Read Online Murder at the Maples: A Flora Lively Mystery by Joanne Phillips - Free Book Online Page B

floral-patterned dress from her creaky wardrobe, smoothing out the creases where the fabric had been packed in too tightly. For work, Flora always wore the same uniform of jeans and T-shirt; cut-offs if the weather was fine. She never made a conscious decision to hide her tattoos – the one on her thigh was a lot easier to hide than the one on her shoulder – but this particular vintage find had elbow-length sleeves, which was probably just as well. She wondered what Heston would think if she changed her hair colour. It had been its natural chestnut brown for too long and she was getting the urge for something brighter, maybe a pillar-box red. Flora looked in the mirror and thought about her mum. What would she have made of Heston?
    ‘Should I dye my hair again?’ Flora whispered.
    What she really meant was: Will it make me a bad person if I start to move on?
    It was warm for April, the opposite of an Indian summer, and Flora enjoyed the short walk into town. She wore her favourite sparkly flip-flops with the tea dress and carried a light wool cardigan in case it grew cooler later. She fairly bounced along the pavement, looking forward to an evening of easy conversation and mild adoration. Oh yes, there were definite benefits to dating a man who liked you a little more than you liked him.
    Heston was sitting outside on the pizzeria’s terrace, shielding his eyes from the sun with one pale hand. He was wearing a white linen suit, and the effect it created, together with his pale hair and translucent skin, was that of a ghost watching the world go by, insubstantial as a gust of wind.
    His embrace was reassuringly firm though, as was the expression in his eyes when he kissed her on the cheek.
    They ordered garlic dough balls and a bottle of white wine and sat back to take in the last of the sun. Heston held her hand as though it was made of china, stoking it occasionally with his soft, smooth fingers.
    ‘How have you been, sweetie?’ he said.
    And the great thing was: he really cared.
    Flora told him all about Otto’s near miss, then spilled her worries about Rockfords and their imminent move into Shakers’ territory. Heston sighed heavily and dropped her hand back into her lap.
    ‘I do sometimes wonder about that job of yours.’ He gazed off down the street to where two teenage girls with multiple piercings were posing languidly on a bench. She heard his soft tut, then he shook his head and looked back at her. Flora shifted uneasily and smoothed her dress over her flat stomach. She’d kept the belly-button ring, even though her other teenage rebellion piercings – nose, eyebrow, the usual places – had closed up years ago. What would someone as straight-laced as Heston make of that?
    ‘I mean, it just doesn’t really seem to suit you.’
    She brushed off a momentary feeling of irritation: he wasn’t the first to question a woman being in charge of a removals company, and he wouldn’t be the last.
    ‘What do you mean, exactly?’ she said, keeping her voice level.
    ‘It’s just that you’re so feminine, so delicate. I can’t imagine you hulking great lumps of furniture around the place. Don’t you sometimes wish for something a bit less physical?’
    Flora laughed. ‘It’s nice that someone sees me as feminine – I’m not sure about delicate, though. And Marshall would say that I’m not physical enough! He’s always going on at me to pull my weight.’
    Heston’s expression tightened. ‘That manager of yours sounds like an idiot. I don’t know why you put up with him.’
    ‘I put up with him because I have to.’ Flora sipped her wine, then looked out across the terrace. ‘He was my dad’s choice, not mine.’
    ‘Didn’t you say he was American? What’s he doing over here anyway?’
    ‘He’s my Uncle Max’s stepson.’ She smiled at Heston’s confused expression. ‘Marshall was nine when Max met his mum. My uncle was only visiting, but he ended up living in the US for ten years.