Elizabeth Duncan - A Killer's Christmas in Wales

Mrs. Lloyd selected a rich, deep burgundy polish that she said would go nicely with a smart jacket she had recently bought.

“It’s in the Chanel style, you might say. And with my pearls, it should be just right for the bridge game tonight.”

After a moment’s thought, she leaned closer and gave Penny an intent look.

“Would you mind terribly if I asked you a question? What are your thoughts on tights?”

“Tights?”

Victoria looked up from her computer where she had been entering numbers into a spreadsheet.

“Yes, tights. She read in a magazine that they’re considered outdated and aging. She wondered if that was just true for young women or for everyone. She wonders if she should stop wearing them but wonders if it would look strange for a woman her age to go about with bare legs.”

“Oh, Lord.” Victoria laughed. “It doesn’t bear thinking about. Not in this weather, anyway.” After a moment she added, “I still wear them. Do you?”

“I do. I can’t stand the way my feet feel in shoes without socks or stockings. But I know that young women don’t wear them. I really don’t know what the rule is for older women or where the cutoff point is.”

“Well, anyway,” said Victoria, pressing a button on the computer and then sitting back with her arms folded, “the good news is that we’re still within budget on the renovation-just-and they tell me the work will be done on time. How did you get on with Gwennie?”

“Oh really well,” Penny replied. “She’s happy to do the food for the opening and she’ll take care of the other things, too, like tablecloths and plates and cutlery. I’ve given her the guest list so she knows how many are coming and I ordered the flowers.”

“And the wine?”

“Right, that’s done, too. Oh, and Mrs. Lloyd is having a little get-together a couple of days before our event, so it’s shaping up to be a busy holiday season.”

“It’ll be fun, though. I love Christmas. Such a happy time of year. Peace on earth and all that.”

“And this year, it might be a white one. They’re predicting snow and lots of it this winter.”

In Llandudno, at the North Wales Police station, Sergeant Bethan Morgan looked up as her supervisor, Detective Chief Inspector Gareth Davies, carrying a small, sickly looking plant, passed by her desk on the way to his office.

“Afternoon, sir.”

“Afternoon, Sergeant. Thanks for holding the fort. The meeting with the district commissioner went on longer than I thought it would.” He gestured at the plant. “Rescued this poor thing from his office. So what’s been happening today?”

“It all seems pretty quiet. There’s just one thing. Been some thefts reported in Llanelen.”

Davies set the plant on her desk and waited.

“I’ve had a call from one of the charity shops. Apparently a few small items have gone missing and the woman who runs it thinks there’s a shoplifter on the loose.”

She glanced down at the notebook beside the telephone and pointed her pencil at it.

“Funny stuff. Odds and ends. Let’s see.” She picked up the notebook and, after a quick look at Davies to make sure he was listening, read from a short list. “A biography of John Lennon. A serving plate with a daffodil pattern in the centre. A couple of packets of blank note cards. A wooly sheep with horns. A figurine of a shepherdess, complete with crook and lamb.”

She set down the notebook.

“The woman said there may be more items, but they don’t have a bar code kind of inventory system, naturally, so it’s difficult for her to know.”

“Did you ask her if another shop assistant could have sold any of these items?”

Morgan gave him a withering look.

He held up a hand. “Yes, of course you did,” he said good-naturedly. “How did she come to notice the things were missing?’

“She said that someone wanted the John Lennon book for her grandson but didn’t have much cash on her. The shop doesn’t do debit or take credit cards, so the woman said she’d go to the bank and do a bit more shopping and then stop back later. The charity shop woman said when the customer returned in the afternoon the book was gone, but she hadn’t sold it to anyone. They looked all through the books in case someone had moved it, but it wasn’t there.” Bethan took a sip of her coffee. “She felt bad that she hadn’t put the book aside for the customer.”

“Anybody unusual or suspicious in the store that day?”

“No, just the usual townsfolk. Some dropping off donations, others browsing. A few sales. But nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Well, I don’t know there’s much we can do at this point, but we’ll keep an eye on the situation and see if any more reports come in.” He picked up the plant and seemed about to move on.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am it wasn’t ladies’ knickers disappearing from clotheslines.” He gave a little shudder. “For a moment there when you said things have been disappearing… Haven’t had one of those cases in years and don’t want one, either.”

“Well, not too likely, sir. People don’t dry clothes outside much anymore and anyway, it’s winter.”

“People used to hang their laundry out to dry all year round,” Davies said. “When I was a lad, my mother used to hang out the wash in the winter and it would freeze on the line. Then she’d bring it all back in the house, frozen stiff, and hang it all up again inside. I could never understand the point of hanging it out.”

He smiled at her. “The good old days. You won’t remember them. You weren’t born yet.”

The dancing class was proving more popular than Harry Saunders had hoped. Instead of the numbers dropping off, they increased and the next week, as word got round, a few more couples showed up. Mrs. Lloyd, who was starting to fantasize about being Harry’s partner in bridge, in dancing, and hopefully, in the not too distant future, in life, was over the moon.

“I told you the dancing lessons would be a great success,” she remarked to Florence on the morning of their open house.

“Yes, Evelyn, you did and you were right, as usual,” Florence replied as she polished a glass.

“Now, have we got everything we need for this afternoon?”

“Yes, it’s all set. I’ve just a few more things to put out. Leave it to me and you get along to church. You don’t want to be late.”

Mrs. Lloyd, now looking a few pounds slimmer, gave an airy wave and disappeared into the hall. Florence heard her rustling about in the cupboard, and a few minutes later, the front door was pulled shut behind her.

Florence plumped a few pillows and then, noticing a few envelopes on Mrs. Lloyd’s desk, opened the top drawer and slid them inside. She then turned her attention to the dining room and, after straightening a row of forks, gave the table one last approving nod. Mrs. Lloyd’s benefactor, the aunt of her late husband, would have thought the table magnificent. Her fine old china, a pattern featuring fruit on a cobalt blue background, had been washed and neatly arranged on a crisply ironed linen cloth. Gleaming silverware flanked a centrepiece of silver candelabra with space in the middle for a floral arrangement of festive red carnations. A plaid table runner gave everything a seasonal look.

Florence had set out small glasses for sherry and larger ones for wine. She was determined that her spread would be at least as good as the one at the spa opening and knew that because many of their guests would be going to both events, comparisons would be inevitable. In the kitchen, she opened the fridge door and peered inside. The large cheese tray she had prepared last night, tightly covered in cling film, a fruit tray, small quiches, packets of smoked salmon waiting to be opened, sliced lemons for garnish, and more awaited their guests.