Deadhead and Buried Read online

  As she was walking to the sandwich shop, however, Poppy caught sight of the bookshop across the street and her feet moved as if of their own accord, carrying her over to the shop window. She stared longingly at all the glossy book covers displayed under a sign saying: “New Releases!” Books were another luxury that she could rarely afford—she had to rely on the free offerings from her local library—but that didn’t stop her often coming to the bookshop to browse through the shelves and wistfully read the blurbs on the backs of the novels.

  The shop was normally fairly quiet during lunchtimes on a weekday. Today, however, she was surprised to find it filled with customers, all milling about in an excited fashion. Curious, she stepped inside and peered over the heads of the crowd to see what the commotion was about. A table and chair had been set up in the far corner, next to a stack of hardback novels, and there was a large poster featuring a book cover and the words “Nick Forrest’s thrilling new bestseller!” splashed across it in bold letters.

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, although Poppy didn’t think she had read any of his books. From the picture of the cover, it looked like a dark, gritty crime thriller and she usually preferred lighter reading—fantasy stories that allowed her to dream and escape. Still, looking at the line of people around the room, all clutching copies of novels for him to sign, this author was obviously incredibly popular.

  A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd and, the next moment, a tall man entered the store from the rear entrance, flanked by the store manager and several other people, like a king accompanied by his entourage. He carried himself like a king too—there was a commanding brusqueness to his manner as he strode across the room and sat down behind the table.

  So this is Nick Forrest, the bestselling crime writer. Now that she thought about it, she had read about him in a couple of magazines. The articles had gushed about him as “the sexy face of crimewriting”, in a way which had made Poppy roll her eyes. She eyed him critically from across the room. It’s not as if he’s really handsome, she thought. Well, okay, there was something about him, if you liked the dark, brooding Heathcliff type—not that she did, she reminded herself. He was younger than she had expected—somewhere in his late thirties, she guessed—with silver edging the black hair at his temples and a cynical expression in his dark eyes. Poppy noticed several women in the crowd elbowing each other and giggling as they gave him coy looks, and she felt herself instantly dislike him. Maybe it was a silly reaction—she didn’t even know the man—but she couldn’t help it. The more hyped up a book, movie, or celebrity, the more she took against them. Perhaps it was a subconscious thing, not wanting to become like her mother—a groupie slavishly following others like sheep, to worship at an idol’s feet.

  Now, she watched askance as the store manager clapped his hands for attention and gave a short speech, detailing the crime writer’s impressive book sales and awards. Poppy felt her irritation growing. When the manager finally finished, she seized the chance to leave, but she hadn’t gone a few steps when a masculine voice stopped her in her tracks.

  She turned involuntarily around to look back at the table. Nick Forrest was reading from his book and his deep voice was mesmerising, conjuring up vivid pictures and fascinating characters from the words on the page. She had stood listening for several minutes before she realised it. Annoyed with herself, Poppy turned resolutely once more towards the door, and this time managed to push her way through the crowds and leave the bookshop.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Poppy, is that you, dear? The dragon keeping you late at work again, is she? And probably not for any proper office business either. That woman is a selfish cow! I’ll have words with her one day—see if I don’t!”

  Poppy paused inside the door of the shabby terraced townhouse and smiled as she heard the motherly voice.

  “Are you hungry? Did you get a proper lunch? You probably just rushed out this morning without eating any breakfast, as usual. It’s not right, you know. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, they say, and besides, you need some fattening up. Look at you—you’re practically skin and bones! Being too thin is terribly ageing, you know, and it will ruin your looks. And then how are you going to get a man?”

  The speaker of this torrent of words came bustling down the hallway, stepping into the light of the dusty bulb in the foyer. She was a woman in her sixties, with grey hair curling in a halo around her head and plump cheeks split by a wide smile. Poppy thought again how lucky it was that she had met Nell Hopkins. When her mother had become ill and they’d needed a place to live that was close to the hospital, this run-down sublet had been the only place they could afford. Poppy had been nervous about who they’d have to share the small townhouse with and when she had first met the talkative cleaning lady, she had been taken aback.

  But she had soon discovered that Nell’s loquacious manner was matched by a generous spirit and a warm heart. In fact, she didn’t know how she would have got through the final months of her mother’s illness if it hadn’t been for her kindly landlady. Nell had helped to provide the home-nursing that her mother had needed; her job as a cleaner for many of the businesses in town meant that she worked in the evenings, after offices were closed, and was free for most of the day—a perfect arrangement that enabled Poppy to go out to work.

  And when Holly Lancaster had passed away, Nell had stepped into the motherly void with ease, nagging Poppy to eat properly and constantly worrying about her (non-existent!) love life—as she was doing now:

  “…and I know you’re only in your twenties, Poppy, but it won’t be long before you’re over thirty and you know what they say: everything goes downhill after thirty! What are you going to do if you don’t meet a nice man by then?” Nell wagged a finger. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me, dear—you need someone in your life. Someone to cuddle and look after and give you a baby to bounce on your knee—”

  “Nell!” Poppy burst out, with an exasperated laugh. “Which century are you living in? Women don’t need men in their lives to feel fulfilled and happy.”

  “Ah… that’s what they all say but I’m telling you, no one’s truly happy until they have someone to love—and you never know when it’s going to happen! That’s why you need to be open to the possibilities. I mean, you could meet the love of your life when you least expect it! I knew a girl who was travelling in Australia and got bitten by a poisonous spider. She ended up in hospital in a coma and the doctor who was looking after her found a notebook of poetry that she’d written in her bag. Well, he started reading it to her, while she lay unconscious, and he fell in love with her—just through her words! And then when she woke up a few days later, he asked her to have dinner with him.” Nell gave a dreamy sigh. “And they got married a year later.”

  “Is that really true or is it from the latest romance novel you’re reading?” asked Poppy suspiciously.

  Nell looked a bit cagey. “Well, all right, it was from a book—but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen!” she added quickly. “Mrs Simpson from next door told me that her daughter Jilly met her boyfriend while she was working as his nurse at the hospital. Jilly wasn’t in a coma, of course, but she did have the flu and she fainted right into Stuart's arms when they were operating in theatre together—so romantic, don’t you think?—and now they’re getting engaged…”

  Poppy hid a smile as the older woman rambled on. If there was one thing Nell loved more than anything else, it was a romance—whether in real life or in the pages of a novel. In fact, her landlady seemed to spend all her free time speculating about the love lives of various neighbours… when she wasn’t fussing around Poppy like an anxious mother hen.

  “Well, now… I’ve just boiled the kettle; you’ll have a cuppa, won’t you?” said Nell, turning to lead the way to the kitchen on her side of the house. “And you can tell me about your day. Here, give me your bag…” Nell reached out and dragged Poppy’s handbag off her shoulder. “Oh my lordy Lord, Poppy, what
are you carrying in here? It weighs a ton! You really need to sort out your handbag and take all the junk out. I watched this programme on telly that said women's handbags have more bacteria than the average toilet… I couldn't believe it but they'd done tests and everything…”

  Poppy felt a mixture of affection, exasperation, and gratitude as Nell started up again, fussing and worrying. In a way, Nell was more of a mother than Holly Lancaster had ever been. Even after giving birth to a baby, her mother had remained very much the same reckless teenager who had run away from home to become a rock-star groupie. Poppy had spent most of her childhood on the move, drifting around England as her mother chased the next “big dream” that was going to make their fortunes.

  And in the meantime, Holly had thought nothing of putting impulsive, extravagant purchases on the credit card. As a little girl, Poppy had loved her mother’s “fun surprises”; it was only as she’d got older that she started to worry about how they could afford them, and it wasn’t until after her mother’s funeral that she realised how many bills were outstanding, how much debt was unpaid.

  Which is why I can’t give up my job, no matter how awful Amanda is, she reminded herself. Still, it helped to have someone to share her woes with, and now she followed Nell gratefully to her kitchen. She accepted a cup of tea and sat down to recount the details of her terrible day.

  “I hope Chloe’s father comes up with a good idea for the office plants,” she said at last. “Do you think they might just dry out and recover?”

  “Well, I know what to do with a pot of herbs but I’m not much good with those fancy plants they have in offices nowadays. I always keep well away from them when I’m cleaning,” said Nell. “Your mother, now—she would have known what to do.”

  “Yes,” said Poppy wistfully. “I wish I’d inherited Mum’s skill with plants. She was amazing; she could make anything grow. She didn’t just have green fingers—she was practically a green goddess.” Poppy shook her head sadly. “Whereas me… well, I could kill a plastic plant from IKEA.”

  Nell laughed. “There are worse faults to have, dear.” She rose from the kitchen table and went to the stove. “Now, I’ve made a nice leek and potato soup, and there’s a fresh loaf of bread—would you like to have some supper?”

  Poppy was tempted. Her hasty lunch was hours ago and she realised now that she was starving. Nell was a fantastic cook and a bowl of hot soup sounded wonderfully comforting after the day she’d had. But she felt bad about how often she ate Nell’s food, and her landlady would never accept any kind of monetary reimbursement, despite the fact that Nell only earned a modest income herself from her cleaning jobs.

  “No, thank you—although that’s really sweet of you to offer,” Poppy said with a smile as she rose as well. “I’ve… um… got some things in the fridge that I need to finish up.”

  Like a piece of mouldy cheese, she thought, wincing internally. But she gave Nell a cheerful wave and turned to leave.

  Nell put out a hand. “Oh! Hang on, dear… I nearly forgot—this came for you today.”

  Poppy looked curiously at the letter that Nell handed to her. It was made of heavy, expensive paper, and looked official, with a typed address and the logo of a solicitor’s firm in Oxford printed in the top left-hand corner.

  “For me?” she said.

  Nell nodded. “It came by registered post. I signed for it—I didn’t think you’d mind. Saves you having to go to the post office to collect it.”

  “Oh, yes, of course…” murmured Poppy distractedly as she turned the envelope over. Slowly, she peeled the flap open and drew out the single sheet of thick cream paper. It was a typed letter, with an embossed letterhead at the top and an elegant signature next to the name “Charles Mannering Esq.” at the bottom. Her eyes widened as she read the contents.

  “Well? What is it?” demanded Nell.

  “It’s… it’s a letter from a lawyer,” said Poppy in a slight daze.

  “And? What does it say?” Without waiting for Poppy to answer, Nell leaned over her shoulder and read the letter out loud:

  “…writing to inform you that as Mary Lancaster’s only granddaughter, you are the sole benefactor of her estate… Please contact me at your earliest convenience to arrange a meeting to discuss—Oh my lordy Lord!” she cried, clutching Poppy’s arm.

  “Poppy, what have you inherited?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning, Poppy risked Amanda’s displeasure and delayed leaving for work so that she could ring the lawyer’s office in Oxford when it opened. She asked to speak to Charles Mannering, and when she hung up again a short while later, it was as if everything had taken on a sense of the surreal.

  “Well?” Nell asked breathlessly. She had been hovering in the doorway of Poppy’s room, unable to contain herself, and now she came forwards eagerly. “What did he say? What are you inheriting? Is it money? Jewels? A house in the country?”

  “Nell!” Poppy gave an exasperated laugh. “I’m not an heiress in a Regency romance novel!” She took a deep breath. “But in fact—yes, it is a house in the country. Not a grand house,” she hastened to add. “Just a cottage—a little cottage on a large piece of land in Oxfordshire. Apparently, my grandmother had a thriving garden nursery business—”

  “A cottage garden nursery!” cried Nell, her eyes glowing. “Oh Poppy! Just think—you’ll be able to grow your own fruit and vegetables, raise little potted plants to sell, have a beautiful cutting garden to make your own flower bouquets, and live in a quaint little cottage with gorgeous climbing roses and—”

  “Nell, I can’t even keep a couple of office plants alive! There’s no way I’d be able to run a garden business.”

  “You could learn. It can’t be that hard.”

  For a moment, Poppy indulged in a fantasy of herself as the owner of a thriving garden nursery, attached to a beautiful cottage surrounded by a wild, romantic English garden bursting with flowers, with billowing lavender lining the path and wafting perfume in the breeze…

  Abruptly, she snapped out of the daydream. She remembered the yellowed, drooping plants in the office—what on earth was she thinking?

  “No,” she said with a sigh. “It’s nice to dream but, at the end of the day, I have to be realistic. I’d be a fool to think I could do it, what with my track record with plants.”

  Nell pursed her lips but didn’t argue. Instead, she said, “Well, you could still live at the cottage. At least you’ve got your own home now and—”

  “Er… actually, it’s not quite so simple.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Mr Mannering said that my grandmother left a condition in her will: I can only live at the cottage if I agree to continue the family business and keep the garden nursery running. Otherwise, the property will have to be sold—although I would get the proceeds of the sale, of course.”

  “But that’s ridiculous! It’s your property now, so you should be able to do as you see fit. Your grandmother was always a hard, unreasonable woman,” Nell declared. “Looks like she hadn’t mellowed with age.”

  “Do you know anything about her?” asked Poppy, looking up in surprise. “Mum would never talk to me about her.”

  Nell shook her head. “Your mother never told me much either. All I know is that your grandmother was very strict and they were always at each other’s throats, what with your mum being such a rebel and all. It was bad enough when Holly joined the other groupies and ran off to America, but when she got pregnant with you—well! That was the last straw! I don’t think your grandmother ever spoke to your mum again.” Nell made a sound of disapproval. “Imagine! Her own daughter, and with a grandchild on the way! Well, that tells you what kind of hard, unreasonable woman she was.”

  “But… if she never tried to contact Mum or see us in all these years, why would she suddenly think of me in her will?”

  “Guilt, probably,” said Nell with a knowing look. “People start regretting all sorts of things on their
deathbeds. Maybe she wanted to contact you but her pride wouldn’t let her. Your mum was just as bad, you know. Many’s a time I told her that she should just let bygones be bygones, but she wouldn’t budge. Said she wasn’t going crawling back—”

  “Yes, even when she became ill and we were struggling, Mum wouldn’t let me try to find her family to ask for help.” Poppy sighed. “I do feel a bit disloyal accepting this—”

  “Nonsense! Don’t you dare think like that,” said Nell sternly. “Your mother was a wonderful woman, bless her soul, but she was too proud and stubborn for her own good. If your grandmother wanted to mend fences at last, then you should grab the opportunity. Don’t look a gift horse in the stomach, is what I say.”

  Poppy smiled. “I think you mean ‘mouth’.”

  Nell waved a hand. “Stomach, mouth, it’s all the same. Take the gift and count your blessings.”

  “Yes… and you know what?” Poppy brightened. “It doesn’t matter that I can’t live there. I can just sell the place, take the money, and go travelling! Maybe even go to America and find my fa—” She broke off and hastily amended it to: “—er… well, just do all the things I could never afford to do. I’m sure I can ask Mr Mannering when I see him—”

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” cried Nell, making a shooing motion. “You can hop on a train and be in Oxford in an hour.”

  “But I’m supposed to be at work—”

  “Oh, bosh!” Nell waved a contemptuous hand. “Amanda hasn’t given you any of the paid leave you’re due… I think you’re entitled to take a sickie.”

  Feeling emboldened, Poppy rang her office and asked for the day off, pleading a bad migraine, then—armed with her birth certificate and other identity documents—she jumped on a train for Oxford.

  ***

  The lawyer, Charles Mannering, turned out to be a dapper gentleman in his early sixties with a cut-glass accent that matched his distinguished appearance. He wore a sombre three piece suit, with old-fashioned gold cufflinks at his wrists and a traditional tie-pin carefully displayed on his chest—and would have looked slightly intimidating, had Poppy not found herself instantly warming to his kind, fatherly manner. However, as he took her patiently through a long meeting full of dry legal language and dozens of forms to sign, her hopes of a sudden cash windfall were dashed as she discovered that there was very little ready money left after the outstanding bills had been settled.