Repossessed

by Morgana Best

  That was a close call, and if it had been anyone else, they wouldn’t have believed my ridiculous story. John Jones was one of the few people who would believe such a thing. What was I to do? Should I call Basil?

  No. I took a few deep breaths and sprinted back up my stairs. I looked in on Mum again but was only able to look at her feet. I fetched the other bag of ice out of the sink and tipped it over her.

  I went back to the funeral. To my surprise, the pastor was already summing up. I figured it was a short service because there was no one to give the eulogy, apart from Angus, that is. I cast a look around the room. Apart from Angus and Dylan, they were all church people.

  I hurried into the side room to make sure the hot water urn was boiling. I fetched the lamingtons from the fridge and uncovered all the other cakes. I had been surprised that Angus had been willing to pay for the food. Maybe he wanted to put on a good show for the police.

  It was only then did I notice the police. Detective Prescott and Detective Packwood were standing at the back of the room. I wondered when they had arrived.

  Detective Prescott greeted me at once. “You haven’t heard from your mother?”

  “No, I haven’t heard from her at all,” I said. “Have you asked Ian? She would call him well before she’d ever call me.”

  Detective Prescott simply nodded to me while Packwood shot me a suspicious look.

  I walked to the other side of the room and watched as people piled in. Celia was chatting with Angus. I edged closer to overhear what they were saying.

  “As much as I couldn’t stand your father, I’m sorry he’s gone,” Celia said, “but only for your sake.”

  Angus snorted. “Don’t be sorry for my sake. There was no love lost between us.”

  “Yes, I figured that since you spent so long in Europe,” Celia said.

  They both turned around and saw me looking, so I thrust a plate of cupcakes under their noses. “Cupcake anyone?”

  “No thanks, I’m coeliac,” Celia said.

  I gestured to the plate at the end of the table. “I do have some gluten-free chocolate chip cookies over there. They’re dairy free and egg free too.”

  “Are you absolutely certain they’re gluten-free?” Celia asked me. “Can I see the packet?”

  “Sure. Come with me.” I led her to the rubbish bin and retrieved the packet. I expected her to read the label, but as soon as she saw it, she said, “Oh yes, I buy those for myself from Woollies. I hope you didn’t think it was a strange thing for me to ask.”

  I hurried to reassure her. “Not at all. Allergies and intolerances obviously have serious consequences.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Eliza Entwistle invited me over to her place for dinner, and she invited Russell too. I told her we were both coeliac, but she fed us something with gluten and we were both sick for days.”

  I was horrified. “Are you saying she did it deliberately?” I blurted out without thinking.

  Celia frowned deeply. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. Actually, I have no idea, but I did go to great lengths to tell her we were coeliac. I also offered to bring some of my own food, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Luckily, I always take activated charcoal tablets in my handbag and also gluten-blocking enzyme tablets, or it would have been much worse.”

  With that, Celia went back to the table to fetch a plate and on it deposited several of the gluten-free chocolate chip cookies.

  I wondered about Eliza. Did she have a grudge against Celia or Russell? Or could the three of them have been in it together? They all held a grudge against the victim. Upon reflection, I dismissed the thought. No, if they were good friends, then Eliza wouldn’t have given Celia and Russell gluten-containing foods, whether deliberately or accidentally.

  My head was spinning, so I walked over to the urn and made myself a cup of black tea. I really wanted coffee, but Angus’s budget only ran to the instant stuff and I had the real stuff upstairs in my apartment. I fervently wished everyone would leave soon so I could call Basil and we could get Mum back into the mortuary cabinet. I looked over at Janet who was talking with John Jones. I hoped he would keep his mouth shut about mum.

  The detectives were observing everybody there, and I was disconcerted to see Detective Packwood was observing me in particular.

  I had almost forgotten about Dylan, but he appeared beside me. “Laurel, you shouldn’t be eating so many of those cookies. You’re not getting any thinner you know.”

  I rounded on him. “Stop it, Mum,” I said. I realised what I had said and looked around. Dylan had already turned away and was selecting cookies.

  Ian appeared beside me. “Poor Dylan, you shouldn’t encourage him, dear.”

  “Don’t call me dear,” I snapped. “Besides, he did a good imitation of my mother’s voice so I thought it was her. Obviously, he is not my mother.”

  “Yes, the poor man,” Ian said. “Being struck by lightning and then eating that tree moss has obviously affected his mind. It has also made him most ungodly, now that he is wearing women’s clothes.”

  “You are most ungodly too, Ian,” I told him.

  Ian gasped. “How could you say such a thing?”

  “It looks as though you’re wearing a polyester and wool blend, and the Bible says you shouldn’t do that.”

  Ian laughed. “Don’t be so silly, Laurel. That doesn’t count.”

  “You’re saying the Bible doesn’t count?” I countered.

  This time, he did look a little taken aback. “Yes, of course all it counts, just not that bit. That’s not relevant for today.”

  I’d had this argument with my mother, and I knew logic wouldn’t get me anywhere. “Whatever.” I looked over at Dylan who was now sitting on a chair, knitting, his legs crossed primly. He was wearing a sensible tweed skirt with a sensible tweed blazer and a string of pearls. However, the shade of lipstick did not go with his complexion.

  Detective Packwood appeared at my shoulder. “I heard Dylan Jackson ate psychotropic herbs when you were camping.”

  “I believe so,” I said. “Ian tells me it was moss from trees. It didn’t seem to affect the others, though. Ian thinks it’s a combination of being struck by lightning and eating the moss. Maybe Dylan did eat some magic mushrooms and didn’t know it.” I gave a half shrug.

  “Has he seen a doctor?”

  “Not as far as I know. He doesn’t think anything’s wrong. He thinks he’s a woman.”

  “Specifically, he thinks he is your mother.”

  “Yes.” I had a feeling I was walking into a trap, but I couldn’t see how.

  “How would he know what your mother was like if he had never met her?” Packwood asked me.

  I wondered if the detectives suspected my mother was hiding in the house and had met Dylan. “Dylan has become best friends with Ian, so I assume Ian told him all about Mum,” I said. “Why don’t you ask him if he’s ever met my mother?”

  Detective Packwood simply narrowed his eyes and walked away. Thankfully, most of the church people had started to drift away. “That was a good service, Laurel,” Angus said. “Thanks for that.”

  “I’m happy you were pleased with it,” I said. “How long are you staying in town?”

  “Just until I sort out Dad’s house and everything else. At first, I thought it would only take a few days, but now I think it will take a few weeks.”

  “Well, good luck with it all.”

  Angus nodded and made his way out. The detectives and Dylan were the last to leave. They walked out of the door, chatting with him. I immediately called Basil and asked him to get here as fast as he could.

  This was all going downhill fast. Dylan seemed happy enough, but mum’s spirit had not left him yet. She was frozen in my bathtub and would have to go back into the mortuary cabinet for goodness knows how long. I was no closer to finding the murderer.

  What was I to do?

  Everyone had left, so I walked up to the front door to lock it, but just as I did, a ghost appeared in front of
me. I jumped. It was Tom Trent.

  “I wanted a bigger funeral than that,” he said.

  “So you didn’t like it?” I asked.

  “It was okay.”

  “Do you know who murdered you?”

  He stuck his big red face close to mine and shook his finger at me. “I’m not going to tell you who it was.”

  Even as a ghost he was thoroughly belligerent.

  “But why?” I asked. “Don’t you want your murder avenged? Don’t you want your murderer brought to justice?”

  “Your mother is a nasty piece of work,” he said. “I’d like her to be charged with my murder.” With a guttural laugh, he vanished.

  Chapter 16

  I had never attended the Witch Woods Brickthrowing Contest before, so I was a little sceptical about my outfit. Ian had told me that everyone who attended the contest needed to wear a costume, and since it was the Witch Woods Brickthrowing Contest, and since I had a witch costume shoved in the bottom of my cupboard, my choice was obvious. However, I’d had the witch costume since I was thirteen, so it was a little short and a little tight. At the very least Basil would enjoy it, I supposed.

  “What on earth are you wearing?” Basil asked as he arrived to pick me up.

  Silly me, but I failed to notice that Basil wasn’t wearing a costume. I just assumed he was dressed as an accountant and therefore dressed as himself—jeans, blazer, and an expensive watch that his grandfather used to own.

  “Come on, Basil. We need to question Russell Reed. I have it on good authority that he entered the cheese rolling race. In fact, Russell was crowned the cheese rolling race champion last year. He’ll be keen to defend his title.”

  Basil eyed me with confusion. “Why on earth would anyone be keen to defend that title?”

  “You speak like a man who has never rolled a wheel of cheese down a hill.”

  “Yes,” Basil replied. “Funny that.”

  I made Basil pull over at the liquor store, where I bought two tiny bottles of vodka. The kind of tiny bottle you see despondent detectives down in Hollywood movies. Now I wasn’t technically a detective, but I did a lot of detecting, and often I felt despondent. Long story short, I downed those two tiny bottles of vodka in the car park without feeling a single ounce of shame.

  “I thought one was for me,” Basil said.

  “You’re driving,” I replied. “And you are not wearing a skirt that practically shows off your bottom.”

  The Witch Woods Brickthrowing Contest was far more of a festival than a brickthrowing contest. Bricks were thrown, naturally, as were rubber chickens, but there were stalls to peruse and jams to buy.

  I was stunned on arrival that no one—literally no one—else had dressed in a costume, and I wondered why Ian had told me that everyone in attendance needed to wear one. I was furious.

  “What on earth am I wearing?” I asked Basil, who laughed.

  He kissed me on the cheek. “You look great.”

  “Liar.”

  “You look better than great.”

  “Hey.” I grabbed Basil’s hand. “There’s Russell Reed. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Don’t turn anyone into a frog,” Basil called after me.

  I made my way through the festival, trying and failing to ignore everyone who stared at me. Thankfully, Russell didn’t spot me, so I had time to duck behind a giant novelty cheese wheel when I noticed Celia Watson approaching Russell. What did she want with him? Did they have ill feeling towards each other?

  It turns out the answer is no. They liked each other very much. This I could tell because they kissed right then and there as I crouched behind the cheese. So, Russell Reed and Celia Watson were an item. Or at least, enough of an item to steal kisses at the Witch Woods Brickthrowing Contest. I made a mental note of their relationship, then straightened up and approached Russell after Celia left.

  “Russell?” I said, smoothing down my witch’s skirt.

  “Yes?”

  “My name’s Laurel Bay. Can I have a word?”

  “If this is about the cheese rolling, I’m afraid I don’t offer my tips and tricks to all and sundry. I do, however, offer courses each summer. They are seven hundred dollars for three lessons. You should take at least one course before entering the cheese rolling competition. It really is about safety first, you know? A lot of these young cheese rollers come in here all youthful and enthusiastic and end up dying.”

  “Dying?”

  “Well, not literally dying, but embarrassing themselves as they skid down the hill, their cheese roll flying off into the crowds of spectators.”

  “I’ve actually entered the contest already,” I said and immediately regretted it. Why on earth would I lie about such a thing? I didn’t know how to roll cheese. I knew how to eat cheese and then roll myself into bed, sure. But I suspected this was a whole different ball game.

  Russell’s body language changed instantly. I thought I saw a flash of respect in his eyes, but his tone grew sterner. “It’s not safe, you know. In fact, the police have had to crack down on rebel cheese rolling competitions. Today is the only official cheese rolling competition. Did you know that?”

  “Of course,” I said. I didn’t like his stern tone at all. “I am a champion cheese roller myself. You know, from Finland.”

  “You are from Finland?”

  “Oui,” I said, because I didn’t know the Finnish word for yes.

  “But you sound Australian,” he protested.

  “Finland and Australia have extremely similar accents. Everyone knows that.”

  Russell frowned. “Where is your cheese?”

  “I ate it in the car on the way here. So I’ll have to buy a new wheel before competing.”

  “You ate foam?”

  I was perplexed. “Why would I eat foam?”

  “The cheese wheels are fake. Made from foam. Real cheese was deemed too dangerous.” Russell eyed me suspiciously. “What cheese rolling competition did you win in Finland?”

  “Err, um, the Jaja Ding Dong Cheese Rolling Championships,” I stammered. “It’s one of the most prestigious competitions in the Finland.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Russell replied. “Very strange for a champion not to have their own foam cheese wheel, but I suppose you can pick up a replacement from the official tent. It’s over there. Best of luck, Laurel.”

  “You too,” I said, and then I had to trudge over to the official tent, because Russell didn’t take his eyes off me for a second.

  “Now, our cheese racing competition is a little different,” the official informed me. “Instead of everyone chasing one wheel of cheese, participants have their own individual wheel of cheese. If you catch your own cheese you win fifty points, but if you catch an opponent’s wheel of cheese you earn twenty-five points. No points are awarded for failing to catch a wheel of cheese.”

  “I see.”

  “Here, write your name on the bottom of your cheese. That way we will know which one belongs to you. You can use this crayon.”

  I wrote my name on the cheese and headed to the starting line.

  Russell was already there, warming up. He seemed to have a pre-race ritual, which involved chanting and humming and throwing his arms up to the sky. I watched him for a time before I too started to chant, just in the hopes it helped.

  “Hey, Russell,” I began.

  He cut me off. “After the race.”

  Basil waved to me at the bottom of the hill, and I waved back.

  A man fired the starting gun, and I took off at a sprint down the hill. I figured if I started fast, the hill would do the rest of the work, which is true, but I also didn’t count on the cheese starting fast. Several volunteers had released the cheese just as the gun fired, and it was impossible to tell which cheese belonged to which racer. I preferred the traditional way, where we all chased one wheel of cheese, but oh well.

  My ankles pounded as I scrambled down the hill. Several people fell, but I managed to keep my fe
et. I even managed to grab a wheel of cheese, though I had no idea if it was my wheel of cheese.

  The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the mud, ankles shot and knees scraped, clutching a wheel of foam cheese for dear life.

  “That was brilliant,” Basil cried. He helped me stand. “Is this your cheese?”

  I flipped the cheese over. No. It belonged to Russell Reed. His name was right there. “Oh, no.”

  “It was you!” Russell screamed. “You are the reason I could not defend my championship.”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied. “I just grabbed any cheese wheel I could.”

  “Now Jeremy Duggins is the new champion. He caught his own cheese and got fifty points. I only got twenty-five points!”

  “That’s not so bad. I only got twenty-five points too,” I said sheepishly.

  “That might be good enough in Finland, but here not so bad is hardly going to win any cheese races. You’re just like Tom Trent.”

  “I am nothing like Tom,” I replied, hoping to goad a reaction out of Russell. Actually, hoping to gouda a reaction might be more fitting. “He was a nice man.”

  Russell’s ears turned pink. “Tom was a terrible person. He tried to make me pay him fifteen thousand dollars. But that’s not the worst part. He grew corn which made Celia’s sun-loving plants stop growing.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Tom liked his corn.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Russell shrieked. “He hated corn. He thought corn was the worst food in the whole entire world. He didn’t even eat corn chips. That’s what kind of monster who was. A man who didn’t even eat corn chips. The community garden was supposed to be productive. It was supposed to help people. Corn isn’t productive.”

  “Unless it is a chip?”

  “Exactly! Corn is useless. Corn doesn’t produce much and it stops the other plants from getting enough sunlight. He was a bad man, that Tom. I’m not saying I’m glad he’s dead, but now that’s he dead, I never have to think about corn again.”

  “I see,” I replied.