Tequila Mockingbird

by Morgana Best

  “It took me all day, unfortunately,” she said, “but I think it’s a good haul.”

  “Yes, it’s quite impressive,” I said dryly. I could not believe the bald-faced lies coming out of her mouth. Didn’t she have a conscience? And who were the two mysterious men? I ran through all the possibilities. Could she be a hit woman, and the two men had put out a contract on Bradley? No, maybe I only thought that because I had watched the first John Wick the previous week. Still, I had left the room for all the gruesome scenes, which meant I hadn’t seen much of the movie at all. All that aside, there was no escaping the fact that she was lying—there was no way Wendy Mason had been panning for gold that day.

  Chapter 9

  Mr Buttons and Cressida walked me back to my cottage after dinner, given our concern that we might be in the murderer’s sights. “Do you want me to check inside your cottage for you?” Mr Buttons asked me.

  “Would you mind waiting here until I open the door, and if Sandy doesn’t look upset, then I’ll know no one’s in there,” I said.

  Cressida laughed. “I’m sure Sandy would eat anyone who stayed still long enough. After all, she’s a Labrador.”

  I agreed. When I opened my door, I jumped with fright. There was a body asleep on my sofa, snoring gently. I realised in a millisecond that it was Blake.

  I turned around and waved to Cressida and Mr Buttons. “All clear. Thanks for walking me home.” I did not want them to know that Blake was inside. I knew they would want to come in and chat with him.

  Mr Buttons waved back. “Get plenty of sleep, Sibyl,” Cressida said. “Don’t forget I’m having another showing at the local art gallery tomorrow night.”

  I grimaced. Cressida’s paintings amounted to nothing less than a catalogue of horrors, but they sold well despite that. They certainly weren’t to my taste, but then again art is a personal thing. I, for one, preferred not to look at people being disembowelled and dismembered in glorious living technicolour, especially not when framed.

  I locked the door behind me and turned my thoughts to more pleasant things—Blake. I walked over to him, noticing copious Labrador slobber all over his shoes.

  I threw a soft blanket over Blake, carefully avoiding his slobber-laden shoes. The fire was dying down, so I put some more wood on it and stoked it. Blake stirred and opened one eye. “Sorry, Blake, I didn’t want to wake you.”

  He reached out one arm and pulled me to him on the sofa. Within seconds he was spooning me, his warm arms around me. “I hope you don’t mind me using my key.” He nuzzled the back of my neck.

  I hurried to reassure him. “Of course not. That’s what it’s for.”

  “I drove all the way back from Sydney, and I wanted to come straight to see you, but you weren’t here. I realised you were up at the boarding house.”

  “I was. Why didn’t you call?”

  “I didn’t want to spoil your fun. Did you get much paperwork done today?” he added.

  I stopped breathing for a moment, and then realised that would make him suspicious, so forced myself to breathe normally. “Not as much as I liked.” That, at least, was the truth. “How was court?”

  Blake let out a long sigh. “We won in the end, but it was looking bad for a time.”

  “We all went to Bradley’s funeral yesterday,” I reminded him.

  “I’d forgotten.” Blake’s arm tightened around me.

  “The detectives were there, and Constable Andrews and other officers in plain clothes, and there were two strange men in black suits.”

  I was hoping Blake would comment, but he didn’t. To prompt him, I added, “I wonder if the detectives are making any headway on the case.”

  “I know they ran a background check on the boarders.”

  Blake’s speech was slurred, and I could tell he was falling back to sleep. “What did they find out?” I asked urgently.

  Blake yawned. “I can hardly stay awake. I can’t remember when I was last this tired. They found out that Dennis Stanton is a retired cop.”

  “A retired cop?” I echoed. “So that’s his real name?”

  “Yes, they’re all using their real names, apart from the French chef, who isn’t French by the way, but don’t say I told you.”

  I chuckled. “We’ve already figured that out. Do any of them have criminal records?”

  Blake’s arm stiffened. “Sibyl, you’re not thinking of investigating, are you?”

  “Of course not.” I think I might have spoken too loudly and forcefully, but Blake didn’t seem to notice. “Why didn’t Dennis tell us he was a cop?”

  “When some cops retire, they don’t want anyone to know they were cops. They just want to have a normal life.”

  I was thinking of more questions to ask, when I heard Blake gently snoring once more. I was perched precariously on the edge of the sofa, so I gently disentangled myself from Blake’s arms. I put more wood in the fire, and placed the fireguard in front of it.

  I sat on the sofa opposite Blake and rubbed my forehead. Had Bradley hidden the money on the grounds of the boarding house? It would surely make sense that he had done so here, rather than on his own property, which would be the first place people would look.

  Rich basalt soil abounded in the area, so holes were easy to dig, unless someone struck rock while doing so. Of course, Bradley could have hidden the bank robbery money in one of the sheds behind the boarding house. They were so full of clutter that Mr Buttons himself wouldn’t be able to clean them out. Something cleverly hidden in there could easily go unnoticed.

  Cressida had not called on Bradley to do any work inside the house, and the boarding house, like most houses in Australia, had neither an attic nor a basement. That meant the money, if indeed it was on the property, was somewhere outside the boarding house.

  What did we have to go on? It wasn’t much. Bradley had certainly looked startled when he had seen the boarders, and I couldn’t for the life of me remember whether or not Albert Dubois, whatever his real name was, had been in the room at the time. And what did I know about them? Dennis was a retired cop. Wendy pretended to go panning for gold, but instead had a secret assignation with two men, the same two men who had attended the victim’s funeral, but had not spoken to Wendy throughout the service.

  And what did I know about Adrian Addison? Nothing at all, apart from the fact that he was English and seemed to enjoy riling Mr Buttons. We needed to look into Adrian and Dennis more closely.

  And then there was the fact that Mr Buttons seemed to have a secret of his own.

  It was just then that I realised Blake hadn’t answered me when I asked him if any of the suspects had a criminal record.

  Chapter 10

  Mr Buttons and I were at the local art gallery, perusing the paintings. Not Cressida’s—they were altogether too gruesome on a full stomach. We were standing in the entrance corridor, on polished concrete floors and whitewashed walls, looking at the photographs, the work of a local artist.

  Cressida had come much earlier, to arrange her paintings with Mortimer Fyfe-Waring, and his friend, Vlad, or Vlad the Impaler as Mr Buttons liked to call him. Mortimer was Cressida’s agent, an art critic of note.

  “I still can’t believe there’s a market for Cressida’s paintings,” Mr Buttons said in a conspiratorial tone. “It just goes to show what I know about art!”

  I chuckled. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “Is Blake coming tonight?” Mr Buttons said.

  I nodded. “Yes, he was just catching up on paperwork.”

  “And speaking of paperwork, Sibyl, how is yours going?”

  I groaned, and leant back against a piece of rough plaster between two paintings. “I was hoping to have a really productive day, but I didn’t get much done. I know I should have made a list, but I didn’t want to see how much I had to do, because it would frighten me. When I’m overwhelmed with work, I get all flustered, and then I make terrible mistakes.”

  “You’ve had a lot on your mind
,” Mr Buttons said in a soothing tone. “We just have to get through tonight, and then we can do some more investigating tomorrow. If you have time, that is,” he added. He moved aside to let some well-dressed and loud ladies past him. They were speaking in overly posh voices, the sort used for impressing their pretentious friends at such gatherings. I knew these people—they would often outbid each other for a piece of art that they did not like.

  “I wonder if they actually hang Cressida’s paintings after they buy them,” Mr Buttons said with a laugh.

  I raised my eyebrows. “You know, I’d really like to find out. She seems to be the flavour of the moment around here, and that’s obviously pushing up her prices.”

  Mr Buttons shook his head sadly. “I really don’t understand her target market. Then again, I’m no expert on art.”

  “You and me both,” I said. “Oh look, all the boarders are here. I wonder if Albert Dubois is coming, too?”

  Mr Buttons tapped his chin. He leant over to me, and said in low tones, “I would have thought the murderer would stay back at the boarding house.”

  “Why is that?” I asked without thinking.

  “Because, Sibyl,” Mr Buttons began patiently, “it would be an ideal time to look for the bank robbery money, with all of us here at the art gallery.”

  I slapped myself on my forehead. “Of course! It’s obvious now you mention it.”

  “The French chef isn’t here.” Mr Buttons arched his eyebrows.

  Cressida sailed over to us, and I did a double take. She was wearing a bright red gown. At least, I think it was a gown, because there were no other words to describe it. It appeared to have a short train, because it flowed along behind her. It was the brightest shade of crimson I had ever seen. Sugar skulls were embroidered all over it, in gleaming gold. Cressida wore matching luminescent golden blush, which she appeared to have applied to her whole face, apparently never having understood the idea of shadowing or contouring. Her lipstick was even brighter than her dress, and her eyebrows, which were always kept shaven, were drawn halfway to her hairline, giving her an expression of perpetual surprise.

  I am sure I was wearing the same expression upon seeing her. I turned to see Mr Buttons coughing into one of his embroidered white linen handkerchiefs. “Are you all right, Mr Buttons?”

  Instead of answering me, he turned to Cressida. “Madam, you’re wearing more perfume than usual.”

  At first I thought Cressida looked surprised at his words, but then I realised that she couldn’t look more surprised than she already did. “Oh, can you smell it? I accidentally tipped it all over my dress when I was getting ready.”

  “The whole bottle, obviously,” Mr Buttons muttered, before sneezing violently.

  Cressida ignored him. “Oh look, here’s dear Mortimer with Vlad.”

  Mortimer sailed over, holding his hand in front of him. I wasn’t sure whether he wanted me to kiss it, so I merely looked at him. He stood in front of me, his hand held out for a moment. He then took it back and seized me by my shoulders, kissing me hard on both cheeks. “Sibyl, how lovely to see you again, and Mr Buttons.” He eyed Mr Buttons warily.

  “You have a spot on your spectacles,” Mr Buttons said to him by way of greeting. “I shall remove it for you, my good man.” Before Mortimer could protest, Mr Buttons had pulled another white linen handkerchief from a pocket and scrubbed Mortimer’s glasses, while Mortimer was still wearing them.

  Mortimer appeared to be frozen to the spot, while Vlad was doing his best not to laugh. Vlad gave us a little wave—he wasn’t one to stand on ceremony like Mortimer. When Mortimer released Mr Buttons, Cressida stepped forward and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “It’s lovely to see you, Mortimer. And you too, Vlad.” She narrowed her eyes as she spoke to Vlad. I had often wondered whether Cressida had a crush on Mortimer. I was sure Mr Buttons thought so, not that he had ever said such a thing to me. I couldn’t help but notice the way Mr Buttons acted when Mortimer was around. I had suspected for some time that Mr Buttons might have a crush on Cressida. However, my thoughts of romance turned to my own, as Blake hurried over to me.

  He kissed me lightly on my cheek. “Sibyl, you look gorgeous tonight.”

  “So do you,” I whispered back.

  He took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, and handed one to me. “I’m so sorry we haven’t seen much of each other lately.”

  I sipped some champagne before speaking. “That’s fine. That’s the life of a cop, I suppose.”

  He frowned and looked at me. The look spoke volumes, only I wasn’t able to translate it. After an interval, he nodded. Mortimer and Cressida had already sailed away, I assume to put the hard sell on various patrons, so Blake, Mr Buttons, and I were left alone, huddled near a framed black and white photograph.

  “Well, we can’t stay here all night,” Mr Buttons said. “Sooner or later, we shall have to sally forth and be confronted with one of those monstrosities, otherwise known as paintings by Cressida Upthorpe.”

  I suppressed a giggle. “Yes, we’ll have to do our duty in supporting Cressida.” I nodded my head ever so slightly to Wendy Mason, who was engaged in an animated conversation with Adrian Addison.

  Mr Buttons at once took my meaning, and walked in their direction. I noted the clever way he stood near them, not too close to arouse suspicion, but not so far that he couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  I looked around for the French chef, but couldn’t see him. I thought I should say something to Blake and risk a lecture about minding my business and not investigating. I took another gulp of champagne, and then said, “Do you remember how Mr Buttons always said that Dorothy was the guilty one?”

  Blake laughed. I pushed on. “Now he’s convinced the French chef is the murderer.”

  Blake raised his eyebrows. “Is it just that he’s in the flow of thinking the next cook would have to be the murderer, or does he have a valid reason to be suspicious?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea, but he did note that Albert Dubois isn’t here tonight. Mr Buttons thinks that the murderer would be snooping around the grounds of the boarding house, looking for the robbery money, and tonight would be a good opportunity to do it.”

  Blake rubbed his chin and was silent for a few moments before speaking. “Actually, that makes sense. However, Sibyl, I’m not on the case, and you’re not either.” He waved his finger at me as he spoke.

  “Of course I’m not investigating,” I lied. “Blake, don’t you find it a little strange Albert isn’t here when the other boarders are?”

  Blake shook his head. “I don’t find it suspicious at all. Perhaps he has no interest in art. I don’t know why the other boarders have come, to tell you the truth. I would have thought Cressida’s art wasn’t to everyone’s taste.”

  “I don’t mean that,” I said. “I mean, if you were the murderer and you were searching for the robbery money at the boarding house, you wouldn’t come to a function when you knew that other people from the boarding house would be there, would you? You would use that opportunity to stay back and search for the money.”

  Blake folded his arms over his chest. “For someone who’s not investigating, you seem a little too interested.”

  “Of course I’m interested,” I said, giving him a playful punch on the arm. “I can see you don’t want to talk about it, so let’s go and look at Cressida’s paintings.”

  “A cruel punishment indeed!” Blake said with a laugh.

  I steered Blake in the direction of Dennis, the retired cop. He was staring at one of Cressida’s paintings. It was entitled, Entrails. I averted my eyes, but not quickly enough. One thing was for certain—I was going to have nightmares that night. “What do you think of these paintings?” I asked him.

  “Um, um,” he stammered. “Well, they’re not the sort of thing I would buy, but I can see the talent in them. They’re so, um, realistic.”

  I nodded. “They’re certainly not to my taste, but Cressida is a gif
ted artist.” If only she would use her talent for good rather than evil, I silently added. Aloud I said, “So you won’t be buying one for your new house?”

  Dennis smiled. “I don’t think so. I don’t know enough about art to invest in it, although I have heard that art is a wise investment. I should probably stick with the stock market.” He gave a rueful laugh.

  “Cressida’s paintings are certainly shooting up in price,” I pointed out.

  Mortimer must have overheard us, because he appeared at my shoulder at that point. “Yes, Cressida’s paintings would certainly make a wise investment,” he said.

  As I made the introductions, I nearly put my foot in it by saying that Dennis was a retired police officer, a fact I wasn’t supposed to know. I considered myself lucky that I caught myself just in time. Blake and I walked away, leaving Mortimer eagerly putting the hard sell on Dennis. I looked around for Mr Buttons, and spotted him still hovering around Wendy. He caught my eye and walked over to me. Adrian was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he had doubled back to the house. If so, that was certainly suspicious.

  I was about to ask Blake if he had seen Adrian, when I spotted Adrian striding towards Mr Buttons. Mr Buttons spun around, an unmistakable look of alarm on his face. “Mr Buttons, have you been in Australia long?”

  Mr Buttons fidgeted. “Long enough.”

  “Whereabouts in England are you from?” Adrian asked him

  Mr Buttons face turned bright red. “Here and there. The south.”

  “Whereabouts exactly?” Adrian pressed him.

  “London.” Mr Buttons made to move away, but Adrian stepped in front of him.

  “Is Buttons your family name? That’s a highly unusual name. Or is it a nickname you have given yourself?” Adrian was certainly invading Mr Buttons’ personal space, and Mr Buttons was visibly uncomfortable.

  “What do you want from me?” Mr Buttons asked. To me, he sounded frightened, although I couldn’t see why.