Page 59 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘I was trying to wind this through the rood screen,’ he explained.
Mabel folded her arms and smiled at Victor. ‘That garland needed replacing anyway. The synthetic fibres are probably full of microplastics.’
‘That garland,’ Margaret hissed, ‘was donated by my late husband’s mother.’
Ivy squeezed Fred’s arm. ‘I’d better intervene before Margaret excommunicates everyone.’
She strode across the flagstone floor, recalling the countless crises she had defused in here – marriage counselling after Sunday service, mediating disputes over flower arrangements, consoling the bereaved in hushed corners. Her step was sure as she walked forward.
That evening Prosecco & Prose throbbed with energy. Twenty women celebrating a hen party, their laughter spilling through the doorway accompanied by jazzy Christmas music. In the stockroom, surrounded by shelves overflowing with books, spare till rolls, boxes of groceries, three women were having a very different night.
Helen pulled out a notebook, its pages filled with scribbled notes and figures. Her voice trembled with excitement as she pounded her fist on a box. ‘Careful,’ shouted Trish, ‘that’s bottles of Prosecco. Don’t want them exploding on us.’
‘Sorry, it’s just I’ve had a breakthrough. Ivy, you won’t believe what I found. I think some of the charity’s UK-based suppliers are being paid twice.’ Helen gave a loud tut. ‘The annoying thing is I can’t get to the bottom of it. My accounting skills aren’t good enough. I may be wrong about this. Ivy, could you have a go?’
Ivy thought back to grappling with the church accounts. There was usually a local accountant who acted as the treasurer, but she understood the basics of a cash book. ‘I’ll try,’ she offered.
‘If we can prove this is going on, it should be enough to force an investigation by the Charity Commission, and that should exonerate Omar,’ said Helen. ‘I’ll email you the documents Hazim sent me,’ she added, already scribbling notes. ‘Fred told me that Omar tried to make a run for it, but you persuaded him to give us until Christmas to try and unravel what’s going on at FF.’
Just over two weeks away, thought Ivy. ‘Doesn’t give us much time,’ she added out loud.
‘Especially as Robby keeps pressing me for an update.’ Helen sighed.
‘Can you put him off?’ asked Ivy.
‘I’ll try but we might need to find Omar a hiding place.’
Ivy’s eyes widened in alarm, ‘No!’
The stockroom door burst open and a woman in a sequinedsash and a blinking tiara staggered in, clutching a half-empty Prosecco bottle. ‘Where’s the blasted loo?’ she slurred, eyes unfocused.
‘Not in here,’ Ivy said, standing up. ‘Out the door, second on the left.’
The woman swayed, then let out a raucous cackle. ‘Whoops, wrong room!’ She swung around, nearly taking out a shelf of coffee beans before stumbling back out into the din of the hen party. The door swung shut behind her, the muffled shrieks and laughter still ringing in their ears. Helen sighed. ‘Right. Where were we?’
‘Suppliers being paid twice,’ Ivy said. ‘Could be an accident? Someone in a hurry? Send me the documents and I’ll see if I can work it out.’
A loud cheer erupted from the café, followed by a burst of off-key singing. Ivy sighed. ‘That’ll be the bride leading another toast. I’d better get back out there before someone starts dancing on the tables.’
Helen smirked. ‘We wouldn’t want that, would we?’
‘Don’t even joke,’ Ivy muttered, already heading for the door. ‘Just keep going. I’ll check in when I can.’
As she stepped back into the café, the party was in full swing: glittery dresses, festive decorations and the unmistakable hum of excitement. She was exhausted, but in a good way.
A bonfire hissed and spat, throwing gold and orange light over Ivy’s garden and carrying the scent of damp leaves and charred wood. Omar had pruned the roses and was now disposing of the debris, crouched by the fire, prodding it with a stick. Ivy folded herself onto a bench nearby, leaning forward and warming her hands over the flames. She looked at the man she was trying so hard to help.
‘Just over two weeks to Christmas,’ she said. ‘Feels strange thisyear.’
He nodded, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. ‘How do you celebrate?’
She gave a short laugh. Last year’s Christmas lunch had been just her, Fred and Trish. The first time she hadn’t presided over a crowded table of parishioners who didn’t have family or friends to spend the special day with. This year would be her second, and she had mixed feelings about the celebration. She preferred a full table. ‘I used to do the full thing. Turkey, crackers, all that.’
He smirked. ‘Crackers are a scam. Paper hat, poor jokes, plastic rubbish inside ... Congratulations, you fooled yourself.’
She laughed, swiping at his shoulder. ‘I feel too worn out to contemplate the upheaval of a Christmas lunch.’ He rocked on his haunches, grinning.
He took a breath, and a thoughtful look crossed his face. ‘I could cook something.’
