Tequila Mockingbird

by Morgana Best

“From the beginning,” he repeated.

  “Cressida and I heard Mr Buttons scream,” I began, but once more he held up both hands.

  “Please relate your account from your perspective only, Ms Potts. You have no way of knowing what Ms Upthorpe heard, unless she told you.”

  His comments rankled, but I pushed on. “I was talking to Cressida, when I heard Mr Buttons scream. He had only left the room seconds before,” I added for good measure, just in case he thought Mr Buttons had time to commit the murder. “We both raced out to the door and saw Mr Buttons running back in. He told us that Bradley, the handyman, was dead. He looked dead to me, but Cressida commenced CPR while I called emergency. And that’s about it.”

  “Did you see anyone else outside?” He looked up from his notepad.

  I shook my head. “No. I only saw me, Cressida, and Mr Buttons.”

  “Where were the boarders at this time?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “And where were the staff?”

  “There’s only one staff member, a cook.” I quickly amended that to, “A French chef, newly arrived from Paris. I assume he was in the kitchen.”

  “I’m not interested in your assumptions, Ms Potts,” Roberts said with a snarl. “Facts only. It would make my job easier if you could remember that.”

  The French chef chose that moment to enter the room. “What has happened?” he said slowly. “There has been a murder?” His hand flew to his mouth.

  “Yes,” I said, and I would have said more, but Roberts moved to silence me.

  “Please be quiet, Ms Potts. That will be all for now. I’m sure I’ll have occasion to speak to you later. You may leave the room now and I’ll question this gentleman. Your name?”

  “Albert Dubois,” he said timidly.

  “Are you still here?” Roberts addressed me. “Close the door behind you when you leave.”

  I left the room, seething with anger. I pulled my phone from my pocket and texted Blake, Roberts is a pig. After I texted that, I was filled with remorse, because pigs are lovely animals.

  Blake did not reply, so I paced up and down the long hallway and then decided to find a snack in the kitchen. The French chef was not as possessive of the kitchen as Dorothy had been, and didn’t mind any of us poking around. By the time I reach the kitchen, I had lost my appetite, so wandered aimlessly back in the other direction. I walked back into the corridor and almost barrelled into Adrian Addison and Wendy Mason.

  My first thought was that they looked awfully friendly with each other, but maybe I was overly suspicious. “That man, Bradley Brown, was murdered?” Wendy asked me.

  The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. How did she know his name? I’m sure he had only been addressed as ‘Bradley’ in front of her, and she had only just arrived. Who could have told her his surname? Maybe there was a logical explanation. I looked up to see she was still waiting for my response. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” I said.

  She looked utterly stricken. “I think Wendy needs a brandy,” Adrian said.

  “Of course. There’s some in the dining room.” I opened the door and they both walked inside.

  “Did you find the body?” Wendy asked me.

  I shook my head. “No, it was Mr Buttons. He’s awfully shaken up. So is Cressida; she gave him CPR. It was awful.”

  “Is he definitely dead?” Wendy asked me.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  Wendy looked stricken at the news. It seemed genuine to me—unless she was an exceptionally good actor. “Do they know who did it?” she asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Not as far as I know, anyway. One of the detectives questioned me, and now he’s questioning Albert, the chef. The other detective is questioning Cressida.”

  “And who is questioning Mr Buttons?” Adrian asked me. He poured a brandy from a crystal decanter sitting on top of the walnut credenza and handed it to Wendy.

  “Mr Buttons has gone down to the station to give his statement,” I said. “Since both detectives are here, I expect he’ll be waiting at the station for quite some time.” Once again, I was concerned that the detectives suspected Mr Buttons. I figured keeping him waiting was one way to make him more nervous.

  Adrian nodded. “It’s good to see a fellow Englishman here. How long has Mr Buttons been in the country?”

  I thought it a strange question, but I figured he was trying to make conversation to take Wendy’s mind off the murder. Her face was white and drawn, and she was wringing her hands nervously. “To tell you the truth, I have no idea,” I said. “I haven’t been in Little Tatterford for too long myself.”

  “Buttons is an unusual name,” Adrian said. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone else by that name.”

  Wendy had finished her brandy and held her glass out for another. Adrian duly refilled it. “Does Mr Buttons have any family in Australia?” Adrian asked me.

  I became suspicious. These questions seemed more than idle conversation. “I don’t know,” I said. “You’ll have to ask him. Why are you so interested in Mr Buttons?”

  Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry to pry. It’s just nice to run into a fellow countryman, that’s all.”

  It was clear to me that he was lying. But why? I had no time to puzzle over the matter because the French chef barrelled into the room in tears. “That detective, he is a buff-ohn!”

  “A buff-ohn?” I asked him.

  He nodded furiously. “Oui. An eed-i-ot, a clown. A buff-ohn! He asked me so many questions. Why would he think I would murder ze man? I did not even know him!” He burst into tears and ran into the kitchen.

  I was relieved that Cressida wasn’t here to see this. She would worry that such a scene would make the boarders leave. “I do hope you’re going to stay on,” I said to Wendy and Adrian. “The murder is nothing to do with the boarding house. The victim was a convicted criminal, and he did odd jobs for everyone around town. He could have been murdered anywhere.” I nodded as I spoke, doing my best to appear convincing.

  It was Adrian’s turn to look shocked. “He was a criminal?”

  I nodded. “Cressida told me he had recently been released from prison. He was a bank robber, so I suppose one of his criminal associates murdered him.”

  “Why would they do that?” Adrian asked me.

  “I don’t have the slightest clue,” I said honestly. “I do hope you won’t leave.”

  “I have no intention of leaving,” Adrian said with a smile. “It is an awful shock, but as I’m posted to Little Tatterford for work, I expect one accommodation place in a small country town is no more dangerous than another.”

  Wendy readily agreed. “If he was a bank robber, then clearly there isn’t a serial killer on the loose,” she said. “They say lightning never strikes twice in the same spot.” She polished off her brandy in one gulp.

  Adrian patted her shoulder.

  While I was pleased that they had agreed to stay on, I was a little suspicious. If I was staying at a boarding house where someone was murdered, I would certainly hightail it out of there at the first opportunity. I suspected they had an agenda for staying here, and it wasn’t the first time I had thought that.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. The message was from Blake. I agree. Are you working today? I want to call over later.

  I texted Blake back to tell him I didn’t have any appointments and that I was looking forward to seeing him. In fact, I had left the week clear to catch up on paperwork. My dog grooming business was doing well, but it was hectic. I was relieved that my property settlement had finally been awarded, and even though the money had not come through yet, it was only a matter of time. I thought I should buy a house in town with the money, but I would miss Cressida and Mr Buttons if I moved from the cottage.

  Still, I did not want to continue to rent a tiny one-bedroom cottage when I had the money to buy a house. And after living in Sydney, the cottage was something of a shock, being badly insulated, with holes in
the floorboards, and angry possums in the roof. What’s more, the chimney was always clogging up and sending smoke into the room.

  Still, I had more important things to worry about. There had been a murder—another murder—in Little Tatterford.

  Chapter 4

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  This is a placeholder file for use in Preorder.

  This is NOT the book.

  Cressida and I were sitting in my cottage. I stoked the fire, trying to encourage it to burn a little better. Spring didn’t mean much in this part of the world. The nights were still bitterly cold, and sometimes the days were also.

  I noticed Sandy, my Labrador, eyeing a fire starter cube so I snatched it from her reach. “What is it with Labradors?” I asked her. “Why do you think everything is edible?” She stared at me and drooled.

  “You’re an ugly fool and a …” I cannot repeat the rest of the sentence that came out of Max’s beak. Max, my sulphur-crested cockatoo, used to be a very polite bird, until my ex-husband trained him to use foul language while he had temporary custody of him.

  “Max!” I exclaimed, blushing, although I knew my admonitions would do no good.

  “I’m worried that Mr Buttons has been at the police station for so long,” Cressida said sadly. “I really fear the police suspect him.”

  I was thinking the same thing. I threw another fire starter cube on the fire. There was nothing quite so comforting as an open fire. I huddled closer, relishing the warmth, and inhaled the smoky fragrance.

  A loud knock startled us both. “I didn’t hear a car,” I said to Cressida. I crossed to the door and opened it.

  “Speak of the devil!” Max squawked. “You’re a ^*$%#!”

  “Max!” I said again. “Mr Buttons, come and sit by the fire.”

  Mr Buttons took an empty seat by the fire and held his hands towards it, rubbing them together. “It was awful, awful, I tell you. I’m quite distressed.”

  “I knew it,” Cressida wailed. “The police think you did it, don’t they?”

  To my surprise, Mr Buttons shook his head. “To the contrary, my dear woman, the detectives are convinced that I was the intended victim.”

  I leant forward. “They are? Why?”

  “Sibyl, do you have any wine?” he asked me.

  I nodded. “Red or white?”

  “Red, please.”

  I walked the few steps to my tiny kitchen and fetched an unopened bottle of wine from the cupboard. I took Mr Buttons back a glass of wine and then realised I hadn’t asked Cressida if she wanted one. I did so, but she declined, so I took a seat. “Mr Buttons, you were about to tell us why the police think someone wanted to murder you.”

  “It’s simple, my dear. He was wearing my coat.”

  “That seems quite tenuous to me,” I said with surprise.

  Mr Buttons nodded. “Yes, I think so, too. Anyone who wanted to murder me would surely know me well enough to know that I am always impeccably dressed and there is never so much as a dog hair or a piece of lint on me. Anyone who knew anything about me would not mistake me for that poor Bradley Brown. No, I myself am convinced that the poor man was surely the intended victim. Indeed, I told the detectives that, but they merely looked at me in a supercilious fashion.”

  Cressida had remained silent throughout the whole exchange with her mouth open. “Sibyl, would you have any chocolate?” she asked, when she had sufficiently recovered. “I fear I’m in need of comfort food.”

  I walked the short five steps to my kitchen and fetched some Tim Tams from a cupboard. I tipped them onto a plate. I offered one to Cressida, but she thanked me and took the plate from me. “Don’t they know he was a criminal?” she said through a mouthful of chocolate encrusted crumbs.

  Mr Buttons’ face lit up for the first time since he had returned from the police station. “Oh yes, they do. They told me all about him. He robbed banks.”

  Cressida waved one hand at him. “Yes, Mr Buttons. Don’t you recall that I told you that?”

  Mr Buttons shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. The detectives told me all about it—in far more detail than I wanted to know, mind you. Bradley Brown was in prison for nearly fifteen years. The reason he was imprisoned for so long was that it was an armed bank robbery, but armed bank robbers usually only get short sentences.”

  I had been partially hypnotised by the flames, but that brought me back to the moment. “You’re kidding!” I said. “I didn’t know that bank robbers got short sentences.”

  “Please allow me to finish, ladies,” Mr Buttons said, clearly exasperated. “My father always said that fools and children shouldn’t see things half done. Please allow me to finish before you interrupt me again.”

  I nodded, and he pushed on. “When I mentioned a short sentence, I meant much shorter than fifteen years. The detectives told me that he had a gun, which is classed as robbery with a dangerous weapon. Also, he was in company which is a longer sentence.”

  Cressida waved a half eaten Tim Tam in front of Mr Buttons. “I know you told us not to interrupt, but you’ll have to make more sense than that. In company with what?”

  Mr Buttons rolled his eyes skyward. “In company with others, of course. Accomplices, if you will. Apparently, if one person robs a bank in the company of another person, each person has to serve a longer sentence than usual.”

  Now I really was confused. “I know you told us not to interrupt, Mr Buttons,” I began, “but if I robbed a bank with you, I would get a longer sentence than if I robbed a bank alone. Is that right?”

  Mr Buttons looked pleased. “Precisely. I’m glad you both understand. And robbery with a dangerous weapon, such as a gun, attracts a more severe sentence than robbery with an offensive weapon, such as a knife.”

  “Well, that’s all very interesting,” I lied, “but what does that have to do with the police thinking you were the intended victim?”

  “Nothing at all,” Mr Buttons said.

  A piece of coal jumped from the fire and made a sizzling sound on the nearby rug. I hoped Mr Buttons wouldn’t have the urge to clean it. I stomped on it with my foot, as Mr Buttons continued. “My point in telling you that was to tell you that there was a shootout with the police, and Bradley’s five accomplices were killed. Bradley did not serve his full fifteen years, but got out on parole. And as we all know, he was only recently released.”

  “And why don’t you think you were the intended victim, Mr Buttons?” I asked him.

  Mr Buttons sighed. “Don’t you see, Sibyl? Bradley was the only survivor of the robbery. The gang stole just under five million dollars, and the others were killed in the shoot-out at the bank.”

  “So
he got away with the money?” I asked him. “He wasn’t arrested at the scene of the crime?”

  Mr Buttons shook his head. “That’s just it, Sibyl. He was arrested five weeks later. The money was never found.”

  I gasped, and Cressida nearly choked on a Tim Tam. “So Bradley has the money here, in Little Tatterford?” she asked him.

  Mr Buttons nodded. “That stands to reason. Surely he would want the money close to him.”

  “But why would anyone kill him?” I said. “The murderer will never get their hands on the money now that they have killed the only person who knew where it was. Obviously, the police would’ve searched for it back in the day, and they never found it, so he was clever at hiding his money.”

  Cressida tapped her chin. “Perhaps he was killed by a relative of one of his accomplices, blaming him and wanting to take vengeance.”

  “Possibly,” Mr Buttons said, but I could tell he was only humouring Cressida.

  “He didn’t seem like a rich man,” I said. “He wore those old clothes.”

  “Think about it, Sibyl,” Mr Buttons said, as he rose from his seat to wipe some chocolate from the edges of Cressida’s mouth with a white linen handkerchief. “He would know the police were watching him. He would have to lie low for a while, and act as if he didn’t have any money.”

  “Why wouldn’t he grab the money and leave the country?” I asked, more to myself than to anyone else. I threw some kindling on the fire. It wasn’t burning well because I had put an oversized log on it. I really needed to be more patient and start the fire more slowly, with smaller bits of wood. Thank goodness for fire starter cubes.

  “Because he knew the police were watching him, like I just said.” Mr Buttons smiled at me. “Most criminals aren’t too bright, but he obviously had enough sense to keep cool and wait it out.”

  “I’m still trying to figure out who killed him,” Cressida said.

  Mr Buttons wrapped his arms around himself. “I hope it wasn’t someone trying to kill me, after all.”

  I attempted to reassure him. “Who would want to murder you, Mr Buttons? That is, of course, unless you have a secret life you haven’t told us about.” I finished with a laugh, and looked up into Mr Buttons’ face.