“Sounds like a plan.” I tap out a quick email and shoot it off with some of the basic information about what we’re looking for before pushing out of my chair and joining Maddie.
Ivy lives in a little one-bed retirement bungalow in Clapham, and as I pull up to the pavement and park along the edge of the road outside her property, I see the fussy floral net curtains twitch slightly.
“Are you ready to be mauled by a hormonal OAP?” Maddie sniggers.
“Very funny,” I reply dryly as we climb out of the car and head toward the front door.
Before I can even raise my hand to ring the doorbell, the door is flung open and Ivy stands there, fluttering her eyelashes at me.
“Detective,” she exclaims delightedly. “What a surprise!”
“Sure it is,” I hear Maddie mutter behind me, drawing Ivy’s attention.
Her smile dims. “I see you’ve boughther,” she says sourly and I turn to look at Maddie.
“Her?” She mouths in amusement.
“Mrs Chappell, may we come in?” I say politely.
“It’s Miss Chappell.” She smiles coyly at me. “But you can call me Ivy.”
“May we come in?” I ask again.
“Of course.” She beams at me, but as her gaze sweeps over to Maddie, her tone cools. “I suppose you can come in too,” she tacks on just for Maddie.
She turns and heads back into the bungalow, leaving us to follow along behind her. The second we’re in the door, I’m hit with that musty, floral, old-lady scent. The bungalow is neatly kept with worn floral carpets in garish colours and silky wallpaper which may once have been white but is now a kind of cream colour from age. We walk along the short hallway, trying to avoid looking at the rows and rows of ornamental china plates mounted on the walls, each decorated with rural cottage scenes and flowers.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Ivy asks as she stops and turns toward us.
“No thank you,” Maddie and I chorus.
Ivy turns and heads toward her sitting room rather than the kitchen, seating herself in an armchair with lace doilies draped over the arms.
“Please take a seat.” She inclines her head toward the two empty chairs.
“Actually,” Maddie says, “may I use the bathroom?”
“I suppose so,” Ivy says, her demeanour ungracious until she realises that means she’ll have my attention all to herself. Then she brightens somewhat. “Second door on the left.”
As Maddie leaves the room, I turn my attention back to the eccentric old lady.
“Ms Chappell,” I begin.
“Ivy,” she corrects.
“Ivy, I’d like to ask you some questions regarding an incident at the afternoon tea after Mrs Abernathy’s funeral.”
“Oh if you’re talking about the spiked brownies, there was no harm done.” She waves her hand. “None of us want to press charges. After all, it wasn't poor Kevin’s fault. There was a mix up in the kitchen and we got his special brownies by mistake.”
“Spiked brownies?” I repeat. “You mean the brownies served at the afternoon tea were laced with–”
“Weed,” Ivy supplies helpfully. “Or whatever they’re calling it these days.”
“Cannabis?” I blink, shaking my head. What was it with this particular community centre? First arsenic, then sedatives, now cannabis.
“Did anyone ingest the spiked brownies?” I ask.
“Oh yes,” she giggles. “The ladies were quite out of sorts.”
