driver. Like I said. The one we advertised for when Harry retired.’

Flora flopped down into the vacated chair, which felt uncomfortably warm. Her face reddened as she processed his words. She had completely forgotten about the interviews they’d scheduled for last week. Which played right into Marshall’s I-should-be-the-one-in-total-charge hands, damn it. Clearly Marshall hadn’t forgotten, and clearly he’d just gone right ahead and held the interviews without her.
And
made the decision about who to take on.

‘Where was I when all this was happening?’ she said, mainly to herself. Marshall had the decency to look embarrassed.

‘You were in Wales,’ he mumbled.

Ah, so that was it. A week ago, Flora and her Uncle Max had visited Llandudno to mark her mother’s birthday. Kitty Lively, born and raised in North Wales, always went to the seaside for her birthday, and Flora had chosen to keep up the tradition.

‘I was only away for two days, Marshall.’ She kept her voice low. ‘You could have filled me in when I got back.’

He nodded. ‘Honestly? I thought I had. Maybe you’ve been more distracted than you realise.’

‘That’s not fair, and you know it. Fine, it was my mum’s birthday, but I’m dealing with it perfectly well, and I’m totally on top of things here. It’s about time you got that into your stubborn head and stopped trying to undermine me at every opportunity.’

‘I’m not trying to undermine you, Flora. You weren’t here, simple as. And last time I looked it said Manager in my contract. I don’t need to consult with you over every decision.’

There was no point pursuing it. Marshall was indeed stubborn, and Flora had too much on her mind to let herself get sidetracked into another pointless fight. Besides, there was a more important issue at stake.

‘Well, you’ll just have to go outside and tell Richie the job’s no longer available, won’t you? We can’t afford to take on a new driver, not with the threat from Rockfords. We’ll just have to make do as we are.’ Flora walked over to the window and watched the van back into a space wide enough for four cars. ‘What exactly is he doing out there, anyway?’

‘Practising. He’s a bit rusty driving a vehicle that size.’

Flora snorted. ‘So not only did you give the job – of driver – to someone without even consulting me, you gave it to someone who’s “a bit rusty” at driving. That’s just great, Marshall. Just great.’

She marched out of the office, ignoring Marshall’s annoying smirk, bounded down the metal stairs and stormed through the warehouse and into the car park, where the so-called driver was leaning out of the van’s window, trying to get a better view of the bollard he’d just flattened.

‘Oi,’ Flora shouted. ‘You in there. We need a word. Right now.’

But when the boy jumped down from the cab – and he really was only a boy, no older than seventeen, surely, with pimply skin and pale hair that flopped in his eyes – Flora pointed back up the stairs. ‘Marshall needs a word with you,’ she said with a smile. ‘There’s been a change of plan.’

***

Flora pressed her forehead to the window and tried to block her ears. Richie’s singing was torture. Marshall was in the back, hanging on to the straps with both hands, grinning at her in the mirror. Up front, sitting between Richie and her, Steve tapped at his mobile phone constantly; how it didn’t make him feel totally sick, Flora couldn’t understand.

‘Don’t you like Pink Floyd, Flora?’ said Marshall, still grinning. ‘Not your kind of thing?’

What I don’t like is my employees blatantly taking the piss out of me, she thought. She said nothing, just stared out of the window and watched the countryside trundle by until her eyes glazed over. Marshall was in a funny mood today. It was best to ignore him when he was like this.

Monday lunchtime and they were moving another resident into Sleepy City. Vera lived out towards Bishops Castle in a crammed four-bed detached that she had somehow managed to pack up into enough boxes for a one-way trip to Shrewsbury and the delights of retirement at the Maples.

That Marshall had intentionally conned her over the Richie issue was something Flora was not going to forgive in a hurry, but as being angry with Marshall was about as satisfying as a Weight Watchers dinner, Flora was taking her temper out on Richie instead.

Who was oblivious, of course. Not the pimply youth Flora had assumed, Richie Baker was twenty years old, as bright as a dungeon and the favourite nephew of Cynthia Curtis, the Maples’ warden. Which explained, when Flora finally managed to get Marshall to discuss it with her civilly, why he’d been a shoe-in for the job.

‘You’re the one who wanted the crinkly contract. I thought this would keep his aunt happy and you’d be pleased.’

‘Fine.’ Although it was anything but. ‘So why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?’

‘I didn’t get the chance. And I’m sick and tired of jumping through your hoops of disapproval every time I make a decision without you, okay?’

Well, no, it wasn’t okay, Flora might have told him. And it was the whole “making decisions without her” thing that was the problem.

Flora knew she would have to deal with this sooner or later. Things couldn’t go on as they were. With the threat from Rockfords, and the recession affecting business so badly, they could do without the sniping and the bad atmosphere at Shakers. Stuart had found himself another casual job, labouring for his builder brother, and Flora knew full well that Stuart hated his brother. Which just about said it all, really.

But at least that meant they could afford the new driver, just about. And Richie wasn’t really so obnoxious – although his taste in music could do with fine-tuning, as could his singing voice. When Van Halen’s ‘Jump’ started, Flora reached across Steve’s lap and turned off the CD. There was only so much a girl could take.

‘Aw, shucks, I was listening to that,’ Marshall said.

Flora ignored him. ‘We’ll be there in a minute,’ she told Richie. ‘You’ll need to concentrate on the directions.’

‘Sure, babe,’ Richie said. ‘No problem.’

Oh, Jesus, thought Flora, determinedly not meeting Marshall’s eye in the mirror. Could this day actually get any worse?

Vera lived on a modern housing estate in the middle of precisely nowhere – no shops, no pub, nothing. It was as if the developers had started to build a new village and then got fed up after the houses were finished. Or run out of money, more likely. Still, retirement and extreme downsizing beckoned. In her new home at the Maples Vera would have room for a bed, a sofa and not much else. When you really thought about it, what was the point in accumulating so much stuff throughout your life, when one day you would have to pack it all up and sell it, or just give it away?

Or worse, leave it all to your daughter who had diametrically different tastes to you and wished she could chuck it all in the bin but couldn’t because she’d feel too guilty.

‘Hello,’ said Marshall, ‘earth calling Flora Lively. We could do with a bit of navigating here.’

Flora shook herself out of her reverie and read out the directions to Richie.

When they arrived they found Vera sitting on a tea chest with a vacant expression on her face. Although Flora had been friends with Vera’s great-niece since university, she’d only met the old lady twice before. Celeste’s aunt was tall with a big-boned, spare frame. She wore some kind of caftan in an Aztec pattern, with a large cross draped around her neck. It was clear from the half-filled boxes and cluttered surfaces that she’d either run out of steam or was finding the task more onerous than she’d expected.