by Mona Marple
“It could be great for your business.” Jayne says with a sugary smile. “People love psychics.”
“I don’t need any more work, thanks.” I say. It’s taken me years to get to this reduced workload, and I don’t plan on changing that.
“Hmm, suit yourself.” She says. “So, Lovely Lovegoode, what can you tell me?”
“It’s Lovey, not Lovely.” He says, expression stern.
“And you’re the historian? I understand you deal with facts, but you may be best placed to give an opinion first of all. What do you make of this article?”
“Honestly?” Lovey sneers, as if being asked for his opinion for a New York newspaper is beneath him. “I question whether the journal even exists. The newspaper doesn’t name it’s source, curiously. I wonder if, perhaps, a quiet news day caused someone to get a little creative with the truth.”
“Interesting.” Jayne says, with a glance at her notepad. Her handwriting is drunken hieroglyphics. “How about this man they name? Wilson Bruiser? Ever heard that name?”
“I can’t possibly say.” Lovey says. “I’ve come across far too many names for me to say whether I’ve come up against that particular fellow.”
“But would it be fair to say that if he was a central role in the town’s creation, you’d be familiar with his name?”
“No.” Lovey says, adamantly. “Absolutely not. If he were a central role in the history books, I’d be familiar with his name. But the history books themselves are not always accurate. Those writing them naturally hold the power, and will often have their own agenda.”
“So, you’re saying, even if the journal exists, whatever it says may not be reliable?”
“Exactly.” Lovey says. “That’s always a factor to remember when dealing with any historical document.”
“Interesting.” Jayne says. It’s her catchphrase, the word she goes to to buy her some time to finish writing, or consider her next question. I think back to a radio interview I did years ago. My first and last. I’d been terrified. The presenter, recognising my nerves, gave me a piece of advice I’d never forgotten.
Listen to the question, and answer with a long word, to buy yourself thinking time.
It’s amazing how many people use that trick, I’ve realised. And not just on the radio or TV, but in day to day life.
“Don’t you think?” Lovey asks, and I realise he is speaking to me.
“Absolutely.” I say with a smile, not sure what I’m agreeing to.
“If I can only examine the journal, I can establish whether it’s a genuine article, and then comment further.” Lovey says. His eyes are fierce behind his designer specs. “I need the journal.”
“We really need the person who found the journal to come forward.” Jayne says.
“Nonsense.” Lavinia Blackbottom’s unmistakable voice comes from the doorway. I groan when I see her outfit.
“Excuse me?” Jayne asks.
“Lavinia Blackbottom, the fourth.” Lavinia says, but she doesn’t extend a hand to the reporter.
“What are you wearing?” The reporter asks, grabbing her camera from one of the bags on the seat next to me. “Mind if I?”
She’s snapping photographs before Lavinia can object, not that she would. She’s wearing a waistcoat adorned with bundles of genuine $50 notes - her money coat.
“Are they real?”
“Of course!” Lavinia says. She plucks a note off of the bundle that covers her right breast. “Here, treat yourself.”
“Erm.” Jayne says, examining the note to see if it really is real. “Blackbottom, you say?”
“Great-granddaughter of Lavinia Blackbottom, founder and first Mayor of Mystic Springs. The news story is nonsense. Tosh! Everyone knows that great-grandmother set up this place.”
“Come, come, sit down.” Jayne says and scrabbles to move the bags from the seat. She eyes me and the way my ripples of flab hang over my own chair width, and pulls the spare chair away from me slightly.
Lavinia remains standing, after all that.
“I should have known you'd be all over the press.” Lavinia says, eyeing Lovey.
“This fine lady required a seat.”
“Has he told you the pressure he’s been putting me under?”
“No.” Jayne says, eyes wide, nose flaring at the sniff of a story. “Do go on.”
“Well.” Lavinia says, and as she runs a hand through her hair I spot what must be a Rolex on her skeletal wrist. “Lovey here seems to think that anything old should end up in his care, even if it doesn’t belong to him.”
“That’s an outrageous lie!” Lovey roared, his booming voice attracting the attention of the people on the next table. “Ms Simpleton, let me explain. I’ll spare the dramatics and tell the truth.”
“Are you suggesting I -”
“Here’s what happened. I discovered that Miss Blackbottom has a rather rare collection of antique cash registers, and they quite piqued my attention.”
“Cash registers?”
Lovey nods. “I worked in a general store as a boy, back home in the ghetto. It would be marvellous to own a collection like this one, more for sentimental value really. I offered a fair price and I was open to negotiation.”
“The ghetto?” I ask. Lovey Lovegoode didn’t look or sound like he came from any ghetto.
“Oh, not that again. This man wouldn’t know a ghetto if he took a wrong turning and found himself in one. He went to Harvard, for goodness sake.” Lavinia says with a brisk shake of her head.
Lovey’s cheeks flush.
“Anyway, if you need any quotes or anything, it’s me you’ll be wanting to speak to. I’m happy to set the record straight.” Lavinia says.
“Do you have any idea who has the journal?” Jayne asks.
“No.” Lavinia says. “It might not even exist. People will do anything for five minutes of fame.”
“They’re not getting any fame, though.” I say. “The article doesn’t name them.”
“They’ll crawl out of the woodwork sooner or later with a story to sell.” Lavinia says. The $50 notes on her jacket dance in the breeze as the front door opens.
“It’s me.” A timid voice calls.
I turn. The woman who stands before me is washed-out, her skin as grey as the clothes she wears. Three-day grease clings to her limp hair, but her face is extraordinarily pretty. Descended from gypsies, if you listen to the rumours, which I of course don’t.
“Emelza Shabley.” Lavinia hisses.
“You two know each other?”
“She was staff.” Lavinia spits. “Until I caught her with her fingers where they shouldn’t have been.”
I look at Emelza, whose grey skin manages not to flush with even a hint of colour.
“I bet she stole the journal from my personal belongings!” Lavinia exclaims.
“So you accept there is a journal, now?” Jayne Simpleton asks, and I notice that she’s still snapping pictures as the scene unfolds. I bet she wishes she’d brought a cameraman with her to record this.
“Who knows.” Lavinia says. “There may well be a journal, I just don’t accept it says what this little runt is pretending it does.”
“Emelza, I think the best thing is that you release the journal to me, as an independent third party.” Lovey begins. Emelza’s gaze flits between him and Lavinia before resting on me as the only impartial person at the table.
“What should I do?” She asks.
Jayne points the camera towards me then and I grab my handbag and hold it in front of my face. “Put the camera down, I’ve made it clear I don’t want to be involved in this.”
I peek over the top of the bag and see that the reporter’s returned her camera to the table, so I cradle the bag in my lap. Ridiculous. I’ve never understood why some people are so desperate for media attention. Seeing my face in the newspaper sounds like something out of a nightmare.
Emelza is still gazing at me, the hopeless creature.
“How should
I know what you should do?” I say, my tone more irritated than I intend. She flinches back from me, but I’m not sure why she thinks I’m her comrade in this situation. I barely know the woman.
“Emelza, just let me review the journal, there’s a good girl.” Lovey says. I blink at how patronising he sounds. The reporter jots more random shapes down on her pad. I assume, in whatever mystical shorthand she uses, she’s recording him saying good girl. “Look, how about I come over tonight, I believe I know your address. I’ll pop over and take a look? And, of course, if you need money, I may be able to find a buyer for it.”
Emelza looks like a woman who has always needed money and never had quite enough of it.
Jayne Simpleton picks up her camera again and flashes it too close in my direction.
“I’m going.” I announce, not that anyone cares. They’re all far too engrossed in the drama of the journal.
I rap on the door quietly, not wanting to wake the twins if it’s nap time.
Adele opens the door a moment later, her face forming a weary smile when she sees me.
“Oh. Hi. Coffee?” She offers, leading me into the wide hallway. The house is silent.
“Only if you’re making one?”
“I have baby twins. I’m always making one.”
I laugh. “Are they asleep?”
“I’ve sent Taylor to his parents’ with them for the night.” She says as she flicks the kettle on.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She cracks her knuckles and stifles a yawn.
I note how her hair is straighter than normal, and then see the subtle layer of make-up. Her clothes are smarter too.
So, this is what Adele looks like when she’s not in mom mode.
“You look great, by the way.” I say.
“Thanks.” She says with a shrug. That’s how to take a compliment! I need to remember that, on the off chance I ever get another. “I could barely remember how to contour, it’s been so long.”
“Ha, imagine.” I say, and I suddenly feel uncomfortable in her presence. It was okay when she was the slightly dishevelled Adele, struggling being a newcomer in town with raising tiny twin babies. But this Adele is polished and well put-together. I’m taken over by insecurities that she may not want to be my friend anymore.
“Have you heard all this news about the journal?” Adele asks, handing me a cup of strong coffee. “Why do people care?”
“Oh, it’s a big deal. The town’s always been proud of its independent women roots.”
Adele shrugs and gazes out of the lounge window. A teenage boy cycles past and throws a newspaper onto the lawn next door. “Sounds like a quiet news day.”
“Well, this ain’t New York any more.” I say lightly.
“Tell me about it.” She mutters.
“Hey.” I say, sensing that something is wrong. “Why don’t we grab some dinner together tonight?”
She turns to me and bites her lip, then nods. “I was going to just catch up on some sleep, but sure. Let’s do that.”
“You can still be in bed early?” I ask, wondering if I’m pushing too hard, forcing myself on her.
“Okay.” She agrees, and I try to ignore the feeling that she’s agreeing out of courtesy rather than desire to spend a grown-up meal together.
3
Sage
I could have heard the scream from across the other side of town, okay? The fact that I wasn’t across town doesn’t matter. Yes, I was in a bush, very close to where the scream came from, but that’s really not the point. Don’t get hung up on it.
You could say, it’s lucky I was so close.
And yes, I was with Patton. In a bush. In the dark.
Like I say, concentrate on the important bits, please.
He’s up and off like a greyhound, and I go after him. This place is pretty deserted. It’s basically a field out on the edge of town. There aren’t even street lights out here, which makes it pretty hard to know where I’m racing off to. Luckily, spirits emit a slight glow, so I can make out Patton ahead and try to keep up with him as best I can.
Across the field from us, there’s a gypsy waggon, a William Wheeler Showman’s waggon in crimson lake and cream, complete with gold leaf curlicues. The door is open, and it’s like stepping back in time. Incredibly neat, and more spacious than it appears from the outside, the narrow interior split into a living area, with kitchen appliances on the left-hand side and the right taken up with storage units, topped with cushions to create a seating bench. Past the living area, there’s a small bed, and atop the bed, there’s a small grey-faced woman, eyes open, a bloodied dagger protruding from her back.
“Bloody typical.” Patton moans. “He only rocked up five minutes ago and he’s already on holiday.”
“He’s allowed a day off.” I say, but Patton glares at me for making that comment, so I shut up.
We’ve exited the crime scene, as the Showman’s waggon now is, and called the Sheriff, Taylor Morton, but apparently he’s out of town for the night.
“You don’t need him anyway.” I say with a flutter of my eyelashes. Patton’s wearing his Sheriff’s uniform, the old-fashioned version that was still being worn before he died. My stomach’s doing flips and I’m not sure if it’s down to how cute he looks or the memory of the woman in the waggon.
“We need to search the area.” Patton says. “But it’s too dark. We need resources out here.”
A screech of sirens in the distance ring out.
“Oh great, the ambulance.” Patton says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You think she’s already…?”
“Dead? I’d be amazed if not. Poor woman.”
“Do you know her?”
“Not her, but the only people living out here for decades have been the Shabley family, she could be one of them.”
“Gypsies? I didn’t even know gypsies existed.”
Patton frowns at me. “Of course they do.”
“So she’s just moving around from place to place?” I ask.
“No.” He explains. “This site has been used by them for decades, like I say. Occasionally someone starts a petition wanting them to be moved on, but they don’t normally succeed. Most people don’t mind them being out here.”
“Them?”
“There’s usually more waggons than this. It’s strange that the others would go and whoever this is would stay.”
“Maybe she stayed to make sure the land was kept for the others?”
“Could be.” Patton agrees. “Come on, let’s do a search of the area now the ambulance crew are here.”
The ambulance, sent from out of town, pulls up next to the waggon and the paramedics climb out, look around the area and disappear into the waggon.
“Let’s stay together?” I ask, feeling spooked.
“Of course.” He says, and he slips his hand into mine.
The waggon sits on a patch of land that’s been given up to nature for decades. The grass is overgrown and the risk of us coming across a snake is, in my head, at least 100%.
In the dark of night, we can see the lights from the town in the distance, but nothing of the grass itself.
“This is useless.” Patton says, with a sigh. “Whoever did this will have got away by now. Let’s spread the word and come back in the morning. We can bring a team, if Taylor isn’t back.”
“Sounds good.” I say. Anything that involves me leaving the dark field and returning to the town sounds good right now.
I don’t know if Connie will be home yet from her dinner with Adele Morton, and I don’t feel like risking an empty house, so I suggest to Patton that we go over to the Baker house, where the spirits tend to hang out.
“Sure.” He says with a shrug, but his mind is focused on the case. The excitement he felt earlier in the evening to be with me has gone. The man is never off duty.
The lights are on at the Baker house and we’re greeted with a cheer as we walk in together. Spirits can be so immature. Lik
e they’ve never seen a man and a woman be friends before, huh?
“What’s wrong?” Atticus, the dead Mayor, asks Patton right away, pausing his game of chess.
“Someone’s been killed tonight.” Patton whispers.
Atticus groans. “Someone?”
“Not Mariam.” I say, to his relief. He worries about his daughter like you wouldn’t believe. “It’s some gyspy.”
“Emelza?” He asks. “She’s the only one left. Or, she was.”
“Maybe.” I say.
“What do you know about her?” Patton asks Atticus. The three of us move out of the living room, away from the watchful gaze of other spirits, and out onto the front lawn. The streets are empty. The town has retired to bed, unaware of what’s happened in a waggon across town.
“Not much.” He says. “She kept herself to herself. She was always writing complaint letters. I must have had three dozen from her when I was Mayor.”
“Complaining about what?”
“Anything!” He exclaims. “The town being too noisy, town people interfering on her land - even though it wasn’t her land. The woman would complain about anything she could think of.”
“So, she wasn’t popular I’m guessing?”
“Definitely not. Most people couldn’t stand her. Rumour had it she was a thief.”
“No end of suspects, then, to want her dead.” Patton says.
“Where’s Morton?”
“Taylor’s on holiday.” Patton says with a sneer.
“He’s away for one night. He’ll be back tomorrow and we can hand this over to him and carry on relaxing.” I say, hoping my voice is seductive in a subtle enough tone that only Patton will notice.
“Well, erm…” Atticus stumbles over his words and blushes. “You young uns probably don’t want me hanging around.”
Oops.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Patton says and my face drops. “We need to work on this together. Taylor’s too new in town to solve a murder. He doesn’t understand the way things work here.”
Atticus nods thoughtfully. “The three of us, then. We’ll crack the case.”
