Expose! Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  PRAISE FOR A Vicky Hill Exclusive!

  “A dizzy romp with an endearingly gullible investigator and a plot twist on every page.”

  —Ann Purser, author of the Lois Meade Mysteries

  “A Vicky Hill Exclusive! is a smashing debut! Yes, Vicky is more Lucy Ricardo than Christiane Amanpour, but CNN’s loss is Gipping-on-Plym’s gain—and ours. Hannah Dennison writes a delightfully clever mystery with wit and warmth to spare. May the dead bodies abound.”

  —Harley Jane Kozak, award-winning author of

  A Date You Can’t Refuse

  “Hannah Dennison rings up a laugh a page in A Vicky Hill Exclusive!, a racy romp and hilarious debut.”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of Dare to Die

  “Vicky Hill is a delightful heroine who would be right at home in a Jane Austen novel. When author Hannah Dennison plunges her into an Agatha Christie-like plot, she gives readers the best of both worlds.”

  —Linda Palmer, author of the Daytime Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Hannah Dennison

  A VICKY HILL EXCLUSIVE!

  SCOOP!

  EXPOSÉ!

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  EXPOSÉ!

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Hannah Dennison.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without

  permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the

  author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-15183-9

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Dad,

  I hear you in the wind and see you in the stars

  1

  People like to believe that an investigative reporter never sleeps. It certainly seemed the case this morning when my mobile woke me at a ridiculously early hour.

  “Are you Vicky Hill?” a woman said in a low voice.

  “It depends,” I said crossly. It’s not often I dream of the elusively gorgeous Lieutenant Robin Berry but when I do, I resent being woken up at the crucial moment.

  “Don’t you do the funerals?”

  When I mumbled that I did, she said, “You’ve got to get to St. Peter’s. It’s urgent.”

  “Now?” I glanced over at the clock on the nightstand. It was barely six thirty. “You must be mistaken,” I said. “Reverend Whittler is away on holiday and everything is on hold until he gets back.” In fact, Whittler had left strict instructions with Dr. Frost and Coroner Cripps that bodies from any deaths arising whilst he was in Disney World were to be kept in cold storage at Gipping morgue.

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

  “Who is this?” I said.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll phone the other girl—”

  “No. Don’t do that,” I said quickly, knowing full well that the “other girl” could only mean my nemesis and rival, Annabel Lake. “I’m on my way. Hello? Are you still there?”

  The phone was dead. I immediately hit one-four-seven-one only to be told by an infuriating mechanical voice that the “number you have called is not in service.”

  As I dragged on the jeans, sweater, clean underwear, socks, and sneakers I always left folded and ready on the floor next to my bed (childhood memories of nighttime police raids die hard), I wondered who on earth could have died and why I was only finding out about it now.

  Frankly, I was grateful to the mystery woman. In the one hundred and forty-odd years of being in existence, the Gipping Gazette had never once missed sending a reporter to the church to record the names of all the mourners. The thought that I almost broke the tradition was too horrible to bear.

  I hurried down the stairs surprised that my landlady, Mrs. Evans, was not in the kitchen listening to Radio Two. It was unusual for her to sleep in. I was sorely tempted to grab a quick cuppa and slice of toast but the tone of the caller implied it was urgent.

  Donning my helmet and goggles, I set off on my red Yamaha SR125. Within minutes, 4 Factory Terrace was far behind me. I headed north toward Upper Gipping, taking the shortcut through the narrow country lanes flanked by green, luscious hedgerows.

  It was a gloriously sunny May morning. Lambs frolicked in the fields; late-blooming daffodils and primroses sparkled in the early dew. I couldn’t help thinking it was a lovely day for a funeral.

  With practically no traffic at this early
hour—apart from the odd tractor en route to a field—I reached St. Peter’s the Martyr in record time.

  Turning into Church Lane, the twelfth-century gray stone Norman church peeped between the treetops a quarter of a mile farther on. I entered the gravel car park and discovered two cars were parked outside the wooden lych-gate.

  One was a hearse—and an unconventional one at that.

  It was an American Cadillac—the sort seen in old movies from the sixties. Faded black, scalloped curtains hung in the large picture windows. Embellished in gothic-styled lettering on the side panels was GO-GO GOTHIC—OUR PASSENGERS GO ALL THE WAY.

  This hearse certainly didn’t belong to Ripley and Ravish, Gipping-on-Plym’s funeral directors—DUST TO DUST WITH DIGNITY—who owned a very smart fleet of Peugeot DA3’s. Besides, they had taken Whittler’s absence as a chance to close their facilities for refurbishing.

  I’d heard about rogue funeral outfits such as Horizontal Taxis and Hearsedriver.com available on the Internet. Hatch, Match, and Dispatch was a common sight in the less affluent areas of Plymouth, but I never expected to see such a tacky sight in Gipping-on-Plym.

  As I pulled up behind the Cadillac, I was astonished to see a sleek black Audi RS Avant with the registration plate DF 007. I recognized it as belonging to Douglas Fleming, the managing director of Gipping-on-Plym Power Services.

  Thanks to my usual daily dose of funerals, I prided myself on knowing the domestic state of all my readers. Douglas Fleming had been married to Scarlett, an American from Atlanta, for more than forty years. As far as I knew, they had no children or relatives on this side of the Atlantic so the presence of his car at this early hour was most intriguing.

  What’s more, Douglas Fleming came from an old Devonian family and was unlikely to flaunt convention. Besides, Scarlett was as ostentatious as her namesake from Gone With the Wind. Everything she did had to be bigger and better than everyone else. From hiring a team of gardeners so she could win the Best-Garden-of-Gipping prize, to training with a French pastry chef and snagging the Best-Victoria-Sponge trophy at Gipping Church Fete.

  Taking out my Canon Digital Rebel, I ran off a few quick snaps of the American Cadillac both inside and out. The hearse had none of the gleaming brass and burnished wood fixtures that any of the Ripley and Ravish Peugeots boasted. I even spied an empty wine bottle, a half-eaten egg-and-cress sandwich and a copy of Land Ahoy! a well-known guidebook to Plymouth nightlife.

  My curiosity was piqued.

  Passing through the church lych-gate, I took the shortcut diagonally across the cemetery, taking care not to trample on late-blooming daffodils. Within minutes my sneakers were soaked through with early morning dew.

  The churchyard was enormous. I scanned the rows of lichen-covered headstones for any sign of life—no pun intended—and then recalled that the Flemings kept a family vault in the posh part of St. Peter’s.

  Known locally as Albert Square, the private enclosure had been created in the late nineteenth century during Queen Victoria’s reign when Gipping-on-Plym had a thriving wool and textile industry.

  Located in the sheltered southwest corner, Albert Square was enclosed by a beautifully clipped yew hedge and accessed by a six-foot-high, wrought-iron gate flanked by stone angels. The gate stood ajar.

  As I drew closer, I noted paper streamers and dead flowers were woven through the railings. One stone angel even wore a cone-shaped party hat—all remnants from another grand Devon family funeral held a few weeks earlier.

  Ninety-five-year-old Samuel K. Larch’s tragic passing had been a true celebration of an eccentric life—or death—depending on how well you knew him. Everyone from the newspaper was invited to the post-service shindig and we all got plastered on scrumpy and cheap sherry, which was more than I could say for this morning’s sad event.

  It was one of the reasons that I took my job as funeral reporter extremely seriously. Someone had to record a life—however insignificant—for posterity. Someone had to make that life count.

  I pushed open the gate and stepped inside. Albert Square housed four marble tabernacles adorned with winged, trumpeting angels, a pyramid—Sammy Larch’s final resting place—made of granite guarded by two small sphinxes, three identical miniature Greek temples with ornate porticos, and a Gothic chapel choked with brambles behind rusting iron railings. All were crammed into a space not much bigger than Gipping’s village hall and knee-deep in weeds. The place seemed deserted.

  For a horrible moment, I thought I must be in the wrong location until I spotted wheeled track marks—presumably left by some kind of trolley—in the tall grass hugging the yew hedge boundary.

  I set off, surprised to find a further overgrown area tucked away around a corner. Albert Square was more of an L-shape and not a square at all.

  Two figures and a hospital gurney stood next to the entrance of a stone burial vault carved with gargoyles. No doubt, pallbearers were an extra charge.

  I recognized Douglas Fleming immediately. He was smoking a cigarette with a man wearing a Victorian frock coat, pinstripe trousers, and top hat who had his back to me.

  “Morning gents!” I called out and walked over to join them.

  Douglas Fleming saw me, gave a start of surprise, and dropped his cigarette into the tall grass. “Why, it’s Vicky! Goodness,” he said, grinding the butt under his heel. “What a piece of luck. I was going to come and see you later.”

  The Victorian frock-coated gent turned to me and said, “Neil Titley, Esquire. Nice to meet you.”

  “Hello.” I tried hard not to stare at the ghoulish-looking man before me. Kohl pencil-rimmed dark brown eyes with white face powder gave him a deathly pale complexion. His large Roman nose lay slightly bent and flattened as if someone had punched him full in the face and he hadn’t bothered to see a doctor.

  “Allow me to introduce Vicky Hill from our local newspaper,” Douglas Fleming said.

  “Gipping Gazette,” I said, offering my hand.

  “Delighted.” Neil Titley took it in his leather-clad own and held it just a little too long. I caught a whiff of cigarette breath. “Here’s my business card,” he went on, withdrawing a small white card from inside his frock-coat pocket. It was the cheap print-your-own variety, available at any railway station. “Funerals are only one service we offer—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Titley,” Douglas Fleming snatched the card out of his grasp. “Hardly the right time to tout for new business.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Neil Titley did not look sorry. He promptly withdrew another card and pushed it into my hand whispering, “We accept cash only. No credit cards. Tell your friends and I’ll give them a good price.”

  “Good-bye,” Douglas Fleming said coldly.

  “Good day to you both.” Neil Titley touched his top hat and, with practiced skill, collapsed the gurney with a snap. “May your poor wife rest in peace.”

  “Your wife? Goodness. I am sorry!” I was stunned. I’d seen Scarlett Fleming only two weeks ago picking up first prize for Gipping’s Bottled Jam Boil-Off. She’d been in rude health judging by the fight she picked with Mayor Rawlings after her preserves had been initially placed third.

  “Was it an accident?” I said gently.

  Douglas Fleming’s eyes filled with tears. “It happened so quickly. One moment she was alive and the next . . .” He shook his head with despair. “I just can’t believe it.”

  Nor could I.

  Something wasn’t right. Pete Chambers, our chief reporter, had a hotline to Gipping Police Station, Fire Station, and morgue for accidents and fatalities. We also had informers dotted around Devon eager to earn fifteen pounds for any gossip worth printing.

  Given Douglas Fleming’s stature in the community, it was astonishing that this tragedy might have passed by unnoticed had it not been for that mystery phone call this morning. It also occurred to me that whoever made that call was not here, either.

  “I’ve written a short paragraph for your newspaper,” said Douglas Fleming.
“I know there will be some people who won’t be happy that we didn’t have a big bash, but”—He wiped away a tear—“this is exactly what Scarlett wanted—a quiet funeral with no fuss.”

  “Of course,” I said, thinking a lot of Gipping church goers would feel incensed about being cheated out of a slap-up meal especially since Scarlett Fleming was regarded as a local celebrity.

  “My Scarlett led a very simple life,” Douglas Fleming went on. “She didn’t like to draw attention to herself.”

  I stifled a snort of disbelief. Were we talking about the same person? My landlady, Mrs. Evans, ran a cleaning business called Doing-it-Daily and counted the Flemings as one of her clients. She always enjoyed gossiping about Scarlett’s glamorous lifestyle. The twice-weekly manicures in Plymouth to keep her acrylic nails in peak condition, the private yoga classes with a trainer rumored to have worked in Los Angeles, and her brand-new Range Rover Vogue SE with the personalized number plate, SCLTT.

  “Scarlett always said that if she died before me”—Fleming swallowed hard—“ a quickie burial was her only request. Even her coffin is plain. Would you like to see it?” He withdrew a heavy ornate key from his pocket. “I can unlock the vault.”

  “No thanks.” I studied Douglas Fleming’s expression. His face was etched with grief. This was not the time to question him further about the gory details. He was obviously still in shock.

  “Perhaps I should come to your house this afternoon?” This would give me a chance to ring emergency services and get the real scoop on Scarlett Fleming.

  “I’m going to the office,” he said. “Being alone at Headcellars with all those memories is more than I can bear. Come before we close, just before three.”

  Mr. Fleming escorted me back to the car park in silence. It was only when we reached the lych-gate and he stopped to usher me through, that he spoke again. “I know I should have called you about this but I couldn’t face it,” he said. “How did you find out?”