Chartreux Shock

by Katherine Hayton

Duncan came back to stand next to Marjorie, his face turned to stone. “I’ll head home now,” he said in a small voice. “There’s nothing for me to do here.”

  “You know my number if you want to chat,” she said, waggling her phone. “I know it’s been a long and terrible day but try to get a good sleep, if you can.”

  “I’ll try.” He issued a harsh laugh that sounded closer to a bark. “Do you know what Regina wanted to whisper to me in secret?”

  She shook her head.

  “They didn’t find Fletcher’s body in the car, but they found traces of drugs. She thinks he was transporting a large quantity of illegal substances when he drove straight off the bridge.”

  “Oh, no!” Marjorie grasped his hand but, when he gave no responding pressure, she dropped it.

  “Turns out the equipment stashed in his room was the least of my brother’s criminal activities. They suspect he was the leader of the drug ring they just busted.” Duncan shook his head, his lips twisting into a scowl. “Fletcher Byrne. Drug Lord.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The next afternoon, Duncan walked into the café close on closing time, bringing a general sense of gloom along with him.

  “The police think his body washed downstream, towards the ocean,” he told Marjorie in between finishing up with the last few customers. “Although they’ll keep search teams out in the area for the next few days, they’ve already told me to prepare for the eventuality they never recover Fletcher’s body.”

  Although she made the appropriate noises, nothing she said could wipe the expression of despair from the young man’s face. Marjorie made do with feeding him and giving him a shot of caffeine to keep him going. Judging from the exhausted set of his shoulders, he’d got little sleep.

  Once the last of the day’s customers were out the door, she grabbed a glass of water for herself and sat down opposite Duncan. Chaplin sat on the windowsill nearby, keeping a sleepy eye on the birds pecking through the gravel of the car park outside while Houdini hovered, batting a small toy back and forth.

  “What are the next steps?” she asked. A list of actions would make her feel useful instead of just sitting, observing his grief.

  “The police told me I should inform people.” Duncan’s voice was twisted with misery, barely audible. “I h-have to call up everybody he ever knew and tell them he’s dead.”

  “What about a memorial service or a funeral?”

  Duncan dropped his face into his hands, his shoulders shuddering. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. Shouldn’t we wait?”

  “Have you called your parents?” Marjorie bit her lip as Duncan stiffened and she realised she’d never worked out if they were still alive or not.

  “They’re overseas,” he said, shaking his head. “I-I c-can’t…”

  While he trailed into sobs, Marjorie placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling her phone out with the other hand. Navigating these demands was too much of a task for this young man, already devastated through the loss of his twin.

  She dialled Regina’s personal number, unable to think what shift she would be working by now. The brain fog of grief was affecting her, too. It was hard to believe she’d never look up from the counter to see Fletcher playing with a kitten or staring down the hill to the township, surveying everything happening with one glance.

  Luckily, her friend answered, work over for the day.

  “Can you come up to the café to help me?” Marjorie asked. “Duncan needs a hand informing relatives and organising things.”

  Although it was well outside her usual scope of operations, Regina agreed without a second thought and turned up in a few minutes, clutching a list.

  “The first thing we need to do is work out who to tell first,” she said, her business-like manner straightening Duncan’s spine until he appeared closer to his usual self. “Your parents will be first but I’ve gathered a list of relatives we know about. As I read through them, tell me where they fit in the picture, then you can add any friends and family we’ve missed.”

  Marjorie slipped away, feeding the kittens and giving them extra hugs to make up for the sadness permeating the air of the café. Although their youth would soon have them putting the incident behind them, the cats were attuned to emotions and their manner was subdued.

  “Once we get through this rough streak,” she promised Monkey Business. “We’ll do something fun to cheer everybody up and remind them why life is so precious. How about a kitten party? You can explode balloons and I’ll dress up a scratching post as something worthy of your fighting claws.”

  With the kittens fed and replete, she headed downstairs.

  “I think we’re making headway,” Regina said as Marjorie took the seat beside her. “I’ve got a couple of scripts we use at the station for informing relatives if you want to make use of those.”

  It took a few hours to work their way through the list. During some conversations, Duncan would tap her or Regina on the shoulder and take the phone, managing a few stumbling sentences before he became overwhelmed and handed it back.

  The experience wasn’t one she’d ever want to repeat but Marjorie was happy to lift the burden off the young man’s shoulders. As they reached the end of the list, the mood brightened a little, one terrible task gone. More to come.

  “Once your parents arrive”—they were on the next flight into the country, though being in Europe meant it was a day and a half away—“you’ll be able to sit down with a funeral director and talk through the service you want to have.” Marjorie reached out and touched the back of Duncan’s hand. “In the meantime, think about if you want to speak and the music your brother would want to play.”

  “Adelaide will probably have a better idea of that,” Duncan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or Vicky Wendall.”

  When he said the second name, Marjorie kept her gaze on Regina, but if the woman knew Vicky was an undercover officer, she hid it well.

  As she walked Regina to her car, Marjorie asked, “What will it mean for the family, with Fletcher involved with drugs?”

  “Nothing. If he was alive, then it’d be a different story, but we don’t prosecute dead people for crimes.” She glanced back at the café. “There doesn’t appear to be any link back to his family and we’ve already checked and cleared his girlfriend.”

  “What about his next-door neighbour?”

  “He’s on the list for a grilling.”

  Marjorie told her friend about the professor they couldn’t locate. Hopefully, the police would do a better job. “As Adelaide pointed out, he’s unlikely to be directly involved with Fletcher’s schooling.” Her mouth twisted as another thought struck. “If he was even doing the distance learning thing at all.”

  “Oh, that part checks out.” Regina hugged her goodbye.

  Duncan left a few minutes later, thanking her for everything with shell-shocked eyes. Marjorie settled down on the sofa with a plethora of kitten company and it took until the room went dark for her to remember to turn on the TV.

  When she went to bed, even Monkey Business wasn’t enough company to keep the bad thoughts at bay. She picked her phone up from the nightstand and called Braden. “Would you keep me company while I fall asleep?”

  He agreed, though warned her he was playing a multi-player game and would be loud. The noisy voice of someone whose company she enjoyed was just what Marjorie needed, and she soon fell asleep, listening to zombies being eradicated from a post-apocalyptic planet.

  “Back up, Monkey,” Marjorie said the next morning, pulling a steaming hot tray of cheese muffins out of the oven. “And no touching,” she warned as Chaplin jumped onto the windowsill in a paper-thin pretence of looking outside. “If you get a grease burn from this hot cheese, you’ll get no sympathy from me.”

  When her stern admonition failed to stir him, Marjorie lifted the ragdoll off the sill and placed him back in the playpen. “Stay,” she said in a deep voice. “Be a good boy and I’ll give you a treat later.”

&
nbsp; Marjorie had woken to a silent phone with a text message informing her that Braden had disconnected the call when her deafening snores had intruded upon his enjoyment of the game.

  She sent back a text with a loud siren call, ready to blast him awake at what he considered the ungodly hour of five in the morning, sniggering as she thought of the expression of horror that would cross his face.

  “Okay. The game plan today is business as usual,” she told the assembled kittens. “No grieving relatives. No suspicious girlfriends. No police officers, bless their hearts. Today is for customers wanting a snack and a cup of coffee only. Now, let's see your best ‘you must adopt me, or you’ll regret it’ faces.”

  What she received were a load of sleepy stares.

  “That’ll have to do. Luckily, each one of you has been blessed with cuteness already. Who feels like a game of catch the red dot?”

  The gang pretended to ignore her until the laser pointer came out and soon had them jumping up the walls.

  “Now we just need to keep up that level of energy, and I’m sure you’ll score some loving admirers.”

  Setting out the display cabinet of freshly baked goodies took longer than usual since Marjorie kept stopping to yawn. She might have had a good night’s sleep but the raw emotion of the day before had drained all her energy. “I’m like an Energiser bunny with the wrong batteries installed,” she said to Monkey Business when he nudged up against her ankles.

  With no chance to drop off old muffins to either of her usual recipients the afternoon before, Marjorie took the leftovers out the back to the dumpster. After a second’s thought, she changed her mind, breaking the rock-hard treats into pieces and scattering them on top of the gravel for the birds.

  “You’ll drive Chaplin crazy,” she murmured as the sparrows and starlings flocked, despite her standing nearby. With a few minutes to spare before opening, she stayed outside, a smile on her face as she watched the birds squabbling.

  It wasn’t until she turned to head back inside the café she saw Houdini’s face peering through the window.

  Esme’s window.

  The rascal had broken out of his home and into the next-door neighbour’s massage studio.

  “No wonder they call them cat burglars,” Marjorie muttered as she headed inside to grab the keys Esme had left behind.

  Chapter Twelve

  It took two circuits through every key on the holder before Marjorie accepted the front-door key was missing. She was horrified at herself for letting it slip out of her possession and scared at what devastation she might find inside the massage rooms. Since the key could have been taken any time in the past week, thieves could have stripped the establishment down to its bare bones.

  With guilt making it hard to breathe, Marjorie walked around the back of the studio, fighting back tears. To find out she’d compromised her friend’s place of business—Esme’s livelihood—made her nauseous. She’d only meant to leave they keyring on the downstairs hook for the afternoon! With everything that had gone on, they’d never made it to the comparative safety of upstairs.

  At least the back-door key was still on the ring. She opened the door a few inches, waiting to hear if any sounds emerged. Given the time that had elapsed, it would be silly to think burglars would be inside right now. Sillier still not to yell out and check, then find herself trapped in a sticky situation.

  “My name’s Marjorie Hardaway and I’m coming inside. If anybody’s in here, now’s your chance to run out the front door.”

  After another few minutes of silence, Marjorie shouted the warning again, her face colouring as she did so. It was foolish to yell when it was obvious no one was there. The only thing she’d be doing was giving Houdini a fright and the last thing she wanted was for him to become skittish.

  “I’m walking inside and I have the police on speed dial.”

  Still nothing. Marjorie closed the back door behind her, not wanting Houdini to have a chance at escape, though since he’d obviously found another way inside, he might still slip out of her clutches.

  “Hey boy,” she cooed, walking into the massage room. After clicking her tongue, Houdini shot a bored expression her way before returning his gaze to the car park. “Come on over. It’s time to go home.”

  The kitten stretched, his body angling to appear twice its usual length, then he shook out each hind leg. If he’d been a human, Marjorie would’ve expected him to say, “Yeah, alright. There’s no hurry.”

  “Do I have to come over there and pick you up?” She put her hands on her hips, feigning anger. “You’ve got legs, use them.”

  Houdini trotted over and mewed, then fell onto his back on the floor, squirming as he tried to ease an itchy spot. When he seemed satisfied, he splayed his limbs out, opening up his belly.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, kitty. I won’t fall for that one.”

  With a shake of his head, Houdini rolled over, sneezing lightly then seeming astonished.

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Marjorie hooked her hand under his belly and lifted the Chartreux kitten up to rest against her shoulder. “You’re done exploring for one day. I’m just going to give all the rooms a quick check to see what’s missing, then we can go back home.”

  What was missing was nothing. The rows of expensive massage oils were still lined up, not a bottle out of place, and the till hadn’t been pried open.

  A safe hid behind a locked wardrobe door, and after manhandling the kitten while finding the right keys, Marjorie verified no money had been taken. Unless Esme stashed a large emergency supply in there, all the change was in place.

  “Well, perhaps the key dropped off the ring at another time,” she whispered to Houdini, closing her eyes for a second in sheer relief. “But I’d better check the entire café before she gets home.” Along with the vacuum cleaner. It wouldn’t be the first time Marjorie had lost a small item to its powerful suction.

  An upstairs window sitting a slight bit ajar looked to be the exit point from her establishment but as she dropped Houdini back into the playpen, it occurred to Marjorie she hadn’t found a point of entry for the kitten. He might be wily in the extreme, but he couldn’t unlock a door or open a window hinge.

  “One quick check, then I’m opening,” she told the kittens who were apparently more interested in spending a few minutes dozing before the day began.

  With her eyes and ears on high alert, she crunched over the gravel path back to the massage studio, this time her attention fixed on the windows and doors rather than scanning the place for movement.

  When she went through the back door, she kicked at the cat door marked out in the wood but the metal hinges holding it shut—cheaper than a replacement door, Esme assured her—were still firmly in place.

  “If I was a gap where would I be?” she called out in a sing-song voice, then stopped dead in her tracks as she heard a floorboard creak. “Is anybody in here?” she called out, hands already fumbling for her cell phone.

  A groan answered her, pitifully weak.

  “Who is it?” Marjorie demanded, reaching behind her for the back-door handle, ready to run. “Who’s there?”

  Another low moan came, almost drowned out by the thud of her heartbeat in her ears.

  She opened the door wide, wanting an easy escape if someone was playing possum and lying in wait. Marjorie laced the keys through her fingers, forming a knuckleduster with bite.

  “I’m coming in,” she said, edging towards the connecting door to the massage room. With a trembling hand, she pushed it open with her fingertips, revealing an empty space that looked just how she’d left it. “Where are you?”

  Another groan sounded, this one louder and verging on a word. It came from the ceiling.

  Marjorie backed out to the rear door, frowning at the manhole above her. A stepladder was clumsily balanced against the wall and she set it up, staring upwards with concern.

  She phoned Braden. “I’m about to go into the attic of Esme’s massage rooms,” she sai
d through chattering teeth. “If I don’t text you in five minutes to say I’m okay, call the police.”

  “Wait, what?” his sleepy voice answered. “Why can’t you call the police to go up there for you?”

  “I think someone’s up there in serious distress.”

  “All the more reason.”

  With a click of her tongue, Marjorie realised he was talking perfect sense. “Fine. Don’t worry. I’ll call the police and tell them what I’m doing.”

  “Good,” he said in a relieved voice. “And I’ll stay awake until you send me a text to say what’s happening.”

  But as Marjorie hung up the call, the groaning came again, louder. “Don’t… police…”

  She stepped onto the ladder, pushing up the manhole cover and shoving it clumsily to one side. “What was that?”

  “Don’t call the police.”

  With a startled cry, Marjorie stepped up the rest of the rungs, poking her head into the attic space. “Fletcher!”

  “That’s me.”

  She pulled herself up into the loft, and pulled on the light chain, sending a single bulb’s illumination into the room. “What are you doing up here?” she cried out before walking over to give him a slap on the shoulder. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Sorry about that. Does everyone think that?”

  From his dishevelled appearance, it seemed he wasn’t far off. “I’m calling an ambulance,” she said, pulling out her phone. “You look terrible.”

  “Don’t!” He held up a hand. “I need to check everything’s sorted before you tell the police.”

  “The ambulance won’t…” Marjorie let the sentence die on her lips. The ambulance wouldn’t call the police, but the emergency dispatcher would patch the call through, just in case.

  “Are my parents here?”

  “They’re on their way,” she snapped, feeling rage engulf her. “And thanks for letting me be the one to tell them you were dead.”

  He raised himself up on his elbows, then collapsed.