Elizabeth Duncan: A Killer's Christmas in Wales

He casually picked up the invitation to the spa opening, glanced at it, set it down again, and moved on to a figurine of a Siamese cat with a pink bow around its neck. He picked it up, tipped it over, and turned toward Florence, apparently about to say something.

She cleared her throat and fixed him with a steady brown eye. He returned her gaze with a blank, cold stare.

“Sorry.” Saunders grinned sheepishly as he returned the cat with its pointed ears to its mantelpiece home. “So many interesting, lovely things, couldn’t help myself.”

The sound of Mrs. Lloyd descending the stairs broke the awkwardness of the moment, and the two turned toward the doorway as Mrs. Lloyd, hand outstretched to Saunders, sailed through. She was wearing a long-sleeved turquoise dress with fancy pleating across the bodice, which put Florence in mind of some kind of mother-of-the-bride outfit. And something about her posture seemed different. She carried herself very erect, shoulders back in a way that looked stiff and somehow unnatural.

“Evelyn, my dear, how lovely you look,” Saunders said. “Shall I just help you on with your coat and we’ll be off?”

“Did Florence not offer you a drink?” Mrs. Lloyd asked. “Oh, Florence, whatever will Harry think of us? Harry,” she said, turning to him, “do let’s have a drink before we go. Let me see. I’ll bet you’re a whisky man.” She beamed at him. “Florence, why don’t you pour us all a whisky and, Harry, do take your coat off. There’s no rush, is there?”

“Well, our reservation is for seven thirty,” Harry said, pushing up a monogrammed shirtsleeve so he could consult his watch. “Still, I guess we have plenty of time. We’ll call for a taxi after we’ve finished our drinks. Oh, just a ginger ale for me, please, if you’ve got one.”

Florence walked over to the drinks table and poured two glasses of whisky and a ginger ale. With a glance at Harry, she abruptly left the room and returned a few moments later with a few ice cubes in a small cut-glass bowl.

“As you’re an American, I expect you take yours with ice,” she said curtly. He nodded and she added a few cubes to one of the glasses.

“Well, cheers, everyone,” said Mrs. Lloyd, raising her glass.

“Here’s to a very special evening,” added Saunders. Mrs. Lloyd smiled at him, then gestured to the other two that they should sit down.

“Now, then, Mr. Saunders,” said Florence, leaning forward with her arms resting on her knees, holding her glass in two hands. “Why don’t you tell us a bit about the part of America you call home.”

Saunders took a sip of his drink. “I come from sunny Palm Beach.”

“Palm Beach,” repeated Mrs. Lloyd. “I forget now. Is that in California? Sounds as if it should be.” She smiled at Florence. “Sounds so wonderfully exotic, doesn’t it, Florence?”

“Florida, actually,” Harry said. “You may be thinking of Palm Springs. That’s in California.”

“And what did you do in Palm Beach?” Florence continued.

“Well,” said Harry, meeting Florence’s eyes, “not too much of anything, really. You see, thanks to a trust fund from my mother’s side of the family, I’ve never really had to earn my living, although managing my investments portfolio takes up a lot of my time. So I get to do what I like and what I like to do is keep busy.” He smiled at Mrs. Lloyd. “Like playing bridge, and giving dancing lessons. All just for fun, really.”

He drained the last of his ginger ale and was about to place his empty glass on the table beside him when Florence jumped up and took the tumbler from him.

Saunders cleared his throat. “Now, Evelyn, I really do think we should be off,” he said.

“Yes, all right,” Mrs. Lloyd agreed. “Florence, while I’m getting my coat on, would you mind ringing the taxi? The number’s right there beside the telephone.”

A few minutes later Saunders was holding the front door open for Mrs. Lloyd, and the two disappeared into the night, Mrs. Lloyd leaving a whiff of Shalimar in her fragrant wake. This is bound to end in tears, thought Florence. Good thing I’m here to pick up the pieces.

She returned to the living room with a small tray and collected the glasses. She glanced at the table where Saunders had been about to set his glass and reached into her pocket for the little notebook she used to jot down to-do lists, the names of books she wanted to read, programs coming on the television she didn’t want to miss, and the countless other small details that made up her life.

Coaster, she wrote.

Snug in her best winter coat with its black mink collar, Mrs. Lloyd settled herself comfortably in the backseat of the taxi, holding her handbag with both hands on her lap. She turned slightly toward Saunders and felt a small frisson of excitement as their knees touched. Saunders smiled at her and gave her hand a friendly pat. They rode the short distance to the restaurant in silence, and as the taxi pulled up in front of the Red Dragon Hotel, Saunders withdrew a slim billfold from his pocket.

He took out a bill, folded it in half, and leaning forward, passed it to the driver.

“Here’s a twenty, driver,” he said, with a subtle emphasis on the twenty. “Keep the change.” Turning to Mrs. Lloyd, he told her to stay where she was and that he’d get the door for her. As she shifted toward the passenger door, Saunders leaned forward to adjust his coat and, as he did so, wedged the cheap, now-empty wallet between the seat and the side of the vehicle. He opened his door, walked around behind the car, opened Mrs. Lloyd’s door and, offering her his arm, helped her alight.

The driver smiled to himself as he watched this display of old-fashioned gallantry, then drove off. At the next streetlight he slowed and unfolded the ten-pound note Saunders had given him. It barely covered the fare.

“Tosser,” he muttered under his breath.

After hanging up their coats, Saunders and Mrs. Lloyd entered the welcoming, cozy warmth of the hotel dining room. Mrs. Lloyd had had lunch there many times and the restaurant staff nodded to her as the couple crossed the heavily patterned, carpeted floor to a table under one of the tall windows. In daylight, the window tables offered a clear view past the car park to the new Llanelen Spa beside the River Conwy.

Harry pulled out a chair for Mrs. Lloyd and, when she was seated, gently pushed it back into the table. As he took his place across from her, she looked eagerly around the room, hoping that someone she knew would be there to see her being taken out for dinner on a Saturday evening by a gentleman with such good manners. When she didn’t see anyone she knew, she turned her attention to the large menu that the waiter had placed in front of her.

“Hmm. Not sure what I feel like this evening, but I think I’ll have the melon as a starter and then I might have…” She raised her eyes to Harry and was taken aback by the way he was gazing at her.

“Whatever is it?” she asked.

“I was just thinking how lovely you look tonight,” he said. “Is that a new dress? The colour is very becoming on you.”

Mrs. Lloyd laughed and shook her head.

“New? No, I’ve had this old thing for ages!”

Florence Semble had spent many Saturday nights alone in a cramped, cold Liverpool bedsit, so she was not the least bit unhappy at having been left home alone in Mrs. Lloyd’s spacious, warm home. After eating a poached egg on toast for her supper, she tidied up the kitchen she was starting to think of as hers. Then, after browsing the television listings in the Radio Times, she sank into a comfortable chair, put her feet up, and with a cup of tea on the small table beside her, settled in to watch a variety show. She enjoyed the dancing well enough, although the costumes were a little on the skimpy side. But after listening to the wailings of two young singers she’d never heard of and thought remarkably talentless, she began to get restless, and when a comedian came on, telling off-colour jokes, not in a saucy, humorous way, but in a manner Florence thought vulgar and obvious, she gave up.