Tequila Mockingbird

by Morgana Best

  At that point, the dining room door flung open, and Mr Buttons stood there, illuminated by the filtered sunlight behind him.

  He did not speak, and I held my breath, wondering how he would react. I wondered if he would be angry. So this was his secret! He must have known all along that Adrian knew, and that was why he was so uncomfortable with him, especially when Adrian was taunting him.

  To my relief, Mr Buttons meekly crossed the room and sat at the table. “So my secret is finally out,” he lamented, “after all these years of me being so careful to keep my identity hidden. I abandoned my life of privilege and simply wanted to live as a commoner in Australia. Was that too much to ask?” He rested his head in his hands.

  “Do you have family looking for you?” I asked him.

  He shook his head. “Not family, but custodians.” He glared at Adrian.

  Adrian held up both hands, palms facing outwards. “I’m only doing my job. I’ve got to make a living. Lord Nithwell, I can’t write that book without you. Plus you’re the most interesting person in it. It will be quite a boring book without you.”

  I noticed that Mr Buttons looked somewhat pleased by that remark. Adrian was still talking. “Your family’s history is fascinating, but many people don’t consider any history to be interesting. Now, the chapter on you will be fascinating. How many Earls have left their homeland and gone to live in Australia, especially in a small country town where nothing ever happens?”

  “Except murders,” I couldn’t resist adding.

  Adrian ignored me. “Lord Nithwell, please let me interview you. I won’t mention that you’re living in Little Tatterford; I’ll just say that you’re living in outback Australia.”

  “Little Tatterford is hardly the outback,” Cressida said, visibly annoyed.

  Adrian shrugged one shoulder. “It sounds better that way,” he said dismissively. “Lord Nithwell, if you will allow me to interview you, I’ll keep you as anonymous as I can in the book.”

  I wondered if there was a threat implicit in that statement. It seemed to me that Adrian was implying that if Mr Buttons did not allow him to interview him, then he would write up Mr Buttons’ story in the book and tell everyone he was in Little Tatterford.

  It seemed the same thought had occurred to Mr Buttons. “I agree to your terms, but I’ll have my lawyer draw up a contract to that effect. Also, you are never to call me Lord Nithwell again. You are to call me Mr Buttons.”

  Adrian smirked. “You’ve got a deal.” He held out his hand. Mr Buttons pulled a white linen handkerchief from his pocket, wiped Adrian’s hand, and then shook it.

  “So you’re not the murderer then?” Cressida said, disappointment evident in her voice.

  Chef Dubois walked into the room, carrying a silver teapot. “Murderer?” he echoed.

  “We have just ascertained that Adrian Addison here is not a murderer, but a journalist,” Mr Buttons said in a steely tone. “Chef Dubois, would you kindly take a seat?”

  The man looked terrified. He put the teapot down on the table. “You want me to sit?” he asked nervously.

  “Yes,” Mr Buttons said.

  The chef took a seat. He looked far more nervous than Adrian when Cressida had confronted him only minutes earlier.

  “We all know that you’re not French,” Mr Buttons said. “Did you murder Bradley Brown?”

  The chef clutched his throat. “No! No, of course not!”

  Mr Buttons leant across the table. “You can drop the fake French accent, my good man. You’re no more French than I am. I am sure you have never even been to Paris. Come clean, or it will be the worse for you.”

  “You’re scaring him, Mr Buttons,” Cressida said. “Please don’t be upset, Chef Dubois. You don’t have to be French to keep your job here. I want you to stay on as chef.”

  “Good gracious me. You can’t have a murderer as a chef, Cressida!” Mr Buttons’ voice rose to a high pitch.

  “I didn’t murder anyone,” Chef Dubois said, although he had dropped the French accent. “I’m so sorry I lied, Cressida. My qualifications aren’t the best, and I don’t have any good references, so I thought if I pretended I was French, you wouldn’t bother to check international references.”

  Mr Buttons made a strangling sound. “Cressida was hardly likely to check international references in person. There are such things as email and international calls,” he added sarcastically.

  “Mr Buttons is just a little upset at the moment,” Cressida said in a placating tone. “Pay him no mind. Of course you’ll keep your job, but not if you murdered Bradley Brown.”

  “I didn’t murder anyone,” Chef Dubois said again. “I truly apologise for lying about my qualifications, but I didn’t murder anyone.”

  I had forgotten that Adrian was there. He looked fascinated by the whole exchange. I certainly hoped he didn’t put that in his book. It struck me that we only had his word that he was a journalist. Perhaps he was the murderer, after all. Still, it would be strange for him to say he was working for the Office of Geographic Names as a cover story for the fact that he was a journalist writing a book on Mr Buttons’ family, which in turn was a cover story for the fact that he was a murderer. I shook my head and smiled to myself. No, that would be too far-fetched.

  And then again, was Chef Dubois the murderer? Perhaps he had a connection to Bradley that we didn’t know about. It was time we spoke to Wendy Mason.

  Chapter 16

  “I’m glad Chef Dubois isn’t the murderer,” Cressida said, after the three of us were back in the private living room.

  Mr Buttons looked most put out. “I still reserve judgement on that one.”

  Cressida shook her head and bent down to stroke Lord Farringdon. Cat hair flew in all directions. “No, Lord Farringdon has always maintained that Chef Dubois is innocent. He vouches for him.”

  Mr Buttons’ eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. I think he was transfixed by the cat hair.

  “So, Mr Buttons, I’m surprised to know that you’re an Earl.” I considered how to word it before I asked him, and I thought that preferable to demanding to know why he hadn’t told us.

  Mr Buttons lowered himself gently into one of the antique chairs, this one upholstered in an unpleasant shade of mustard damask jacquard fabric. Lord Farringdon had been about to leap into that very seat, so he shot Mr Buttons a filthy glare. Mr Buttons wrung his hands nervously and looked at the floor. “I came to Australia to escape my past,” he said in a small voice.

  Cressida stood over him and folded her arms. “Mr Buttons, here I was thinking we didn’t have any secrets from each other. I must say, I’m most disappointed in you. And escaping your past? It makes you sound like you’re a criminal.”

  “I like my life here,” Mr Buttons protested. “And people always treat me differently once they find out that I’m an Earl. Here I can be carefree, with no responsibilities, and no need to keep up the act. I’m a simple person, really.”

  “You still could have told me.” Cressida sounded quite hurt.

  “I apologise. It’s just that I thought you would act differently around me.”

  Cressida flung her arms skywards. “Would why would I? I don’t even know what an Earl is!”

  “An Earl is a member of the nobility,” Mr Buttons said automatically. “It’s above a Viscount and below a Marquess.”

  Cressida was not placated. “I don’t even know what a Marquess is!”

  “A Marquess is above an Earl and below a Duke,” Mr Buttons said, and then he muttered something about Visigoths and Lombards. At least, I think that’s what he said. It gave me flashbacks of my school days.

  Cressida was about to say something else, and by the look on her face, I could see it wasn’t going to be good. To divert her attention, I said, “Why don’t we go and speak with Wendy Mason? We could say we just happened to see her in Pharmidale that day when she said she was panning for gold.”

  As soon as I said it, I realised that Mr Buttons had recently obje
cted to such a plan, and I was surprised when he did not object now. Clearly, he was too upset about being outed as a member of the nobility. He stood up, said, “Okay,” in a small voice, and then made for the door. Cressida stormed after him.

  I hurried past them and blocked the exit. “Now then, we’ll have to put our hurts and differences aside, because we need to be calm to speak to Wendy. Don’t forget, she could well be the murderer. Do you both agree?” I was actually addressing my remarks to Cressida.

  They both nodded, although Cressida still looked upset. “Where would Wendy be now?” I asked them.

  “Not panning for gold,” Mr Buttons said snarkily.

  “I think I saw her car outside when we came back,” Cressida said. “We can’t all go to her room, because that would be too confrontational, yet we need to speak to her alone.”

  “Why don’t you just pop up to her room and ask her to join us for a drink in the private living room?” I suggested.

  “That’s a good idea.” Cressida gathered her bright red skirts and took off at a fast pace.

  “She’s still angry with me,” Mr Buttons lamented. “Are you angry with me, Sibyl?”

  I hurried to reassure him. “Of course not, Mr Buttons. Cressida is just upset because she thought the two of you were best friends. She’s a little shaken to think that you were keeping something so big from her. She’ll get over it soon.”

  “I’m not so sure I share your confidence.” Mr Buttons’ face fell even further.

  I patted him lightly on his back. “Cressida isn’t one to hold a grudge. You’ll see! Now let’s go and sit down and try to look casual. Do you have any idea how we can work into the subject?”

  Before Mr Buttons could answer, Cressida hurried back into the room. “She’s right behind me,” she said in a stage whisper. The three of us all but sprinted to our seats.

  Moments later, Wendy poked her head around the door. “Oh, I see this is the right room.”

  “Yes, it is.” Mr Buttons held up a brandy balloon. “What would you like to drink? And please sit down.” He gestured to an uncomfortable looking mahogany balloon back chair. Wendy sat upright on the chair. Our intent to make this look casual wasn’t off to a good start. She already looked like she was being interrogated, if not tortured, perched on the high chair while all of us were leaning back in comfortable, albeit unattractive, armchairs.

  “This is quite unusual decor,” Wendy said, looking around the room in alarm.

  “Thank you.” Cressida beamed at her, obviously thinking her words were a compliment. “So, Wendy, have you found any more gold?”

  Mr Buttons spoke before Wendy had a chance to do so. “Wendy, we know you weren’t panning for gold. You see, I just happened to be in a café in Pharmidale and saw you speaking to two men on the very day you told us you were gold panning. What’s more, they were two men who were at the funeral, yet you did not interact with them at all on that day.”

  Cressida nodded. “And I saw you coming out of a tourist shop in Pharmidale not long before Mr Buttons saw you. The lady in there told us you had bought that gold you pretended you found in the creek.”

  Wendy leant forward and put her head in her hands. “Oh no. I was hoping no one would find out. I didn’t think it would be so easy to blow my cover.” When she straightened up, her face was bright red. “Okay then, you got me. I confess.”

  “You murdered Bradley Brown?” Cressida said in shock.

  Wendy looked even more startled. Her hand flew to her throat. “Oh goodness gracious me, no! Certainly not! I didn’t murder anyone!”

  “Then why the pretence?” I asked her.

  She sighed long and hard. “If I tell you, I must have your word that it doesn’t leave this room.”

  We all nodded. She pushed on. “I’m an insurance investigator.”

  “An insurance investigator?” Cressida said, frowning.

  “Yes, I’m working for the bank’s insurance company—you know, the bank that Bradley Brown robbed?”

  “We know all about it.” Mr Buttons waved her on.

  “Then you know he got away with millions and it hasn’t been found to this day. I came to Little Tatterford to see if I could uncover the money. I heard he did a lot of work for this establishment, so I booked myself in here under the guise of a woman being on a holiday, panning for gold.”

  “Does Adrian know you’re an investigator?” I asked her.

  She looked startled, and then recovered quickly. “No, not at all.”

  “Had you met Adrian before you came to the boarding house?” Mr Buttons asked her.

  She shook her head. “No, I had never met him before. I met him for the first time the morning of the murder.” She looked at each one of us in turn. “Is that what this is all about? You really think I murdered Bradley Brown?”

  Mr Buttons sputtered, and Cressida fumbled with her hands, so I answered. “Yes, you were one of our suspects, to tell you the truth,” I said.

  Instead of being offended, she smiled. “And you’re concerned because the murder happened on your property, and those detectives are worse than useless?”

  “That’s exactly right!” Cressida said with feeling. “If you didn’t do it, do you have any idea who did?”

  “I thought it might be either Adrian or the chef,” she said. “And please keep this to yourselves too, but Dennis Stanton is a retired detective.”

  We all nodded. “We know,” I said. “He was on the team that had Bradley sentenced for the robbery.”

  Wendy clutched her stomach. “Well, this has just been one shock after another. I didn’t know you knew so much. Yes, Dennis has given me some helpful information.”

  “Have the two of you been working together?” I asked her.

  She shook her head again. “No, but when I arrived at the boarding house, I recognised him. I’ve lived and breathed nothing else since my firm assigned me to the case. Dennis offered to help out. It was obvious to me that he was here for the same reason.”

  “He’s working for your insurance company, too?” Cressida asked her.

  She shook her head. “No. From what he said, I gathered it was unfinished business. He feels bad that the money was never found. He doesn’t feel comfortable retiring without all the loose ends tied up.”

  I thought it over. If it wasn’t Wendy, and it wasn’t Dennis, then it did only leave the chef or Adrian. I still wasn’t ruling out the possibility that two or more people were in it together.

  “It isn’t Chef Dubois,” Cressida said firmly. “Lord Farringdon vouched for him. I keep saying that, but nobody will listen to me.”

  “Who is Lord Farringdon?” Wendy asked.

  Mr Buttons at once stood up. “Thank you for your help, madam. We will certainly keep what you told us in the strictest confidence.” He offered her his arm, and then hurried her to the door. He opened the door for her, and then watched her walk away.

  Mr Buttons hurried back to us. “I know who the murderer is!” he announced.

  Chapter 17

  I held my breath. “Who is it?” I asked him.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Chef Dubois. I’ve been saying that all the time.”

  Cressida and I groaned. “It’s Dorothy all over again,” Cressida muttered.

  “What makes you think it’s the chef?” I asked him.

  Mr Buttons puffed out his chest. “Didn’t you hear Wendy? If we can believe that she is not the murderer, and that Dennis has been assisting her, then it stands to reason that it’s either the chef or Adrian Addison.” He pointed to Cressida and then to me. “The two of you both told me that Bradley was alarmed when he recognised someone in the dining room. Have you forgotten?”

  “Yes, but we can’t remember whether the chef was in the room at the time,” I said. “Please don’t take offence, Mr Buttons, but I think accusing the chef is something of a wild leap.”

  Mr Buttons looked most disgruntled.

  “And just because Wendy says she isn’t the m
urderer, doesn’t mean she isn’t,” I continued. “I really don’t think we’re any further along. Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way.”

  Cressida and Mr Buttons looked at me expectantly. I took a few moments to compose my thoughts, and then said, “Perhaps we should look at people who had a reason to kill him. I think we should approach it from that angle.” I walked over to sit in one of the comfortable chairs, and Cressida and Mr Buttons did likewise. Lord Farringdon had taken the chair Mr Buttons had been sitting in previously, so Mr Buttons sat in the one next to it.

  I scratched my head. “Okay then, let’s throw up some hypotheticals. Who would have a reason to kill Bradley? The first thought that occurs to me is the other bank robbers. The police shot them all dead. Surely they have families? What if a family member of one of the other robbers is angry that Bradley escaped unscathed?”

  “Or perhaps they’re angry that Bradley didn’t share the money with them,” Mr Buttons said.

  Cressida clapped her hands. “We don’t know that Bradley didn’t share the money with the other families. For all we know, he might have done just that.”

  I had to agree. “That’s a good point, Cressida. Now what are some other reasons that someone would want to kill him?”

  “There’s always the possibility that it didn’t have anything to do with the bank robbery,” Mr Buttons said thoughtfully, “but that seems unlikely. No, maybe we should just assume that it did have something to do with the robbery.”

  “And then there’s the money,” I said. “Perhaps someone murdered him for the millions. It seems the most likely reason to me.”

  Mr Buttons nodded. “If someone discovered where the money was, then they would have taken the money, and murdered Bradley to tie up loose ends.”

  Cressida shook her head. “The police looked for that money the entire time Bradley was in jail, and didn’t find it. How could someone find it now? It seems unlikely.”

  I was relieved that Cressida was speaking to Mr Buttons in her normal tone, her previous resentment seemingly forgotten. “Well, I’m all out of ideas,” I said sadly. “Can anyone think of anything else?”