Murder at the Maples: A Flora Lively Mystery (11 page)

Before long she heard the familiar grinding racket of Max’s ancient Land Rover. He swung into the car park and waved through the open window.

‘Flora,’ he bellowed, ‘how the devil are you?’

She ran across the tarmac and climbed up into the car, hauling the passenger door shut behind her. It closed, then dropped open again, hanging from one hinge only. ‘For goodness sake, Max! When are you going to get this door fixed? It’s been like this since Christmas.’

Max Lively laughed and ruffled her hair affectionately. He strolled around to Flora’s side and gave the door an almighty kick, popping it back into place and putting a dent in the side for good measure.

‘Great,’ grumbled Flora, surreptitiously readjusting her spiky fringe. ‘Now I’ll probably have to climb out your side.’

Max patted her knee as he threw the gears into reverse. ‘It’s nice to see you too, grumpy. And you’re still too skinny. Didn’t I tell you to start eating more?’

Flora clung on to the sides of her seat as the car limped out of the town and headed down a winding country lane. The hedges were so high she couldn’t see the view, but she knew that in a few months, when the tractors came out to cut them back, she’d be able to see all the way across to North Wales from here. It was a beautiful part of the world: not picturesque in the traditional sense, but honest and wild and peaceful.

‘I eat plenty,’ she told her uncle. ‘But I also work hard. Not that it seems to make much difference.’

‘Business not going too well?’

‘We’re in a recession, in case you hadn’t noticed. The housing market’s as flat as a pancake – things are real difficult.’

‘
Really
difficult, Flora,’ Max corrected. ‘You’ve been spending too much time with that American.’

‘And that’s another thing. Marshall is driving me insane.’ She swallowed and looked out of the window. This was what she’d been steeling herself to say, the main point of her visit, but how her uncle would take it was a complete unknown.

‘Uncle Max, I think it would be better if Marshall resigned as manager and moved on.’

They drove in silence for a couple of miles. Flora could see Max was taken aback: he’d make a terrible poker player with that little tic in his cheek. No wonder he’d retired to the country. Max Lively had worked harder than anyone she’d ever known – with the exception of her father, perhaps. He’d travelled the world, survived two painful marriage break-ups, and the stress had finally taken its toll. When Max had a mild stroke only a month after his brother died, he had sold up and bought a smallholding in deepest Whixall within weeks. Gone were the loose-fitting suits that had made his tall, spare frame seem even larger, replaced by country-issue padded checked shirts and jeans caked in mud. The blonde-grey hair was no longer slicked back with that sweet-smelling oil he had used since she was a child. Now it flew wildly about his head, responding to every breeze or gust. His hands were so deeply ingrained with dirt they looked like a child had been at them with a permanent marker. He smelt of earth, and clothes dried on a radiator, and something else she didn’t want to even think about naming.

Flora often wondered if he was happier now, but theirs wasn’t the kind of relationship where she could ask. Personal questions only came one way – at her.

Like now, for instance. ‘I thought you and Marshall got on fine. I’ve often thought the two of you …’

‘What?’ Flora stopped chewing her nail and regarded him warily. ‘The two of us what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Anyway, don’t try and change the subject. Besides, Marshall’s not the only problem. I know Dad wanted the business to pass to me, but there was no way he could have known I’d inherit Shakers so soon. I’m not sure I’m up to it, Uncle Max. I’m not sure I can–’

‘Nonsense! You’re doing a fine job, Flora. And I’m always here, you know that. I’ve always been involved with the business in some form or other – I’m always here if you need advice.’

‘I know. And I appreciate that. But I inherited more than just a removal company – I inherited Dad’s choice of manager too. And I just don’t think I can work with him. We’re too … different.’

‘Or maybe you’re too similar.’

Flora grimaced. ‘No. It’s definitely not that.’

Max steered with one hand and rubbed his bristly chin with the other. ‘I promised Marshall’s mum I’d look out for him. I gave her my word.’

‘And you have,’ Flora said, throwing up her hands. ‘Dad gave him the job on your recommendation and he’s been great, really he has. But he’s not
my
choice, Max. Besides,’ she mumbled, ‘I’m not sure we can afford him much longer.’

‘He was a rock when your mum was sick,’ Max said, turning around a sharp bend and throwing her to the side. ‘I’m surprised you’ve forgotten that. Without Marshall taking over, Shakers would have gone down the pan quicker than you can say the vultures are circling.’

‘But the vultures
are
circling, and Marshall’s one of them. He keeps going on about “diversifying”. He’s got this scheme of his all worked out, and if he has his way Dad’s company will be unrecognizable in a few years. Anyway, his mum is married to someone else now, in case you hadn’t noticed. Why you still feel indebted to her is beyond me.’

‘Home!’ The Land Rover swung into a gravel driveway, scattering at least ten chickens and two grumpy-looking ducks. And a pig.

‘What is that pig doing just wandering about?’ said Flora, climbing over the gear stick and manoeuvring her way out on Max’s side.

‘Oh, that’s Nelson,’ he said, as though that explained everything perfectly. ‘Time for tea. Come on, madam.’ He tramped away along the muddy path that led to his dilapidated farmhouse, leaving Flora surrounded by inquisitive chickens.

‘Great,’ she sighed. Another intractable man to deal with. Another annoying old person to tax her patience. She really had to make some changes in her life soon, before she ended up old before her time. Maybe another date with Heston was needed. Or maybe she should do something wild like go clothes shopping and buy a whole new power-dressing wardrobe; maybe then the men in her life would take her seriously. Marshall was always saying she dressed like a child. That couldn’t help matters, could it?

She grabbed her tote bag out of the footwell and picked her way after Max, trying to avoid the piles of white chicken poo that lined her way like spotlights.

And wellies. She really should buy wellies.

***

‘So, what did he say?’

Date number three with Heston: a Rat Pack tribute at the Theatre Severn. Not exactly Flora’s idea of kicking up her heels, but she hadn’t the heart to tell him. They were standing in the foyer, waiting to go in – Heston had ordered drinks for the interval; Flora was already counting the minutes. She’d told him about her trip to the outback, and how she’d pleaded with her uncle for help in getting shot of Marshall. Heston was more amused than sympathetic.

‘He said no.’ Flora sighed and watched their reflection in the foyer mirror that tracked their progress into the auditorium. ‘Said it was up to Marshall and he wouldn’t interfere.’

‘Fair enough, I guess.’

‘Not really! It’s Max’s fault Marshall’s here at all.’

‘Why don’t you just sack him? You’re the one in charge.’ A note of boredom had crept into Heston’s voice. Flora bit her lip and didn’t answer. She’d already gone on and on about it during their pre-show supper, and Heston had listened attentively, never once interrupting, not judging. Not even when Flora confessed to getting quite tipsy and knocking over an entire bottle of red wine.

She’d been sitting at Max’s pitted kitchen table, her elbows propping up her drooping head, staring glumly at her third – or possibly her fourth – glass of wine, while Max got another bottle from the cupboard under the sink. He called it his wine cellar, which hadn’t even raised a smile.

‘Sometimes it feels like a poisoned chalice,’ she’d said when Max placed the fresh bottle on the table by her side. ‘Sometimes I wish Dad had never left me the business. I wish he’d left it to you instead. You and Marshall could run it together. Happy families.’

‘You don’t mean that, Flora.’ Max was also two sheets to the wind, but he could hold his drink a damn site better than his niece. ‘You’d have been mortified if that was the case. Shakers is your inheritance. But he would have known I’d stay close and look after you.’

‘Which you demonstrably are not doing,’ Flora countered, slurring so badly it took Max a full minute to decipher her words.

‘Ah, Flora,’ he’d said, but nothing more. And then Flora had gone off on a rant, flailing her arms to make her point, finally knocking the bottle of red from the table without even having the chance to sample its delights.

‘Just as well,’ Heston said when she told him. But he was smiling. And he laughed when she added that her uncle hadn’t cleaned up the contents of the bottle very well, and that when they’d surfaced the next morning Nelson the pig was sitting boggle-eyed by the Aga, his tongue a telling shade of purple.

Heston sighed now as they inched forward in the queue. ‘Your uncle had the right idea getting away from the city. What I wouldn’t do for my own slice of rural bliss.’

Flora did a double-take. ‘Really? That’s your idea of bliss? Spending your days knee-deep in shit and mud and having to dig up your dinner every night? Or wring its neck, depending what’s on the menu.’

Heston laughed his dry, stretched laugh. ‘You are funny, Flora. I doubt your uncle would eat his own hens if he keeps them for their eggs.’

‘You don’t know my uncle,’ she said darkly. ‘It would depend entirely on his mood.’

She was joking, of course. Max wouldn’t hurt a red mite on one of his chickens’ backs. Which was why his house and garden – if you could call four acres a garden – were overrun with livestock. She’d counted five pigs in addition to Nelson, three sheep, a donkey, a ratty sheepdog with numerous puppies and a forlorn-looking cow. The chickens were hard to count, but she figured on about twenty.

And the eggs! Max said he knew where to look for them, but his chickens had no discipline. They would lay in any old place: in bushes, right in the middle of the patio, on top of Max’s rusty tractor – even inside his Land Rover, as Flora had discovered on the way back to the station the next morning.

She considered Heston as he chattered on about leaving the rat race and going eco. She really would never have guessed. Heston, with his tailored suits and button-down shirts in various pastel shades, with his polished shoes and polished accent, was the last person you’d put in the “frustrated farmer” category.

Just went to show, you never could tell.

***

Flora dragged Otto along the river bank, refusing to make eye contact.

‘No,’ she told him when he pulled in the direction of some ducks.

‘Absolutely not,’ she said sternly when he sniffed a discarded chip wrapper.

Otto had disgraced himself the night before, and Flora had not forgiven him. Nor would she be likely to forgive him any time soon, she had told him over breakfast, if he kept trying to lick her face. What was it with dogs and faces? It was just so gross.

Heston had lapped up the Rat Pack tribute and they left the theatre hand in hand, singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ far too loudly all the way back to Flora’s house. Flora put on her
Young at Heart
DVD and soon they were snuggled up on her sofa watching Frank Sinatra moon soulfully over Doris Day.

The movie was just coming to an end, and Flora was wondering if the mood was right for Heston to dive in for their first kiss, when Otto decided to jump on the sofa, lift his leg, and direct a yellow arc of pee at Heston’s lap.

‘Oh, my Lord, what is that?’

The problem is, thought Flora now as she tugged Otto’s lead just a little harder than necessary, what kind of man actually says ‘Oh, my Lord’ when a dog pees on his leg? Shouldn’t his response have been a bit stronger than that?

She sighed and slipped past the barrier into the Maples car park. Otto pulled on the lead eagerly.

‘Okay, keep your wig on.’

A tall man dressed entirely in black emerged suddenly from the topiary arch and nearly stepped on poor Otto, who bared his teeth and emitted a low growl.

‘Otto!’ Flora sent the man an apologetic glance while trying to stop the dog attacking his ankles. The man’s face was half hidden behind a neat ginger beard, but Flora registered sunken cheeks and a pallid complexion before realising that Otto’s lead was about to become entangled with the man’s legs. This mutt was an accident-magnet on four paws.

‘Sorry,’ she said automatically, dropping to her knees to pull the dog out of danger.

‘You should look where you’re going,’ the man said. Flora laughed, thinking he was joking. Another glance at his face told her he was deadly serious.

‘Oh, right. Well, sorry. Otto, no!’

Not again. What was it with men and Otto’s need to pee? Did he have something against lamp posts? She tugged the lead and managed to avoid a full-on disaster, hurrying away with the strange man’s eyes still upon her.

She found Joy in her unit looking through her old photo albums. The minute Otto was through the door he leapt onto Joy’s lap and began turning excited circles.

‘He misses you,’ Flora said, stating the obvious.

Joy shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t have brought him here again. Look what happened last time.’

‘I have to work, Joy. He makes a mess when I leave him on his own. He’s been chewing the piano legs again.’

‘The poor little mite.’ Joy gave the pooch a gentle cuddle.

‘I thought he could visit with you for the morning. Marshall’s going to go ape if I turn up with him every day. You know, Otto’s
really
missing you. Been pining for you every second. I haven’t been able to do a thing with him. He’s off his food, he’s barely drinking …’

They regarded Otto, who sat happily in Joy’s arms, panting and looking the absolute picture of health.

‘And that’s not all. He’s hardly sleeping, and he’s been acting really weird.’

Well, peeing all over a librarian was hardly normal behaviour, was it?