Chapter 4
An hour later, after dropping Sonia off at the office and – thank Jesus – depositing a hysterical Odette at her doorstep, Nigella and I were having a G parched brown grass and droopy flowers abounded.
“So, you shagged Simon on that filthy carpet in your living room?”
“It’s clean!” I said, protesting.
“Fine. Not filthy. Threadbare.”
“It wasn’t planned.”
“No,” she said, and sipped her drink. “Your conquests never are. I’m beginning to see the pattern.”
“Rude.”
“And he won’t tell Riz? Gosh, even Matteo and I didn’t start on that bad a foot when we got married.”
I cocked my head. “Problem? Where is the mister, anyway?”
“Milan. As always. Mamma clicked her fingers and off he flew. Some minor manufacturing hiccup that a middle manager could have fixed in two hours, but off Matteo went. Even though he made all sorts of promises to help Guy with his campaign, and not to mention help with the boys.”
“Oh, Gella, I’m sorry.”
“Ah!” She waved it away. “Marriage. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”
The doorbell dinged from the other side of the house. “That’s good timing. I have a surprise for you.”
“Noooo,” I whined. “I’ve already had surprises today. No more until next year.”
“It’s a good surprise. It’s the woman who bought the Sweet’s house. She moved in a couple of weeks ago. You’ll like her. I was thinking about inviting her to the book club. I lent her some bits on local history and promised some of my back catalogue of Which? magazine.”
I reluctantly got up, followed Nigella inside, and waited in her oversized extension. Her kitchen was so painfully chic I felt like I was taking money off the asking price of her house just by being there.
“Come in, come in!” I heard her say.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” the woman said as she followed Nigella back into the house.
“Not at all. Arden, this is Katrina Pettigrew, Lilbury’s newest resident. Katrina, this is Arden. Local gadabout and whoremonger,” Nigella said before I could say anything. I proffered a hand – glaring at Nigella – which Katrina took briefly.
Katrina laughed. She was a well-kempt woman of sixty-ish with short, light blond hair that was being kept from grey by expensive dye jobs.
Her clothes and subtle jewellery spoke of money.
Also, she’d bought Arabella’s old house, which would’ve cost a bomb.
“Nice to meet you,” she said with a light burr.
“Ah, another Scot?” I asked. Just what my day needed.
“Is there more of us here? Oh, that bloke from Aberdeen you introduced me to in the pub, aye?” Katrina said to Nigella.
“Yes, Simon. Who is, we’ve found out today, about to be off the market, possibly to our next MP,” she said.
Katrina took this information in. She showed a similar reaction of pretending to care that I would expect anyone to have. “Wow, quite the bunch of movers and shakers in Lilbury, aren’t you? Gosh, I’ll have to up my game if I want to fit in.”
There was a small pause in the conversation, so I jumped in. “And what brought you to Lilbury, Katrina? Is it just you?”
“Yes, my husband died last year. Stomach cancer.”
“Oh.”
“So, I sold up and moved away for a fresh start.”
I didn’t really know what to say to that. Nigella did, though. “Arden’s pretty new here as well. He moved to the village because he found his ex-boyfriend screwing an intern in their bed.”
“He’s Scottish too,” I said. “The ex. Not the intern.”
Katrina didn’t blink at this. “Right. Right, okay. So, Lilbury attracts all sorts, then?”
Nigella was about to say something when the sounds of sirens outside distracted us all. “God, those are loud,” she said. The three of us went out to the street where we saw a police car following an ambulance, both belting towards the church.
“Goodness, what’s going on?” Katrina asked. Most people had come out of their houses.
An elderly woman stumbled down the street wiping away tears. She was being half-led, half-carried by the local shopkeeper, Roz.
“Mrs Crocker?” Nigella called out. “What on earth has happened?”
Roz shook her head and answered for her as the three of us gaped. “Gella, it’s awful, poor Delia here is terribly shook up. I’m taking her back to mine to wait for the police.”
“What’s happened?” Nigella called out again this time with a lot more panic in her voice.
“The vicar,” Delia Crocker said in a strong Dorset accent. “It’s the vicar, Mr Fulford. He’s … he’s dead.”