Delia Darling Mysteries Box Set, page 5
part #1 of Delia Darling Mystery Series
“She’s probably on holiday,” Betsy said. “Goodness. If everyone could see the sides of my hedges before I cut them, they’d have a fit.”
My tongue clicked against my teeth. “I know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I live next door if you haven’t forgotten.”
“We all get a little busy,” she chuckled.
From what I knew, she chose work over a family. Betsy had done the opposite but couldn’t have children. It wasn’t something we ever discussed.
I worked in a shop before marrying David. I wanted to become a seamstress, make my own clothes and designs, but my mother wasn’t kind enough to pass that skill down, and the older I grew, the more I realised that I hated stitching holes in old clothes, especially when Caroline was younger.
“No excuses,” I said. “We haven’t even been assessed for this year.”
“So?” Betsy turned, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.
I gasped. “I’m going to write her a small reminder, just a little letter,” I said.
“Like last time?” she asked.
Last time it hadn’t been Scarlet’s house whose hedges had grown out onto the pavement. Last time it was Diane, and she’d moved away since then. Now we had a lovely couple who enjoyed taking care of their garden—and helping others. “Diane’s moved, so it’s fine.”
She laughed. “Mona’s hedge.”
Oh. “Well, that was under very different circumstances,” I grumbled. It had all been a huge misunderstanding; I hadn’t meant to take my sheers too deep into Mona Wilson’s hedge, but I’d learnt my lesson, and so had she: don’t let your hedge overgrow, and of course, if I did it again, I’d be fined three-hundred pounds.
I wasn’t being at all dramatic about the competition. It was incredibly important. They handed out plaques and special mentions were given out in the regional newspapers, but that was nothing compared to the spa trip at Quigby Manor.
This year was our sixth year, if we won, it would be a national record; six wins in a row. We were undefeated. Nicknamed the village in bloom, they’d be making films about us soon, and I’d lead—naturally, nobody else could organise these houses as I did.
“Why don’t we just go knock on her door and ask?” Betsy suggested, raising a hand in a gesture to the house.
“Definitely not,” I said. “I’ll post a letter. It’s a much more dignified way of handling it.”
Betsy griped the way back. I understand her wanting to go over and ask Scarlet politely, but a letter was a much more formal way of requesting immediate action. Doctor Manhattan would always write memos and notes for people, they took them much more seriously.
“I’ll give her the opportunity to fix the hedge, or we’ll take action,” I said, grabbing the pen and paper from the side table beside the landline telephone.
“We?”
“Yes,” I said. “You’re my second-in-command.”
Dear Scarlet Jones,
As you’re aware, Huntington Village has been the recipient of the ‘England’s Best Garden Village’ five years running. This isn’t news, but I wish to inform you there is an infringement from your property into the street, and this would not be tolerated if there happened to be some secret garden judge in the area.
Make sure we uphold the standards which we’ve set out. Please rectify this immediately or I will have to take matters into my own hands, and that will not be pleasant, as I may trim away more than you’d find you would. This serves as notice, and if I do take any action, I’m not liable for complaint costs.
Regards,
President of the Neighbourhood Watch
Organiser of the Town Gardening Society
Delia Darling
Betsy made sure I added the last part, she was nervous about the complaints and the potential fines they carried.
There wasn’t an official Town Gardening Society, much like the watch group, not many people attended, but they were happy to reap the rewards when they came. I had singlehandedly created two groups from the ashes of my grief over six years ago. I was a busybody, and I needed to do whatever I could to control the village around me.
I did it well, not like it was anyone’s business.
I grabbed an envelope from the small stationary hold inside the corner table drawer. I folded the letter and pushed it inside before licking and sticking the envelope shut.
“All done,” I said, handing Betsy the letter. “Let’s hope she listens.”
“We could always ask if she’d like us to help,” she said. “We’re not fresh chickens anymore, Delia. We can’t be promising people we’ll spend hours on their gardens because they’re unsightly.”
I was aware. Constantly aware that we were the mother hens, ready for the chicken pie and no longer producing eggs. “I’d like to think we still serve a purpose.” Just wasn’t sure when that purpose would end.
Having the letter posted through Scarlet’s letterbox was a huge peace of mind. She’d be given a day or two, at the most, and then it was going to be an issue I’d take personally.
There was a car in Scarlet’s driveway, not the blue Toyota usually there, and the curtains were closed. We tried to be discreet, my doctor told me to keep my heart rate steady, and confrontation sent me through the roof.
“After that, I could do with a coffee,” Betsy said.
I chuckled. “I could do with a nap,” I said. The thought of having the eyesore of a hedge out over the street was enough to stress my hair into a frizzy grey mess. “I hope she’s on holiday.”
“Me too.”
“But that’s at least three weeks’ worth of growth,” I said, shaking my head at it as we passed.
“Cruises go on forever these days,” she said with a large grin.
“And that’s why we don’t have time for one.”
She scoffed, puffing out her bottom lip. “Come on, we’re going to mine for coffee,” she said. “You’re becoming an absolute killjoy.”
We went to Betsy’s, where her husband, Billy had prepared cups of drip coffee. Since retiring, Billy had taken on many hobbies, including that of a coffee enthusiast, purchasing his own beans to grind, sift, and pour.
A heavy scent filled the air outside their home. A single sniff with my nose high in the air sent my shoulders relaxing.
“Colombian,” she said. “All very fancy. All very new.”
It was both of those things. He belonged to a subscription service; I couldn’t get my head around them, otherwise, I’d never stop receiving items in the mail.
“Morning,” Billy chimed as the front door opened.
“Morning,” I called out.
He poked his head around the kitchen wall. Billy Bennett was a stout balding man with rectangle glasses on the tip of his nose. He could barely look through them unless he was tipping his head back, and he often did, in the most awkward and endearing ways.
“Smells divine,” I said.
“Almost brewed,” he said. “Want a cup.”
“Oh, Billy, that’s the only reason I came by.” I threw my head in laughter. Of course, I was kidding. They lived next door and I often dropped by, our gardens were only connected by a small gate.
“Next week I’m getting some Vietnamese coffee sent out,” he said with an excited grin.
In the kitchen, there was the largest coffee contraption set up. Professional machines made specifically to grind whole beans, roasting, and all other types of coffee preparation. It never stopped amazing me, both how Betsy allowed that to take so much room, but also Billy’s dedication.
“Oh, that was quite thick last time,” Betsy said, pulling her face. “I don’t know how I feel about it. And a little bitter. I’m about a sweet coffee.” She snapped her fingers. “Like the one you had a few weeks back.”
“The Dominican?” he asked.
“Oo.” My face flushed. “I always thought they were sweet on the eye indeed.”
They glanced at me, I could see the daringness not to laugh, but they did anyway.
I wasn’t a coffee snob, in fact, my home brand of coffee was very much whatever was on sale at the supermarket. However, the speciality coffee beans Billy and Betsy used were great to add and mix in with the soil, a fantastic fertilizer once used—definitely not added to the community compost.
After coffee, I retired to the living room of my home. I’d listened to the mail woman as my letterbox dinged with a metal tick and letters flopped to the floor.
Four letters.
Two from the bank; a waste of paper to keep me updated about my accounts. A letter from the Doctor Manhattan fan club, of which I was yet to become the president of, there was a woman in the States who seemed to know more than I did. And the last letter was from the local council, informing me about the petition to turn the village into a gated area.
I looked around at the emptiness in the house, throwing the letters on the table. “I should get a pet,” I said to aloud, moving to the back door. “Maybe not.” I quickly reminded myself that pets were dirty, and they’d only ruin the growth of the garden; the number of times I’d complained to Agatha next door about her cat was enough to put anyone off pets altogether.
I loved to sit out in the back garden with a glass of lemonade and a book, I wasn’t about to destroy that.
After the concern over Scarlet’s hedge, I examined mine from the comfort of the back doorway. There was flower archway covered in pink peonies over the gate connecting my house to Betsy’s house. The hedges were primed and trimmed, grown with the control of my sheers, and inside the garden, there was a small path and a bench, leading to a small pond–without fish—that took care of itself, and my flower beds.
Knock. Knock.
“Hello?” a voice called out, entering the house.
I turned back to see Arthur poke his head inside. “Oh, hello.”
“How’re you?” he asked.
“Wired,” I chuckled.
He smacked a hand against his face. “I can smell Billy’s coffee from down the road.”
“Have you tried it?”
“I think it’s impossible not too.”
It was very true, while Billy didn’t venture outside, he would certainly pull in his fair share of people to try the delights he had to offer.
“What do I owe the pleasure today?” I asked, batting my eyelids.
“I saw you post a letter through Scarlet’s door,” he said. “Not that I’m stalking you or anything—I mean, I was at the recycling centre—you didn’t see me—but I—”
I laughed. “Spit it out.”
“I’ve not seen her in a couple weeks.”
“Betsy and I think she’s possibly gone away,” I said. “I mean, imagine letting your garden get that out of hand.”
“Imagine,” he scoffed, a direct imitation of Betsy, and she imitated me—I wasn’t sure if I should’ve been flattered or offended.
“If she doesn’t sort it soon, I’ll have a go at it myself,” I said.
His eyes widened and his face dropped to a slow nod. He knew the severity of a messy garden, and the free time I had in any single day. I had the stationery to write numerous letters to several governing bodies.
“No pressure though,” he said. “We should have this year in the bag.”
My throat let out a hoarse cough. We couldn’t think like that, and it didn’t mean we could slack. Given how expensive homes were in the area, people were either retired and could garden themselves, or had good jobs and could afford someone to do it for them.
“But--” he continued, probably from the expression of shock on my face. “We shouldn’t let the standards slip.”
I nodded. “Exactly. I think if I see the hedge hanging over the fence like I did today, I’ll have to pay her a visit.”
He smiled. “If she can’t do it anymore, I can help.”
There was always the excuse of illness and old people illnesses. The thought was enough to send chills through me. It wasn’t worth occupying space in my mind, because at heart I was an athlete in perfect health, but in reality, it was far from the truth.
If Scarlet needed help, she knew only to ask. I was always around and certainly always available if she needed. Alternatively, I was a call away if I’d decided to go shopping or visit the nearest city.
“Tomorrow, 11 A.M. sharp,” I said. “That’s when I’ll be doing my mid-morning walk.” My body shook slightly. “I did say earlier to Betsy I’d give her a day or two, but it’s May, and they’ve been known to arrive as early as June.”
He nodded. “Don’t they give us a date?”
I gasped. It was true. I was sent a letter with the date of inspection. “They’re cunning people,” I said. “They have eyes and ears everywhere. We’re the example set to all the other villages out there.”
“Ahh,” he mumbled.
ACT TWO
Questions upon Questions
As planned, at 11 A.M. the following day I was ready to walk around the village. I’d spent the evening curled up with Doctor Manhattan reruns, letting him and his problems occupy my mind for a little while.
Betsy came over with her husband’s special coffee brew, one in each hand; one for me and one for her. We sipped and walked, and the more I sipped, the more I noticed many houses in the area weren’t up to standard.
“We need regulation sizing,” I said. “That way we don’t have people saying they didn’t know.”
She chuckled at the comment. “Not like anyone is evening paying attention to the bulletin anyway,” she said.
“I’ll make a point of putting it inside the newsagent and telling Eileen she has to get everyone to sign and make sure they’ve understood,” I said, sighing into the coffee cup. It was a silly idea, I’d just continue doing what I’d always done, go to individual houses.
“I doubt Eileen would do that,” she said. “She doesn’t even live here.”
I held a hand to Betsy. As suspected, Scarlet Jones’ bushes were still spilling out onto the pavement. My first instinct was to chop away, but I’d give her another chance. “I should have carried those sheers with me.”
“We can go back,” she said.
Shaking my head, I crossed the road. I wasn’t speaking quite so literally, I didn’t want to seem like I was a threat, even if I was only 5 foot 3 inches, sheers made anyone look menacing when they showed up at your front door without an invitation.
We walked to the front door, where the same car from yesterday was parked outside; a fancy silver BMW.
“Someone’s in,” Betsy remarked.
“Yeah. Someone.” Unless Scarlet had upgraded.
We stood together with our coffee cups in hand; we looked friendly. I knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again.
The door swung open and a young blonde woman stood with a t-shirt covered in the light green hue of baby sick. “Sorry,” she sighed in shock at a small white nappy bag in hand. “Can you come back another time? I don’t have time to talk about God.”
“Who is it?” a man’s voice called out.
“Hello, dear,” I said. “Is Scarlet home?”
“Scarlet?” she mumbled, her eyes tightening into a squint as she stared at us. “I don’t know a Scarlet, sorry. I thought you were here about religion.”
Betsy scoffed. “Not quite, dear.”
“Lisa! Who’s at the door?” the voice called again, this time growing closer.
“Don’t shout,” she called back. “You’ll wake Harvey.”
A scream came from the living room. A baby’s scream. The whine was like a shot to the front of my brain. My gut shrank at the shrill bleating.
“Scarlet Jones,” I said, a little louder than the child. “This is her house.”
Her face eased. “Are you here because of the hedges?” she asked. “We got a letter and we’ve not really got around to it, but I--”
The man appeared, a little unshaven scruff scaled his neck and cheeks. “Hi, hello,” he said. “I’m Mark. We’ve just moved in.”
“What?” Betsy snapped. “Where’s Scarlet?”
They both shrugged in unison.
“I’ve got to go take care of the baby,” the woman said, rushing off.
Mark stayed at the door, his tired eyes staring back at us. I looked him over. They were new parents alright; the bags beneath the eyes, the unwashed clothes. “She’s not here anymore,” he said. “The estate agent said they needed to sell the property quick. Got it for twenty per cent under asking.”
“Fudge!” I cried out, my fingers loosening around the coffee cup, spilling a drip on the ground.
“I know,” he chuckled. “It was a bargain.”
“Not that,” Betsy snapped again. “So, she’s dead?”
He shrugged. “No idea.” Turning, he grabbed a bunch of letters from the stairwell. “Think so. We have to return to sender the letter we get for her.”
Betsy took giant breaths. “Do you have a return address?” she asked.
He shook his head. “All we have is the deed pack and stuff.” He tssked his tongue against his teeth. “I’m really sorry ladies. Were you close?”
“N—”
I nudged Betsy. “Yes, we were. That’s why we’re in shock.”
“Listen, I’ll get the garden sorted out,” he said. “I didn’t know about the award thing.”
“As soon as humanly possible. Please.”
We left seconds later, in a haze of what had happened. I couldn’t quite believe Scarlet was dead, and if she wasn’t dead, she was—
“Maybe she’s in a home,” Betsy said, sucking in through her front teeth. “What if she—”
“Don’t say it.” I stood still in the middle of the street, my grasp shaking around the cup, spilling more coffee. “She’s only a couple years older than me.”
“I was only going to say, what if she’s gone to live with her sister, or you know—maybe she’s gone on one of those really fancy cruises. The kind that lasts all year long.” She rubbed her hands together.
