A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (16 page)

‘Good.’ She beamed. ‘Because I want Dave back, and
you’re
going to help me!’

‘Honestly, I don’t see how—’

‘I read a magazine about how men are turned on by the idea of two women doing it.’

‘What are you saying?’

Topaz looked at me intensely. ‘I mean, I haven’t done
it
with a woman before but . . . do you want to give it a go?’

I almost choked on my shandy. ‘You want to have sex with me in order to win Dave back?’

I had kissed a girl once when I was seven and it wasn’t too disgusting. I’d kissed boys, too, of course, but not since leaving school. For a moment, the vision of Annabel’s devastated look on making such a tawdry discovery was quite tempting. She’d walk in on us, writhing around in ecstasy in Dave’s bed at Cricket Lodge whilst he looked on panting with lust – for me, obviously.

‘We’d have to practise a bit first,’ said Topaz. ‘Maybe after I’ve finished my drink?’

‘Practise?’ I was appalled. ‘Now?’

‘We’ve got to look convincing,’ she said, sliding her hand up my leg under the table. ‘I’ve got a book with diagrams.’

‘I’m not really in the mood.’

‘It won’t take long. Fifteen minutes, tops.’

I was stumped. On the one hand, I was desperate to lose my virginity and had pretty well got to the point where it didn’t really matter who it was with. Although, I suspected, doing it with a girl wouldn’t really count. Topaz seemed a nice sort – a bit high strung, but at least she looked clean. How unexpected that tonight could be the night I became a woman. So why was I hesitating?

What if Dave and Topaz discovered they enjoyed orgies and invited Annabel to join us? There was no question of me frolicking naked with my rival. No, it was a bad idea.

I glanced over at Topaz, who had downed her Babycham in one fell swoop. I’d have to let her down gently. Taking her hand in mine, I gave it a squeeze. ‘I’m sorry, Topaz, I don’t think I could.’

She scowled. ‘Why?’

‘The problem is, Annabel and I work together—’

‘Annabel?’ said Topaz, scornfully. ‘That tramp in the flashy BMW? All hair and lipstick?’

I nodded. ‘She’s a frightful tart,’ Topaz continued. ‘Did you know that car isn’t even hers?’

I began to feel a little dizzy. ‘I thought you meant
Annabel
stole Dave from you.’

‘Oh
no
. Annabel’s too busy sleeping with the local bigwig.’

‘Good Lord! Who?’ I wondered if Pete knew he wasn’t the only one. I did a quick mental run-through of important Gipping men – bank manager, postmaster, Rotary club president – none were under fifty.

‘I’m talking about bloody Lady Trewallyn.’

For a moment, I was speechless. Perhaps that was why Dave had turned pale when I mentioned the black Porsche? He’d trodden on old Chester’s toes.

Topaz grabbed my hands and pulled me towards her. ‘You’ve
got
to help me get him back, Vicky. You’ve
got
to.’

Worried that she might lapse into another crying fit, I decided placating her was best for now. ‘All right. Let me think of something.’

My thoughts no longer dwelled on a steamy
ménage à trois
. There was no question of me obliging Topaz if Lady Trewallyn were involved. The woman had terrified me the first time I saw her at her husband’s funeral. It wasn’t just the scarlet lipstick or the speed with which she attacked Chester. There was something menacing about her. The more I thought about it, the more I realized Lady Trewallyn would make an ideal High Priestess. Good God! Dave might be involved, too! Devil worship was the crème de la crème of kinky sex. It would take a rare man to turn that down – especially one who seemed already partial to pain.

I recalled Dave’s expression in the photograph Chester had stolen. Although Dave had been virtually impaled on a stake in the centre of the yew hedge, he looked quite cheerful.

Topaz squeezed my arm. ‘Well? Have you thought of something?’

‘I’m working on it.’ I needed to be careful. Topaz might well be a mine of information but she was definitely unbalanced. ‘Of course, the
Gazette
is very grateful for all your help.’

‘That’s all right. I love watching people.’ She yawned, sinking her head on my shoulder. ‘I’m awfully sleepy. If we don’t go soon, I’ll be absolutely useless.’

‘Let’s get out of here.’

Fortunately The Copper Kettle was only a five-minute walk away. I helped Topaz to her feet and steered her towards the door.

‘Vicky, you’re so nice to me,’ Topaz mumbled, clinging to my arm. ‘Let’s be lesbians. Women are so much more
loyal
.’

It was cold outside. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, threatening rain once again. Yellow streetlamps lit our way along the deserted High Street. How wrong I had been about Gipping being a dull town. The place seemed riddled with sex fiends and perverted Satanists.

Lady Trewallyn consumed my thoughts. Surely if she had unlimited access to the dark arts, the appearance of her American friend would not pose a threat. Wouldn’t she simply zap him with a handy curse? I didn’t believe in all that rubbish about curses, but many people did – especially in the country. Yet, the way she physically attacked Chester that morning in the churchyard was emblazoned on my memory. Perhaps they were lovers from the past and
Kandi
was her bedroom nickname?

I shivered, partly from cold, partly from excitement at my excellent speculation.

‘Vicky, you’re trembling,’ said Topaz. ‘Don’t worry. I’m nervous, too.’

The fresh air had sobered her up. With a sinking heart, I remembered her earlier suggestion that we should have a lesbian trial run.

We had reached The Copper Kettle. I’d have to think quickly if I wanted to avoid a Topaz temper tantrum. ‘I think it’s best that we keep our relationship on a professional level for now.’

‘I don’t agree,’ she said stubbornly. ‘You said you’d help me win Dave back.’

‘Of course I will. But this is dangerous work. Besides, company policy says that employees can’t mix business with pleasure.’

Topaz sighed. ‘I suppose it’s a necessary sacrifice.’

‘Have you got your key?’

She pulled it from her pocket and looked furtively around before lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘When do I get my next instructions?’

The last thing I wanted was her showing up willy-nilly at the office. ‘I’ll come by tomorrow after work. Remember, you are a
secret
informer. Mum’s the word!’

‘So who is my target? The American or Lady Trewallyn?’

I wasn’t quite sure and needed to buy some time. ‘I’ll let you know. It’s all hush-hush at the moment.’

Topaz frowned. ‘What about Barbara? Won’t she say something? She was there when you hired me.’

‘I’ll handle her.’ The whole thing was spiralling out of control. Judging from Topaz’s handling of my scarf, I already knew she was capable of blackmail.

Topaz gave a quick scan of the street – somewhat pointless considering we’d been standing outside, exposed, for several minutes.

‘Tomorrow,’ she mouthed, silently. And, with a brief tap on my shoulder, she disappeared inside the cafe.

I set off for home, horribly aware that I had just made my life one thousand times more complicated. Not only had I impulsively offered Topaz a non-existent job, I had embroiled myself in some bizarre love triangle that involved the prime suspect in a murder case. If that weren’t bad enough, I’d stumbled upon a band of devil worshippers.

It was time to do some research of my own. Where did Sir Hugh meet Lady Trewallyn? Hadn’t Sir Hugh’s first wife died of a heart attack, too? The
Gazette
was proud of its long history of wedding and funeral reports – and, thanks to Barbara’s meticulous record keeping, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out. Barbara was old – she might even remember it first-hand.

Suddenly my landlady’s face popped into my head. Why hadn’t I thought of her before? As owner of Cradle to Coffin Catering, she’d know the scoop on everyone from Gipping, literally from birth to death!

As I spent half an hour a day with my landlady between the allotted breakfast time of 7.45 a.m. and 8.15 a.m., it would be a perfect opportunity to ask a few friendly questions over tea and toast.

But wait! How could I have been so insensitive! I’d always assumed Mrs Poultry’s sour demeanour was a personality flaw despite Ronnie’s romantic ravings.

Well, I’d soon remedy that. I’d offer her the job as my informer first thing in the morning. And what’s more, I bet she’d be delighted.

‘G
ipping is such a lovely town,’ I said, stirring my breakfast cup of tea.

As was her usual habit, Mrs Poultry hovered out of my line of sight just behind my shoulder sucking one of her ghastly cough drops. A friendly morning cuppa seated together at the kitchen table was not our routine. Her modus operandi was to wait until I had downed the last sip of tea and swallowed the final crumb of toast. Then she’d pounce, whisking away my plate and mug to declare the kitchen closed.

‘I expect you were born here?’ I said with a pleasant smile.

‘Why?’

‘Just curious.’

‘Have you finished your toast?’

‘Not yet.’ Honestly! I still had half a slice left on my plate. I reached for the strawberry jam.

‘Only a teaspoon, mind,’ grumbled Mrs Poultry. ‘It’s expensive.’

My landlady was proving to be annoyingly uncooperative. Recruiting an informer was always a delicate situation – unless it was someone like Topaz who had actually volunteered to be my High Street spy.

As a rule, no one liked to think others viewed him or her capable of telling tales. Dad found a mixture of flattery, as in
‘we couldn’t do this without you’
along with the gentle reminder that
‘if you don’t help us, we will be forced to’
, was generally most effective.

Unfortunately, Dad’s tactics failed with Mrs Poultry. Having hoped to soften her up, I’d praised her catering service to the heavens. I’d raved about her cold cuts and gone into raptures over her moist fruitcake, but to no avail. My landlady’s response had been a cold, hard stare.

‘Your job must be fascinating. Christenings, weddings, funerals!’ I went on gaily. ‘And the name – Cradle to Coffin Catering – sheer genius!’

Still silence. But I was undeterred. ‘How wonderful to be present at the beginning of life and then at the very end. Imagine what you must see.’ I chuckled indulgently. ‘Gosh. I’m sure you know everything there is to know about the citizens of Gipping and that is why—’

‘Are you asking me to spy on my customers?’ Mrs Poultry snapped.

‘Of course not,’ I said, feeling the colour rise in my cheeks. ‘Being new to Gipping, I sometimes need help on family backgrounds: little details that might add a bit of local colour to the odd obituary or—’

‘Most certainly not!’ Mrs Poultry was indignant. ‘Cradle to Coffin Catering has a reputation for privacy. Why else would our motto be “Delicious, Dependable, and Discreet”?’

‘No, I was—’

‘You journalists are all the same!’ She snatched my plate away – I still had one crust left – and stomped over to the kitchen sink.

Blast!
I’d better try something else. I racked my brain and suddenly remembered Ronnie Binns. Every woman likes to feel she’s adored. Why not Mrs Poultry? Assuming she’d been a widow for many years, she had to be desperate for manly attention.

‘Oh! I almost forgot to tell you, I ran into Ronnie Binns at Gipping Dump,’ I said, watching my landlady struggle to drag on a pair of Marigold gloves. Her arthritis was playing up. ‘He seems rather enamoured with you. He might even be available.’

Mrs Poultry spun towards me, her eyes flashing with rage. ‘How
dare
you discuss me in that
disgusting
manner with that smelly little man!’

‘He thought you had nice dustbins.’ I faltered, unprepared for such fury. ‘Your name only came up because he was telling me about the mutilated chickens he’d found at The Grange.’

Mrs Poultry – Marigolds on at last – folded her arms across her ample bosom. ‘And why should that interest me?’

‘Are you familiar with the steamy bestseller
Voodoo Vixens
?’

‘Utter filth. I don’t read penny dreadfuls and neither should you,’ Mrs Poultry exclaimed. ‘Why?’

‘In the book, there’s a sacrificial scene, which I think is . . .’ Abruptly, I fell silent. A peculiar prickling feeling ran up and down my spine. Dad would call it my inner-warning system. Why would Mrs Poultry – she, who never gossips – be interested? Unless? I was struck by an alarming thought. Adopting as casual tone as I could muster, I asked, ‘Do you know Annabel Lake?’

‘No. Should I?’

Of course, she would deny it! What a fool I was. Hadn’t Annabel boasted of having other informers? Mrs Poultry was practically the eyes and ears of Gipping! Even though my landlady had not attended Sir Hugh’s actual funeral service, she
still
went to spy on the proceedings. I saw her with my own eyes hiding under that hawthorn bush in the cemetery. And who would have paid her to do that? Annabel! Thank God I hadn’t told Mrs Poultry about the poison and chicken feathers. It would have got right back to Annabel!