Page 31 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
“No worries. Come on in.”
I led her through to the living room, where she gave Phil a suspicious look. He’d stood up to greet her, which Arthur must’ve been well chuffed about. Not. I was relieved to see my beloved’s trousers were still intact, which boded well for what was inside them. Hey, I’ve got my priorities.
“Oh. The fiancé,” Vi said flatly. “He’s not staying, is he?”
My hackles were getting a proper workout this evening—up and down more times than a porn star’s arse. Just to annoy Vi, I put an arm round Phil’s waist and gazed up at him adoringly, sort of like Julian after Gary’s just given him a doggy treat. “Oh, me and Phil don’t have any secrets.”
Vi looked like she was about to gag. “God, gay couples are the worst. Look, this has to be confidential, all right? I don’t want any of it getting back to Daddy.”
“Any of what?”
“Tell you what,” Phil butted in. “You two sit down. I’ll go make some drinks. Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”
“Coffee, I suppose, since I’m driving,” Vi said regretfully. She watched him go with a look of approval. Well, he did look pretty damn hot in those jeans.
We sat down, her at one end of the sofa and me at the other. Arthur plodded up to give her a sniff, but she ignored him.
“Not a cat person?” I asked, pulling him onto my lap. He showed his gratitude by digging his claws into my legs, then settled down to be pampered.
“No.” She shrugged, suddenly seeming more human. “Don’t really know what to do with them. We always had dogs. Well, until Amelia barged in and pretended she was allergic, and we had to put Lady and Sebby into kennels. We could have them home again now,” she added, brightening as if it’d only just occurred to her. Then she coloured. “I suppose you think I’m heartless, but she really was an utter bloody bitch.”
I took it she was talking about her stepmum, not Lady. “Uh, well, grief’s a funny thing,” I said noncommittally. “So what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I want to know what you were looking for,” she said, leaning forward. “Not at the fayre. In my bedroom. She told you I stole something, I bet she did. What was it?”
“Uh . . .” Thankfully Phil got back at that moment with the drinks, which gave me a moment to think.
See, I was pretty sure Dave Southgate wouldn’t look too kindly on me spreading the gossip about a certain diamond necklace. Then again, whoever was investigating the murder must have been asking about it, mustn’t they? First up, you’d show it to the next of kin—suitably cleaned up and all that. I hope. Do you recognise this necklace? That sort of thing.
It couldn’t be a coincidence Vi had turned up here desperate for a chin-wag the day after I spoke to Dave.
“Jewellery,” I said, looking at her carefully.
She coloured again. “It was that bloody necklace, wasn’t it?”
Phil coughed. “Which necklace?”
Vi turned on him. “Oh, don’t be such a dick. If you and he really don’t have any secrets, which I seriously bloody well doubt, but anyway, then you know perfectly well which one. Pink diamond. Gold. Found on my stepmother’s body. Ringing any bells yet?”
That was interesting. On the body, not in it. Was that just her being imprecise, or were the police keeping shtum about that little detail in the hopes someone would incriminate themselves? “Maybe,” I answered, as she’d turned back to me.
Vi grabbed her phone out of the designer handbag, thumbed through some photos, and thrust it under my nose. “This one.”
It was round the neck of a lady of, well, I’d guess exactly Vi’s mum’s age, judging by the family resemblance and the shared taste for silky tops, although the first Mrs. Majors clearly didn’t agree that pastels were for pushovers. What surprised me the most was the way the necklace looked. Not exactly my area, bling isn’t, but I’d been expecting something, I dunno, more elaborate? This was just one big—but not that big—pink stone, cut into a heart shape and surrounded by little white diamonds—probably, although for all I knew they could have been glass—hung on a delicate gold chain. It looked like the sort of thing little girls went for, all shiny and sparkly. It didn’t look real, or valuable, or even that expensive.
Then again, if that stone in the middle was real, it ought to be worth a small country. Not surprising Amelia had wanted to get her hands on the thing. I pictured it hanging around her neck. Then I pictured it shoved down her delicate little throat and shuddered.
“Classy lady, your mum,” I said, handing the phone to Phil so he could have a proper butcher’s.
Vi looked a bit startled. “Yes. She was.”
She said it with a quiet sincerity that convinced me that yeah, she’d grieved for her real mum, all right. Course, it wasn’t necessarily because she was her real, as in birth, mum. Maybe if Amelia had married Alex a lot earlier and been the one to bring Vi up, she’d have grieved for her, blood relative or no?
Maybe I was just trying a bit too hard to see the parallels between Vi’s situation and mine.
“How long ago did you lose her?” Phil asked, handing back the phone.
“Three years now.” She stared down at her hands, which were turning the phone over and over in her lap. “Daddy met Amelia last summer. Everyone called it a whirlwind romance when they got engaged a month later and married on St. Valentine’s Day this year. I call it her making sure she got her claws into him as quickly as she could.”
