A Killer's Christmas in Wales

in two hands. “Why don’t you tell us a bit about the part of America you call home.”

Saunders took a sip of his drink. “I come from sunny Palm Beach.”

“Palm Beach,” repeated Mrs. Lloyd. “I forget now. Is that in California? Sounds as if it should be.” She smiled at Florence. “Sounds so wonderfully exotic, doesn’t it, Florence?”

“Florida, actually,” Harry said. “You may be thinking of Palm Springs. That’s in California.”

“And what did you do in Palm Beach?” Florence continued.

“Well,” said Harry, meeting Florence’s eyes, “not too much of anything, really. You see, thanks to a trust fund from my mother’s side of the family, I’ve never really had to earn my living, although managing my investments portfolio takes up a lot of my time. So I get to do what I like and what I like to do is keep busy.” He smiled at Mrs. Lloyd. “Like playing bridge, and giving dancing lessons. All just for fun, really.”

He drained the last of his ginger ale and was about to place his empty glass on the table beside him when Florence jumped up and took the tumbler from him.

Saunders cleared his throat. “Now, Evelyn, I really do think we should be off,” he said.

“Yes, all right,” Mrs. Lloyd agreed. “Florence, while I’m getting my coat on, would you mind ringing the taxi? The number’s right there beside the telephone.”

A few minutes later Saunders was holding the front door open for Mrs. Lloyd, and the two disappeared into the night, Mrs. Lloyd leaving a whiff of Shalimar in her fragrant wake. This is bound to end in tears, thought Florence. Good thing I’m here to pick up the pieces.

She returned to the living room with a small tray and collected the glasses. She glanced at the table where Saunders had been about to set his glass and reached into her pocket for the little notebook she used to jot down to-do lists, the names of books she wanted to read, programs coming on the television she didn’t want to miss, and the countless other small details that made up her life.

Coaster, she wrote.

* * *

Snug in her best winter coat with its black mink collar, Mrs. Lloyd settled herself comfortably in the backseat of the taxi, holding her handbag with both hands on her lap. She turned slightly toward Saunders and felt a small frisson of excitement as their knees touched. Saunders smiled at her and gave her hand a friendly pat. They rode the short distance to the restaurant in silence, and as the taxi pulled up in front of the Red Dragon Hotel, Saunders withdrew a slim billfold from his pocket.

He took out a bill, folded it in half, and leaning forward, passed it to the driver.

“Here’s a twenty, driver,” he said, with a subtle emphasis on the twenty. “Keep the change.” Turning to Mrs. Lloyd, he told her to stay where she was and that he’d get the door for her. As she shifted toward the passenger door, Saunders leaned forward to adjust his coat and, as he did so, wedged the cheap, now-empty wallet between the seat and the side of the vehicle. He opened his door, walked around behind the car, opened Mrs. Lloyd’s door and, offering her his arm, helped her alight.

The driver smiled to himself as he watched this display of old-fashioned gallantry, then drove off. At the next streetlight he slowed and unfolded the ten-pound note Saunders had given him. It barely covered the fare.

“Tosser,” he muttered under his breath.

* * *

After hanging up their coats, Saunders and Mrs. Lloyd entered the welcoming, cozy warmth of the hotel dining room. Mrs. Lloyd had had lunch there many times and the restaurant staff nodded to her as the couple crossed the heavily patterned, carpeted floor to a table under one of the tall windows. In daylight, the window tables offered a clear view past the car park to the new Llanelen Spa beside the River Conwy.

Harry pulled out a chair for Mrs. Lloyd and, when she was seated, gently pushed it back into the table. As he took his place across from her, she looked eagerly around the room, hoping that someone she knew would be there to see her being taken out for dinner on a Saturday evening by a gentleman with such good manners. When she didn’t see anyone she knew, she turned her attention to the large menu that the waiter had placed in front of her.

“Hmm. Not sure what I feel like this evening, but I think I’ll have the melon as a starter and then I might have…” She raised her eyes to Harry and was taken aback by the way he was gazing at her.

“Whatever is it?” she asked.

“I was just thinking how lovely you look tonight,” he said. “Is that a new dress? The colour is very becoming on you.”

Mrs. Lloyd laughed and shook her head.

“New? No, I’ve had this old thing for ages!”

* * *

Florence Semble had spent many Saturday nights alone in a cramped, cold Liverpool bedsit, so she was not the least bit unhappy at having been left home alone in Mrs. Lloyd’s spacious, warm home. After eating a poached egg on toast for her supper, she tidied up the kitchen she was starting to think of as hers. Then, after browsing the television listings in the Radio Times, she sank into a comfortable chair, put her feet up, and with a cup of tea on the small table beside her, settled in to watch a variety show. She enjoyed the dancing well enough, although the costumes were a little on the skimpy side. But after listening to the wailings of two young singers she’d never heard of and thought remarkably talentless, she began to get restless, and when a comedian came on, telling off-colour jokes, not in a saucy, humorous way, but in a manner Florence thought vulgar and obvious, she gave up.

She thought about watching a DVD, My Fair Lady, perhaps, but the television system was complicated and she wasn’t sure how to switch over to the DVD setting. She felt a sharp pang of longing for a simpler time when a television set was either on or off and there were four channels to choose from. And if there was nothing on that you wanted to watch, you simply went to bed with a good book. With a small, disappointed sigh, she switched off the television. But perhaps it was just as well there was nothing on the television she wanted to watch, she told herself.

Mrs. Lloyd had told her not to wait up and Florence knew what that meant: if Mrs. Lloyd returned with that man, they would want the downstairs to themselves. Florence shuddered at the very thought of it.

She switched off all the lamps in the sitting room except one, which cast a small pool of light over one end of the sofa. Normally, she wouldn’t dream of leaving a light on in an empty room, but she didn’t want Mrs. Lloyd tripping over anything in the dark.

After a backward glance at the living room, she rinsed out her cup in the kitchen, and then climbed the stairs and headed down the hall to her bedroom. Passing Mrs. Lloyd’s room, she saw a light seeping under the partially opened door. Such an unthinkable waste that was, a light burning in an unoccupied room.

She pushed the bedroom door open so she could go in and turn the light off. As she reached the bedside table to switch off the lamp, a pile of tissue paper, bags, and packaging on the bed caught her eye, and unable to resist, she began to sift through it. She noted the posh carrier bag from the most exclusive ladies’ dress shop in Llandudno and beside it a tag that Mrs. Lloyd had apparently cut off her new dress.

She picked up the tag and looked at the price. Almost one hundred and fifty pounds! For Florence, who had not bought anything in decades that she didn’t absolutely need, and even that had to be on sale or from a charity shop, one hundred and fifty pounds seemed like a small fortune. She dropped the price tag, pinched her lips together, and picked up a plastic bag with a cardboard insert. As she started reading the package insert, a knowing smile spread slowly across her face.

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