way.”
“May I see you home?” Harry asked. “Or perhaps Mr. Lloyd will be coming to pick you up?”
“Oh dear me, no,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “Sadly, I lost my Arthur several years ago. He wasn’t much of a bridge player, but he was wonderful on the dance floor. I do miss those days.” They set their cups down on the table, thanked the volunteers for a lovely evening, and jostled along with the others reaching for their coats in the cloakroom.
“It’s funny you should say that because I’ve just remembered what I wanted to ask you,” Harry said as he held Mrs. Lloyd’s coat for her. “Besides giving bridge lessons, I’m also a certified dance instructor and I wondered what you would think of the idea of my offering dancing lessons here in the community centre. Do you think there’d be any interest in that?”
Mrs. Lloyd’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, Harry, I think that would be a brilliant idea! Get us out on the long winter nights, and it would be such fun! Perhaps Huw or Glynnis would even help you organize it. You’d need to book the hall, arrange for the music and all that, but I think it would be very popular.”
“Well, then!” said Harry. “I’ll look into it.”
They left the building together and stepped out into the bracing cold of the November night. Under a canopy of a thousand bright stars glittering above them, Harry offered her a friendly, protective arm, and together they set off on the short walk to Mrs. Lloyd’s charming two-storey stone home.
While the caretaker stood by to switch off the lights in the community centre, Huw Bowen helped his wife into her coat.
“What did you think of the American chap, then?” he asked her.
“I thought he was very nice.”
“Hmm. Wasn’t giving much away, though, was he? ‘Where do you come from?’ ‘Here and there.’ ‘What do you do?’ ‘This and that.’ I don’t trust the fellow. What’s he got to hide?”
Glynnis turned around and faced her husband. “Huw, I’m tired. Let’s just go home, shall we?” She picked up her bags and started toward the stairs, with her husband following.
The caretaker switched off the lights behind them and locked the door.
Four
“Dancing lessons?”
Mrs. Lloyd laughed as she cracked the top of her soft-boiled egg.
“Florence, you sounded just like that old Dame Edith what’s-her-name playing Lady Bracknell!” Mrs. Lloyd did her best imitation of the famous “A handbag?” from
Even Florence had to smile at that.
“I thought it was very enterprising of him to suggest it,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “Getting out once a week for some dancing will liven us all up and we’ll get some exercise into the bargain. I’m certainly going to sign up.” She thought for a moment. “You know, I haven’t been dancing since Arthur and I used to go to the Grand Hotel in Llandudno on Saturday nights.”
She sat back in her chair and gave a small, airy gesture.
Oh, here we go, thought Florence.
“It was such great fun, Florence. You’d get all dressed up in a lovely frock that moved and swished when you danced, silk taffeta maybe, and wear your best fragrance. How special I felt giving myself a little spritz of Shalimar, knowing that my Arthur was waiting downstairs for me! And the men all looked so handsome in their suits with a flower in their lapels. And there would be a real orchestra, too, with the musicians in crisp white jackets. So romantic… Arthur could hardly wait to get me home!”
She giggled and then gave herself a little shake, as if to help herself return to the present.
“Anyway, I’m looking forward to it. Will you go, do you think?”
“I doubt it,” said Florence. “Dancing was never something I particularly felt drawn to. Now,” she said, changing the subject, “have you given any thought as to what you’d like for tea?”
“Well, something light,” Mrs. Lloyd replied as she picked up her knife and reached for the butter. “I’d like to lose a few pounds. I’m planning to go into Llandudno today to see if there’s anything new and smart in the shops and I’m not really sure what time I’ll be back.” She withdrew her knife before it could reach the butter and glanced at Florence. Sensing disapproval, she added defensively, “I’ve been wanting a new outfit, anyway. There’s also the grand opening of the new spa coming up and we’re sure to be invited to that, so you see I really could do with a new outfit for the holiday season.”
Florence buttered her toast and said nothing.
“Do you think you’ll go to the spa opening?” Mrs. Lloyd continued. “I expect everyone will be there and it will be a good opportunity for you to meet folk.”
“I don’t know,” Florence replied. “Depends on whether or not I’m invited.”
“Oh, you’re a right old stick in the mud, you are,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “Even if you were invited, you probably wouldn’t go. It’d do you good to get out and about more. So do think about coming dancing with us. There’s sure to be a good turnout. We’re desperate around here for fun and excitement.” She thought for a moment and then brightened. “Do you think there’ll be disco dancing? I always wanted to give that a go.”
Before Florence could reply, the sound of the letter slot being pushed open, followed by the soft thud of the morning’s post landing on the hall carpet had Mrs. Lloyd setting down the spoon she had been using to stir her coffee and springing from the table.
She returned to the dining room a few minutes later, holding a small stack of colourful envelopes in one hand and waving a letter opener in the other.
“I think our invitations to the grand opening have arrived,” she said, as she slid back into her chair. She handed two pieces of mail to Florence, then slit open a stiff, cream-coloured envelope.
“Yes! Here’s the invitation to the opening. Mrs. Evelyn Lloyd and guest.” She leaned over and eyed Florence’s envelopes. “Did you not get one?” Florence shook her head. “Well, perhaps they assumed you’d be coming as my guest.” She thought for a moment and then brightened. “Or maybe yours will arrive on Monday.”
She glanced again at the invitation, then set it down and took a sip of coffee.
“You know, Florence, that Penny Brannigan and Victoria Hopkirk… they fancy themselves brilliant amateur lady detectives. Ha! The next time a good mystery comes to town, we should show them we’re just as smart as they are. You and I, we could give them a good run for their money!”
Florence frowned. “But I heard that Penny woman’s courting a rather high-up police detective. Surely he gives them clues and tips. They’ll have inside information we wouldn’t have access to.”
Mrs. Lloyd’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Courting is it? Gosh, I don’t think I’ve heard that term used since, well, I can’t remember when.” She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s got that far yet. I’d have heard. No, they’re just good friends, but he is definitely keen on her. I’ve been in the salon and seen the way he looks at her.”
Florence raised her eyebrows.
“Well, whatever their relationship is, we could still beat them at their own game, no problem.” She leaned forward. “You see, we have local knowledge on our side and you can’t beat that!”
“You might,” said Florence, “but I don’t have any local knowledge. I’ve only been here five minutes.”
She reached over and picked up Mrs. Lloyd’s gold-coloured letter opener. After admiring the pineapple on the end of the handle and holding the opener in both hands, she turned it over to reveal an inscription:
ARTHUR LLOYD, N. WALES GOLDEN PINEAPPLE AWARD, 1988
“What’s the golden pineapple award?” Florence asked.
“Oh, that was from the fruit and veg vendors association,” Mrs. Lloyd said. “Arthur belonged to that group for years, although what good it did him I could never tell. Still, it got him out of the house once a month or so, and I guess that’s something.”
“He had a fruit and vegetable shop, then, did he?”
“Indeed he did,” replied Mrs. Lloyd. “You’ll remember those days before the supermarkets took over, when
