‘That means she’ll be robbing unsuspecting tourists all summer, but what’s she going to do in the winter?’
Kate shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. If I question her in any way she accuses me of being a pessimist, or having no faith in my own sister.’
‘And do you have faith in your own sister?’ Woody asked.
Kate visualised Angie’s failure to get any decent acting roles and, more recently, the summerhouse bulging at the seams with unsaleable art.
‘Not a lot,’ she said.
‘You never think I can do anything!’ a petulant Angie shouted at Kate the following afternoon.
‘Not true!’ Kate replied. ‘But I just want you to think this thing through properly before you go signing on the dotted line. Just remember that from November to March there are very few visitors here. Maybe a few at Christmas, that’s all. You won’t make money in the winter, will you?’
Angie rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘We’ll attract local custom. We’ll advertise and do special offers. We’ll be different.’
‘Des won’t be too pleased,’ Kate said, ‘because he won’t like competition and he has the backing of the brewery and all the local trade to see him through the winter.’
‘Yes, but we’ll have a theme,’ Angie said in the patient voice of someone talking to a young child. ‘Smugglers, pirates, shipwrecks – that sort of thing. Not just a tatty old seagull painted on each side of the fireplace!’ She referred to Des Pardoe’s artistic efforts at The Greedy Gull.
‘Tourists might like your theme,’ Kate said, ‘but the locals are going to go to where the beer is cheap. I’m not being pessimistic, I’m being realistic. And don’t go telling me that you’re going to tog Fergal up as a pirate or something!’ Kate snorted at the very idea.
There was a stony silence.
Kate looked at Angie in disbelief. ‘You were never planning to tie a scarf round his head and make him wear an eye-patch, were you? A parrot on his shoulder, perhaps? Or a tricorn hat like Poldark? And you, with red curls, like a sixty-year-old Demelza? Mind you, you’d certainly be a sensation!’
Angie glared at her sister. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I might have known you’d take that attitude! You haven’t got an adventurous bone in your body!’
‘I’m just trying to be practical, Angie, because these are not very practical ideas. The locals are Cornish, they’ve seen it all before, and they’re not going to get excited by Fergal swanning around in a pirate’s costume when they can go up to the pub. Most are beer and cider drinkers and Des has countless beers and ciders on tap. Get real!’
‘Then we’ll get by on our summer trade,’ Angie said, ‘because, after all, The Locker didn’t do much trade in the winter, did it? And they’ve been going for years.’
Kate sighed. ‘I’m not trying to be a killjoy, Angie, but I honestly don’t want to see you lose money on this venture.’
‘You just concentrate on nursing all those geriatrics of yours, and doing your detective work,’ Angie retorted, ‘and I’ll concentrate on my proposed venture.’
Twenty-Seven
The opportunity to tend to some geriatrics and do some detective work presented itself next day.
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ Denise said. ‘Ollie Pratt asked if you could call as he has some sort of sickness bug and he doesn’t want to chance coming down to the surgery and spreading it around. I can’t believe how many calls we’re getting from the Grange! It was never like this when Elaine was doing it!’
‘To be honest, I think they all need a bit of reassurance since the murders,’ Kate said, ‘and you can’t really blame them.’
Kate got into her car and made that oh-so-familiar journey up to Seaview Grange again.
‘Come in, come in, dear,’ said a completely healthy-looking Ollie Pratt a short time later. ‘I expect you could do with a nice cup of tea, couldn’t you?’
‘Well—’
‘Gloria’s got the kettle on,’ he interrupted firmly as he shepherded her in the door.
The Pratts’ living room was cluttered with newspapers, magazines, large jigsaw puzzles, shopping baskets, several packets of Mr Kipling’s cakes, and two large Persian cats, who regarded her with disdain. There was an enormous hi-fi system in one corner, with innumerable CDs and DVDs everywhere, including the floor.
Kate stepped carefully over three CDs and one cat before lowering herself carefully onto the black vinyl settee. ‘What seems to be the trouble, Mr Pratt?’
‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ he whispered. ‘It’s not me, you see, it’s Gloria.’ He pushed his finger to his lips just as Gloria waddled in.
‘You might’ve done a bit of tidyin’ up before you go askin’ the nurse in here,’ she said to her husband, who was frantically picking up the CDs and a couple of stray biscuits, one of which had been crushed into the multicoloured carpet. ‘Sorry about this, Nurse, but I didn’t know we was havin’ a visitor.’
Gloria was fully made up, her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, adorned with a pink scrunchie, and displaying several inches of grey roots.
There didn’t appear to be anything wrong with either of them, and Kate wondered how to make her escape.
‘Never mind, I got the kettle on,’ Gloria said, fanning herself with a dog-eared copy of Hello! magazine. She was clad in a voluminous pink top, which reached almost to her knees, below which two chunky calves strained to be released from some leopard-skin-patterned leggings. Her other half, still frantically removing stuff from the floor, was displaying an indecent amount of builders’ crack each time he bent down, as his jogging bottoms parted company with his T-shirt.
Mugs of tea were produced, along with assorted packets of cakes and biscuits.
‘A Bakewell slice?’ Gloria offered.
‘No, thank you,’ Kate replied, ‘I’ll just have the tea.’
‘A country slice?’ Ollie was holding out one of the Mr Kipling boxes in her direction. When Kate refused
