by Sonia Parin
“Have a nice day, buddy.” She waved at the driver as he sped off.
Doyle shrunk into the corner of the passenger seat.
“What’s the matter with you? Embarrassed to be seen with me? I can’t help being a cautious driver. I’m not used to driving on the wrong side of the road. We share the same language, more or less, why can’t we share the same road rules? Also, I’m trying to take in the pretty scenery.” And there was plenty of it around. Abby felt her shoulders ease down as she glanced at the houses in the distance surrounded by farmland and undulating hills with the mountains as a backdrop.
Doyle edged toward her and rested his chin on her lap.
“Don’t worry. You can criticize me if you like. I won’t hold it against you.” To her surprise, Bartholomew had been allocated his own road sign. “Loathed and revered at the same time. It really doesn’t make sense. What does that tell you about the good folk of Eden?” She patted Doyle on the rump. “Probably that they’re willing to tolerate his idiosyncratic nature and artistic temperament because...” Nope, she couldn’t think of a single reason why.
Turning into a tree-lined driveway, she brought her car to a stop, scooped Doyle up, and emerged from her car. “I’m going to set you down. Please stay by my side.” She looked up and into a spacious garage that appeared to have been converted into a studio. A man sporting a long beard and scruffy jeans stood brushing his hand across his chin.
Narrowing her gaze, Abby saw that he stood in front of a sculpture. “This has to be a good sign. The man has an open studio. Clearly he doesn’t mind visitors.”
When he turned and faced her, Abby understood what Faith had meant about the perpetual scowl. “Fierce comes to mind.” But he appeared to be receptive. Matching her steps, he met her half way.
When she introduced herself, he again surprised her with a nod. Clearly, he didn’t mind reporters. “I’ve heard a lot about your work.” Time to butter up the local artist. “I’ll be writing a face of the town series and thought it would be fantastic to kick it off with a piece about you.” The artist didn’t need any more encouragement to talk about himself. She ended up filling ten pages of notes to justify asking, “How did you feel about Dermot?”
Bartholomew’s growl matched his scowl. Dermot’s only crime had been to withhold all deference. He hadn’t printed or expressed a single word of praise for the artist and that had been enough to set him on a warpath.
Unfortunately, Bartholomew had been all talk and no action. He could at least have trodden on Dermot’s garden or thrown something through his window.
“So, you were...” Furious. Enraged. Seeing red. Abby bit the edge of her lip and smiled. “Disappointed by his lack of interest in your work.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “My last show sold out but I didn’t get a single review in the papers. I know Dermot Cavendish pulled strings to get me boycotted.”
Abby gave herself top marks for patience, biding her time until she found another opening. When she did, she put everything she had into steering the conversation toward cyanide. “Do you use that in your sculptures?”
Halfway through explaining the process, he stopped. “Wait a minute. What’s this about?”
Responding to Bartholomew’s hard tone, Doyle sprung to his feet in readiness for a brisk getaway. Smart dog.
“You think I killed him? Just because I use the stuff for my sculptures? Am I the only one under suspicion or are you going around pointing the finger at anyone who uses cyanide?”
“How did you know Dermot was poisoned?”
“It’s a small town. Word spreads.”
Abby remembered mentioning it to Mitch at the pub. Had someone overheard her? Despite Bartholomew nearly standing toe-to-toe with Abby, she stood her ground. “It’s not exactly your run of the mill ingredient found in everyone’s kitchen cupboard.”
“Oh, yeah?” He looked her square in the eye. “So, you’ve questioned Richard Armstrong?”
“Who’s he?”
“He owns the photography studio in town. And what about Annabelle Hugh?” He took a step toward her forcing her to take a retreating step. “She owns the jewelry store.”
“And they both use cyanide?” Abby asked innocently.
He stabbed the space in front of him with an accusing finger. “You bet they do. It’s also used for animal pest control. Look around you. How many farmers do you think store it in their sheds?”
Okay, this trip had become quite educational. She’d had no idea cyanide was also used in jewelry making and certain kinds of photography such as sepia toning. However... She lifted her chin a notch. “Do they have any grievances against Dermot?”
The accusatory finger sprung out again. “Tread with care, lady.”
Doyle surprised her by stepping forward and letting off a soft growl. It actually worked a treat, diffusing the situation. Bartholomew threw his head back and roared with laughter at Doyle’s attempt to look threatening.
* * *
“YOU DID VERY WELL BACK there, Doyle,” Abby praised him as they drove off. “Out of curiosity, what would you have done if Bartholomew had become violent?”
Doyle lifted his chin.
“You have a secret weapon? Okay, I won’t push you.” Abby sighed. “You’re probably thinking I’m not a very good reporter. To be fair to me, crime reporting is not my area of expertise. I’m more of a lifestyle reporter. It can be tough trying to get people to admit they’ve had help decorating their homes. Most will try to claim they’ve done it all on their own, but I tell you, once I sniff out a little white lie, I pursue it like the proverbial dog with a bone.”
It hadn’t all been a dismal failure. She now had two more names to add to her list of possible suspects… along with all the farmers in the area. However, she’d have to be more cunning when she approached her next person of interest. “I’ll focus on my original assignment. Pretend to do my face of the town series and somehow get people to talk about Dermot.”
An image of Dermot filled her thoughts. Had he known his killer? Had they talked as he sipped his tea? The thought of a casual encounter with underlying intentions made her shiver.
Faith had put it into perspective expressing her fears about someone they knew being a killer. “I’m now thinking going out there to see Bartholomew could have ended badly for us.”
Doyle sighed.
“Yeah, I’ll know better next time.”
By the time she returned to town, the sun had disappeared behind the mountains. “Let’s swing by Dermot’s house and check in with Sebastian. Not that I have anything to report. But at least I’ll get a chance to have a look around the house. Who knows, it might refresh my memory.”
Abby left her car at the pub and walked to Dermot’s house. Halfway there, she wished she hadn’t. Old-fashioned streetlamps lit the way, but the light cast a gloomy glow in the narrow cobbled streets.
As Abby strode along, she thought she caught sight of curtains shifting slightly. The feeling of being watched made the hair on the back of her head spring up.
Doyle trotted beside her, his gaze attentive.
“If you hear anything or see anyone, you’ll let me know, won’t you, Doyle?”
* * *
THE ENTICING AROMA OF COOKING greeted Abby at the door. Sebastian gestured for her to come in. Doyle surprised her with his exemplary social graces, staying by her side while any other dog might have gone wandering around.
“Expecting company?” she asked.
Sebastian nodded. “Yes. You. I hope you like pasta.”
Noticing a light dusting of flour on his hands, she asked, “Are you going to impress me with home-made pasta?”
“It’s one of my quirks. It relaxes me,” he said.
“This is where I say you are full of surprises.”
“You should reserve judgment until you’ve tried what I made. It’s a recipe I picked up during my travels in Tuscany. The wine is from a local vineyard. It’s quite robust and should
go nicely with the meal.” Sebastian showed her through to the kitchen where he got busy stirring a pot. “Any luck today?”
Abby settled on a stool and stole a few curious glances around. The kitchen looked wonderfully homey with a large collection of copper pots and ceramic containers with enticing promises of delicious cookies. Focusing her attention on Sebastian, she tried to gauge her response to him. Considering her recent experience with a male insect, she’d be surprised if her inner radar blipped. It didn’t. Yes, she could appreciate Sebastian’s centerfold good looks, but she didn’t sense any response to it. Shaking her head, Abby caught him up on the leads she’d followed.
Sebastian set his wooden spoon down. “It’s hard to imagine Dermot’s cleaning lady poisoning him.”
“But it’s an interesting idea. She might have given him a full dose on the day or she could have poisoned him over time. It’s only a theory and not really a viable one, now that I think about it. If she’d been giving him small doses, he would have shown signs of illness and everyone says he was in perfect health.”
“She’d also need a motive,” Sebastian said.
Abby shrugged. “Temporary insanity. Any one of the women in his life might have been trying to capture his attention.”
“A woman scorned?” Sebastian laughed.
Abby watched him pour some wine into an elegant glass. “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait for you to take a sip first.”
Smiling, Sebastian lifted his glass and took a drink. “Satisfied.”
“I don’t know... You might have an antidote.” Abby tasted the wine. Smiling with appreciation, she created a mental list. Ten good reasons why she should stay on in this strange little town. Great coffee and wine headed the list right along with the locals, who were friendly and unusual. Even if the job fell through, she could find something else to keep her busy for the next twelve months.
She was about to ask if the police had given him an update when his cell phone rang. Sebastian excused himself to take the call and she took the opportunity to have a wander around the house, starting with the sitting room where she’d found Dermot.
Abby noticed an entire bookcase full of first editions, but nothing over ten years old. Certainly nothing that would qualify as a collector’s gold nugget. The next bookcase, however, looked more promising as she recognized a few titles and their dust jackets. First editions dating back to the 1960s.
Photos in elaborate picture frames were stacked on the mantelpiece. Faith would have to look at those to see if she could identify anyone. It would be interesting to see if any of the women on her list of people who regularly got together with Dermot appeared on the photos.
As the thought took shape in her mind, she stopped to look at a color photograph of Dermot and a couple of women sitting outside Joyce’s Café. They were all looking at the camera, bright smiles on their faces. Studying the photo more closely, she noticed a woman sitting a couple of tables away from the group. Her eyes appeared to be glued on Dermot and her expression was anything but friendly.
“Hello, person of interest.” Abby drew out her cell phone and took a few close-up shots of the photo thinking either Faith or Joyce could help her identify some of the people in it.
Overall, Abby had the impression of layers. Dermot enjoyed intellectual pursuits but the many photographs spread around his house were testaments to healthy relationships maintained and nurtured over time.
When Sebastian finished his phone call, he ushered her into the dining room. They spent the next couple of hours hashing over everything she had, playing around with ideas until they all seemed too ludicrous to consider.
“I went through his diary,” Sebastian said as he reached out to a side table and retrieved a leather-bound book. “He kept meticulous notes of everyone he met. This is his most current one.”
Abby nodded. “Faith mentioned he’d been working on his memoirs. I’d be interested to have a look through his notes.”
“Feel free to look around. Everything is bound to be in his study. The police took his laptop, so you won’t have access to that until they return it. But knowing Dermot, he would have kept a handwritten notebook. There’s a whole bookcase of them.”
“I still don’t get how he could have drunk a cup full of cyanide without sensing something odd about it. From what I understand, it has a strong almond flavor. Surely he would have detected it.” Abby sat back and looked up at the ceiling.
“What?”
“I just remembered something Joyce Breeland said. Not the exact comment but rather the tone. She’d sounded macabre. Maybe I need to start thinking like a killer. What if... what if someone held a gun to Dermot and forced him to drink the tea? There were no signs of a struggle. That could mean he was resigned to his fate. I imagine a killer leaving him no option. Talking him through the process, all the while waving a gun at him.” Abby shivered.
“That’s a vivid imagination, but I’m willing to go along with it.” Sebastian brushed his hand across his chin. “Dermot was passionate about his tea and considered himself a connoisseur. You’re right. He would have detected the difference in the taste.”
She told him about her visit to the artist’s studio.
“That sounds like a dangerous run-in. However, Bartholomew is all bark and no bite.”
“I guess everyone puts up with him because he’s an artist.”
Sebastian shook his head. “He doesn’t have any heirs. It’s common knowledge he’s left everything to the town. Part of the money goes to the maintenance of his house as an art gallery. The rest is supposed to go toward study grants and whatever relief the town deems suitable. We get a lot of bushfires in the area and every year there’s someone in need.”
A man with a big heart. “Hang on. Did Dermot leave a similar bequest?”
“He did, but I’m not about to suspect the entire town.”
“How are the bequests handled?”
“There’s a committee. Yes, Dermot sat on it. They’re open to suggestions from anyone and, of course, if an individual is in need they’re encouraged to apply for a grant.”
It would be worth looking into. If someone had been rejected, they might feel disgruntled enough to take matters into their own hands.
As she helped him clear the table, she inspected the canisters of tea. Yes, Dermot had been quite a connoisseur, enjoying several varieties of tea. “Have the police checked these out?”
“They’re still here, but that’s not to say they haven’t taken samples.” He turned to her. “Coffee?”
“I think I’ll pass. Thank you.”
Chapter Ten
THE NEXT DAY, ABBY HAD an early start with her focus still glued on learning everything she could about cyanide. She left Doyle stretched out on the couch and went down for breakfast, her attention fixed on her cell phone as she entered the dining area.
“Table for one?”
Startled by the bear with a sore head growl, she looked up. “Hello.”
The man hitched his hands on his hips.
“Markus!” someone called out to him. “Down boy. She’s a guest.”
Markus Faydon. The older brother... We meet at last, Abby thought and couldn’t help shrinking back slightly. “I’m Abby.”
He looked at her in silence and then leaned in. “You’re hiding something.”
“Lurch! Just show the guest through.”
Abby peered around his head-taller-than-her frame and saw a redhead sitting at one of the tables with Mitch Faydon who waved to her saying, “He doesn’t bite. Just shove past him.”
To her surprise, Markus stepped aside and made a flourishing wave with his hand. Smiling, Abby took a tentative step toward a vacant table but Mitch called her over.
“Come join us. This is my sister, Eddie, and you’ve met Markus.”
Abby smiled. “Hi. I feel as though I’ve been put through a test. Did I pass muster?”
“You did well,” Eddie Faydon gave her a brisk nod. “So, you’re the new
reporter at the Gazette.”
Abby couldn’t help admiring Eddie’s luscious locks. “Interim.”
“We need a local paper. Sebastian wouldn’t dare shut it down, and if it comes to that, we’ll take up arms.”
Abby picked up a menu. “Really? You feel that strongly about it?”
“We want to grow the town, not shrink it,” Eddie explained. “The Gazette opened at the same time as the pub. It would be like losing a family member.”
“Let Abby order her breakfast, Eddie.” Mitch turned to her. “Any news about Dermot yet?”
“I’m sure the police are doing all they can.” Abby waved her cell phone. “And, yes, I’m sticking my nose in.”
“Don’t mind us. Go ahead and research.” Eddie leaned forward. “But you have to share.”
“Okay.” Abby scrolled along and found an article about a jeweler who’d been found dead in his apartment. Firefighters had arrived on the scene and had found a large amount of white powder spread across a countertop next to a can labeled cyanide.
Run for your life, Abby thought and was pleased to read the firefighters had backed out of the man’s apartment and had called in the hazardous materials experts.
Scanning through the rest of the article, she stopped to read, “An accidental mixture of cyanide powder and water creates a deadly gas, like that used in the gas chamber.” That raised questions and possibilities she hadn’t considered.
She’d been happy to cross off the cleaning lady as a suspect, mostly because Dermot had not displayed any symptoms of illness before his death, but what if...
Abby tapped her finger on the cell phone and tried to picture June Laurie preparing the tea. Before leaving for the day, she dropped some cyanide powder into the teapot, walking away before the mixture produced a deadly gas, which had then killed Dermot because June had positioned the teapot next to him.
