Page 52 of Murder in the Winter Woods
‘Oh, it will. I’ve got big plans. Although I can’t get Anthony to look at the vision board, or the paint samples, let alone the taps. The taps are so important to the overall look, don’t you think? Well, that’s what they say on Pinterest. But Anthony hasn’t got the time, he says.’
Julia took a sip of her water and asked, ‘Busy at work, is he?’
‘Yes. He’s in investments. It’s a lot of responsibility, dealing with people’s money. He’s been under a lot of stress. It’s the personal side, I think, keeping the clients happy, that takes itstoll. Now that’s a challenge. I can just imagine.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘You mentioned something about a syndicate?’
‘A syndicate?’ Clarissa’s brow furrowed. She was one of those stream-of-consciousness talkers whose words disappeared like footprints on the sand once they exited her mouth. ‘Oh, yes, I was talking about Anthony’s clients. It’s an investment syndicate. You have to put in a certain amount of money to buy in, and it’s a lot, so sometimes people go in together. In this case, three chaps sort of clubbed in together to come up with the money. You know what it’s like with that sort of thing, this one wants one thing, and someone else wants another, and then this one is in and that wants out and then someone else changes his mind and it’s on again. I didn’t follow it properly, but the investors were dithering about – they had to all go in, the three of them, for the minimum stake, and they finally signed, but then someone said they weren’t sure and they wanted to cancel. Imagine that. Big stress. Because everyone has to be on the same page in a syndicate. And then, two of them suddenly died, just like that. It’s been very stressful and difficult for poor Anthony.’
Clarissa stopped to draw breath, and must have realised how inappropriate that last sentence had sounded, because she said quickly: ‘Not as difficult as for the two men, obviously, or their wives. Those poor widows. I mean, poor old ducks, I can’t even imagine.’ She gave a shiver. ‘But still, poor Anthony, he’s got to sort it all out, and people can be very tricky when they’re grieving, quite unreasonable, as Anthony says. And you know what old ladies can be like when they get their feathers ruffled – no offence.’
Julia didn’t let on to the prickle of offence that she did in fact feel on behalf of ‘old ladies’ everywhere. Clarissa rambled on, ‘And there’s the kitchen to pay for, to say nothing of deciding on the taps and the paint colours, which obviously he’s not in theheadspace to discuss right now, and he’s half here and half at his place.’ She stopped, and her face brightened as if a great idea had struck her. ‘Wouldyoulike to see the paint colours?’
‘Me? Oh, well, I’m not much of an expert on that sort of thing, but…Yes, of course, I’d be happy to have a look.’
Clarissa looked delighted. She got to her feet and bounded over to a drawer, from which she removed a fat folder. Plonking it down on the table between them, she pulled out a picture torn from a magazine. ‘I was thinking of something like this.’ She pushed it across the table to Julia, who studied the kitchen in the picture. It looked beautiful, and spotless. Julia had a horrible flashback to the incident with the Perfect Paw Washer. Whoever ownedthiskitchen didn’t appear to have a lunatic wet Labrador. In fact, the only living thing in the picture of the kitchen was a spider plant. Unless you counted the contents of the fruit bowl, which were three perfect lemons. Did a lemon count as a living thing, Julia wondered?
Clarissa picked up a clutch of paint swatches. ‘But with the walls more of a teal colour, lighter than in the picture, more like this one. Imagine that.’
Julia was starting to wonder if there was anything that Clarissa didn’t want her to imagine.
Clarissa spread the little rectangles of coloured paper into a fan with her thumb, identified the correct one, and held it out. ‘It’s called Singing the Blue. Don’t they have funny names? There’s one called Donkey Breath – can’t say I fancy it. So do you like the teal? There’s also this dark grey, Scandinavian Storm, it’s called. It’s very fashionable at the moment, and it’s smart, but I like light and I worry it might be gloomy…What do you think?’
Julia gave the colours her full attention, and gave Clarissa her considered opinion – brighter was better in a kitchen, especially in winter, and the teal was lovely, but she wouldn’t useit on every wall. They were getting on so easily that she felt she could slip in a question: ‘So, how were the widows being tricky?’
‘Oh, I don’t mean to be unkind about your neighbour. I’m sure she’s had an awful time, and I don’t know the full story. I only know that they wanted to take the money back, which put Anthony into a proper mood, I can tell you.’
Julia worked slowly through samples for window blinds, and, without raising her head, said casually, ‘That does sound tricky. What’s he going to do about it?’
‘Oh, he can’t give the money back, obviously, even if he wanted to. There’s contracts and everything, but it’s all complicated. Anyway, it looks like the other investor, the not-dead one, obviously, is keen to stay in and make lots of money. All three – the widows who’ve inherited their husbands’ investments, as well as the not-dead chap – need to agree for them to leave, so if he wants to stay in, they’ll all stay in. It looks like the drama will all blow over, and then maybe Anthony can look at the paint samples.’
Clarissa flicked through the colour swatches with a rhythmic, contemplative air, like someone shuffling cards. She put them down on the table, leaned towards Julia and said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Now, you might think I’m mad, but I think I can trust you not to freak out when I tell you…’
Julia felt a prickle of anticipation.
‘Just between you and me, I’ve been thinking…’
What could Clarissa’s revelation be? And what light might it shed on the murders?
Clarissa leaned forward and said under her breath, ‘Yellow.’
‘What?’ Julia asked, confused.
‘You hate it? You’re probably right. It’s very eighties. Forget I said anything about yellow. Teal. Teal it is.’
26
Julia dropped off the rest of the jars of honey at houses nearby. Berrywick being what it was, she was invited in for tea at two of the three stops – the third was a harassed-looking young mum with a baby on her hip and a toddler pulling on her skirt, so who could blame her for not offering tea? Julia didn’t take up any of the offers of hospitality, but made her rounds quickly and efficiently without going in for even a glass of water. She had much on her mind. As well as puzzling over the rather disjointed revelations from Clarissa, she was deciding what pudding to make to take Sean’s that evening. Apple crumble would be nice. Sean loved a crumble, and someone on the road had given all the neighbours a bag of apples each. Yes, that’s what she’d make, apple crumble.
It was only when she got home, and saw a book,Pop Songs for Guitar, on the table by the front door, that she remembered the other – non-bee-related – delivery she had to make that day. Diane had come across the book on Friday while she was sorting through stock in the storeroom to replenish the shelves at Second Chances.
‘It must be his. Look!’ she had said, pointing to the name,KEN, written in blue ink on the inside of the front cover, whichwas yellow with age. Each letter in the name was fat and rounded to look three-dimensional – bubble writing, it was called, and an enduring classic amongst teens. ‘It must have been donated at the same time as the instrument. What a pity I didn’t spot it earlier – we could have given it to him while he was here for the guitar.’
‘Oh, this looks like something precious, we will have to get it back to him,’ said Wilma eagerly. ‘I wonder who would have his number?’
‘I wonder.’ Diane frowned. ‘I’ll ask around. Someone will know.’
‘I know the house, of course,’ said Wilma. ‘He’s staying in his mum’s place, over on Grange Lane. I could go over there.’
