A Date With Death: Cozy Private Investigator Series (Flora Lively Mysteries Book 2)

A Date With Death

A Flora Lively Mystery: Book 2

by

Joanne Phillips

Chapter 1

‘Nervous?’

Flora fixed her gaze on the long gravelled driveway that wound through the woods to Hanley Manor. She could feel rather than see Marshall’s eyes trained on her face.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Why on earth would I be nervous?’

He shrugged. ‘No reason. Just … you know.’

She did know, but she wasn’t about to engage with him on that topic again. Not so soon after their last argument, anyway. Celeste’s return from two years’ travelling had thrown old insecurities wide open, but Flora was sick of hearing Marshall criticize her friend. And he was way off the mark about her nerves.

Sort of.

‘You’re doing real well,’ Marshall told her. He was referring to her driving. Flora had passed her test only a week ago; she was prickly about the fact that it had taken her until the age of thirty to finally cross that threshold of independence. Her next challenge was to master their pantechnicon removal van, which wasn’t going to be a breeze – not with Marshall watching her so intently, commenting on each and every crunching gear change, pulling that wincing face every time she miscalculated and caused the wheels to touch the kerb just the slightest little itty-bit. It was infuriating. But then Marshall was infuriating – always had been, always would be.

Flora pressed her foot to the brake, slowing the lorry as they approached the end of the driveway. She was sitting on two cushions but still had to stretch out her legs to reach the pedals. The steering wheel felt like the helm of a ship, the van’s sway and constant pull like the sucking of the ocean. Also it was slick with sweat from her hands, and the sun glaring in through the windscreen kept making her squint.

‘Park over there,’ Marshall said, pointing to a line of four or five cars.

‘Oh, I think here will be fine,’ Flora countered. She waited a beat for the engine to shudder to a halt, then reached for the door and jumped down from the cab. She heard Marshall’s exasperated sigh and tried to suppress a grin.

Infuriating, and easily infuriated. At least they were evenly matched.

Hanley Manor was just as Celeste had described. Flora turned towards the house, shielding her eyes with her hand. She guessed it to be Georgian, a hulking square of pinkish brick with two rows of symmetrically placed windows travelling its length and width. The facade nearest the drive had a porch – if you could call it a mere porch – with six columns supporting a flat jutting overhang. The roof was squat, balanced by regularly spaced chimneys and part-hidden behind an ornate parapet. Flora registered that jittery feeling in her stomach again. It wasn’t nerves, no matter what Marshall said, but it wasn’t exactly excitement either. Maybe she was simply overwhelmed by all this grandeur, or maybe it was the thought of meeting an actual real-life film crew – Rojo Productions – who had travelled over from Spain with her friend to this quintessential English location.

Flora looked up at the house again and let out a long sigh. Okay, perhaps she was a little anxious about seeing Celeste after all this time. So much had happened. Flora had lost both her parents, had taken over her father’s removal business, had dealt with the kinds of problems you couldn’t really write about in emails. Not that Celeste had bothered replying to emails. But when you were travelling it was hard to keep in touch, as Flora had explained to Marshall over and over whenever he criticized her friend for not “being there” for Flora in her hour of need.

Still. It would be weird seeing her again. Nice, but weird.

Flora heard the pantechnicon’s engine start up behind her. She watched Marshall manoeuvre it into the parking space he’d indicated to her. Maddening man – he’d do anything to make a point, to make her look useless. She decided to ignore him and sneak off for a quick glimpse of the grounds. No harm in putting off going inside the house for a tiny bit longer. She strolled to the edge of the driveway, then ducked into a small wooded area, drying her palms on the rear of her denim shorts. Being out of the sun was a joy. After a quick look around to make sure she was alone, Flora lifted her arms and let the light breeze cool her sticky armpits. She twirled slowly, closing her eyes. To be able to hear nothing but birdsong and the rustling of leaves on leaves – what bliss.

‘It’s no use hiding in here, Lively. We’ll have to go inside sooner or later.’

She put a hand to her chest – he’d made her jump, booming into the still air like that. How had he managed to park the van so quickly? Flora sighed, her shoulders drooping. Finally getting her licence had only been the first hurdle: to pull her weight she’d need to master the seven-ton lorry, never mind her second-hand Mini. Shakers Removals was down to only two employees – her and Marshall – and there was, as he reminded her far too often, no room for dead weight.

‘Hey,’ Marshall said, his voice softer. ‘I was only joking. We can stay out here a while if you want to.’

Flora pressed her lips into a tight smile. Sometimes he could read her mind, sometimes not. ‘Will you give it a rest? I’m not nervous.’

‘Sure you’re not.’ Marshall grinned. ‘Let’s go meet us some famous actors.’

They emerged into the searing sunlight and headed towards the oversized porch. A car door slammed behind them, and Flora turned in time to see a blue coupe spin around in an arc of pea gravel and race away from the house. The driver was a young woman with wild black hair. It wasn’t Celeste.

‘Jerk,’ Marshall said, going over to check the paintwork on their van.

Flora reached up to knock on the door of Hanley Manor. It seemed ridiculous for the two of them to be standing here, banging on the door of a stately home like ordinary – if well-to-do – visitors. She felt out of time, like a traveller from another decade. There must be a trades’ entrance for a house like this, but Flora hadn’t seen any signage to indicate where. The knocker was as big as her face and shaped like a lion’s head. She banged it twice, then a third time. The sound was oddly unsatisfying – more of a thunk than an echoing thud. They waited.

‘Maybe there’s a doorbell,’ Marshall said. He was clearly desperate to get out of the heat. Flora could see sweat marks on his T-shirt. She was glad he was wearing the one with the eagle, it was her favourite, although she’d never tell him, of course. But it made her feel comforted, gave her a sense of familiarity in an unreal-feeling situation.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she said. It was an unguarded moment, and she wanted to bite her lip as soon as she’d spoken. ‘I mean, I’m glad you agreed we should take on this job.’

‘Agreed is putting it strongly.’ He was regarding her through narrowed eyes. Marshall’s eyes were hazel, but in the strong sunlight they seemed almost golden. Flora looked away.

‘Well,’ she said.

It was true that she’d twisted his arm. Pulled rank. Played the old “This is my business, my dad left it to me, and you’re just the manager – not even my choice of manager – so do as I say or else” card. It was a card she didn’t play very often, but it had worked. Besides, it wasn’t as if they’d had any other work on. The school holidays were a quiet time of year, and this year was quieter than any that had gone before. ‘Fine,’ Marshall had said, and no more. But he’d wanted to say more, Flora could tell. He’d been fairly bursting with it.

‘Look.’ Marshall pressed his finger to a small white button that had been stuck onto the oak door frame. A ringing, like the sound of a telephone, sounded somewhere inside the house. Then footsteps. Flora looked up at Marshall and smiled. He grinned back and put on a mock terrified expression.

‘See you on the other side,’ he said, laughing, then wincing when Flora thumped him on the arm.

The door swung inwards, opening onto a cavernous square hall with dark wooden panelling. Flora got a glimpse of row upon row of stags’ heads and gloomy paintings the size of real people, and then she focused on the man standing in front of them.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘How may I help you?’

‘We’re from Shakers Removals,’ Marshall replied, his American drawl more pronounced against the older man’s clipped and formal English. ‘Marshall Goodman and Flora Lively. We’re here to meet, um, Celeste Shaw.’

‘Ah, yes. Quite. My name is Sidney, and I am the butler here at Hanley Manor. Do step inside.’

He was so like Flora’s stereotypical idea of an English butler from years gone by, she had to suppress a giggle. He stepped back, almost bowing, to make room for them to enter the house. Marshall waved her in first, also giving a little bow. Flora wanted to hit him again. Typical of him to make fun of good manners.

The drop in temperature was astonishing. It was as though someone had sucked all the heat out of the day. In her vintage cotton print shirt, with its short sleeves and V neckline, Flora had been hot and sticky all morning, but now she could see goosebumps lifting on her tanned arms. She shivered, then stepped to the side. Just in case Marshall decided to put his arm around her shoulders.

Sidney instructed them to follow him to what he called the drawing room, then off he strode, leaving Flora free to take in more of her surroundings as they trailed behind. She’d been dragged around plenty of stately homes as a child, and this one was no different to the standard fare. Double-height ceilings adorned with decorative plasterwork and painted panels; rooms leading into rooms, stacked against each other like building blocks; faded fabric hanging from walls and against windows, blocking out the light, covering cracks and stains and possibly secret doors to underground tunnels. She gave a little smile and shook her head. Neither Marshall nor the butler noticed.

Nice to see that her overactive imagination hadn’t been entirely obliterated by adulthood.

They walked through a room containing a dusty piano and a worn-looking gilded harp, then through another that contained an enormous refectory-style table and two long benches. Then into a further room where Sidney stopped abruptly and nodded.

‘Please wait here and I will tell the rest of your party you have arrived.’

He was a stocky man, probably around sixty or maybe older, with whiteish hair that ran threadbare over the top of his head. Flora watched him leave, then let out an exaggerated sigh.

‘What the hell? This place is like a morgue.’

‘Be careful what you wish for, Lively.’

‘Excuse me?’ Flora gave Marshall a challenging stare. ‘What does
that
mean?’

‘Nothing. Oh, you know,’ he said when Flora persisted. ‘Just don’t go imagining spooky goings on just because it’s an old house. Don’t do that thing you do, getting involved and all.’

Flora put on a blank expression and shook her head. ‘Like what, for example?’

‘Like, all that business at the Maples last year? Finding dead bodies and poking your nose in. And now all these weirdo people who email you, asking for help. It’s getting ridiculous.’

Flora smiled to herself, then hid it behind a pretend yawn. ‘Well, I think you’re jealous. I mean, I’m practically a local celebrity now.’

‘Ha! Celebrity? Crank, more like. Or at least, the people who contact you are cranks. All those missing persons and unfaithful husbands. Grim or what?’ He shuddered.

Flora shook her head again, dismissing him, then turned away as though bored. She’d never let him know it, but she didn’t disagree with the last of what he said. It was pretty grim. Ever since the newspapers had run a story on her role in exposing the charity scam and murders at the Maples Retirement Village last year, Flora had been receiving emails and phone calls from people begging for help. With the mistaken idea that she was some kind of private detective, she’d had calls to “investigate” two missing teenagers, an absent husband, a strange smell outside someone’s flat, and three robberies. She had declined them all, of course – she was certainly no kind of investigator – but it had been unsettling. Especially the teenagers. They preyed on Flora’s mind whenever she saw missing persons posters, or noticed the students from the technical college hanging around outside McDonald’s at lunchtime. What must it be like, to bring up your child for all those years, only to have them turn on you, reject you, when they reached that hormone-spiked age?

It was too close to home, that was the problem – it brought back memories of Flora’s own teenage rebellion. She only had to glance at her tattoos – the skull and hearts on her upper arm; the dragon on her right thigh – to remember the heartache she’d caused Peter and Kitty Lively.

Flora fixed her eyes on a painting of a woman cuddling up to a spaniel and blinked three or four times.

‘Anyway,’ Marshall said, filling the silence, ‘I wonder where our butler’s gone.’

‘Goodness knows.’ Flora turned to face him, then stared beyond his shoulder, out through the multi-paned French windows to the lawn beyond. ‘What’s going on out there?’

Two people were standing on the lawn, leaning menacingly towards each other. One was a short, bald-headed man with his fist raised. He had the paunch of a drinker, his back curved with the effort of holding the belly up and out. The other was a willowy woman with golden blonde hair. She towered over the man, her cotton skirt flapping around her bare knees. Her face was long and almost haughty, and she was shouting, shaking her hair around her shoulders. As they watched, the man flattened out his palm, reached up, then tapped the woman’s cheek with the flat of it. Not hitting her exactly, but …