Slated for Death (3 page)

Penny made a little noise that indicated she'd heard what Victoria said but wasn't going to comment on it.

“Anyway, thinking about the concert reminded me that Glenda Roberts was here yesterday. She dropped off an envelope for you and I wanted to make sure you got it. Did Rhian leave it in your box?”

“It was slipped under my door and waiting when I got home. The sheet music for the concert. It's right here.” Victoria patted the brown envelope on the table.

“She talked a little about the concert, Glenda did,” Penny said. “About it taking place down the mine. I've been wondering about that.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Well, I was thinking about my old friend Emma Teasdale and how much she loved music. And there must be lots of elderly people who'd love to go to the St. David's Day concert but they couldn't possibly make the trek down the mine.” She thought for a moment. “And certainly anyone who's claustrophobic couldn't make it, either.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I guess what I'm saying is why the mine? Why is the concert being held down the mine of all places?”

Victoria set her spoon in her bowl and pushed it away.

“Well, now that you mention it, holding the concert down the mine was Glenda's idea. She said it was the fortieth anniversary of the mine closing and this would be the perfect way to honour the memory of all the men who worked there. To tell you the truth, the rest of us weren't too keen. Such a lot of palaver getting all the instruments down there. Do you know how big a harp is? Do you know how much it weighs? And why risk transporting an instrument that costs £6,000 down a mine for a one-off concert, for heaven's sake?”

“I have some idea about the size of them,” Penny said, “but you'll know more about harps than I do, since you play one. To me, they look big and heavy, but fragile and delicate at the same time. Cumbersome. I suppose they come in some sort of case? They probably require a lot of care when you're moving one.”

Victoria nodded. “Big and heavy is right.” She thought for a moment. “I wonder if the concert will go ahead now. I know it's still a few weeks off, but I wonder if this accident or whatever it was will affect that.”

“Oh, I'm sure the concert will go ahead,” said Penny. “The show must go on and all that. But maybe they'll have to hold it in a different venue. Somewhere sensible. And accessible. The church, maybe. That would be good.” Penny licked her lower lip. “Anyway, when Glenda was in yesterday, she mentioned her mother and I thought I'd slip out for an hour or so and stop in for a little visit with her. I haven't seen her in a long time or even thought about her, to be honest. She's in the nursing home and Glenda said she'd welcome a visitor.”

“Sure. Why not?” Victoria said.

“Right, well, I'll get started downstairs. If things get quiet about midmorning, I'll slip out for a half hour or so.”

*   *   *

The large grey stone building that is High Pastures, formerly known as the Llanelen Home for the Aged, crouches over the road that runs alongside the River Conwy. Built in the early years of the twentieth century, the property had once been the summer home of a wealthy Liverpool merchant. In the 1970s it had been converted to a nursing home, its large, spacious rooms divided and divided again. Its formal garden at the rear, once lovingly maintained by a team of gardeners, now abandoned and overgrown with thick bushes and rampant weeds, had featured a walled vegetable garden, slate pathways, and even a small maze for children's amusement on sunny afternoons. No one visited the garden now except for staff who huddled outside the back door on smoke breaks and then tossed their cigarette ends into the shrubbery.

Penny walked up the pavement leading to the front door with mixed feelings. Many years ago, newly settled in Llanelen as a young Canadian fine arts graduate, she had made a bit of extra money by giving manicures to the residents of the home. All those ladies, she thought. Been gone a long time. But there would always be more taking their place. There's a lot of money to be made in dying.

She pushed through the set of double doors and was met by the distinctive smell of a nursing home. A combination, maybe, of urine and industrial cleaning fluid. And something else: a strong swirl of fear—fear that that visitor herself might one day end up in a place like this. The reception area was painted a pale turquoise with a flowered wallpaper border near the ceiling. A couple of sturdy burgundy chairs had been placed near the window and a dark-coloured desk positioned so any visitor must pass it before venturing further into the building.

Penny walked over to the reception desk.

“Hello,” she said to the receptionist. “I've come to see Doreen Roberts.”

The receptionist asked her to sign in, and then pointed down the hall. “I expect you'll find her in the lounge,” she said.

“How's she doing?” Penny asked.

“As you'd expect,” the receptionist replied with a dismissive shrug.

The turquoise colour scheme carried over into the lounge where some of the residents spent most of their days. A television played in one corner, its volume so low that Penny doubted anyone could hear it. Faded silk flowers in cumbersome vases took up space on side tables and windowsills. Overhead fluorescent lighting cast harsh shadows into the corners of the room; what natural light there was came from tall, graceful windows whose beauty was hidden behind outdated balloon swag curtains.

A few pairs of eyes with a little life still left in them turned in Penny's direction as she entered the room, but most of the residents ignored her. They sat motionless, propped up in their chairs, looking like dessicated husks of the people they once were. And then spotting an elderly woman seated near the window, her deeply lined cheek resting on a hand that resembled a brown speckled egg, Penny made her way over to her.

“Hello, Doreen.”

The woman looked up and a smile steeped in sadness flashed across her face.

“Oh, hello, Penny, love. Long time, no see.”

Penny sat down and placed a small bag of lemon drops in Doreen's hands. “I brought your favourites.”

Doreen ran a heavily veined hand across the bag in a smoothing motion. “They are my favourites. You remembered. Thank you.”

As Doreen's eyes filled with tears Penny placed her hand delicately on top of the older woman's. The skin was so thin the hand was almost blue and felt cold. She looked years older—greyer and paler from the last time Penny had seen her. Penny looked around the lounge for tissues and spotting a box on a small table in the corner, picked it up and held it out to Doreen.

Doreen plucked a tissue from the box and dabbed her eyes. Penny waited.

“What is it, Doreen? What's the matter?”

“I haven't been told how she died,” Doreen said, “but something very bad must have happened down there.”

Penny's eyes narrowed in confusion and she leaned forward.

“Who died, Doreen? What's happened? Who are you talking about?”

“Why, Glenda, of course. They found her body down the mine last night. I thought you knew. I thought that's why you've come.”

“Oh, God, Doreen. Glenda! I'm so sorry. No, I didn't know it was Glenda. We heard this morning on the radio that a body had been found down the mine, but they didn't say who it was. We thought perhaps there'd been an industrial accident.”

“Something very bad must have happened down there,” Doreen repeated.

“Yes,” agreed Penny. “Something very bad.”

“Bad things do happen down there. I should know. My husband died down there many years ago. But he was the mine manager, so at least he had a reason to be there. How did she end up there, I'd like to know? What on earth was she doing down there in the first place?”

“They're planning to hold the St. David's Day concert down the mine this year and Glenda was organizing it so she was on a site visit. Apparently it's the fortieth anniversary of the mine closing. Well, not closing exactly—ceasing production. Now it's a popular tourist attraction, of course. But I was wondering why the mine would have been chosen as the concert venue. There are other places that are accessible and not so, well, forbidding,” Penny replied.

“The mine is important for preserving our heritage and teaching young people about their history,” Doreen said.

“Yes, of course it is. I expect school groups go down there all the time. But it doesn't seem like the right place for a concert, that's what I'm saying.”

Doreen turned her watery, unfocused eyes to Penny.

“Who else was down there at the same time as Glenda, that's what I'd like to know?” Doreen said. “Someone must have seen something.” She raised one shoulder in a helpless shrug. “I wonder if she fell or tripped over something. It's so dark down there.”

“She could have, I suppose.” A silence settled over them and Penny allowed herself another look around the room. “I'm curious,” Penny said after a few minutes. “How did you find out she had died?”

“A policeman in a suit came to see me last night and he had a woman officer with him. Family liaison support or some such thing. I can't remember what they called themselves. They said a body had been found down the mine and from the identification in her handbag they were pretty sure it's Glenda. But the body hadn't been formally identified. I haven't seen it.” She made a vague gesture at the room. “How could I see it? It's very difficult for me to get out.” After a small sigh she gazed at Penny. “Take my advice. Whatever you do, don't get old. It's bloody awful.” She checked her watch. “And speaking of bloody awful, they're going to come round with a cup of indifferent tea any minute now. Be sure to say no thanks. Me, I'm used to it. I drink it. What else is there?” She had barely finished speaking when a passing care worker in a purple uniform thrust a Styrofoam cup into her hands and without saying a word, moved on to the next resident. “The problem with this tea is that it has to be barely tepid so people don't burn themselves,” Doreen said. She took a sip and made a little moue of distaste. “
Pfft.
What this needs is a nice tot of rum to get it up on its legs.” She raised the cup slightly to Penny in a vague sort of toasting motion and then took another small sip. “I don't know why they bother.”

“About Glenda … when was the last time you saw her?” Penny asked.

“Oh, I guess that would have been about a week ago, maybe. She popped in on her way somewhere. I expect she told me about the concert and I forgot about it. She was always busy, was Glenda. Always on the go. Meeting someone or picking something up in Manchester or wherever. She came to see me every few days but didn't stay long. And before you ask, she seemed fine. Excited, even. The police asked me that, too. When was the last time I saw her.”

Doreen rested her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. Penny sat with her a few minutes longer and then, after a glance at Doreen's pale, drained face, reached for her handbag and stood up. As she did so, Doreen's blue eyes fluttered open.

“Sorry, Penny, I seem to nod off … so tired. On your way, then, are you?”

“Yes. I have to get back to the Spa.”

“Right. Well, thank you for coming.” Doreen reached out with her right hand, then brought it back and set it in her lap.

“I don't have a good feeling about any of this, Penny,” she said. “If I need you, will you come back and see me?”

“Yes, of course I will.”

“Then please leave your phone number with the receptionist on the way out. Ask her to put you down as a contact for me, so she can ring you if I need you.”

 

Five

“I was that surprised you could have knocked me over with a feather.” Evelyn Lloyd settled herself in the client chair in the Llanelen Spa manicure salon and held out her hands to Eirlys, Penny's young assistant, who was to give Mrs. Lloyd her weekly manicure. “I've just heard the body of Glenda Roberts was found down the mine. It comes as such a shock when someone dies suddenly. And she was only just young, Glenda was. Well, youngish.” Mrs. Lloyd leaned to one side to peer around Eirlys at Penny, who was pulling nail polishes from the display for Mrs. Lloyd's approval.

“How old was she, do we know?” Mrs. Lloyd thought for a moment and then answered her own question. “Mid-forties? She couldn't have been much more that.”

“That sounds about right,” Penny agreed. “She came here regularly to get her hair done. Took good care of herself. And she was in here just yesterday dropping off papers for Victoria. For the concert.”

“That's right!” said Mrs. Lloyd. “I heard she was organizing the St. David's Day concert. Well I guess someone else will have to take that on now.” She peered at Penny. “Do you think Victoria would be up for it?”

“I have no idea,” said Penny, “but I expect she's got enough to do with being one of the performers.” She held up a bottle of burgundy-coloured polish. “How about this? Too dark?” She held up another one. “Do you like this one better? A nice cappuccino?”

Mrs. Lloyd looked from one to the other. “I'm not really crazy about either. And I think I've had both of those before. But it's hard to tell from here. I'll get up in a few minutes and choose one myself.”

She turned her attention to her hands, one of which was soaking in warm water and the other whose nails Eirlys was shaping with an emery board. “Or Eirlys can choose a colour for me. She knows what I like, since she does my nails now. Most of the time, anyway.”

Penny couldn't help but smile. Mrs. Lloyd was one of her oldest customers and although her occasional lack of tact could be hugely annoying bordering on infuriating, she could also be oddly endearing with her kind heart and honest openness. For many years she had been the village postmistress and she took as keen an interest in local comings and goings now as she had when she'd stood behind the counter with her weigh scales and stamps. Not much got past her, she liked to think. Not then and not now.