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Authors: Hannah Dennison

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BOOK: Thieves!
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“Get over it, Tony,” said Pete. “You would have done the same. You just weren’t good enough.”
“Personally, I think Morris dancing’s silly,” Annabel declared. “Grown men in silly hats with bells strapped to their arms and legs, waving sticks around. It’s stupid.”
“I’m sorry to hear you think it’s stupid,” came the voice we all knew and dreaded. Everyone leapt to attention. Our illustrious editor—and now Barbara’s fiancé—stood in the doorway.
“I’ll have you know that Morris dancing has been in existence since the sixteenth century, young lady,” scolded Wilf, who had never liked Annabel at the best of times. “William Kempe, the Shakespearean actor, was one of the first to dance the Morris.”
“We all dance the Morris,” Edward chipped in. “If you’re local, you dance the Morris. In fact, I only gave up because of my knee injury. Wilf still does the odd event, don’t you, sir?”
“That’s right.” Wilf removed his trademark Dunhill pipe from the pocket of his brown tweed jacket and clamped it between his teeth, unlit. “It’s a real coup to snag Phil.”
“Burrows shouldn’t have signed on with the Turpin Terrors,” said Tony stubbornly. “Remember the outcry when David Beckham went to play for the Los Angeles Galaxy?”
I hardly thought world-famous footballer David Beckham and Morris dancing were in the same league but kept quiet.
“You’re only jealous because you’re stuck in this boring dump,” said Annabel.
An awkward silence descended on the room.
“I didn’t mean the
Gazette
was boring,” mumbled Annabel.
“How is Barbara feeling, sir?” I said, neatly changing the subject. “She’s never off work.”
“That’s very nice of you to ask, young Vicky,” said Wilf. “She’s got a migraine.”
“Migraines are brought on by stress,” Annabel declared. “She should lie down in a dark room.”
“I’m sure Barbara knows what to do,” Wilf said stiffly and swung around to face me, his one good eye, sharp and bright. “Were there many people at Ms. Trenfold’s funeral this morning?”
“I’m afraid it was just the reverend, her brother, and myself, sir,” I said. “Seems she wasn’t very popular.”
“That’s why the
Gazette
obituaries are so important,” said Wilf, swelling with pride. “We are recorders of history and keepers of the truth. Another newspaper may not have bothered with Ms. Trenfold. With no husband or children to continue her line, it would have been as if she had never lived at all.”
“Quite right, sir,” I said. “Which makes me wonder about the dead woman in Mudge Lane last night. No one seems to care about who she was.”
“Bollocks!” muttered Pete.
“Pete?” said Wilf sharply. “A word in my office.
Now.
”
Pete shot me a filthy look and followed Wilf’s departing figure.
“That wasn’t very clever,” said Annabel.
“It was an innocent question,” I protested, but I felt sick. I would never knowingly throw our chief reporter under the bus. “Why am I the only person who cares around here?”
The phone rang in Pete’s office again. Annabel picked it up. “It sounds like Olive is having a nervous breakdown. You’d better hurry downstairs.”
7
P
ausing at the reception door, I pulled a comb and small mirror from my safari-jacket pocket and dragged it through my shoulder-length bob. Unlike Annabel, I wasn’t vain, but since I was about to meet a mini celebrity, I wanted to look my best.
I’d inherited the famous Hill sapphire-blue eyes. They were my best feature but—being so unusually distinctive—had almost brought about my downfall. As a result, I pretended to wear colored contact lenses, which Annabel liked to point out whenever I received a compliment.
I stepped into reception to find a tall, heavy-set man leaning over the counter.
Olive heaved a sigh of relief. “Here’s Vicky now.”
“Hello. You must be Mr. Burrows,” I said. “Vicky Hill.”
The man turned around and rewarded me with a smile of blinding white Chiclets. Frankly, I’d been expecting a rustic farming type and was taken off guard by his orange fake-tan complexion and designer-spiked dirty-blond hairstyle.
I guessed he was only a few years older than me, though it was hard to tell. Fake tan can be deceptive. I noticed his hair also sported telltale orange tints, confirming my suspicion that Mr. Burrows had been overzealous with Sun-In hair-care products, too.
“So! Here is the famous Vicky Hill.” Phil Burrows was dressed in expensive clothes. Designer jeans—something I knew all about thanks to Annabel’s obsession with labels—and a black silk shirt, which was open halfway down his chest, where a fuzz of brown hair exploded over a gold button. “Call me Phil,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All good, I hope.”
“Oh yes.” He gave a knowing wink.
“Shall we go somewhere private?” I was considering the nook in the corner of reception, away from Olive’s adoring gaze. She was already on the phone telling her friends he was here.
I caught a snatch of “Phil and I had a lovely chat” and “autograph.” It was then that I noticed a stack of professional headshots of Phil Burrows on the counter and—
good grief
—a Phil Burrows look-alike doll dressed in Morris dancing attire. Bells, ribbons, et al.
“The nook, eh?” Phil’s brown eyes twinkled. “Not sure if I’ll be able to trust myself in there with someone so beautiful.”
Stifling a groan, I mumbled a gracious, “Thank you.”
“Wow,” he said, studying my face. “He told me you had the most incredible sapphire-blue eyes and—”
“I wear contacts,” I said firmly.
And then, with a sinking heart, I just
knew
. There was something extremely familiar about Phil,
and
his last name was Burrows.
“You’re not related to Steve Burrows by any chance?” I said.
“Little Steve’s my baby brother,” said Phil with a laugh. “I know all about the gorgeous Vicky Hill. Let’s take a look at you.” Phil took several steps backward and gave me an admiring once-over. “Very nice.”
God!
He even sounded like Steve. I deliberately slumped over in the hope of looking deformed. “Thanks, but shall we get on?”
“I meet a lot of girls in my profession,” Phil said. “Fame attracts groupies and, not meaning to brag, I’m never short of a bedfellow or two, but Steve’s right. You’re a catch. He’s a lucky man.”
“That’s very nice of Steve to say that,” I said, not surprised that Steve continued to regard me as his girlfriend. “But I’m not caught by anyone. I’m too busy with work.”
“In that case—” Phil took my hand and brought it to his lips. I braced myself for the Burrows tingle, but thankfully, Steve’s brother didn’t have the same electric touch.
“All’s fair in love and war.” Phil wiggled his eyebrows—he even had Steve’s mannerisms. “I’ve got a suite at Gipping Manor. Why don’t you come over tonight for a drink?”
How typical.
“Working. Sorry.”
I heard Olive gasp. “Oh, Vicky! You should!”
Steve’s ardor was easy to manage. If anything, it was rather innocent and touching. Phil was a different animal. Fame had given him a sense of entitlement and an ego to match.
I gestured to the opened cardboard boxes on the floor. “Presumably all these are yours?”
One box contained items—tankards, black sweatshirts emblazoned with TURPIN TERRORS, and tricorn hats—sealed in plastic bags. The other box had SILENT AUCTION written on the inside flap. It seemed to contain a mixture of what looked like used clothing and objects normally relegated to a charity shop.
“All this needs to go in the window today,” said Phil. “Just wait until you see the stuff for the silent auction. Everyone wants a bit of Phil.”
“What about the horse mascot?” Olive said.
“That’s Beryl.”
Given that the Turpin Terrors had a highwayman theme, I said, “I thought Black Bess was the name of Dick Turpin’s horse.”
“No. She was called Beryl,” said Phil.
I saw no point in arguing.
“I was trying to ex-ex-explain to—
Phil
.” Olive looked uncomfortable. “Our Gipping boys only want
their
mascot in the window.”
“Let Barbara sort that out when she gets here.” I sat down in one of the leatherette chairs. “Phil, take a seat.”
“Is there a problem?” Phil sat down. He leaned back and put his arms behind his head, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight across his chest. Although he and Steve were about the same build, Phil’s thin shirt outlined solid muscle instead of flab. There was even a hint of a six-pack. “My agent told me I’d get full use of the window display.”
I thought this highly unlikely. “Do you have anything in writing?”
“My agent handled it.” Phil’s expression hardened. “I waived my appearance fee for this as a favor to the Women’s Institute. I even cut short my training in Brighton. My fans
expect
to see my stuff in the window,
and
I’ve already announced it on Facebook.”
Celebrities!
I took a deep breath.
Patience, Vicky!
“Perhaps one of the members of the Women’s Institute said you could use the window and forgot to tell Barbara?” I suggested. “Since we can’t reach Barbara, can we talk to your agent?”
Phil looked at his watch. “He’s in Los Angeles and won’t be up yet. They’re eight hours behind.”
“Los Angeles!” said Olive directly behind me. I hadn’t heard her creep up to eavesdrop. “Hollywood! I bet he knows Paul Newman.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Paul Newman died three years ago.” I remembered it well. My mum cried.
“I’m working on a deal with an American dance show,” said Phil. “It’s a bit hush-hush at the moment.”
“I won’t say anything,” Olive said, enthralled. “Is it
Dancing with the Stars
?”
“I’m not allowed to say which one,” said Phil, feigning modesty. “But put it this way: the Hoff and I are friends.”
“
The
David Hasselhoff?” Olive clung to the back of the chair. For a moment, I thought she might swoon. “How did you meet him?”
“I was dancing in the Brighton International Folk Festival, David saw our performance and we got talking.” Phil reached for his man-bag and unzipped it. He took out a color photograph of two figures standing arm in arm. The man on the left was definitely David Hasselhoff.
“Is that you?” Olive peered over my shoulder. I caught a whiff of her perfume—Elizabeth Arden Blue Grass—my grandmother’s favorite. “It’s hard to tell.”
Phil cut a dashing figure dressed as a Turpin Terror complete with red tatter three-quarter coat, tricorn hat, and highwayman mask. “Being a Terror is a different ball game from dancing with the Ranids. Presumably you’ll want to interview me for the day-in-the-life feature?”
I hadn’t considered it but it, wasn’t a bad idea. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ll have to check with my agent,” said Phil, “but plan on coming to the Manor tomorrow night. By the way, where are the extra headshots?”
Olive looked blank. “I don’t know.”
I hadn’t realized just how much we all relied on Barbara’s efficiency.
“You should have gotten them by now.” Phil’s tone was mild, but I sensed a flicker of irritation. “My agent posted them last week.”
“We’ve been having a lot of problems with the post, haven’t we?” said Olive. “It’s the cutbacks.”
“If they’ve gone missing—”
The signature tune from
Flashdance
erupted from Phil’s man-bag just in time. Phil pulled out his iPhone. “Yo! What’s happening?”
“It’s probably his agent,” whispered Olive as Phil wandered over to the front door and stepped outside.
“Do you think I should talk to Phil’s agent about Barbara’s party on Friday night?” Olive went on. “I was going to ask Phil to make a special appearance as a surprise.”
“I would just ask Phil.”
“I wish someone had thrown me a hen party,” Olive said wistfully. Having been a spinster for most of her sixty-five years, Olive’s first attempt at marriage had lasted less than a week. For the past month, she and the pungent Ronnie Binns were a hot item—a thought that I could not dwell on for too long without feeling ill.
“Perhaps if I can find a way to put Phil’s things in the window, he’ll agree?” she said.
“I should check with Barbara first. In fact, I may as well go and see her on my way back from The Grange.”
Phil reappeared. “Sorry, ladies; I’ve got to run. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on that window; otherwise”—he looked grave—“I might have to pull out of the show.”
Reassuring Phil that all would be well—even though I had serious reservations—I was relieved when he disappeared.
“Did you say you were going to see Barbara?” said Olive. “I’ve got something for her. Wait a moment.”
Olive went behind the counter, muttering, “It’s under here somewhere.” After what seemed like ages, she produced a small, rectangular package covered in brown paper with lashings of tape.
BOOK: Thieves!
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