by Sonia Parin
Abby wagged a finger at her. “Earlier you said you ate in moderation. Yet you matched me tart for tart.” Abby picked up a menu. “Coffee and lots of it, please Mr. Barkeep.” Humming, she tried to guess what Faith would order for dessert so she could get something similar and not feel as though she’d missed out.
Setting her menu down, Faith said, “I’m going to be sensible and have a fruit salad.”
“A virgin salad or a groggy one?” Mitch asked.
Frowning, Faith had another look at the menu. “Is that something new?”
“Yes. Hannah’s introduced an alcoholic fruit salad. It has all sorts of fruit and orange and lemon juice mixed in with port wine. She calls it the Fruity Rebel. It has quite a kick.”
“I’ll have to try it.”
“Make that two,” Abby said.
“Make that three.”
Abby looked at Joshua. “I didn’t know you were a dessert type of man.”
“Not usually, but that sounds too tempting.”
Abby rose to her feet. “Okay. Since we’ve been deprived of Sahara Johns’ presence, we might as well retire to my apartment and try to make sense of what we have. Joshua, feel free to join us.”
Half an hour later, they were throwing paper airplanes at the wall.
“We should have grabbed a handful of darts from downstairs.” Faith tore another page from the notebook and started folding it.
“Everyone is accounted for.” Abby pointed at one photo and the next and the next.
Joshua had just caught them up on the latest information about Miranda, which he had kept to himself right throughout their meal.
No bee sting had been found on her body. The overworked coroner stood by his findings, insisting Miranda had died from a reaction to bee venom. No traces of it had been found in her cosmetics either and, because of his previous lapse, the coroner had been thorough, checking every item in Miranda’s possession, including her clothing.
Joshua stretched and yawned.
“What’s on your mind, detective?”
“I’m thinking that if I keep this up, I’m going to be out of a job.”
“Detective? Are you beating yourself up?”
“I’ve been in the force long enough to—” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Never mind.”
His lagging confidence caught Abby by surprise. Since meeting him when she’d first arrived, Joshua Ryan had come across as being calm, competent, and confident.
“You had a gut feeling. From the start you thought there was something odd about Miranda’s death.” Abby stood up and checked on Doyle who’d curled up on his doggie bed. He was sound asleep. Although every now and then, his tail wagged. “Anyone else might have closed the case. But you kept at it. Out of curiosity, would you rather be kneading bread right now?”
He chortled. “It does help to clear my head. Also, it puts everything into perspective.”
Abby spread her arms out and twirled around on her heels. “What do you do when you hit a wall like this? In your place, I’d chuck it all in and take up knitting.”
Joshua laughed. “You hope for a lucky break. You step away and go through all the evidence with fresh eyes. You keep digging.”
They’d revisited the scene of the crime several times and Abby had been running through everything they had on a loop until she felt clogged up. “My head needs an enema.” She collapsed on the couch only to spring back up. “Hey. Phone calls.”
“What about them?” Joshua asked.
“Did Miranda receive any phone calls in the last couple of days before she died?”
“Yes, we’ve checked them. There were only calls from and to William Matthews. The last one came through early on the day of the picnic. He says he called her to make sure he got the wrap she wanted. Apparently there were two and Miranda could be fussy.”
“How’s he holding up?” Abby supposed it all depended on the type of relationship he’d had with Miranda. People married for different reasons. Some people allowed their hearts to rule, while others were strict disciples of their reasoning mind. Abby had an aunt and a couple of friends who’d married for practical reasons…
“Well enough. He’s been able to answer all our questions.”
“Did he seem at all stressed by the experience?” Abby asked.
“He wanted to be helpful. That’s what he told us. He spoke clearly and concisely.”
“Is that normal?” Abby wondered out loud.
“No, not really. Most victims’ relatives have the same attitude. They want to be helpful but they succumb to emotions. That tends to blur their thinking.”
William Matthews worked in a bank. Abby guessed that would require a certain amount of level headedness. Abby crossed her legs and nudged him. “How did he react to the news about the bee sting?”
“He didn’t believe it at first.” Joshua sat up and looked down at Abby.
“Did he know about Miranda’s allergy?”
Joshua nodded. “What are you trying to get at?”
“I won’t know until the will is read. I assume he’ll be the beneficiary.”
Joshua scooped up a spoonful of fruit salad juice. “Unless there are special provisions made.”
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see how Miranda felt about her cousin.” Abby checked the time. “Anyone interested in a nightcap?”
“Three Irish Coffees.” After serving their coffees, Mitch drew out a chair and joined them. “People are starting to get restless.”
“Could you define that, please?” Abby asked.
“I’ve been hearing complaints all day about the lack of progress.” He looked at Joshua. “You need to have someone in handcuffs soon.”
“Are you volunteering?” Joshua asked.
“Is this a closed session or can anyone join?” Charles Granger didn’t wait for an invitation. He set his glass down and, helping himself to a chair from a nearby table, he sat next to Faith. “I don’t normally trek into town during the week, but I was hoping to get some news.” He looked around the table. “So… Any news?”
“Faith and I went to visit Miss Haverstock today and she told us about the lady of the lake,” Abby offered.
They all waited for her to reveal more.
“That’s it. She saw a woman coming out of the lake.”
Mitch brushed his hand across his chin. “Miss Haverstock is in her nineties.”
“And yet she’s been winning her category every year since I arrived,” Charles said.
Abby’s eyebrows rose. “Category? In what?”
“Archery. I’ve been holding an annual competition for the past few years to raise money for the hospital. It’s coming up in a couple of months.”
Mitch laughed. “Miss Haverstock wins because the few people entering do it for the fun of it and not because they’ve had private tuition.”
Charles lifted his glass to his lips only to stop. “Regardless, she wins because she hits the target. Proof her eyesight can be trusted.”
“Are you saying we should take her observations seriously?” Abby tried to remember if she’d seen anyone at the picnic with hair the color of sunshine. “Her butler appeared to disagree with what she says she saw.”
“I’ve heard say he has to read fairytales to her whippets every night,” Charles mused.
“Are you suggesting he’s a disgruntled employee?”
“Sometimes, familiarity breeds contempt. My father had a butler who constantly told him off. He didn’t dare fire him because, privately at least, he agreed with him.”
“Let’s hope nothing ever happens to Miss Haverstock. If it does, we’ll know to point the finger at the butler.” Finishing her coffee, Abby thought most women at the picnic had worn hats. She’d seen a few blondes in town, but no one with yellow blonde hair. “Who in town has hair the color of sunshine?”
Joshua cleared his throat. “What exactly did she say about this woman coming out of the lake and why am I only hearing about it now?”
“Did Miss Haverstock see the woman going into one of the houses?” Joshua asked.
“Oh… I didn’t ask. Faith and I were… distracted.”
“By what?”
Abby didn’t want to mention finding Kitty at the picnic grounds. “I thought I saw someone and I got it into my head it had to be the killer returning to the scene of the crime.”
“And?” Joshua prompted her.
“I… I was wrong.”
Faith grinned. “Abby doesn’t want to say but she thinks she saw a kangaroo.”
“From across the lake.” Joshua’s gaze bounced between them.
Abby nodded. “Miss Haverstock has some powerful opera glasses. By the way, who made the call to the police about an intruder at the lake? Eddie thinks it was Miss Haverstock.”
Joshua held her gaze as if trying to figure out the truth about the kangaroo. “The butler, at Miss Haverstock’s request. He actually made a point of saying so.”
“The man needs to rethink his loyalty.” Abby had been a fair distance away from Miss Haverstock’s mini castle. Yet the elderly woman had seen her. “We have to find the blonde woman.” Or man… Why had the butler insinuated the possibility it had been a man?
Joshua nudged her.
“What?”
He lowered his head and whispered, “William Matthews just strode in.”
One by one, they all took turns to look.
“I need a drink and the service here is slow.” She strode over to the bar and edged as closer as she could to William Matthews without attracting attention.
She remembered his sun-bleached hair from the day she’d seen him at the photo shoot. Up close, she realized it all came out of a bottle and not the cheap variety. Abby guessed his personal grooming ranked high on his list of priorities.
Without actually feeling his sweater, she knew the label would read ‘Cashmere’. If money had a particular scent, Abby thought, so did expensive fabrics. She gazed down at his shoes and decided they were bespoke. William Matthews probably flew to London once a year to be fitted with proper footwear that would be lovingly hand stitched and take six months to make.
A gentle scent hovered around her nose and gradually revealed layer upon layer of a complex fragrance that, again, would have been designed for one particular customer.
Could his job pay for his expensive habits?
Ignoring Mitch’s raised eyebrow, she ordered her drink. Back at the table, she was about to relay her observations but everyone’s attentions were pinned on the bar.
Turning around, Abby saw Sahara Johns headed for the opposite end of the bar.
“Did she just walk right by William Matthews?”
They all nodded.
“I guess that means they’re not on speaking terms.”
Chapter Fifteen
Abby wiped her cheek. “Doyle. Please stop pressing your wet nose against my cheek. If you want to wake me, try barking. And how did you get on my bed?”
Doyle buried his little head under the pillow.
Looking out the window, Abby yelped. “I slept in?” The sun had already come up. “Nine o’clock?” She flung the bedcovers off and leaped out of bed. Doyle rushed after her. “What’s the hurry?” Abby pulled out a t-shirt and pair of jeans. “I want to… accidentally bump into Sahara Johns. She’s probably already had breakfast. Here’s hoping she’s a two cup of coffee type of person.” A few minutes later, she came out of the shower and raked her fingers through her hair. “Okay, I’m willing to go with the windswept look today. No time to waste.”
Abby rushed to the door and looked back to see Doyle circling his food dish.
“Oh, I’m a bad mother. Sorry.” She organized some food and stood back murmuring, “Could you please, for once, scoff it down.” She slumped down on the couch. “Okay. Sorry. Take your time.”
When she saw him licking the bowl, Abby surged to her feet. “Can you eat and run or do doggies have rules about not doing that for five hours after eating?”
Doyle managed to keep up with her. She rushed down to the bar in time to see Sahara Johns stepping out.
“Missed her.” She made a beeline for the door when it occurred to check the dining room. It was busier than usual. “Hey, Mitch. What’s up with all the customers?”
“Everyone’s heard Sahara Johns is here so they’ve come into town for breakfast. You just missed her. I sent you a text message. What happened to you? Did you sleep in?”
Abby patted her pockets. “I forget my cell phone.” She rushed back upstairs. On her way down again, she noticed a door at the end of the hallway standing ajar. Sahara’s room. Had she returned?
She scooped Doyle up and nudged the door open slightly. “I know I shouldn’t, but who can ignore an open door?” Whimpering, Doyle buried his little head in the crook of her arm. “Hello?” Abby called out.
A head popped around the corner. “Hi. Can I help you?”
Not Sahara… Abby floundered. “Oh…” She introduced herself. “I just saw the door open and thought maybe the occupant hadn’t locked it properly.”
“That’s nice of you but I’m cleaning the room.”
Abby had been staying at the pub for a while and she didn’t remember ever seeing her. “How long have you been working at the pub?”
“A year.”
“I’ve been here for a few weeks and I haven’t seen you around.”
“I usually wait until everyone’s left to do the rooms. I’m Steph.”
Abby looked around Sahara’s room. “I hope I haven’t ever left my room in this condition.” Sahara wasn’t exactly a neat freak. There were clothes strewn about the room. A suitcase sat on the floor empty.
“You’re actually good. I often wondered if you realize the pub has room service. Most of the time, I only have to wipe down surfaces and plump up your pillows.”
“You can thank my mom for that. It’s an ingrained habit.” Abby’s gaze skated around some more. She had no idea what she was looking for. She supposed she’d know when she found it.
Had she become suspicious of Sahara? Abby sighed. “Maybe.”
“Sorry, did you say something?”
“Oh… no. I’m… okay. I’ll leave you to it.” As she strode back down to the bar, she went through what she’d seen. Had there been any light colored clothes?
“Where are you going with this, Abby?” she asked herself. When Doyle squirmed in her arms she set him down. Why would Sahara want her cousin dead? What sort of relationship had they had? Miranda hadn’t come across as a pleasant person but that wouldn’t be a solid enough reason to kill her.
“Keeping gentleman hours?” Faith asked as Abby strode into the Gazette.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep in. I’m blaming the combination of the groggy fruit salad and Irish coffee.” She checked the mail and saw a couple of Dear Abby letters. “These are still coming in?”
“You’re going to have to seriously consider running a column.”
“The entire newspaper is my column… more or less.” Abby leaned forward and looked at Faith’s computer screen. “What are you working on?”
“I’ve been looking at your photos trying to see if I can find Sahara Johns.”
“What makes you think she was at the picnic? I only ask because I assume she arrived in town yesterday.”
Faith wagged a finger at her. “Abby Maguire. Surely you know better than to assume.”
“Okay, I’ll admit I’ve been playing around with a suspicion. I poked around her room and didn’t find any light colored clothes.” What if… Sahara had something to gain by Miranda’s death? “If, and this is a big if, Sahara plotted to kill her cousin, s
he’d want to make sure she covered her tracks.”
“Yes, that goes without saying. I think it’s interesting that she’s an actress.”
They both fell silent and stared at each other, eyes unblinking.
Faith surged to her feet and strode around the office. Her mouth moved, but no words came out.
“Please share your thoughts.”
Faith held up a finger. “Give me a minute.”
“Hey, that’s usually my line.”
“Well, it’s contagious.” Faith stopped. “When we rehearse a new play, I can’t help myself… I always play around with the lines and wonder how I would write them. I don’t consider myself a writer, but sometimes the lines sound awkward. That’s just me. Although, I know there are some in the group who enjoy writing. So maybe we all do it.”
Abby nodded. “I wonder if Sahara can write.”
“It doesn’t matter. She’s an actress so she’s always hovering in a make-believe state. What if she has the skills to work out a scene from beginning to end?” Faith sat down. “Let’s assume she wants her cousin dead. We’ll let Joshua worry about motive. What would Sahara do first? Find a way to kill Miranda without making it obvious.”
“You think she somehow talked Miranda into joining her in the boat? That would put Sahara at the picnic…”
“I’m thinking she worked out a plot.”
They both took a turn around the room. Doyle followed Abby until he realized she wasn’t going anywhere.
Abby clapped her hands. “We need to find out if Sahara stands to inherit and, until we do, there’s no point in even considering her as a suspect.”
“What if this isn’t about money?” Faith asked. “What if this is simply about getting rid of Miranda?”
Abby grabbed Doyle’s harness. “First, we need something to power up our thinking. I’m going to get us some coffee.”
Joshua always insisted on having a motive. Abby remembered Joyce asking if people could kill without one.
A senseless crime. “No, there would still be something driving the person to commit the crime. A need to kill. An urge. A desire.” Abby cringed at the idea of associating desire with killing. In her mind, desires had positive connotations.
