Weekending
After that mammoth meeting at Cleo’s cottage, Dorothy did
her weekend shopping and was glad to be home. As usual, she would cook and eat
lunch, making sure that her cat Mimi got her share, and then put her feet up
for an hour before devoting herself to one of Beethoven’s trickier sonata movements.
“What a nice surprise, Lisa.”
“Not so nice, Miss Price. I’m in hospital.”
“Oh dear. I hope you didn’t eat any of Jane Barker’s.”
“No. I’m fortunately not
into soup, Miss Price. I have appendicitis.”
“Oh dear, you poor thing.“
“I feel a bit better now, but they’ll probably have to
operate and I don’t know what to do about the next rehearsal.”
“Why don’t I just get on a bus and visit you, Lisa? We can
talk much better head to head.”
“Do you want to do that?” said Lisa. “I’m so sorry for
disturbing you.”
“No problem,“ said Dorothy, sensing that Lisa had more than
one problem she needed to discuss. ”I’ll be there in about ninety minutes, Lisa.
The bus drives as far as the hospital. That’s a relic from the days when
visiting was only once or twice a week and no one had a car.”
***
Niceties over, Dorothy could hardly wait to get to the core
of her visit.
“Don’t worry about the rehearsal, Lisa. I don’t suppose many
of the women feel much like singing. Twelve of them landed in hospital with
food poisoning, and one is dead, but I suppose you know that.”
“Dead? I heard a rumour, but I didn’t take it seriously.”
“One, who might just have attended out of curiosity, died of
heart failure, possibly brought on by the poisoning. The other lady was
smothered.”
“Who would murder those women except for their singing?”
said Lisa, and Dorothy immediately heard warning bells.
“The smothered one was Eileen Norton. Do you know which one
that is? You haven’t had much time to learn names.”
“Enough time to know most of them, Miss Price, and Eileen
Norton is or rather was a typical hanger-on. She was eager to please, but very
timid with a tiny voice. She was also easily influenced by what was going on
around her. There’s at least one in every chorus.”
“A third chorus member is also dead,” said Dorothy.
“You mean the woman found dead among the marigolds, I
expect.”
“Yes.”
“I got an anonymous phone call about that.”
“Anonymous? Did you tell the police about it?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Yes.”
“On reflection, I agree, though I thought it was a prank at
the time,” said Lisa.
“Murder is not a prank, Lisa, and telling someone over the
phone about a murder is very fishy indeed,” said Dorothy, who wondered if Lisa
Keys was as naïve as she presented herself. “Did you recognise the voice of the
caller?”
“No.”
***
Dorothy mused silently that if it was Knowles who had
phoned, she had probably not killed Margie. But somebody must have seen it
happen and phoned for some other reason. Whatever the motive, it was someone
who did not want to come forward, but hoped that Lisa Keys or someone else would.
***
“Eileen Norton was pally with the big prize-fighter woman
with a voice like a Friesian cow,” said Lisa.
Dorothy could not help laughing. Knowles was not the only
Friesian cow in that chorus, but definitely the loudest.
“It was an unlikely friendship, I thought,” Lisa continued.
“The women were more interested in passing pills around than in singing, Miss
Price.”
“Did you ask what was in them?”
“Yes. I was told that they were throat lozenges recommended
by Mrs Finch.”
“Did you ask for one?”
“No. I wasn’t singing.”
“Was their source the big woman, the Friesian cow they call
Babsi?”
“I think so.”
“Did you notice anything else, Lisa?”
“Funny you should ask that. At the last rehearsal we had a
second short break before taking one final run at the song I was trying to
teach them. The Friesian cow and Margie had been nagging one another. They went
out through the back entrance to smoke, and the big woman came back alone and
said that Margie had gone home with a headache. Since the two of them had
quarrelled before and gone outside to smoke at every rehearsal, I didn’t bother
about it.”
“Margie fell or was pushed into the rockery and suffered
fatal head injuries. She must have died almost instantly.”
“Do you think the phone-call about the accident was from that
big woman?”
“Possibly, except that we do not know if it was an accident.”
Dorothy thought it wiser not to mention Gary so she
explained about the Hartley Agency.
“That big woman they all call Babsi is under suspicion.”
“That’s terrible, Miss Price.”
“It seems like a continuation of the mobbing to which poor
Laura Finch was subjected. Miss Knowles was always the leader of the pack,
Laura told me in those days. But she had disciplined her a few times and the
woman was resentful,” said Dorothy. “You should know that Laura Finch had a
vicious tongue and hated anyone to stand up to her.”
“So you are saying that Laura Finch was mobbed by a chorus
consisting of a gang of Friesian cow acolytes. I should never have taken them
on. You should have warned me, Miss Price.”
“From what I have heard, they like you as much as they liked
your brother Lester. Don’t give up yet,” said Dorothy, thinking with horror
that she might end up having to take rehearsals herself.
“Lester would not notice corruption if it was waved in front
of him, Miss Price. He thinks everyone is good at heart.”
“Couldn’t you get him to take the rehearsal if you can’t, Lisa?”
“That depends on his commitments. My Tuesdays are out for 3
weeks at least,” said Lisa.
“I’ll get a notice put in tomorrow’s Gazette that next the
rehearsal is cancelled,” Said Dorothy. “Then everyone will know.”
“Won’t you…?”
“No. I have other commitments,” said Dorothy, deciding that
a little white lie was appropriate.
***
“There’s something else, Miss Price, but I’m not sure I
should tell you.”
Dorothy thought with satisfaction that her hunch had been
accurate.
“You can rely on me, Lisa,” she said. “Tell me what is
troubling you. It might help our case, too.”
Lisa reached to her cupboard for her handbag and took an
envelope out. It had no address on it, but Lisa’s name was on it hand-written.
She handed it to Dorothy who opened it and took out a letter-sized sheet of
paper on which, as in all crime novels where a typewriter with faulty letters
is not available or the computer is down, there was a message written in words
cut out from a newspaper or magazine.
‘Shut your face or I’ll shut it for you’ Dorothy read.
“That’s nasty,” said Dorothy. “But some people do things like
that. I’ll see if I can find out who sent it.”
“Would you do that? Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll get onto it straightaway”, Dorothy
said, and took her leave..
***
Later, clutching her handbag with its precious cargo of the
anonymous letter together with a sample of Lisa’s handwriting and fingerprints pressed
with licked, lipstick-daubed fingertips onto a blank sheet out of Dorothy’s
notebook and folded and tucked into the envelope by Lisa herself so that Chris could
make better digital copies, Dorothy was riding on the bus back to Upper
Grumpsfield, deep in thought about the letter, the anonymous phone-call and not
least the idea that Lisa Keys could even be in danger, since the chorus
director could not think of anything she should be keeping a secret, though
somebody obviously thought she was.
Dorothy mused that Gary would say that an anonymous letter
was not necessarily based on fact. Dorothy would reply that there was no point
in waiting for facts to appear if a human life was at stake.
***
Hastily attired in his jogging pants and hoping for a
relaxing evening at home, Gary welcomed Dorothy’s unexpected arrival with as
much grace as he could muster. Dorothy sensed that her timing was inconvenient
and would have explained in a few words, handed over the anonymous letter and
left, but Gary did not let her.
Dorothy had a reason for coming and she might as well say
what it was rather than making a long phone-call later. He knew her too well to
think that she was visiting just for the hell of it.
“Are we expecting you?” he said.
“No Gary, but I had reason to visit Lisa Keys in hospital
and I have some new information.”
“Don’t say any more, Dorothy. Come all the way in and have
supper with us.”
Toni was playing with PeggySue, Tommy and Teddy outside in
the back garden, which was really only a walled-in patch of shaved grass. It was
already quite gloomy, but they were having fun with a big ball coloured with luminous
paint and lit up by the light from the kitchen.
“Just excuse me while I see to the sleepers,” Gary said.
“Cleo was having a rest.”
“I should have phoned. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Well, you’re here now, so make yourself at home.”
While Gary went to get Cleo, Max and Mathilda up, Dorothy made
coffee, took a mug of coffee out to Toni, a plate of biscuits for everyone, and
hugged all the children, wishing as usual that they were hers, especially now
there was an au pair to share the work.
If Cleo was sorry that her siesta had been disturbed, she tried
not to show it. Dorothy never came uninvited, so she must have a good reason
now.
“I thought the piano had priority on Saturday afternoons,
Dorothy,” she said, “but it’s OK. Gary’s grumpy because things are not going
the way he’d like, are they, Sweetheart?”
Cleo glided across the room to Gary and kissed him full on
the lips while letting her hands wander down his torso.
Gary smiled.
“Put some clothes on, Cleo,” he said. “That kimono is not warm
enough.”
“I’m warm enough, Gary,” said Cleo.
***
Dorothy was not happy to witness what she decided was an
erotic exchange between her two friends so she watched the children in the
garden instead.
“Lisa Keys phoned from Middlethumpton General to tell me
that she has appendicitis and can’t do next week’s rehearsal,” she said, not
turning round.
“Did I break off my siesta for that information, Dorothy?”
said Gary.
“So you’ve been to see her, I guess,” said Cleo, ignoring
Gary’s comment.
“Yes, and I have something to hand over to you, Gary.”
“You can look now,” said Gary, amused as ever by Dorothy’s determination
to ignore any of his intimacy with Cleo, however harmless it was.
Dorothy went to where she had deposited her handbag, opened
it and gave Gary the evidence, explaining about the fingerprint sample.
“Respect, Dorothy!” said Gary, “but why did she not get in
touch with the police?”
“Receivers of anonymous letters usually stay away from the
police and go to private detectives instead. It’s in all the crime thrillers
I’ve ever read and Lisa has probably read them too,” said Dorothy.
“Would she have come to you rather than Cleo if she needed
the agency?” said Gary.
“She phoned me about the chorus, Gary, and I knew
immediately that she was worried about something more than her appendix. The
warning I have here was not uttered in jest.”
“It’s the old story. Crime thrillers are often casual about
threats and warnings,” said Gary. “People enjoy those novels and wish they
could be private eyes. But the investigators are sent into wasps’ nests with
unfailing regularity.”
“I won’t be, Gary. I’m reporting Lisa’s problem even if she
doesn’t want to,” said Dorothy, who was now wishing she had gone straight home.
“What has your theory got to do with a chorus director,
Gary?” said Cleo. “There’s Miss Keys lying in the hospital wondering what to do
about her chorus. Anyway, a private eye is not as suspicious as a cop.”
“I’m not sure that Lisa knows I am a private eye,” said
Dorothy.
“All the better,” said Cleo. “Whoever sent the warning does
not know that you have taken it on yourself to report it.”
Gary fetched latex gloves from the kitchen so that he did
not add his own fingerprints to the contents of the envelope.
“A somewhat uncouth turn of phrase,” he commented after
reading it aloud.
“Double Dutch,” said Cleo, reading ‘Shut your face or I’ll
shut it for you’ again. “It’s not an American way of saying things.”
“Or it’s someone uneducated,” said Dorothy.
“Or it’s someone at pains not to reveal their true
identity,” said Gary.
“I never thought of that,” said Dorothy.
“Well I’ve never heard of that turn of phrase,” said Cleo.
“It really is rather nasty if it means what I think it means.”
“A sender with slightly more culture could have cut out the
words ‘Dear Madam. We are coming to knock your block off if you say anything
about … dot dot dot’,” said Gary, “but I’m not sure I would prefer to read
that. Quite apart from the unfortunate literary style, I’d like to think it was
an idle threat.”
“What if it isn’t?” said Dorothy.
“Exactly,” said Gary. “I’ll get a guard put on Miss Keys,
just in case.”
“She isn’t in a private ward,” said Dorothy.
“She’ll have to move, Dorothy. We can’t keep an eye on the
whole hospital.”
“I’ll leave you to decide and go back home to Beethoven,”
said Dorothy. “Call me if you need to know more.”
“Is there more?”
***
Gary looked sharply at Dorothy. Noting the sudden change in
Gary’s mood, Dorothy repeated the relevant parts of her conversation with Lisa
Keys. Gary declared grudgingly that he would have to talk to her himself. Cleo
agreed.
***
Dorothy said she had leftovers from the previous day to eat
up and left, having no wish to prolong her visit. Gary had a knack of making
her feel uncomfortable when he had a mind to. He had not really taken anything
she said seriously. Dorothy had not wanted to disturb their siesta (rightly
assuming that the jogging trousers and naked torso indicated that he had been
forced out of bed) and was again irritated by Cleo’s desire to get back to it (siesta
being synonymous with …). I really am an old woman, she told herself as she
hurried up Monkton Way.
***
Hardly had Dorothy hung up her hat and coat when the phone
rang. The little LED screen on the handset divulged Cleo’s cottage number.
Dorothy ignored it and went her piano instead. She had had enough of the
Hurleys for the time being.
***
Monday
Cleo was anxious to get on with the Fargo case, so on Monday
morning she left the breakfast table to the auspices of her husband and drove
to HQ, determined – with Gary’s blessing - to talk to Sally Fargo as soon as
possible. Gary phoned Greg, and asked him to get Mrs Fargo to attend a
questioning with Cleo and record everything. He would himself go to the hospital and
interview the chorus director of the Finch Nightingales who had been admitted
with appendicitis, the Hartley Agency had informed him. He would then go home
for lunch.
***
Greg’s office was a smaller version of Gary’s and overlooked
the parking yard rather than the main street in Middlethumpton, but it was better
for Cleo not to be in Gary’s office as they did not want the Fargo woman to
assume that she was on a mission from Gary. Cleo was still waiting for the
promised office to be made available to her as resident social psychologist.
“If you want me to take the job seriously, you’ll have to
organize a place for me to talk to people and keep all my reference books,”
Cleo had complained, but the wheels tended to grind slowly at HQ if you were
not a parking or speeding offender, so she would have to bide her time.
After meeting Cleo at reception, Greg took her up to his
second floor office and phoned security to have Mrs Fargo brought up. It was
only nine o’clock and the day at HQ had hardly begun. Cleo phoned Nigel and
asked him to take notes of the interview. He would act as a witness if
necessary.
***
Sally Fargo was quite surprised to see the office occupied
by Cleo and that smart police inspector she already knew.
“I’ve said all I’m going to say,” she said. “That other
inspector tricked me into saying too much,” she continued, referring to Gary,
of course.
“He’s very shrewd, Mrs Fargo, if you are talking about the
person I know. He has a method of getting people to talk that has annoyed people
before you.”
“Let me introduce our resident social psychologist, Mrs
Fargo,” said Greg.
“Resident still without her own office, Mrs Fargo, but I’m
hopeful.”
Greg grinned at that the way Cleo had slipped into her job.
Applause, applause. Cleo was not going to make use of her relationship with
Gary or even admit to it.
“What did you say that you now regret, Mrs Fargo?” Cleo
continued.
***
Greg knew that Gary trusted Cleo, even if he did sometimes
make negative comments about private eyes. He knew that Cleo was a shrewd and
sly interviewer. Greg still had a lot to learn about the psychology of dealing
with suspects and was starting to regret having dozed through the lectures at
the police academy.
***
“I can’t remember,” said Sally Fargo.
“Then it can’t have been very regrettable,” Cleo retorted.
Only forgettable.”
“I’d like to go now,” said Mrs Fargo. “I have things to do
at home”
“You’ve only just come and you haven’t asked me why you are
here,” said Cleo.
“Why am I here?” said Mrs Fargo, never in her wildest dreams
expecting the question that was now put to her.
“Where is your mother, Mrs Fargo?”
“My mother?”
“I think her name is Eve Fletcher, isn’t it?”
Sally Fargo gripped her hands so firmly that the knuckles
turned white.
“What about my mother?”
“Where is she now, Mrs Fargo?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because she was declared dead and the tramp you recently
identified as Dr Fargo was in fact her husband and only acquitted of her murder
because the cops could not get their act together – oh, and the body of your
mother had not been found, Mrs Fargo.”
“I did not identify the tramp. My husband did,” said Sally
Fargo.
“We weren’t talking about the tramp, but since you clearly
have something say, go ahead!”
“I can’t think of anything,” said Sally Fargo.
“That’s a whopper, Mrs Fargo. You agreed with the
identification of the tramp as Dr Fargo when it was actually Toby Bates and you
knew it.”
“All that was before I was born,” said Sally Fargo.
“How long before?”
“I don’t remember,” the woman said.
“That indicates that you do, Mrs Fargo, or that you at least
know what this little chat is all about.”
***
Cleo turned to Greg and asked him if the dates of that court
case were available. Greg said he would find out and turned to his computer to
consult the police archives.
“That would be at a court in Bristol,” said Cleo. “I don’t
suppose Weston-Super-Mare had a criminal court in those days.”
“Weston?” Sally Fargo asked.
“Homesick?” Cleo asked. “You live there, don’t you?”
“We used to.”
“Before you moved to the villa?”
“We’re only staying there,” said Sally Fargo. Cleo looked at
her sharply. The young woman seemed to shrink under the powerful effect of
Cleo’s unflagging gaze.
“Does that mean that you haven’t moved into the yet, Mrs
Fargo, although you are giving it as your home address?”
***
Greg thought that Cleo’s questioning was quite devious. The
young woman was getting nervous although she had not been accused of anything
and her husband had not even been mentioned except by her.
***
“Did you recognize Toby Bates in that police casket?”
“Toby Bates was my mother’s husband,” said Sally Fargo. “I
never knew him, Miss…”
“Hartley,” said Cleo, confirming that she was not going to
present herself as the woman married to the policeman the Fargos knew as Chief
Inspector Hurley.
“But you had seen photos of him, Mrs Fargo.”
“From before I was born, Miss Hartley.”
“Did your mother say who he was?”
“She never said he was my father, if that’s what you mean.”
“Wasn’t he?”
“I found the photos of her wedding. My mother was very angry
about that, but I kept one and still have it in my wallet.”
“Why would she be angry?”
“Because I thought the man she lived with was my father. I
called him Daddy.”
“I’m puzzled,” said Cleo. “If you thought Mr Bates was like
the man on your photograph, why didn’t you say something?”
“It would only have complicated things and Ed did not know
about the photo.”
“What motivated you to steal that photo, Mrs Fargo?”
“I was angry that my mother did not tell me about her first marriage.”
“Why should she? It was over,” said Cleo.
“Something is not right, Miss Hartley. I felt it then, and I
feel it now.”
***
The room fell silent as Sally Fargo sat motionless and
troubled. Cleo let her wallow in her confusion about what significance it could
all have. Eventually, Cleo thought the timing was right to go on. Greg was
fascinated. Cleo seemed to have broken into Sally Fargo’s subconscious.
***
“Your husband he did not tell you of his plan to dispose of
his uncle, did he?”
“No, Miss Hartley. I only heard about it in that interview
with the Chief Inspector.”
“I believe you, Mrs Fargo, but tell me about your mother in
return for the trust I am putting in you. She did tell you what happened that
day on the beach, didn’t she?”
“She told me enough for me not to want to meet that person.”
“Although he could have been your father?”
“My mother told me he wasn’t.”
“Your mother escaped from a jealous husband who was prepared
to kill her rather than let her go to another man, Mrs Fargo.”
“Is that what happened?” Sally Fargo asked.
“I think so,” said Cleo, wanting to pursue that theory without
delay. Mrs Fargo was obviously distressed.
“Did Bates try to bury your mother on that beach in Weston-
Super-Mare, Mrs Fargo?”
“She told me that a stray dog had chased him from the hole
for long enough for her to escape, Miss Hartley.”
“Wow,” said Cleo. “So that’s why she hid from him. And then
he was acquitted of her murder because they could not prove that he had killed
her.”
“But he tried, didn’t he? She was mortally afraid of him,
Miss Hartley.”
“She must have been. It does explain why she did not come
forward in her husband’s defence. I don’t think I would, either.”
***
In the meantime, Greg had found the information Cleo had
asked for.
“The trial was held in July, Cleo. Bates was acquitted and
the case closed months later when the body of Eve Bates had still not been
found.”
“When is your birthday, Mrs Fargo?”
“September the thirtieth.”
“So your mother must have been pregnant when she escaped. Where
did she go?”
“The man I know as my father took my mother to Ireland that
same day she escaped. He had followed them to the beach and was able to help her
to get away.”
“Are your parents still alive, Mrs Fargo?”
“Yes.”
“Where do they live?”
“In Dublin some of the time.”
“Are you in contact? Can I talk to them?”
“Yes. They could be back in Bristol. My father has an accountancy
firm there. I talked to my mother a few days ago. My husband does not know I am
in contact with them.”
“Please give the Inspector a phone number or email address
for your parents. I don’t need to ask you any more questions right now.”
“But I need to ask you a question, Miss Hartley.”
“Go ahead.”
“If I was born only months after my mother got away, I don’t
know who my father is, do I?”
“I can’t answer that, Mrs Fargo. You could ask your mother,
but she may not know, either.”
“I always thought of my mother’s partner as my father. There
is no father’s name on my birth certificate.”
“Understandable if she thought the father was someone who
had tried to kill her. I can talk to your mother about Toby Bates. She left him
charged with murder and never came forward to clear his name.”
“When I asked her about the photo of him she said he was
past history. I later learnt some of the details from the man I knew as my
father.”
“Toby Bates really had tried to kill her. The man you knew
as your father was a witness. Toby Bates should have gone to prison for
attempted murder.”
“The dog belonged to my father, Miss Hartley. It chased
Bates for miles along that beach. It saved my mother’s life, didn’t it?”
“Yes. That’s why I want to get that case reopened and the
record put straight, even if Toby Bates is dead.”
“Can I get proof that I am not related to him? Does it
matter anymore? I think I killed him, Miss Hartley. I gave him the wine. I
thought my husband was looking after him with little treats.”
“So he gave you wine specifically for that tramp, did he?”
“Yes and he said not to drink any. If it was poisoned, I’m
guilty.”
“Don’t jump the guns, Mrs Fargo. We must prove that your
husband had access to and made use of the poison identified in the tests. I
know you’ll help us.”
“I’m not a murderess, Miss Hartley. Please believe me.”
“You have the book on natural poisons from the library,
don’t you, Mrs Fargo?”
“My husband wanted it. He said the information might come in
handy one day. You don’t think…..?”
Sally Fargo gasped in horror.
“How do you know about the book, Miss Hartley?”
“I wanted the book and it was not available.”
“Do you think my husband made up a poison?”
“I don’t know yet, Mrs Fargo. We can arrange for a DNA test
with the pathologist tomorrow. It will tell us whether you were related to Mr
Bates. I don’t think you should discuss our talk with anyone.”
“No. I hate Ed Fargo and I don’t want to upset my parents.”
“Did he know about a possible relationship between you and
Mr Bates?” said Cleo.
“I’m no longer sure about that, Miss Hartley, but if he
poisoned Mr Bates, maybe he poisoned his uncle too and maybe I’m to be the
third victim.”
“He won’t get an opportunity to go down that path,” said
Cleo. “Keep silent about our talk. We’ll get you out of HQ as soon as possible.
I am sure that your husband will be invited to stay.”
“Thank you.”
“Since your mother never applied for a divorce, she is now a
widow, Mrs Fargo, so she could marry again.”
Sally Fargo smiled for the first time in that interview.”
“I think she’ll want to, Miss Hartley.”
***
Well satisfied with how the confrontation with Sally Fargo
had worked out, Cleo signalled to Greg that the woman could go back to her cell
to await clearance and release.
Greg’s thumb-up gesture showed his appreciation of the talk.
It was a lesson in persuasion that he had yet to learn.
When Mrs Fargo had been led away, Cleo tapped Eve Fletcher’s
phone number.
***
“Hello?”
“Is that Ms Fletcher?”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Cleo Hartley and I’m calling from
Middlethumpton.”
“Why me?”
“I have news for you, Ms Fletcher.”
“I hope it’s good news, Miss Hartley.”
“I’m sure you’ll think it is. Toby Bates is dead.”
“Dead? Who is dead?”
“The guy you were married to.”
“Listen, Miss Hartley. I don’t talk about that bastard. Get
off my phone please.”
“No, wait. I’ve been talking to your daughter.”
“To Sally? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. Can I come to talk to you, or better still, can
you come here? I have six children who
need me some of the time.”
“I understand We’ll come to you if you tell us where that
is. Do you want me to identify Bates?”
“No. But I think we should have a talk.”
“Are you a policewoman, Miss Hartley?”
“No. I’m a social worker at Middlethumpton police
headquarters, so if you could come there it would be a help.”
“Can I call you back, Miss Hartley? I’ll have to ask my
partner when he has time.”
“Sure. Thanks for not hanging up,” said Cleo.
“Thank you for phoning, Miss Hartley. I’m sorry if I was
unfriendly. Thirty years in hiding from a person who tried to kill me have
taken their toll. I expect you know the story.”
“I do. You won’t have any more hauntings, Ms Fletcher.”
“You’re right. I’m free now, aren’t I?”
“Sure.”
***
Gary’s spontaneous visit to the hospital was not as
successful. He was informed that he could not talk to Miss Keys that day
because she was in the post-operative ward coming round after her appendix
operation at seven that morning. He had no alternative but to drive home again,
secretly relieved that he had not been obliged to talk to Miss Keys, and openly
delighted because he could spend the day with his children. He expressed his
joy by singing along to a Mozart symphony on the radio. Cleo would have called
his performance deafeningly untuneful, but Gary was alone in his car and
enjoying life.
***
Cleo was also on her way home, wondering whether Gary had
had any luck with Lisa Keys. It was too early for a siesta, but a second
breakfast would be enhanced by goodies from the bakery and her report of the
interview with Sally Fargo.
Cleo had not forgotten that call to Dorothy. It was the
first time Dorothy had not responded to a call from the cottage and Cleo was
sorry that Gary had not behaved well the previous afternoon. He would have to
apologize for joking about a matter Dorothy was taking seriously and he should
have been, though he had tried to mend the situation. But the damage was done.
Dorothy, who had urged him on so often and come up with so many good ideas, was
hurt.
***
Gary stopped by the hospital flower shop on the way out. He
bought a bunch of red ‘tryst’ roses for Cleo and a huge bunch of mixed pink
flowers for Dorothy. Before going home he drove to Dorothy’s cottage and rang
the doorbell. Dorothy stopped banging out Beethoven and came to the door.
“I’m sorry I was grumpy yesterday,” he said from behind the
bouquet. “I still love you Dorothy and I can well understand that you were
disgusted.”
“I was disgusted,” said Dorothy, “but I still love you too,
Gary. The flowers are lovely. Won’t you come in?”
“I’d better get home,” said Gary. “I have some more
apologizing to do.”
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