Free Expose! by Hannah Dennison

his cheek, cooing, “You’re a devil, you are!” It was absolutely horrible but luckily short-lived.
    “I’ll be off, Millie.” Mr. Evans drained his cup and got to his feet. “Have you got it?”
    Mrs. Evans handed her husband a large plastic bag filled with lettuce and shooed him out the back door.
    “Lettuce?” I said.
    “For his snails, dear.” She sat down heavily in the chair. “He exhausts me at this time of the year, but I shouldn’t complain.”
    “I didn’t realize he was a snail fan.”
    “Not just a fan and a competitor, but this season’s bookie, too!” Mrs. Evans said proudly. “Bullet’s a favorite.”
    “ Bullet? ” Rambo? Seabiscuit? Bullet? I tried not to giggle.
    “Oh, yes . Lenny’s pride and joy. He’s in with a real chance this season. More cake?”
    I nodded. It was delicious. “Of course, he’s got a few youngsters in training. They’re all in that garden shed. I’m sure he’d love to show you his boys.”
    The garden shed! Ever since I’d moved into chez Evans I’d puzzled over what he did in there day in, day out. Now I knew.
    “Lenny isn’t an easy man to be married to,” Mrs. Evans chattered on. “But for the next three months, he’s almost human and of course, with Sammy Larch dead, he’s in very good spirits.”
    “I’d heard Sammy Larch wasn’t very popular,” I said, recalling the jubilation and festive atmosphere in Albert Square on the day he was buried.
    “Dreadful man. Rich as Croesus, but they lived in squalor. That poor Olive . . .” She shook her head. “Treated her like a slave, he did. She practically froze to death last winter when we had that cold snap.”
    “She does seem very frail,” I said.
    “Her father didn’t believe in central heating unless it was for his snails. Lenny told me there was no expense spared especially when it came to Seabiscuit.”
    “I heard Mr. Fleming was racing him this season.”
    “No!” Mrs. Evans sat back in her chair with her arms folded. “Lenny is not going to be happy about that.”
    “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the Flemings.” I took a sip of tea. “Did you know that Scarlett Fleming died?”
    “Scarlett Fleming? Dead? ” Mrs. Evans jaw dropped so low her dentures almost fell out. “ No! When?”
    “Last Sunday. She had a car accident in Spain.”
    “Spain? Spain? ” Mrs. Evans cried. “How can she afford to go to Spain?”
    I shrugged. “She was going on a yoga retreat.”
    “Yoga? Another of her fads that wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.” Mrs. Evans’s eyes flashed with fury. “Well, that’s very nice isn’t it? She tells me they can’t afford to pay me anymore and then clears off on some fancy holiday to Spain.”
    “Perhaps she’d already paid for her holiday ahead of time?” I suggested.
    “I’ve never known anyone live so high on the hog.” Mrs. Evans seethed on. “That new Range Rover cost a bomb, and of course she wouldn’t let anyone else drive it. Not even Mr. Fleming.”
    “When were you asked to leave?”
    “Last Wednesday. I’ve cleaned Headcellars ever since my Sadie was five years old. Scarlett used to bake butterfly cakes just because they were Sadie’s favorite,” she said, adding in a hard voice. “It was a horrible house. Haunted, you know. And what’s more, I left my best ostrich feather duster with the mahogany handle in the upstairs guest bedroom. When I went back on the Thursday morning to get it, they’d changed the locks! Imagine!”
    “Really!” This came as no surprise. Mrs. Evans’s clients always changed the locks when she left. No doubt Douglas Fleming had caught her snooping and they’d tactfully decided to get rid of her by pretending they were economizing.
    “The reverend isn’t back until next Tuesday,” Mrs. Evans said. “They’ll have to wait for the burial. It’ll be a big flashy do, money or no money, you mark my words.”
    “Actually, she was buried at St. Peter’s this morning,” I said.