Dead Woman's Shoes: 1 (Lexy Lomax Mysteries) (19 page)

“Noo-Noo did what she usually does,” Tammy went on. “She sat down for a bit, then wandered off for a bit, then…”

“Scratched hell out of the new kitchen wallpaper,” supplied Tristan.

“…then wandered back in. In and out, in and out. It’s a cat thing.” Tammy’s lower lip began to tremble.

“Can you remember what time it was when you noticed she was completely gone?” asked Lexy.

“Not exactly, but it was around the time she usually gets her bedtime biscuits. A quarter past ten. But we both definitely saw her about ten minutes before that.” Tammy gave another great sniff. “She came into the lounge to remind me she was hungry. But I was watching that stupid hospital drama thing, which didn’t end until half ten. So when I ignored her she went stalking out again, with her funny little tail held up high.” Her voice broke down, and she began to sob. “That was the… last… time we saw her.”

“Yes – and a couple of minutes later those stinking little dogs next door started barking their heads off,” interjected Tristan, putting a comforting arm around his wife. “We even heard them over the telly.”

“Oh, stop going on about that,” Tammy wept. “She’s been stolen and you know it.”

“How? Why?” Tristan’s expression was irate. “No – she must have crept out somewhere and…”

“But are you certain no one could have got in?” Lexy cut in. “Was your back door unlocked, for instance?”

“No – we always keep it locked,” said Tristan, tightly.

“Listen,” said Tammy, blotting her tears with a paper hanky, her voice firmer. “Why don’t you come and see for yourself?”

“Thanks.” Lexy stepped into the hallway, noticing Tristan glare at his wife.

“What are you with all the questions, anyway,” he said, turning to Lexy. “Some kind of freelance detective?”

Lexy gave a bark of embarrassed laughter. The Caradocs were obviously not the only ham actors around here.

“No, no – just sympathetic. I … er… actually had a cat stolen myself once,” she ad-libbed recklessly. “I know how distressing it is.”

“Did you get it back?” asked Tammy, at once.

There was a pause. Tammy and Tristan regarded her, she in agony, he with growing suspicion.

“Yeah, of course,” said Lexy, with a relaxed grin. “He was tracked down after a few days.”

“Gyppos, I suppose?” said Tammy.

Lexy smiled dangerously. “No – actually it was a middle-class housewife who craved a child-substitute.”

Tammy blinked. “Goodness. How… peculiar.”

“Ye-es,” her husband agreed, standing aside to allow Lexy to follow Tammy past a small alcove containing coats, jackets, walking boots and umbrellas.

The hall carpet looked as if it had been threshed. Clumps of wool lay everywhere, and there were long tracks of baldness right along its length. The light wooden panelling along the wall bore deep, criss-crossed gouges, two or three feet up, as if a dwarf had taken a knife to it.

“Are you sure it’s not a Bengal tiger we’re looking for?” Lexy asked.

Tammy gave her a watery smile. “She’s always been a bit of a handful – very playful. That’s why we never let her out. She’d be straight up a tree or on to a roof.”

Lexy glanced further up the hall wall. Beyond the reach of the cat’s claws were rows of stills from plays and television shows, all featuring the Caradocs. Tammy clasping the arm of a young-looking John Nettles, apparently wearing the same outfit she had on now; Tristan as a pantomime dame, wearing a massive pink frilly petticoat and an absurdly coquettish expression; Tammy laughing uproariously with Ian McShane, this time wearing a floaty red smock; Tristan as some kind of tramp, slumped on a bench.

“
Waiting for Godot
, Edinburgh Festival ’91,” Tristan murmured behind her.

“Not now, Tristan,” snapped Tammy.

Lexy felt a flash of sympathy for the man. Age had favoured him, just as it had been unkind to his wife. He’d ended up looking like her gigolo.

It was extremely stuffy in the bungalow. All the windows were double-glazed and locked.

“Sorry about this.” Tammy fanned herself with her hand. Lexy wondered if it had occurred to her that she could open a few windows now. She decided not to suggest it.

They did a tour of the place, Tammy forcing Lexy to examine every nook and cranny. The Caradocs were right about security. How Princess Noo-Noo could ever have got out was becoming increasingly mystifying.

Like the hall, the rest of the bungalow was dominated by theatre and film memorabilia.

There was also a photo of Princess Noo-Noo. Just the one, but it was a big one.

Lexy realised with a shock that Guy Ellenger hadn’t been exaggerating. This was no normal-looking cat. The muzzy image on the posters in the village failed to show the skin-tight curly astrakhan coat, the outsize comic ears, and the huge, placidly astonished golden eyes. She posed with one paw raised, long, naked-looking tail curled like a music clef. But her small, egg-shaped face, once you got used to it, had a kind of clownish humour. A cat in lamb’s clothing.

“I know she looks like an experiment gone wrong,” said Tammy, coming to look at the photo with Lexy. “But she’s beautiful to me. And she understands everything I say.”

Lexy nodded. She knew where Tammy was coming from. She glanced at the photo again. Was there something vaguely familiar about Princess Noo-Noo?

“Where did you say you got her?”

“It was near Mellowsham Farm, out on the heath.” Tammy waved vaguely at the view from the living room window. “She was born in a litter of farm cats, but the farmer could see she wasn’t right, so he just dumped her in a ditch, the bastard. Luckily Triss and I happened to be walking past that day.”

Lexy turned this over in her mind as she followed the Caradocs through to the final room on the bungalow excursion, a back lobby. They stopped under a montage of black and white pictures showing Tristan and Tammy at least twenty years earlier, as Antony and Cleopatra. “Our salad days,” said Tristan, solemnly. “When we were green in judgement. And much better looking.”

“Don’t be silly, darling. You’re every bit as handsome now as you were then.”

Tristan gave Tammy a quick, thin smile, and turned to Lexy. “So, you see, our security is as tight as a drum.”

“Have you got a loft?” she enquired, looking through a half-open door at a natty little spiral staircase.

“Well… yes.” Tristan faltered, glancing up the staircase then at his wife. “But that door’s always locked.”

“You might have left it open,” said Tammy, sounding rather awkward.

“What do you mean, me?”

“You went up there for something on Wednesday night,” she said. “Don’t you remember?”

“I would
not
have left it unlocked,” replied Tristan. “Let alone wide open.”

“Better have a look, anyway.” Lexy, feeling as if she had taken charge nicely of the situation, began to climb.

“Er… I’m not sure that’s a…” said Tammy, mounting the staircase behind her.

“It’ll only take a moment.” The key was in the lock, and Lexy turned it, and pushed the door open. But as the room came into view, she began to understand the Caradocs’ reluctance. It was a room designed for a specific purpose. A large bed stood in the middle, adorned with rumpled black silk sheets. Various outfits in leather and lace adorned the walls, together with a selection of oil paintings that were frankly Rabelaisian. A long, thick bullwhip hung from a hook beside the bed.

Lexy, Tristan and Tammy refrained from speech as they made their way to the window. Lexy, in an effort to drag her mind away from the images that threatened to shoulder their way in, studied the window minutely. Unlike the others in the house, this one lacked double-glazing. It was split into two sections, the lower part plain glazed and the upper hinged to open outwards. It was currently open just a crack, the catch fixed on the first hole.

The window directly overlooked Guy Ellenger’s back garden, although his patio, tucked around the corner of Kittiwake, was out of sight. Maybe four or five feet below the window she could see the top of the high dividing wall between the two bungalows.

Lexy squinted at the window lock.

“Recognise these?” Taking care not to touch the frame, she pulled a couple of short, curly cream hairs from the fitting.

The Caradocs both gazed at the hairs as if hypnotised.

“You do have sharp eyesight,” Tristan remarked.

“For what it’s worth,” Lexy said, “I think someone climbed up on the dividing wall below, and opened this window wide. It would be quite easy to do from the outside. They could have coaxed Princess out, especially if she was hungry, then closed the window back down to its normal position and made off with her. The dogs next door might have seen or heard something going on – that would explain the sudden rumpus.”

Tammy Caradoc looked down at the wall, then at her husband.

“Tristan, I think she’s right. You must have left the door open, after all.”

Tristan stared at the window. “Stupid,” he fumed.

“I’m calling the police right now,” said Tammy. “They might be able to get prints.”

“Right, well, I’ve taken up enough of your time,” said Lexy, turning abruptly towards the wrought iron steps. The last person she wanted to run into on the doorstep was Detective Inspector Milo.

Tammy and Tristan led the way through the house to the front door.

“I really hope you find her,” said Lexy.

“Thank you so much,” gushed Tammy. She suddenly leant forward and unexpectedly kissed Lexy on the cheek, enveloping her in a brief wave of Opium. “You’ve given us hope.” She turned to her husband. “I suppose you should go next door, and tell him you made a mistake. I mean, even though he’s a pain with those damned chihuahuas, he is the only vet for miles around, and if we get Noo-Noo back she’s bound to need something for her nerves.”

“I think we all will. But let’s leave it until we’re sure,” murmured Tristan.

Lexy headed through the hall to the front door. “If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.”

The door shut and she watched the two figures turn away up the hall, grotesquely altered through the opaque glass pane.

Lexy walked back to Kittiwake. At the gate she was nearly knocked flying by Kinky and his new amigos. The vet was still sitting on the patio where she’d left him, his head cupped in his hands, looking preoccupied.

He raised an eyebrow. “How’d it go?”

“Fine,” said Lexy. “They’re even planning an apology visit to you.”

“Result!” He sat up straight.

“Let’s not count our chihuahuas,” she replied, tartly. “They bought the theory about someone climbing up to the window, but they’ve decided to call the police.”

Guy suddenly looked guarded.

“…so I guess it will be out of my hands,” Lexy went on. “But I’m still going to have a look around – I’ve got a couple of ideas of my own. I’ll get back to you in a day or two.”

She gave him a curt nod and turned to go.

“Great. I… er… very much look forward to seeing you then.” He still hadn’t worked out why she had adopted the icy pose.

As she left, snapping her fingers at Kinky, she heard Guy clear his throat. “About the other business.”

She turned back.

“With Avril Todd. Listen – thanks for tipping me off. Awful thing. I’m still reeling from the shock, actually.”

Lexy regarded him coolly. Not enough to prevent you setting up an alibi for yourself.

“I expect the police will want to talk to me,” he soldiered on, “seeing as I was with her earlier yesterday afternoon. I’m… er… just wondering whether or not to tell them about that letter? I mean, it might become public knowledge. And also it puts me in a very difficult position – gives me a motive, you see. What would you do?”

Lexy gave him a crooked smile. “I’m probably not the best person to ask.” She turned to walk away. “Just do what your conscience tells you.”

His reply was tinged with resignation and unexpected sadness. “Yes. Perhaps I should.”

Lexy walked slowly down Gorse Rise towards the village, Kinky at her side. What had Guy Ellenger meant by that last comment? It had been almost unnerving.

She turned into the high street, her eyes on the pavement, subconsciously scanning for dropped coins. She was becoming more and more uncomfortably aware that Kinky had only had a small packet of dog biscuits and half a saveloy all day. She needed to get the poor little mutt something for dinner, but the paltry amount of change in her pocket wasn’t enough for even the smallest can of dog food. She went into the public telephones by the church and checked the coin return slots. All empty, of course. She mooched around outside the Post Office, hoping someone would inadvertently leave their change in one of the stamp machines. They didn’t. She even sat by the wishing well in the village square for half an hour, waiting for some fumbling kid to drop a penny or two while chucking coins in. But even the toddlers were tight in Clopwolde.

Lexy gave a gusty sigh and began to stump towards Otter’s End. Like her, Kinky was going to have to eat rice tonight.

But as she turned the corner to Cliff Lane, Lexy saw someone she recognised coming out of the small grocery store on the corner. Someone who might lend her a quid, if she was lucky.

Hope Ellenger looked flushed. She regarded Lexy owlishly.

“Hiya… I was jusht getting something for dinner.” The carrier bag she was holding clinked perfidiously. She took an exaggerated look up and down the street and bent towards Lexy. “You find out who it was yet?”

Lexy reeled back from a blast of gin fumes.

The girl was macerated. And it was only half six. She had to look twice to believe her eyes. “Who what was?” she said, confused.

“The letter writer, of coursh,” said Hope. “It’s doing my head in at the moment.”

No – that was the drink. Lexy hesitated. At least Hope wouldn’t be getting any more letters. Not that Lexy was in any position to tell her. Or that Hope was in any position to remember the following morning.

“Well, I…”

“Oh! I forgot,” interrupted the other woman. “I’m meant to show you my other ’nonymous letters.” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oops! Shush! I know – come with me – I’ll show you now.”