Elizabeth Duncan: A Killer's Christmas in Wales

“You know, Eirlys,” she said happily, “you always get the temperature of my soaking solution just right. With Penny, it’s so hot she must think my fingers are made of asbestos.”

“Hmm,” murmured Eirlys. “I’m glad it’s okay for you.” She glanced at the shelf of bright nail varnishes. “Have a little soak and while you’re doing that, I’ll just fetch two or three bottles for you to choose from.”

She walked over to the selection of nail polishes, and after a few moments pulled one, then two more. She returned to the treatment table and set them down. Mrs. Lloyd looked from one to the other, and then nodded at the one in the middle.

“That one looks nice; I’ll have it. Turn it over and let me see what it’s called.”

She squinted at the label and then smiled.

“Chicago Champagne Toast!” She shook her head. “Well, it’ll look nice for the bridge game tonight.” Her smile faded. “If there is one, that is. I’ll have to ring to find out. With these cold temperatures, all that rain we’ve had is freezing. When you get to my age, Eirlys, you can’t be too careful.” She peered over to admire the young manicurist’s work.

“Such a nice job you do choosing the colours for me, Eirlys love,” she said. “You know exactly what I like. What did you say the name of this polish is?”

Eirlys repeated it.

“I wonder. That gentleman I just met out there in the square. Harry Saunders, did he say his name is? From his accent, do you think he’s an American?”

“He might be. He sounded a bit like Penny, but she’s a Canadian.” Eirlys lowered her voice. “I find it really hard to spot the differences in those North American accents. They all sound the same to me.” She shrugged. “We don’t get too many Americans or Canadians, either, round here this time of year.”

“That’s true,” Mrs. Lloyd agreed. “Not like in the summer.” A comfortable silence fell between them as Eirlys applied two coats of polish and then a top coat. Mrs. Lloyd watched her intently, the way she always did, and then allowed her gaze to wander to the window.

“Do you want to sit for a few moments to give your nails a chance to dry?” Eirlys asked when she had finished. “We have some new magazines you can look at, if you’re careful.”

Mrs. Lloyd shook her head and stood up.

“I think I’d just like to be on my way, if you’ll bring me my shopping bag. But before I go, I need a word with Penny. I’ve just remembered something I need to tell her. Be a love, will you, Eirlys, and ask her to come here.”

A few minutes later Penny appeared.

“Ah, Penny, there you are. Good. Now I was speaking to the deputy lady mayoress herself a day or two ago, and this year they want to do something a little more formal about the Christmas window dressings in the shops and businesses. There’s going to be a proper competition and I suggested that they couldn’t do better than having you and Victoria as the official judges.”

Heading Penny off before she could protest, Mrs. Lloyd held up her hand.

“Now, none of that. I know what you’re going to say. That you’re opening the spa and you’re too busy. But, Penny, my dear, you’ve lived in this community longer than some of us who were born in these parts, like Eirlys here, and you’re one of us now and have been for some time. So with that comes responsibilities and you should be happy that I’ve found this way for you to contribute to the life of our little town.”

“You won’t be taking no for an answer, I guess,” said a deflated Penny.

Mrs. Lloyd smiled at her.

“No, I certainly will not.” She looked at Eirlys, then back to Penny.

“Anyway, you might enjoy it. You have artistic taste and Victoria has a wonderful business sense, so between the two of you, you’ll be perfect for the job.

“All right, Eirlys, let’s be having my coat now, please.”

“You won’t be able to wear your gloves,” Eirlys warned as she held up Mrs. Lloyd’s coat. Eirlys and Penny watched as Mrs. Lloyd threaded her arms carefully down the sleeves, not allowing her tacky nails to touch the lining. Eirlys then handed Mrs. Lloyd her handbag and shopping. “I hope your hands won’t get too cold on the way home.”

“It’s not far,” Mrs. Lloyd assured her. “I’ll be fine.”

“Right, well, we’ll see you next week.”

Penny nodded.

“Mind how you go.”

Mrs. Lloyd set the shopping bag down on the kitchen table and stood by as Florence began rummaging through it.

“Oh, good, I’m glad you remembered the oranges,” she said.

Mrs. Lloyd gave her a sharp look. “Of course I remembered them. There’s nothing wrong with my memory, thank you very much!”

“I didn’t mean that, Evelyn,” Florence replied evenly. “It’s just that, me, I need to make a list or things slip my mind, so you’re doing better than most of us.”

Mrs. Lloyd threw her a dismissive glance, pulled out a chair, sat down heavily, and sighed.

“I do hate these short November days,” she grumbled. “Look at it!” she said, pointing at the pewter grey sky. “Barely gone four and already it’s starting to get dark. So dreary.” She removed her scarf, folded it, set it down on the table, placed her hands on top of it, and admired her fingernails.

“Well, I guess I’d better call Huw to see if the bridge game’s still on for tonight. With these freezing temperatures and the streets so slippery, it may be that some of the players won’t be too keen to venture out.”

“Oh, you’ve just reminded me,” said Florence, reaching into the pocket of her blue-and-white striped apron and pulling out a slip of paper. She glanced at it, then handed it to Mrs. Lloyd.

“Here you go. As I said, me, I have to write everything down or I forget. Sometimes I don’t think I’m as sharp as I used to be. Forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on! I’ve even got a little notebook now for my to-do lists and all the other bits and pieces I don’t want to forget. Anyway, Huw called and said to tell you that one of the members had decided not to go, but the game’s still on because they found a replacement at the last minute. An American. Apparently he used to give bridge lessons on one of those fancy cruise ships, so if you play your cards right, maybe you’ll get him for your partner.”

Mrs. Lloyd cocked her head.

“An American? I think I met an American man this afternoon in the square. I almost took a tumble and he came to my rescue.”

“Then it was lucky he was there.”

“Yes, it was, now that you mention it,” agreed Mrs. Lloyd. “Seemed very friendly.” She glanced at her fingernails. “But Americans do have that reputation for being friendly, don’t they?”

She studied the message and then gingerly reached into her handbag, pulled out a compact and examined her face critically, turning this way and that, holding the little mirror at different angles. She stroked the skin on her neck and sighed. After a few moments she snapped the compact shut.

“Well, Florence, while you’re figuring out what we’re going to have for our tea, I think I’ll go upstairs and lie down for an hour or so. Do you know, I’m that tired. Do my eyes look puffy to you?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “I think a little nap will help. I want to look refreshed this evening.” She headed down the hall toward the stairs, then stopped and turned back to Florence.

“I don’t suppose we have any cucumbers in, do we? They’re meant to help with puffy eyes.”

Florence shook her head as she watched Mrs. Lloyd disappear up the stairs. She turned back to the counter and picked up an orange. Thoughtfully, she began grating the rind into a bowl and soon a zesty citrus aroma rose toward her. She glanced out the window, but the garden was now bathed a dusky darkness.