Free Expose! by Hannah Dennison Page A

“Douglas Fleming hired some cut-price freelance funeral service called Go-Go Gothic.”
    “No!” Mrs. Evans shook her head with disbelief. “That’ll put the cat amongst the pigeons. Those old biddies from the Women’s Institute aren’t going to be happy, and what about her relative from Atlanta?”
    “I didn’t know she had family.” Douglas Fleming certainly hadn’t mentioned it. Taking out my notebook I scribbled down, Relative. Atlanta. “I’m writing the obit. What was their marriage like?”
    “Scarlett definitely wore the trousers,” Mrs. Evans declared. “She bossed him around, but he liked it. They seemed happy enough, though she was always complaining that they didn’t have enough money—but who does in this day and age?”
    “I hear they did a lot of amateur dramatics.”
    “That’s right. You should have seen them in Antony and Cleopatra ,” said Mrs. Evans. “They were just like Lawrence Olivier and Vivien Leigh. The death scene with the asp was very realistic. One of Barry Fir’s kids loaned them his mechanical snake.”
    Mrs. Evans got to her feet and gave an almighty yawn. “Well, I think I’m going to nip upstairs for a quick nap. I take it you’ll be home for liver and onions tonight?”
    “Sorry. I’ve actually got plans.”
    “A date?” Mrs. Evans cried. “Is that why your eyes are all made up?”
    “No. It’s work.” Even if I had a date I’d never tell her, though it was gratifying to know that Annabel’s makeup skills had been noticed.
    Upstairs in my bedroom, I changed into a clean pair of jeans and long-sleeved sweatshirt. Mrs. Evans’s insights on the Fleming marriage had only thrown up more questions.
    It was highly likely that Scarlett Fleming had a hefty life insurance policy that Douglas Fleming now stood to inherit. Wasn’t murdering for money one of the oldest motives in the books?
    I left a third message on Neil Titley’s answering machine, but this time, I mentioned I wanted to write a day-in-the-life of a limo driver for the newspaper, which sounded innocent enough—and true. Wilf wanted the lowdown on these blokes and he was going to get it.
    Thoughts of Titley brought me back to Eunice’s coincidental arrival at St. Peter’s and the evening ahead.
    If Eunice had made that phone call, why would she ask me to go to the church?
    As I headed for Dairy Cottage, I resolved to get the truth out of her—one way or another.

9

    Eunice was not coping very well in the kitchen. < Dressed in a floral apron, splattered with what looked like most of the tomato coulis, her face was bright red. Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead. The room was stiflingly hot and there was the most ghastly smell of overcooked fish.
    “I’ve brought you a box of Black Magic chocolates,” I said, giving her my best smile.
    “Don’t give them to me now!” Eunice shrieked, brandishing a spatula. “Can’t you see I’m cooking? Mary! Mary! Come here, quickly ! Our guest has arrived!”
    Smoke started to billow from the Aga. Eunice gave a cry of dismay as it rapidly filled the kitchen.
    “I’ll open a window,” I said, flinging the nearest one wide. As the air slowly began to clear, the sepulchral form of Eunice’s sister-in-law, Mary Berry, clutching a wrench, drifted toward me. I noted she had a smudge of grease on her forehead and wore a housecoat over a calf-length, black evening dress.
    “It’s dreadful in here,” she said grimly. “If we don’t die of suffocation, we’ll die of food poisoning.”
    Mrs. Berry peered at the chocolates, muttered, “Eunice hates Black Magic,” and slunk back to the pine kitchen table, which I now saw was strewn with several pieces of farm machinery.
    I stood in the midst of chaos. Dirty pots and pans were scattered haphazardly over every available countertop. Five live chickens huddled under a small desk along with stacks of old newspapers. Laundry was piled in a heap in the corner next to a rusty, dilapidated washing