Lydia
Lydia had been consumed with curiosity since Phillipa Spencer's sudden departure at the cafe; and rather than call which would have been the polite thing to do, she decided to go down in chauffeured car to the Spencer's home, on the pretext of popping by since the Altos lived nearby.
Of course, Lydia would never just drop by the Altos' home; it was garish, with leopard print furniture and obscene busts and bright colours; but Phillipa would not know this, and so Lydia watched through the tinted windows as forestry flew by, and her manicured hands clutching her purse as her chauffeur pulled into the Spencer's drive.
The butler was there to receive her on the portico, and Lydia alighted with all the grace of a queen. Her heels crunched on the gravel driveway as she stepped up to the front door.
"Mrs. Cartwright, to see Mrs. Spencer," she sniffed.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Spencer and her son are out of town," the butler apologised.
"Oh," Lydia was taken aback. Her sudden arrival suddenly seemed more circumspect. "Well you see, I was just popping in from the Altos. I thought I'd say hello."
The butler frowned, but held himself back from reply. "If you'd like to come in, I can give Mrs Spencer a call."
Lydia was led into the home, and while she was aware of the effect the Spencers had on her husband, she still did not envy this family, with their discretion and their old-money furnishings. She did not envy the house, but she did their money and their reach.
"Mrs. Cartwright, I'll serve tea in the living room," the butler headed into the kitchen. "Please make yourself comfortable."
Lydia instead took the stairs, too consumed with curiosity. If caught, she would merely say she was looking for the bathroom; and if the butler cottoned on that she had known where it was the first night she came here, she would draw him up with a blank stare and find some way to have him fired.
She turned right at the staircase and peeked into the son's bedroom. It was in a state of disorder; apparently Leo's absence did not compel the maids to clean up. They had made the bed and the smell of cleaning product lingered in the bathroom, but mostly the detritus of creative outlet remained.
"Shocking," Lydia mumbled to herself, and headed back down the corridor, at the other end.
Here, she peeked inside an enormous ensuite in which a spa bath was in the centre. The bathroom was immaculate and white, blue towels with gold fleur de lis, and yet despite this, Lydia wondered why Phillipa could never quite unwind that manic smile that harried her features.
It's that husband of hers, Lydia consoled herself. So stiff!
Lydia took a wary step and a furtive glance over her shoulder as she opened the door to the master bedroom. Inside, the canopied bed took precedence with an antique chest of drawers and a single yellow rose in a vase overlooking the front yard, but there was little to be noted. She hardly expected to find a safe with all the Spencers' money inside.
With trepidation, she closed the door behind her, and was halfway down the main staircase when the butler, emerging from the living room, caught sight of her with an immaculately raised eyebrow.
"Can I be of some assistance, Mrs Cartwright?" his voice was cold.
"Oh, yes," Lydia huffed. "I must tell you, I've returned an earring that Phillipa dropped when she left so suddenly at the cafe. I hope you don't mind; I've returned it."
"Of course," the butler remained unconvinced, but would only tarnish his profession to inquire further; even for the family he served, he could hardly interrogate the mayor's wife. "I must warn you, the tea is getting cold, ma'am."
Lydia hurried into the living room, and with shaking hands sipped her tea, and the butler noticed and dialed and muttered some words and handed her the phone.
"Thank you," Lydia added imperiously, to hide the quaver in her voice. "Phillipa?"
"Lydia," Phillipa replied. "I'm so sorry I'm not home to receive you."
"Oh, it's fine," Lydia shook some lint off her dress, and noticed with some irritation the butler lingering nearby to dust a vase. "I'm sitting in your living room and your butler makes a wonderful cup of tea."
"I'm glad," Phillipa admitted. "Is my husband there?"
"Why, no," Lydia glanced to the butler, who shook his head. "Er, I'm afraid I don't know."
"He's probably working," Phillipa was quick to say.
"Does he have an office in town?" Lydia queried. "Garrett mentioned he had a secretary."
"Oh, Jane, yes," Phillipa affirmed. "He usually conducts business at home from his laptop."
"Well, he must be a busy man, as busy as my Garrett," Lydia tittered. "You know the life, of course. The woman behind the man. We rein them in."
Lydia wondered how best to broach Phillipa's sudden departure from the cafe the other day, but she was bested:
"I must go, I'm afraid," Phillipa blurted. "My Leo's booked us in to a cooking class to learn how to make bouillabaisse."
"Of course," Lydia was appalled. "Well, I'll leave you to it."
Lydia hung up the phone, and finished her tea which was now cold. In the living room, she glanced out to the backyard where a treehouse and a well kept garden was splayed.
Lydia headed towards the foyer and glanced momentarily into the study, and saw a laptop resting on the desk.
Dare she?
Her fingers itched; not only for lack of know-how of how to operate the modern conveniences, but that if she was caught, surely the butler would call Mr Spencer. But oh, how she longed to see the bank statement; all those Simoleons!
The butler fetched her coat as Lydia slipped it on in the foyer.
"Thank you for having me," Lydia decided to throw the butler a bone. "It was very good to catch up with Phillipa, even abroad."
"Do have a safe drive, Mrs. Cartwright," the butler suggested. "I took the liberty of asking one of the maids to deliver your chauffeur of a sandwich."
"Oh, yes," Lydia scratched at her pearls. "Er, thank you."
"If I may be so bold to inquire, ma'am," the butler furthered his step, and Lydia had the uncomfortable feeling of a bear stuck in a trap. "How are the Altos?"
"The Altos?" Lydia blinked.
"You mentioned seeing them before your visit here, ma'am." the butler reminded.
"Oh, yes," Lydia gave a little laugh. "Yes, they're good."
The butler frowned a little, and thought a little on this. "If you wouldn't mind, ma'am."
Lydia watched as the butler produced a stack of mail.
"These arrived erroneously at Mr Spencer's home; it seems the new mail man couldn't find the Altos," the butler had a little smile. "Would you be so kind as to drop them by on your way home?"
Usually Lydia would have drawn up the butler with an icy stare for such an affront; she was no serviceman summoned to fix the pipes in a leaky apartment! Yet the butler's eyes drew her, and it was no suspicion to simply deliver the mail. Perhaps the butler meant to trick her into admitting there had been no visit to the Altos; yet why send her on such an errand for what would in the end only be a faux pas? Perhaps this was the type of joke butlers regularly employed to make others feel inferior.
"O-of course," Lydia took the mail, and couldn't help reading Vita Alto's name underneath the stamped logo of the credit card company. "Yes, that should do."
Glad to depart with her dignity, above suspicion and in the backseat of her air conditioned sedan, she lowered the partition.
"To the Altos, please," Lydia felt tied to the service people recently, and glanced out the window, the mail heavy in her hands.
Perhaps she could ask Vita if her butler had some gossip on the Spencer's butler; such disrespect! Service people could get so above their station, Lydia fumed.
The car pulled up to the Altos' home, big and spacious with large windows looking out, and Lydia alighted from the back seat with the help of the chauffeur, whose breath stunk of onion sandwich. She saw an unfamiliar Margaret Vaguester parked in the drive, and tutted at the extravagance of the new-money Vitos.
She made to pop the letterbox open but a sheaf of mail fell out, and as she scrambled to pick it up, she froze at the name on the front and turned to the mansion once more.
Lydia took a hurried stride up to the front door, which was ajar. "Er, hello?"
Footsteps came quick on the parquet flooring; a woman slightly younger than her with chestnut hair, worry lines in her forehead and a genuine smile broke across her face. The woman had tied her sweatshirt around the waist of her jeans.
"Hi, I'm Grace," the woman extended her hand, and saw the bulk of mail in Lydia's hands. "Oh, thank you. I've only just moved in."
Lydia watched, stunned, as Grace grappled with the deluge of post; amidst the carnage, the Altos' mail stuck out.
"I should find their forwarding address," Grace frowned. "Sorry, I never asked your name?"
"Lydia Cartwright," she was suddenly too tired to draw herself up. Grace merely blinked at the name.
"Oh yes, the mayor's wife," Grace smiled happily. "I've seen you on TV. Please, come in!"
Lydia wandered in, feeling a sense of unease. The theme was very much gilt, white and black; shag carpeting, abstract paintings with paint splashes, minimalist kitchen counters with bar stools in black.
The high ceilings in the living room looked down upon a reasonably wide screen TV where a girl no older than six or seven lay on her stomach on the floor, kicking her legs in the air as a children's show played.
"I know I probably should, but I don't have any staff," Grace shrugged helplessly. "My husband Johnny says he likes my cooking, but I know he's just saying that."
Lydia felt the tension building in her forehead. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom?"
"Of course," Grace smiled, with not an ounce of pretension. "We don't use the downstairs one until the spa bath's been fitted, but you can use the one in my room."
Lydia thought this was both a perfect avenue and an entirely too trusting assessment to make of a stranger; yet she could see the woman was quite naive if nothing other than to note that she chose not to employ household help.
"Thank you," Lydia made do with a short reply, and jumped when the little girl in the living room laughed as the colours lit up the screen.
Upstairs, the tone was very muted, with vases of flowers and rather like a chic hotel corridor. She passed by what she assumed was the little girl's room: pink and purple, with a single bed and creative outlets and homework messily arrayed.
Lydia sniffed and continued into the master bedroom, feeling as though she might very well warrant a job in the Criminal career the way she was going. The bed had crumpled white fleur de lis sheets, the ensuite a collection of messily tidied products around the sink. It was a woman's touch, one unfettered by what must be a male's attempts not to mess any of it up for his wife.
Lydia glanced out a window to where her chauffeur was talking on his cell phone, and filched her own out of her handbag, hating the thing, and dialed Vita's number as the ringing was shortly cut out as the operator informed her the number was no longer in service.
Of course! Lydia despaired. She tried Vita's cell number, but got the same response.
She felt cold all over. How on earth could Vita move so suddenly? Not that she truly cared; but Vita was a valuable ally for gossip, and Bella was too quiet a companion.
Lydia was still in the midst of her thoughts, and had Grace not been so engrossed in mixing a bowl of batter by hand, the splatters on her clothes unnoticed; Grace might have realised Lydia's hands were too dry to have come from the bathroom.
"I'm having a housewarming you should come to," Grace brightened. "It's just a small gathering; I'd invite more people but I don't really know anyone!"
"Oh, yes," Lydia furrowed her brow. "This is - well, the house looks lovely."
"Thanks," Grace had spots of colour on her cheeks. "I mainly copy my sister's style. I asked her to help but she said she was busy… "
"Er, my friends the Altos had quite a different style," Lydia revved her engine; almost sorry that she had to interrogate such an unwitting target. "I'm so glad you've changed everything, it looks splendid. But do you know where I might give them their mail?"
"I don't sorry," Grace looked genuinely remorseful. "It's all been such a blur; when my brother said the property would be available now, I got my husband to organise the movers… "
Lydia felt a sudden need to go home and confide in Garrett. This was surreal.
"If you'll excuse me," Lydia took her leave, of the little girl's TV show and Grace asking her very meekly to turn the volume down, and headed out to her car, where her chauffeur hastened to hold the back door open in time.