Thieves! (23 page)

On the far right was an assortment of banners and various percussion instruments. Tucked way in the back was one standee of Phil in Turpin Terror costume alongside his mascot, Beryl. A small flyer had been tacked in the bottom left-hand corner of the window simply saying PHIL BURROWS. GRANGE. SATURDAY.

Tucking the newly wrapped shoebox inside my safari jacket, I entered reception.

Barbara was behind the counter. She looked tired. Her eyes were ringed with heavy dark circles. Even her sunshine yellow summer polka-dot frock seemed drab. She certainly did not bear the radiant telltale signs of a woman in love or the haunted look of guilt.

“The new window looks great,” I enthused.

“No thanks to Olive,” Barbara grumbled. “She’s getting too big for her own boots these days.”

“Where
is
Olive?”

“God knows. She’s always late.” Barbara gestured to the pile of papers and ribbons on the counter. “She still hasn’t done these! They’ve been sitting up there for a whole month, and the event’s
only
tomorrow!”

I, however, was glad that Olive was late. She might be slow, but she didn’t miss much, and my efforts at rewrapping the shoebox had left much to be desired. For starters, the only paper I could find at Chez Evans was the pink, floral variety that Mr. Evans had used to wrap up that mystery gift for his “Annie.”

I set the shoebox on the counter. “This is for you. Sorry. I kept forgetting to bring it in.”

Barbara pulled a face. “Not another wedding present.”

“Aren’t you excited?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure if I can be bothered.”

“But you’re getting married to the man of your dreams,” I said, adding slyly, “Having second thoughts is perfectly natural.”

Barbara merely grunted. She grabbed a pair of scissors from the countertop and stabbed at the paper. Lifting up the lid, she savagely ripped through the pink tissue paper—also stolen from Mrs. Evans’s kitchen drawer.

Barbara froze. All the color drained from her face as she lifted out the shoe and then the bicycle bell.

“What is it?” I asked, all innocence. “Is that a shoe?”

“No!” she gasped. “No! It can’t be!”

She grasped at the edge of the counter and suddenly, keeled over, hitting the floor with a sickening crash.

“Barbara!” I shrieked and crawled under the flap to find her lying motionless on the ground. Since her eyes were staring at the ceiling, she was either conscious—or dead. I picked up her wrist and, to my relief, felt a pulse.

“I’ll call for an ambulance,” I said, hoping that Steve was off-duty and I’d get Tom.

“No, don’t do that.” Barbara grabbed my hand. “Help me sit up. Hide them,” she whispered urgently. “Don’t let Olive see, please Vicky.”

I got to my feet and swiftly stuffed the shoe back into the box and under my safari jacket just as Olive walked through the front door.

Wearing a cream trouser suit with a gold barrette in her sleek gray bob, Olive seemed excited. “Good, Barbara’s not here yet,” she said, beaming from ear to ear. “I’ve got
two
surprises for her at my party tonight.”

“I am here,” shouted a voice. Barbara popped up from behind the counter, her hair all disheveled. I gestured to the bulge under my safari jacket and gave her the thumbs-up. “And I told you I hate surprises.”

“Are you feeling all right? You look awful.” Olive frowned. “Don’t you think it’s time to have all that hair cut off?”

“You’re right, Olive,” Barbara declared. “I just might.”

“I
knew
something was wrong!” cried Olive. Barbara always maintained that men loved long hair. “You’re not thinking of canceling tonight, are you?”

“No, she’s coming,” I said, and pointed to the mounds of paper on the counter. “But only if all this work is sorted out first. Barbara, I need something in the archive room.”

“Why?” Barbara guarded her meticulously organized archive room just as she did the show window—under lock and key.

“I’m trying to find some background on Gladys Trenfold for her obituary,” I lied, but discreetly tapped the bulging shoebox under my safari jacket. “Didn’t she do some shoplifting?”

Olive gave a nervous titter. “You can’t put
that
on page eleven!”

“I just might,” I said, giving Olive a wink.

“Oh wait,” said Olive. “Did you give that package to Barbara, Vicky? Was it a wedding present?”

“No,” Barbara said coldly. “They were bulbs for the garden.”

Olive frowned. “I do wish I could remember who had delivered it. Was it from a catalog?”

“Remember what I said about Barbara coming tonight?” I said.

Olive plunged into the papers whilst I followed Barbara into the archive room.

“Close the door,” I said. “We need to talk.”

I
t had been quite some time since I’d been allowed into Barbara’s closely guarded kingdom.

Floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves stood on three sides, packed with dozens of labeled cardboard boxes sorted by subject and year. Funerals took up one entire wall, weddings and births, the second. The third was shared equally among social events, including the Women’s Institute, Flower Shows, Jumble Sales, Police Reports, and Court Transcripts. I noted a new box marked TREWALLYN TRIO WINDOW APPEAL.

A TO FILE tray filled with various-sized newspaper clippings and sheets of paper stood on the narrow wooden table in the center of the small storeroom.

I set the shoebox down. “Do you want to tell me about Jimmy Kitchen?”

Barbara paled. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“It’s no use denying it,” I said. “I saw you together last night in Trewallyn Woods.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Barbara, it’s okay. Everyone is entitled to be happy.” Although when Dad said that to Mum during his affair with Pamela Dingles, she punched him. “What’s going on?”

To my dismay, Barbara burst into tears.

I pulled out the low stool cum stepladder from under the table and sat her down, perching on a portable shredder myself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Barbara pulled out a cotton handkerchief from her yellow hand-knitted cardigan and blew her nose furiously.

“Surely it can’t be as bad as all that?” I said trotting out one of Mum’s favorite—and rather irritating—phrases. “The gypsies will be gone soon.”

This prompted another wail of anguish. “It’s all so unfair.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. “You’ve talked about Jimmy Kitchen for as long as I’ve known you. I just didn’t realize exactly who he was. Not that it matters.”

“It mattered back then in those days,” said Barbara. “Gorgers and gypsies could never be together. My dad had a fit, and his folks were furious.” Dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief she added wistfully, “We were like Romeo and Juliet.”

“Things are different now,” I said, thinking of my own tryst with Noah last night. “It’s obvious you still love each other. I think you should follow your heart.”

“Follow my heart?” Barbara gave a bitter laugh. “I tried that once.”

“It’s just so romantic. The love of your life comes back after all these years—”

“You don’t understand,” Barbara said. “Jimmy lied to me.
Again
.”

“About being married?”

“They’re
estranged
—or so he claims.” She gestured to the shoebox. “I don’t know what to believe now.”

“The shoe?”

Angrily, Barbara wiped away her tears and got to her feet. She marched over to one of the shelves, pulled down a box marked POLICE REPORTS 1960-1965, and withdrew a press clipping. She thrust it into my hand. “Read that.”

I immediately recognized the headline from the torn clipping that the Swamp Dogs had so inconveniently tossed away.

Good grief!
Was it possible that Barbara was the mysterious Ms. X?

“It was a blind corner.” Barbara’s voice was barely a whisper. “It happened so fast. It was such a blur, and it would have been our word against theirs.”

“Wait a minute—” I wasn’t sure if I had understood properly. “I thought you
found
the body.”

“We did.” Barbara twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “Jimmy owned a white Hillman Super Minx convertible. He loved that car,” she said quietly. “We had to get rid of it afterward. Drove it to Larcombe Quarry, shoved a brick on the accelerator, and sent it over the edge. It’s probably still there.”

With a sheer drop of at least two hundred feet, the former slate quarry had been flooded decades ago.

“I don’t quite follow. Oh!”
Idiot Vicky
. The clipping said a white convertible with a red hood. “Jimmy Kitchen was driving—”

Barbara shook her head. “She was just lying there in the road. We’d had a few glasses of scrumpy—there were no drunk-driving laws then—fooling around.”

“
You
were driving!” I said stunned. “I thought you couldn’t drive.”

“I’ve never driven since.” Barbara turned to me with a haunted expression. “I swear Mrs. Veysey was already on the ground. I’ve never seen so much jam. There was broken glass everywhere.”

“Why didn’t you stop? Or at least come forward? People would have understood.”

“Of course they wouldn’t have understood,” Barbara said bitterly. “They hated the gypsies. Jimmy was already in trouble with the police for spray-painting the Gipping War Memorial. But there was something else . . .” Barbara struggled to compose herself. “Wilf and I were courting . . .”

“You mean you were
dating
Wilf?”

“He was besotted with me—of course I had a lot of admirers back then. Wilf was nice and dependable—boring, in fact—but it was always Jimmy who had my heart,”—she paused—“and always will.”

“Oh.” I was so shocked, I didn’t know what else to say.

“We tried to elope,” Barbara said. “I was underage. Sweet sixteen. The police came and got me, dragged me home.”

No wonder the town had talked! “What happened next?”

“I didn’t hear from Jimmy again until he found me on Facebook.”

“Facebook?”
This was exactly why I refused to have anything to do with Facebook. It was too easy to track people down on the Internet. Dad always said the invention of caller ID was bad enough, but in his profession, Facebook was the curse of the twenty-first century.

“I thought you hated modern technology.” In fact, Barbara had kicked up quite a fuss when Pete insisted she have a computer in reception. Barbara only learned to use it after Olive bought a MacBook Pro and started boasting about how often she tweeted on Twitter.

“Jimmy just turned seventy,” said Barbara. “Milestone birthdays do that to us. You’re young. You have all the time left in the world, but we don’t.” Barbara gave a harsh laugh. “Just when I finally convince Wilf to marry me, Jimmy walks back into my life.”

“When did all this start up?”

“Tuesday evening. After the Graying Tigers shindig,” said Barbara. “Jimmy knew I was having a party—thanks to Olive and her silly Twittering—so he waited for everyone to leave and just knocked on my front door. Bold as brass.”

The same night Carol Pryce died in Mudge Lane, not five minutes away from Barbara’s house. Could history repeat itself?

“Does Jimmy drive a Land Rover?” I said suddenly.

“No he does not. He rode his bicycle,” snapped Barbara. “And I know what you’re trying to imply.”

“It just seems a bit of a coincidence that a second cyclist died in Mudge Lane, that’s all,” I said. “It must have been weird seeing him again after all these years.”

“Nothing had changed between us. We’ve always had passion,” said Barbara. “I tingle all over when Jimmy touches me. His kisses make me dizzy.” She gave a big sigh. “I can’t expect you to understand. You’re far too young.”

But I did, only by some cruel trick of nature it was with the wrong man: Steve.

“If you don’t love Wilf, you can’t marry him!” I said firmly.

“I don’t want to let Wilf go,” Barbara declared. “It would devastate him.”

“He’ll get over it and meet someone else.” Wasn’t Sadie Evans the love of Steve Burrows’s life before I came along? “Believe me, there are plenty of eager widows in Gipping.”