The Cold Light of Mourning - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,15
began piling the breakfast remains.
Such waste, she thought as she scraped the plates. It’s a good job someone in the kitchen knows what to do with that tasty bacon.
Just before ten, as the muted Saturday morning sounds of buses arriving and leaving, parents calling out to children on their way to the swimming baths or library, and shopkeepers greeting customers crept in the open window, Penny began the final stages of the bridal manicure.
“You’re done,” Penny announced a few minutes later. “Your nails are going to be a bit tacky for the next hour or two, so do be careful. But if anything happens between now and then, come back and I’ll give them a quick touch-up. Oh, and good luck, today!”
Penny opened the door, thanked her customer, and stood in the doorway watching as her client started to make her way down the street. A few steps later, the elegant young woman slowed, then turned and returned the way she had come, as if she had forgotten something.
“Was there something else?” Penny asked.
“There is a small thing I’d like you to do for me,” she said, offering her bag to Penny. “Please reach in there and get my mobile out for me. I need to make some calls, and I can’t be digging about in the bag with wet nails.”
“Of course,” Penny said as she reached into the bag, pulled out the phone, and handed it to its owner. “Thank you, Miss Thompson, and good luck, again!”
Penny stood on the pavement and watched as she set off in the direction of the hotel. A few moments later she turned the corner and Penny stepped back into her shop.
By eleven, when Meg Wynne was at least half an hour late and there was no response to their repeated knocking on her door, Anne and Jennifer began to feel the first pangs of rising anxiety.
“This isn’t like her,” Anne said. “Still, anything could have happened. Maybe the manicure lady was backed up and she had to wait. She could have bumped into someone, Emyr maybe, and gone for a coffee and forgotten about the time, or maybe it slipped her mind that we were supposed to be meeting up now. Maybe she’s with her parents. She could be anywhere.”
The two girls looked at each other and Jennifer shook her head slowly.
“It doesn’t feel right, Anne,” she said. “You know Meg Wynne. She’s meant to be getting married today, for God’s sake. Forgotten about the time? I don’t think so. She would have phoned if she was going to be late. You’d better ring her and see if you can raise her.”
Anne reached into her pocket for her mobile, pressed a key, and listened. After a few moments she shook her head, and began speaking.
“Hey, Meg Wynne, it’s Anne. Where are you? You’re late and we’re getting worried. Ring me. Bye.”
She ended the call and replaced the phone in her jacket pocket.
“Right, then, Jennifer. Let’s start at the desk and see if anyone’s seen her, or maybe she left a message for us there and they forgot to deliver it. Maybe it’s as simple as that.”
As relief flooded their faces they headed down the stairs and made their way quickly to the reception desk. The night porter was long gone and the quietly efficient Mrs. Geraint, who had been daytime receptionist at the hotel for years, looked up at their approach from behind her official nameplate. Her stiff, heavily lacquered black hair, rigorously applied blue eye shadow which had not changed in decades, and uncompromising navy suit gave her a grave air of respectability left over from an earlier era when unmarried couples, barely able to keep their hands off each other, would sign the register as Mr. and Mrs. Jones for the sake of appearances.
“Yes, hello,” Anne began. “We’re wondering about our friend Meg Wynn Thompson. We think she went out earlier this morning but she should have been back by now. We can’t find her and she doesn’t seem to be in her room. We wondered if perhaps she left a message for us?”
“Just a moment, please, and I’ll check.” Mrs. Geraint riffled through a couple of pink message slips, and then looked up at the two anxious faces.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said sympathetically. “There’s nothing here for you. No one really leaves messages much anymore; they just ring everybody up on their mobiles. Shall I check and see if her key’s here?”