Tea? Coffee? Murder! - Blue Poodle Blues (eBook)

Chapter Two, in which Nathalie is confronted with unpleasant news

For the umpteenth time, Nathalie looked at her watch and scowled.

“Still no word from Glenn?” Louise asked, leaning through the hatch to glance into the busy pub.

“No, and I thought he wanted to leave early so we could still get something out of the day,” she murmured.

“If something had come up, I’m sure he would have contacted us by now,” the cook said soothingly. “Perhaps he wants to surprise you with something?”

“Yes, maybe,” Nathalie said, even though she didn’t really believe it.

If Glenn did have a surprise for her, she wasn’t so sure it would be a nice one. Too much had happened between them in the last few weeks for that. She sighed and reached for the next glass on the counter that needed polishing.

She started to daydream about the possibilities. What if he announced he was being transferred to his bank’s headquarters in New York next week? She wouldn’t have to make a decision about their relationship then. And she wouldn’t have to reproach herself later for perhaps having taken the wrong path — either clinging to the relationship, or not making enough effort to save it.

Fate, if you could intervene here, it would really be helpful. Ta.

However, she feared that fate would not intervene. Well, not in the way she wanted. Payback for being too cowardly to draw a line when it was needed.

She put the polished glass on the shelf behind the counter.

“How does it work exactly with the dog show?” she asked Louise, to take her mind off it.

“You want to go to the dog show?” said Harold Dean, the bartender at the Black Feather, who had just joined her from the other side of the bar. “It’s too late to sign up now. You should have done it at least six months ago, and … oh, wait … you weren’t here six months ago, and … um … you don’t have a dog either. Or have I missed something?”

“Then I guess you haven’t noticed my imaginary Saint Bernard yet,” Nathalie returned with a smile.

“Ah, of course,” the man said, deadpan. “That explains why the shrinkage of our imaginary brandy has increased so much.”

Nathalie laughed.

“Nathalie is on the jury,” Louise explained to the bartender. “She’s taken the place of her late aunt.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that. Congratulations.” He nodded to Nathalie as he transferred a drink from the mixer into a cocktail glass, which he then decorated with cherries. “May I then hope that you will give my Richard Stenson III full marks?”

“Richard who?” she returned.

“Richard Stenson III is a Chihuahua,” Harold explained.

“So, not a real dog,” Louise interjected with a twinkle in her eye.

“He is very much a real dog!”

“If the tag on the dog’s collar’s bigger than the dog itself, it can’t be a real dog,” she said.

“Louise, I’m shocked that you’d be so size-ist,” he said, with feigned hurt.

“What did I say?”

“If we could get back to my original question, please,” said Nathalie, with a grin. “How does this show work?”

“So, the dogs are divided into different categories based on shoulder height. Within each category, two dogs and their owners compete against each other. The winner goes on to the next round,” Harold explained. “In the second round …”

“Here I am!”

Nathalie winced when she heard the loud, boisterous voice echoing through the pub, causing all the patrons to turn around.

“Glenn,” she said, after checking to see who was drawing attention to himself so loudly. This over-excited tone was not at all like Glenn. The “Glenn” that had crossed her lips at the sight of him hadn’t sounded very enthusiastic — more as if she’d said “Oh, it’s the postman”.

Glenn didn’t seem to notice, as he gleefully shot towards his girlfriend, leaned over the counter and gave Nathalie a kiss that, despite all his exuberance, seemed more like a sibling kiss to her.

“Hello, Lisa,” he said happily, taking no notice of the corrective “Louise” that came from Nathalie and the cook at the same time. “All right?” he said to Harold — no attempt to even remember his name.

He’d been there for less than two minutes and he’d already managed to irritate her. Was it so difficult to remember a few names? With his banking clients, he couldn’t afford to address filthy rich Mrs Maycott as Mrs Mayflower.

“I’ve got terrific news, Nathalie,” he continued impervious. “Come outside!”

This probably meant that he’d made good on his plan to swap the BMW SUV for a similar monster from Porsche.

“Okay, I’m coming,” she said, and walked around the bar, then they left the pub. In the car park in front of it, she spotted Glenn’s BMW after a few steps. She was taken aback. “I thought you were going to show me your new car.”

“My car? No, I have something much better.” He and took his smartphone out of his pocket, called up a photo and held it out to her.

It was a huge towerblock.

“And?” she asked.

“Don’t you recognise it?” he said.

“Hm … that would have to be Vermilion Tower,” she said.

“That is Vermilion Tower,” he confirmed enthusiastically. “And you know what? At the very top, on the fifteenth floor, a huge apartment has been vacant since last night! I had a chance to look at it this morning and it’s terrific!”

“The Vermilion Tower is down by the old harbour, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and you have a terrific view of the Mersey,” he continued. “You’ll be thrilled by it!” “

Nathalie stood there for a while, squinting her eyes as she took deep, steady breaths to calm down. She guessed — no, she knew — what Glenn had got into his head, and yet she didn’t want to believe it.

“Please tell me from the beginning what this is all about,” she asked him, slightly annoyed.

“Well, the previous owner, a Mr Graham, disappeared without a trace a while back,” Glenn reported gleefully, as if this circumstance was something thoroughly good. “He was finally discovered somewhere up in the Highlands, living in a dilapidated cottage without electricity or water.” Glenn shrugged his shoulders and made a throwing away gesture as if he didn’t care at all about the man’s fate. “Anyway, he’s been behind on his payments for so many months that my bank has now taken away his flat and is going to foreclose on it next week.”

“I see,” was all Nathalie said.

“But before that happens, all employees of our bank have a right of first refusal at a particularly favourable price,” he continued, “and that’s where we come in. Stephen, who’s in charge of the process, is a good friend of mine, as you know.”

“Stephen Ryder, isn’t it?” She replied, to show Glenn that she knew the names of his colleagues.

“He let me into the flat this morning, and if I let him know at eight o’clock on Monday morning that we’re taking it, it’s guaranteed that no one else will be offered it. That means no one can outbid us either. The flat can be ours. I want to drive home with you first thing in the morning, then we’ll meet Stephen and you can have a look at this gem at your leisure. Although that’s not really necessary. I must have taken a hundred photos of every corner of the flat, including one of the breathtaking view, of course. It’s basically the same as if you’d been there.”

He looked at Nathalie, waiting.

“And if I like all this, you’ll buy this flat?” she asked.

“Yes, right. We’ll buy this flat.” Again, he looked at her impatiently, as if he could hardly wait for her approval. “Well, what do you say?”

Nathalie went to one of the tables in front of the pub and stood in the shade of the parasol, as it had become too warm for her in the middle of the car park. She sat down. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s how I felt too, Nathalie. But Stephen worked out the loan with your salary and mine, and he’s sure we’ll still have a comfortable cushion if you do some more overtime.” Glenn sat opposite her at the table.

“How thoughtful of your colleague,” she returned cynically. “Did he also suggest that we should only eat from the reduced section of the supermarket? And that thrifting clothes is all the rage?”

Glenn ran an irritated hand through his carefully trimmed slicked-back hair. He looked as polished as any other banker. She thought of Rob, the man with the long, somewhat dishevelled hair and facial stubble.

“I don’t know what’s got into you, Nathalie,” he said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Can you give me a clue?”

“Where to start … ah, yes, I’ve got it. Our argument the last time I was in Liverpool.”

“Argument?”

“Do you honestly not remember?” she asked, upset. “I was mad at you because you ran off to London for the weekend without saying a word to me.”

“Oh that. I was busy with seminars all day anyway. I thought we’d sorted this.”

“We did discuss it, but I guess I keep going back to it because I think you didn’t seem that bothered that I was upset.”

“Yeah, okay, I guess it wasn’t very considerate of me.” He still didn’t sound as contrite as Nathalie thought he should. “But we’ve spoken about it on the phone a few times since then. Can we just put it behind us? Look, I’m sorry … it won’t happen again.”

“Now...