Grave in the Garage (A Reverend Annabelle Dixon Cozy Mystery Book 4)

by Golden,Alison

  “Oh yes! Fine!” Annabelle said, breathlessly. She wiped her face. “Rather playful chap, that dog.”

  “He must have taken a shine to you, Reverend!” James smiled. “He’s a very good judge of character.”

  Annabelle smiled awkwardly. “He’s terribly heavy, too,” she said, pressing her shoulder.

  Nicholls could not hold back any longer, suddenly bursting into a deep belly laugh.

  “Reverend,” he said, “perhaps I should be adopting you, rather than a dog!”

  Annabelle was still smoothing herself down and combing out the debris from her hair when the Inspector pulled up behind her Mini Cooper on the roadside where she had left it. He pulled on the handbrake with a rapid-fire click and turned to face her in the passenger seat.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to wait with you for the tow truck?”

  “Absolutely not, Inspector,” replied Annabelle. “You’ve got a murder investigation to conduct, and you’ve already wasted an hour visiting a dog breeder!”

  “Hmph,” snorted the Inspector. “I have faith in my constables to follow procedure. When it’s time for initiative, that’s when I’m most useful. Besides, I’ve got a funny feeling about this case.”

  “A ‘hunch,’ as they say in the movies?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What is it?”

  The Inspector sighed, then looked at Annabelle. When he had first met her, this would have been the moment at which he would have told her that this was police business and that she had no reason to get involved. Looking at her now, however, and knowing her genuine compassion and dedication to every member of her community, he realized that she had become a valuable companion whenever his work brought him to Upton St. Mary. Her abundant care for and astute knowledge of people was an appreciated asset. Her lack of conceit and gentle humor was a refreshing change from the kinds of people – criminals and officious colleagues – that he was used to back in Truro. It occurred to him that these visits to Upton St. Mary, and specifically the time he spent in Annabelle’s company, had become a welcome respite for him. A place in which he felt welcomed, relaxed, and a little more human.

  “I think Mildred’s death is part of something bigger,” he said slowly.

  “How so?”

  “As I say, it’s just speculation on my part, but do you remember what you told me earlier? About today turning into a strange day? About the car with blacked-out windows, the breakdown, the rumors?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well I had my own ‘strange’ encounter today. Earlier, while I was in the pub preparing to meet James, there were two men, well-known criminals. I would recognize them anywhere, and I’m sure they recognized me. They operate mostly in Falmouth, and I have no idea what they would be doing in Upton St. Mary.”

  “Murderers?”

  “No,” Nicholls said, shaking his head, “but they are versatile. Drugs, prostitution, stolen goods; anything they can make a little money from.”

  “Oh dear,” Annabelle murmured at the thought of such criminality in heavenly Upton St. Mary.

  “Don’t worry about it, Reverend,” the Inspector said with a change of tone. “They’ve probably just met some women here or angered someone who’s higher up than them on the ladder of thuggery, and they’ve come here to hide out.”

  “Well, if you think so…” Annabelle nodded, unconvinced, before getting out of the car. “Thank you for everything, Inspector.”

  “My pleasure, Reverend,” Nicholls smiled.

  Ian Crawford, owner of Crawford Motors, was a smug and arrogant man. He was muscular and broad-shouldered, and he walked with the swagger of an overly aggressive alpha male. His strong jawline seemed to be the result of constantly clenched teeth, and his eyes were perpetually fixed into a menacing stare, even when he was joking. No one ever laughed at his jokes, but it didn’t stop him making them.

  As she thanked the driver and stepped out of the tow truck, Annabelle remembered something she had heard about Crawford’s dubious past as a purveyor of stolen cars and told herself to look a little more deeply into it when she had the chance. Despite this, however, she had visited Crawford Motors multiple times before, and though she found the owner’s personality somewhat abrasive, she had no complaints about his mechanical abilities.

  Once her Mini Cooper was unhooked from the tow truck and sitting in the lot, Annabelle began walking into the large, four-bay garage.

  “Hello, Ms. Dixon,” said the unmistakably slow, slithery voice of Ian Crawford. He pushed himself out from beneath a nearby car and grinned, unashamed of his remarkably crooked, yellow teeth.

  Annabelle opened her mouth in order to correct his addressing of her as “Ms.” before remembering that she did so every single time she visited him to no avail. She stopped herself. It was entirely likely he did it on purpose.

  Ian stood up and crossed himself.

  Annabelle smiled calmly at the joke. It took much, much more to faze her. She said nothing. In the battle between vengeful response and reserved decorum, she thought, the latter always wins.

  “Hello Ian,” she said, with the same warmth she used to greet children. “I’m here to get my car fixed.”

  “Of course. Just like everyone else in Upton St. Mary.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Crawford grinned again before pointing at the cars at the other end of the lot.

  “Greg Fauster’s Punto. Danielle Welbeck’s Audi. Harry Loftus’ Honda. And now your Mini. All of you just came in this morning. First time I’ve seen any of you in a long time. What’s going on?”

  “Something bad has happened to Mildred.”

  “Oh?” Crawford said, smiling broadly.

  “She’s dead.”

  His grin dropped, and he gulped deeply.

  “Huh. Interesting.”

  “The police are investigating.”

  Crawford squinted slightly as if looking for some further meaning.

  “Investigating? Why?”

  Whether it was the guilt of having given his name to the Inspector, the irritation at Crawford’s obnoxious behavior, or an attempt to gauge his reaction, Annabelle found herself saying the next few words with less forethought than she usually employed.

  “It would appear she was murdered. They think it could be a competitor,” she said, impulsively.

  Crawford revealed his ugly smile slowly this time, as if relishing it more than the previous ones.

  “Me? Ha! Now isn’t that something! Well, I hope the coppers do come by here and ask me a few questions, actually.”

  Annabelle frowned apprehensively. “Why would you want that?”

  Crawford’s laugh was abrupt and throaty.

  “I’d soon set them straight!”

  “What do you mean?”

  Crawford stuck a tongue in his cheek with a sense of mischief, before nodding behind Annabelle at her Mini.

  “What’s wrong with your car?” he said, as he stepped over to it.

  “It broke down while I was driving. But back to—”

  “The engine just stopped working suddenly?”

  “Yes. What do you mean abo—”

  “And before that, the accelerator kept trailing off? Coming and going?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  Crawford nodded as he opened the fuel tank flap and unscrewed the cap.

  “And the last place you got fuel was at Mildred’s, I’m guessing,” he said, though it clearly wasn’t a question that he expected an answer to.

  Annabelle watched with a furrowed brow as Crawford leaned his head toward the open fuel tank and sniffed deeply.

  “Yep,” he said, nodding to himself. “Hey Gary! Come over here. We’ve got another one.”

  From inside the garage, a husky teenager with an acne riven face sloped toward his boss, who pointed at the open gas tank.

  “What you reckon?” Crawford asked.

  The teenager, much the same as Crawford had done, leaned in an
d sniffed deeply.

  “Yeah. No doubt about it.”

  “What’s going on?” Annabelle asked, her curiosity at its peak.

  Crawford nodded the teenager away, replaced the cap, and walked back to Annabelle.

  “Sugar water. It’s been mixed in with the fuel. Just like every other car that the old bat fueled up in the past couple of weeks.”

  The shock of this heinous idea was enough to stop Annabelle from noticing the insult directed at Mildred.

  “Why would she do that?”

  Crawford shrugged emphatically. “No idea. Maybe she went senile. Working on cars at her age shouldn’t be allowed, anyway. Maybe she was trying to squeeze a little more profit out of the gas or to keep people coming in for repairs. The real question is why anyone would get their gas from the last garage in England to pull it straight out of a barrel. Stupid, if you ask me.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Annabelle said, her head spinning with the implications of this discovery.

  Crawford laughed again, before turning his head and spitting. “It was probably somebody who found out what she was doing that did the old bird in. Judging by how many people are turning up here, it could have been any one of her customers or even a whole bunch of them.”

  Annabelle stared intensely at her car, her mind desperately scrabbling to remember anything notable about the last time she had fueled the Mini up. She had been to Mildred’s so many times, it was difficult to remember any one incidence specifically, let alone anything that seemed out of place.

  “Can you fix it?” she asked. “My car?”

  “Yeah. Just need to flush everything out and put something in there that actually burns.”

  “Thank you,” Annabelle said. “Please call me when it’s done.”

  Crawford nodded.

  Just before she made it out of the garage forecourt, Annabelle turned back to Crawford, who was pulling out a stick of gum from a packet and shoving it into his mouth greedily.

  “One more thing.”

  Crawford turned his ear to the Reverend.

  “Have you noticed any cars with tinted windows around here? Those blacked-out ones you can’t see through from the outside?”

  Crawford smiled one last crooked grin.

  “Ms. Dixon, it’s better not to ask questions about cars like that.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AFTER TAKING A taxi back to St. Mary’s, Annabelle marched up the path to her cottage with a head full of knotted thoughts and irritating, confusing questions. Only the sight of Biscuit, perched upon the low cobbled wall gazing at the two puppies chasing and tumbling over each other broke her contemplations.

  "Biscuit! How are you enjoying your new companions?"

  The cat responded by lazily getting up and walking in the opposite direction. The pups, however, leaped toward her at the sound of her voice, their wet tongues hanging and their tails wagging. She laughed as she crouched in front of them and rubbed their sides as they clambered over her in their attempts to lick her face.

  As she enjoyed the unbridled attention of the dogs, her mind immediately went to the Inspector. If only he could experience their scrappy enthusiasm first hand! She was sure that if he caught a glimpse of them, there would be no way he'd be able to resist their shining eyes and panting smiles.

  "What are you pups yapping about — Oh! It's you, Reverend," Philippa said, emerging from the cottage.

  "Yes," Annabelle said, reluctantly pulling herself away from the dogs in order to walk inside, "I see Janet still doesn't have space for these rascals yet."

  "No," Philippa said, following Annabelle and the puppies back inside, "and you seem rather pleased about it."

  Annabelle smiled warmly as she took off her coat and hung it on the rack, enjoying the last sting of the chill as the warmth of the cottage seeped into her bones. She walked into the kitchen and immediately felt her nostrils fill with the heavenly scent of Philippa's cooking.

  "Oh, that smells wonderful! Whatever are you concocting, Philippa?"

  "Nothing but a shepherd's pie, Reverend, although I am experimenting with some new flavors. I enjoyed making that curry last week!"

  "You should be careful, Philippa. If your cooking continues to get any more experimental, people around here will start thinking you a witch!"

  Philippa laughed and waved the joke away as she knelt in front of the oven.

  "I'm sure there are many who do already, Reverend," she murmured.

  Annabelle sat at the table, kicked off her shoes, and stretched out her toes, allowing herself a deep, exhausted groan now that she was back home. She smiled as she watched the pups amble slowly over to the corner of the kitchen and curl themselves up against the radiator. Philippa joined her at the opposite end of the table, where she had previously laid out a crossword puzzle and a mug of tea.

  "I suppose you've already heard about what happened today," Annabelle said, grimly, "seeing as you've not asked me why I'm back so late."

  Philippa pursed her lips and frowned sadly. "It's terrible. I never knew Mildred that well, not being a driver myself, but I hadn’t heard a bad word said about her in all my days living in Upton St. Mary."

  "I know," Annabelle replied, wistfully. "This entire day seems like a surreal nightmare. I'm glad it's finally over."

  "It's not over yet," Philippa said, her voice knowing and wily.

  Annabelle turned a suspicious gaze toward her friend. "Are you implying that it can get worse?"

  "No," Philippa said, a glint in her eye. "I'm saying it can still get better."

  Annabelle watched a smile form on Philippa's lips.

  "You're up to something, aren't you!" she said. "What is it?"

  Philippa paused and smiled with a sense of drama.

  "I've invited Inspector Nicholls to join us for supper," she said, finally.

  "What? Why?" Annabelle said, knowing her friend far too well to believe there was no reason, and dreading to hear what it was.

  Philippa sat upright haughtily and spoke with the manner of a judge casting a verdict.

  "It's about time you and the good Inspector grew more acquainted," she said, before adding, "on a more personal level."

  "Philippa!" Annabelle cried, almost leaping onto the table. "We are acquainted!"

  "You know very well what I mean, Reverend. You're an upstanding, much-respected member of this community, but you can't do everything alone. It would be good for you to have someone you can depend on intimately, someone trustworthy, loyal, determined, and good. Someone just like the Inspector."

  Annabelle shook her head in disbelief, opening her mouth to give voice to the deep sense of disquiet she was feeling, but finding that words failed her.

  "Philippa," Annabelle said, struggling to calm herself down, "the Inspector is in the middle of a very serious murder investigation. He doesn't have time to play matchmaking games!"

  "Well, the midst of an investigation is the only time the Inspector is in Upton St. Mary long enough to play them!" Philippa said, indignantly.

  Annabelle softened slightly, though her face wore a deep frown.

  "How did you manage to convince the Inspector to visit us for dinner, anyway?"

  Philippa shrugged. "Oh, that was easy. I simply told him I had important information regarding the investigation."

  "Philippa!" Annabelle squealed once again, her jaw dropping almost to the table. "How could you?! That's... That's... awfully unlike you! You can't lie to the Inspector like that!"

  "It's no lie, Reverend."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I know—" Just then, the doorbell rang, causing Annabelle to jump. "That must be him now! Why don't you let him in, Reverend? I'll set the table."

  Annabelle frowned once more at her church secretary’s attempts to play cupid, but she made her way to the door, pausing briefly to straighten her hair in the hallway mirror.

  "Inspector!" Annabelle said warmly as she opened the door to him.

  "Hello, Reverend," he rep
lied, somewhat shyly.

  "Thank you for coming." She gestured him inside.

  Annabelle followed the Inspector into the kitchen, which Philippa had managed to transform in the seconds it had taken the Reverend to go to the front door. No longer was the cozy kitchen lit-up by the bright fluorescent ceiling light. Instead, three candles sat in the middle of the table casting a warm, flickering glow on the wood-grained surroundings. The table had been set with red napkins alongside a bottle of red wine that Annabelle hadn't even known was in her possession. She silently suspected it was the bottle previously destined for Sunday’s Holy Communion and purloined by Philippa from the church office. Most alarmingly of all, there were just two plates on the table, placed across from one another.

  Annabelle shot a wide-eyed look at Philippa, who stood by the table with her hands clasped behind her like a maître d’ at a fancy restaurant.

  "Take a seat, Inspector," Philippa said, enunciating every syllable.

  "Thank you," he said, sitting in the chair she had pulled out for him. "Won't you be joining us?"

  "Oh... ah... no..." Philippa said, suddenly flustered. "My... um... I just received a call from... ah... my niece's brother..."

  "Your nephew, then," Annabelle corrected pointedly, unwilling to let Philippa's floundering attempts to fib pass by unnoticed.

  "Yes... he... um... needs me..."

  "I see," the Inspector said, growing evidently uneasy at the bizarre situation in which he found himself. "You mentioned that you knew something about the case?"

  "Ah yes," Philippa said, as she picked the Inspector's plate from in front of him and took it to the counter, "it's about Ted Lovesey. The mechanic at Mildred’s."

  "You know where he is?" the Inspector asked. “We haven’t been able to locate him.”

  "Not exactly," Philippa said, placing the plate of steaming hot shepherd's pie in front of him.

  "This looks very tasty," the Inspector said.

  "Oh, our Reverend is quite the cook," Philippa said, winking at Annabelle as she took her seat, and receiving a look of horror in return.

  "You were saying?" urged the Inspector.

  "Yes. Well. Every Friday, without fail, Ted spends the entire night at the Dog and Duck," Philippa said, placing Annabelle's plate in front of her, then quickly making her way to the coatrack, "except last night he wasn't there."