Thieves! (16 page)

“How about a day-in-the-life of Phil Burrows?” I suggested. “What’s it like for him to be dancing with the Turpin Terrors instead of the Gipping Ranids?”

“You won’t make yourself popular,” said Tony. “No one will care.”

“What’s going on with ‘Motorist Menace of the Week’?” said Pete. “Any poor bugger been caught by Stalk for drunk driving?”

“I was,” I said. “Almost.”

“Speaking about Mudge Lane,” said Edward. “When I bumped into Coroner Cripps at the petrol station this morning, he told me they still had no ID on the woman who died and that she had been moved to Plymouth.”

“That’s strange,” said Annabel.

My stomach clenched. Half of me didn’t want anyone to know about this, but the other half wanted to see Pete’s reaction.

“I already told you,” said Pete. “It’s not our problem.”

“Not our
problem
?” Edward rarely raised his voice.

We all looked at one another, stunned. Since when did Pete not seize the chance to stir up trouble with his controversial front-page scoops? His cavalier attitude toward the stolen silver and his blatant indifference to a dead woman were seriously worrying. What was wrong with him?

“With all due respect,” Edward began, “I feel—”

“If you’ve got any complaints, take it up with Wilf,” Pete snapped. “And Vicky, Stalk has already called me this morning to complain about your behavior at the church. Apparently you disobeyed a police officer.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

As we were dismissed, Edward asked Pete for a quiet word but was bundled out and had the door slammed in his face.

The four of us stood quietly shocked in the reporter room. “He’s losing it,” said Tony.

“Don’t take any notice of him,” said Annabel. “I think he’s having problems at home.” Grabbing her favorite Mulberry bag off her desk, she looked directly at me. “I’m off to The Grange to talk to her ladyship. I think she should know there could be an international thief in the area.”

“Good idea,” I said mildly.

Recalling that Dora was going to be in the market square this morning, I decided to take her up on her offer of telling my fortune after all. Perhaps she could enlighten me on Annabel’s plans.

I’d also keep my eyes peeled for a Land Rover with a safari roof rack and overhead lighting. Thursdays at Gipping market often attracted a different kind of crowd.

Pete’s insistence that the dead woman was not our problem had only made me determined to make it mine.

I had no intention of letting sleeping dogs lie.

I
was relieved to find Barbara back at work.

When I’d arrived earlier this morning, the office was still locked up and the front door blinds down. I’d had to let myself in via the side entrance and discovered everyone else had done so, too.

The shutters to Barbara’s beloved street-side show window were wide open, and only her ample rear—clothed in a poppy-print skirt—strong calves, and sturdy Birkenstocks protruded from the aperture.

“I’m so happy to see you,” I said, realizing this was true. “You won’t believe what’s been going on. We’ve had a weird drowning in Mudge Lane, someone has stolen the church silver, and we’ve got gypsies at The Grange.”

Barbara edged backward out of the opening and stood up. Her face was pale. Large dark circles lay beneath her normally inquisitive eyes, which today seemed dull and listless. Her hair, although scraped back into its customary bun, looked disheveled, with loose tendrils escaping from their pins.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“No, I’m not,” said Barbara. “Just
look
what that wretched Olive has done to my window!”

I peered over Barbara’s shoulder and gave a gasp of dismay.

Dead center was a life-sized standee of Phil Burrows dressed as an action hero in white trousers, a black T-shirt and Terminator sunglasses. A slogan said I AM BACK!

On Phil’s right stood Beryl—the creepy horse mascot with the highwayman mask. On his left was
another
life-sized standee of Phil Burrows dressed as a Turpin Terror in a red tatter three-quarter coat, black breeches, a white cravat, a tricorn hat, and a highwayman mask. Along the base of the window, various Turpin Terror souvenirs had been arranged in a neat row—tricorn hats, mugs, key rings, and scarves.

Tucked in the rear left-hand corner stood the Gipping Ranids mascot—a bright-green man-sized frog, with huge webbed feet, bulbous eyes, and a goofy smile. The banner GIPPING RANIDS RULE! was lying on the ground and partially hidden by carefully placed musical instruments—an accordion, pipes, tabors, a concertina, and two fiddles—in a symmetrical design. Olive was always one for straight lines.

“How could you let her do this?” Barbara’s voice was heavy with accusation. “
No one
is allowed to touch my window displays!”

“I thought no one could,” I said. “Don’t you have the only key?”

“The padlock was snapped off with wire clippers,” Barbara said. “And we know who always keeps a pair of those in his dustcart cab: Olive’s ghastly boyfriend.”

“In fairness to Olive, she was put on the spot,” I protested. “I was here when Phil Burrows came in yesterday, and he demanded she put all his things in the front of the window; otherwise, he’d pull out of Saturday’s event. We tried to find you—”

“And what am I supposed to tell the Ranids?” said Barbara. “Jack Webster will have a fit. He’s the squire this year, and you know what his temper is like.”

“Can’t we just change the mascots around?”

“You don’t just
change
it around,” said Barbara with scorn. “There is skill involved.” She marched over to the nook and drew back the star-spangled curtain to reveal a pile of Ranid-themed souvenirs, posters, and flags. “Where am I supposed to put all these?”

“There’s space—”

“Oh, to hell with it,” said Barbara, throwing up her hands. “I don’t have time for all this.” She stormed over to the counter, yanked up the flap, and let it fall behind her with a deafening crash. “Let Olive take the blame. I don’t care.”

This was so unlike Barbara. I’d never seen her so upset. Clearly, she must be suffering from pre-wedding nerves, and yesterday’s migraine was evidence of that. Mum often said that when something major was bothering Dad, it was the little things—overcooking the potatoes, losing a sock—that used to send him off the deep end.

“Where is Olive now?” I asked.

“God knows.” Barbara gestured to the neat stacks of paperwork and heaps of colored ribbons along the counter. “She was supposed to have sorted all this out. I’m not going to her hen party now. She can stuff it.”

“Don’t be silly. Olive would be terribly hurt. She’s been planning it for ages.”

Good grief.
This was worse than being at school. I looked over to the front door. Speak of the devil. “Here comes Olive now.”

“Good. I’ll give her a piece of my mind.”

Olive nudged the door open with her shoulder and walked in cradling a small brown paper bag in her hands. Barbara and I immediately recoiled. There was the most terrible stench.

“You’ll never guess who I’ve just seen,” enthused Olive, oblivious to Barbara covering her nose. “A gypsy fortune-teller and healer. Her name is Madame Dora.”

“Was she any good?” I said.

Olive gently set the brown bag down on the counter and retrieved a small business card from her cream hand-knitted cardigan pocket. Today she wore a yellow butterfly barrette in her sleek bobbed hair. “Barbara, this is for you. I thought she might be able to help your Wilf with his bad eye.”

Barbara pinched her nose and spoke. “No, thank you,” she said in a nasal voice. “It’s not
bad
. He only
has
one eye.”

“What’s in that bag?” I said.

“Whatever it is, stinks,” muttered Barbara.

“It’s goose dung,” Olive said proudly. “Collected by the light of a new moon.”

Barbara gave a snort. “Oh
please
!”

“It’s a cure for Ronnie’s baldness. I have to keep the dung moist until midnight. Then, when the clock strikes twelve, I have to smear it over Ronnie’s head.”

“Gosh,” was all I managed to say. I glanced at Barbara and was relieved to see the beginnings of a smile rapidly contort into suppressed mirth.

“Won’t it get on the pillows?” I said, struggling not to laugh myself.

“No. He’s got to wear a woolen cap for a whole cycle of the moon. Twenty-eight days,” Olive declared.

“How much did that
dung
set you back?” sniggered Barbara.

“Five pounds. You really should go.”

“Did she tell you to put Phil Burrows’s equipment in my window without consulting me?” demanded Barbara.

Olive turned pink. “Well. I—I—”

“You’re right. I should see Madame Dora,” I said. “Shall I get a love charm, Barbara? See who I am going to fall in love with?” The only way to distract Barbara was to talk about matters of the heart.

“Love brings more trouble than it’s worth,” Barbara said bitterly.

Olive winked at me and whispered loudly, “They must have had a row.”

“I heard that,” said Barbara.

It would certainly explain Barbara’s unheard of absence from work and the I’m-sorry-I-love-you flowers on her doorstep. I wondered what the row was about.

“Did you get your present?” said Olive suddenly.

Barbara frowned. “What present?”

“Someone delivered it here yesterday,” said Olive. “I thought you were going to take it over to Barbara’s, Vicky?”

Thank you, Olive.
“Silly me left it at home today, but I did try to see you yesterday. You must have gone out.”

“Out?” said Barbara sharply. “I wasn’t out. I was asleep. I had a migraine.”

I was about to argue with her but had a better idea. “Have you checked on your pink bicycle recently?”
Nice one, Vicky
. “With all the thieving around, I’d hate for you to lose it.”

“Unless it’s been stolen in the last two hours,” said Barbara. “How else could I get to work? Magic carpet?”

“The gypsies have already taken the church silver and the Trewallyn chalice,” said Olive. “And they ride bicycles.”

“Why do they always get the blame?” Barbara glowered. “Do you have any proof?”

Olive seemed to wither beneath Barbara’s fury. We were both glad when the door to the inner hall opened and Wilf stepped into reception.

“I’ve just had a phone call from Jack Webster,” said Wilf. “He told me that the Ranids mascot has been put at the back of the window. What’s going on?”

“Ask Olive,” snapped Barbara. “It was her idea.”

Olive froze as Wilf swung round and zeroed in with his good eye. “Well?”

There was a horrible silence as we waited for Olive to speak. Her face began to turn blue from holding her breath.

“The flowers you gave Barbara were lovely, sir.” I couldn’t think what else to say. Olive made a reassuring gasp.

“Flowers? What flowers?”

“The ones you left on Barbara’s doorstep?” I faltered.

A tide of crimson raced up Barbara’s neck. “I don’t know what she’s talking about,” she said quickly. “Silly girl. You must have imagined it.”

“No. I didn’t.” I was getting fed up with Barbara. But then, in a flash, it hit me. The flowers must have been from another admirer, possibly the anonymous shoebox, too. The only people who took time off during the middle of the day and weren’t ill or going on holiday were those who were having affairs.

I looked at Barbara—was that
guilt
in her eyes?

“You’re right,” I said. “I was getting confused with your neighbor. Shall we change the window display together?”

“But what about Phil?” Olive whined.

“As a matter of fact, I’m interviewing Phil Burrows tonight for a day-in-the-life,” I said. “I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“Hold up on that day-in-the-life,” said Wilf. “There has been some bad feeling going around about Phil coming back to Gipping for this so-called guest appearance. Let’s keep him low key.”

“Of course, sir.”
Low key?
I’d worked with local celebrities before, and they had massive egos. If Phil got wind of the fact that not only were his standees being pushed to the rear of the show window
but
he wasn’t getting a mention in Saturday’s newspaper, I was sure he’d pull out.

“I believe Phil’s holding a silent auction,” I said. “Should I just get a list of the items?”

“What’s it in aid of?” said Wilf.

Blast!
I had no idea. “Let me find out.”

Barbara ultimately rejected my offer of help, insisting that since it was Olive’s fault, she should be made to put things to rights.

I stepped outside into the High Street thoroughly perplexed. The world as I knew it seemed to be crumbling away, and it had all started with the arrival of Belcher Pike and his merry band of gypsies.