by Mona Marple
“No, of course not. I think we should be working together to solve this case and I wanted to make sure we’re all on the same page.” She says.
“Okay.” Taylor says. “Let me do a little overview, then. Right now, our attentions are focused on Wilson Bruiser and Lovey Lovegoode. Both suspects because of the same motive - to get the journal.”
“And the dagger belongs to Lovey.” Sage says. “You’ve interviewed him about that?”
Taylor looks down at the carpet. “He’s out of town.”
“What?” Connie barks. “He’s gone on the run!”
“No.” Taylor says. “He’s giving a talk in Arizona. It’s been scheduled for months. Now, if he doesn’t come back in two days’ time like he should, then we’ll start to wonder if he’s ran away. At the moment, he’s a man keeping a work commitment. Nothing suspicious there.”
I groan.
“You’re calling him in as soon as he gets back?” Patton asks.
“Let’s talk about Wilson Bruiser.” He says, dodging the question. “You guys think it could be him?”
“It’s a possibility.” Connie says.
“He’s definitely a rule breaker.” I say. “He turned up here the other day, completely uninvited.”
“Oh, he’s a total maverick, I don’t doubt that. But plenty of people break rules and cause trouble without ever killing someone.” Patton says.
“I don’t think it’s him.” Connie says.
“You’ve already said.” Taylor says, with a sigh. “But what’s that based on? A feeling?”
“I guess so.” Connie admits. “He just seems to not care that much, about anything. I can’t imagine him being driven to violence over a diary.”
“He has lost a hand, remember.” I say. “So he clearly can be driven to violence.”
“That wasn’t through violence.” Patton says, and we all turn and look at him. “I did some research. He had gangrene in his hand. It was amputated.”
I let out a gasp. “Eww! Amputated? Are you serious?”
Patton nods. “It fits his wild image more to pretend it was from some battle, but the dude just got gangrene.”
“That makes my belief that he isn’t violent even stronger, then.” Connie says.
“Maybe you’re right.” Taylor says. “I’ll call him in for questioning too.”
“What shall we do?” I ask.
“Keep your ears out. I think we’re getting close. Try to find the journal, too.” Taylor says, and slurps the dregs of his coffee and gets to his feet. “I’ll be going. Good to catch up.”
The door slams behind him and Patton takes a breath.
“I’m not happy about working a case with that man.” He says.
“You’ve got to put your grudge with him to one side.” Connie says, tone firm. “This is more important than you two not liking each other.”
Patton shakes his head and I can feel the tension coming off him in waves.
“Come on.” I suggest. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Mystic Springs is a hella pretty town, as the kids would say.
The streets are wide and tree-lined and the mountains that surround the town stand majestically in the background, as old as time itself, entirely uninterested in whatever human dramas are happening. They’re a constant reminder of how short life is - as if I need one.
The only noises are the distant roar of the springs up ahead, the occasional chirrup of a bird, and the hum of a lawn mower. The sun is warm on my ghostly skin and the man I’m walking - floating - with is so close to me that I know, even though he isn’t touching me, he wants to. I’m tempted to reach across and hold his hand but call me old-fashioned, that’s for him to do.
And so we stroll closer to the springs in a comfortable silence, me focused on whether or not he’s going to hold my hand, and Patton? Who knows? His mind is probably still back simmering about his rivalry with Taylor Morton.
The relative silence is broken by a shrill laugh, but there’s nobody around. We’re almost at the springs now, and I sit on the bench overlooking the water, waiting for Patton to join me. He doesn’t. He walks up to the railings and looks out at the water, so I go to join him.
A movement to my left catches my attention.
“Oh, you naughty boy!” A voice calls. Lavinia Blackbottom the fourth stands at the edge of the railings, her back to the springs, a cell phone clutched to her ear. She’s not facing me, but she doesn’t have to. Her money coat makes her recognisable instantly.
Patton looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “I wonder who she’s talking to.”
“Mm-hmm, I bet you’d like that.” She purrs into the phone. “It’s been a long time since Bunny had new shoes.”
I move closer so I can hear better. There’s a large red baneberry plant between me and her and I position myself behind it. Given the bush and my ghostly appearance, not to mention how focused she is on her conversation, I doubt she’ll see me.
“Oh, no, you shouldn’t. You’ve already given me my allowance this month, sugar. I can struggle by with the ones I have.” She says, voice so loud it’s clear she has no idea anyone else is around. “Okay, love, go on then. Shall I walk over to you? Oh! You’ll pick me up? You’re adorable. I can’t wait to see you!”
“We’ve heard enough.” Patton hisses, and I don’t agree, but Lavinia ends the call then without so much as a goodbye. She walks away from the springs, back towards town, without as much as a glance in our direction.
“Well, that’s not very women’s lib of her, is it?” I say with a laugh. “She’s clearly got a sugar daddy paying her way.”
Patton shrugs. “It’s nothing to do with us.”
“She’s trotting her way around town pretending to be a leader for independent women, and she’s got someone giving her an allowance.” I say.
“You sound jealous.” Patton teases.
“I am!” I admit with a laugh. “But, importantly, I’ve never pretended to be independent.”
“Oh, I’d say you’re a strong independent woman, Sage.” He says, and I feel my stomach flip. “It’s one reason why I haven’t sent you flowers or anything else like that.”
“Huh?”
“It can be a bit intimidating, you know, being around someone as strong and beautiful as you.”
“Are you winding me up?” I ask, cautious.
He shakes his head, and I’m sure he’s moving in. You know, moving in for the kiss. That moment every woman dreams of with a man she’s attracted to. It’s happening, it’s happening, it’s happening, and I’m so out of practice I can’t remember whether I should close my eyes or keep them open, and the risk of course is that if I close my eyes and I’m wrong, I could be stood with my lips puckered and my eyes closed and look like a fool. In that scenario, what would a man do? Maybe he’d see the lips puckered, panic and run away? Or maybe he’d see them, pity me, and give me a reluctant kiss. I’m not sure which option is worse.
And before I know it, as he moves closer, I’m moving away. Just a fraction of an inch. You’d hardly notice, really, unless you were moving closer to me without getting any closer. I see the recognition in his eyes, the very moment when he understands - she’s moving away from me.
And I have to do something, because I want this kiss. I want it so badly I daren’t let it happen, but I don’t want to stop him trying.
God himself appears to be shining down on me in that moment, because right when I need one, I have an epiphany.
“What about Lavinia?” I blurt out.
“Huh?” Patton says, as he moves back to standing upright and rubs his chin. “She’s not really my type, Sage.”
“No!” I cry. “Why isn’t Lavinia a suspect?”
Patton looks at me for a moment and then cracks a smile. “Geeze, you never stop thinking about the case, do you? Come on, Sage, I thought we were relaxing for a while.”
“Sorry.” I say. “But don’t you think it’s worth looking into? I could be on to something, righ
t?”
He shrugs. “I think it’s Lovey. His house spooked me, you know? It’s like a temple of historic objects.”
“I know, but lots of people collect things without killing anyone over it.” I say, hearing the whine in my voice. I hate it when I sound whiny, it’s so unattractive. I shake my head and flash Patton a smile. “Anyway, it popped in my head and I wanted to mention it, but you know best, Sheriff.”
He grins. He loves being called that, and I love knowing that he loves being called that.
If I have one skill in life (or the afterlife) it’s finding a person’s weak spot. And his, I know, is that in his heart he’s still the true Sheriff of Mystic Springs.
He grins and reaches out his hand for mine, and we stare out at the springs in silence.
“So, she’s got a rich person giving her an allowance?” Connie asks as she washes dishes in the kitchen. The room stinks. She made some kind of low-fat curried noodles for dinner and they looked as bad as they smelt. “Alright for some, isn’t it.”
I shrug. “Isn’t it a bit two-faced for her to be all about women’s independence when she’s basically got a sugar daddy?”
Connie groans as she rinses the bubbles from her bowl and places it on the draining board. “Are you surprised?”
“Well…” I say, but the question stumps me. Am I surprised? Did I really expect better from a woman who leaves the house some days with a coat decorated with $50 notes, and nothing underneath? “Anyway, why are you eating this rubbish? That microwave meal, now these noodles?”
“Oh.” Connie says, cheeks flushed. “I’m trying to watch what I eat.”
“And only eat cardboard? Come on, Connie, this isn’t real food.”
Connie is an excellent cook. The time I visited her, with my daughters, back when I was alive and eating, her home-made dinners were pretty much the highlight of the trip for me. I had a lot on my mind back then, hippy person trapped in a small town that I was, but I’d turn up at her dining table for every meal convinced that she couldn’t do better than the last meal she’s prepared, and they just kept getting better.
A memory of her peach cobbler pops in my mind and I’m virtually drooling.
It’s easy to see how she’s become she size she is, and it’s pretty darn sad to see her living on zero calorie ready meals.
“I just thought I should try and get more healthy.” She says, scrubbing the pan furiously in the sink. “You should support me.”
“I’ll support you if you’re eating apples, but this stuff isn’t food. How can you even tolerate it after decades of eating your real food?”
She turns and flicks washing up bubbles at me, and I feel the dampness of them as they fly through me and on to her kitchen floor.
“Okay. I’ll butt out.” I say, hands raised. I wouldn’t mind a water fight, but I know she’d get annoyed at some point, probably when she saw the state of the floor that would need cleaning. Connie’s moments of rash madness are always followed quickly by the return of her practical head. “In other news, how do you think the meeting went earlier?”
“Hmm.” Connie says as she lets the water out of the sink and dries her hands on a pink and white striped cloth that she’s had for years. I can remember drying my own hands on it when I was visiting as a living person. “It’s strange.”
“Strange?”
“I don’t really understand why Sheriff Morton is working with us.” Connie says. “Especially as he doesn’t seem to be doing much himself.”
“Maybe that’s the point. He knows his head isn’t in the right place, so he gets us to work for free and then he’ll take all the credit.”
Connie frowns. “I don’t want to believe that about him.”
“Why? Because you’re friends with his wife?”
She laughs but then purses her lips. “I don’t think I am friends with his wife.”
“You were out with her, getting drunk? Of course you are.”
“Nah.” Connie says with a shrug. “She lets me keep her company if I visit her, but I hear nothing from her when I sit and wait for her to get in touch. And, she wants to leave town.”
“She just got here.”
“I know. She’s not happy here.”
“Maybe that’s why Taylor’s distracted?” I suggest. “Pressure to leave?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.” Connie says, and I see the fear in her eyes. Fear of rejection. Fear of loneliness. Fear of liking a friend more than they like her.
"Hey, that reminds me. Why hasn’t Lavinia been considered as a suspect?”
Connie looks at me and purses her lips. “Good question.”
“Right? It is, isn’t it?” I say, trying not to gloat.
“How about we ask Sheriff Morton?” She says, and I groan.
“How about we just accept that the man isn’t very good at his job, and get on with solving this case ourselves.”
“With the one true Sheriff, who you just happen to have an eye for?” Connie teases.
“Fine.” I say. “Let’s ask him. But if he doesn’t start doing some work soon, we need to forget him.”
“Deal.” She agrees, and then shakes her head at the damp spots on the kitchen floor.
See, I told you.
We visit Sheriff Morton at the station, figuring we can’t drag him out to us every time we need to speak to him. A cop’s leaving just as we arrive, and sloppily he lets us in without even asking who we are. Luckily, we’re not the murderer and we just go up to the first floor and find Taylor sitting at his desk, staring out across the main street.
He doesn’t hear us walk in, he’s so engrossed in his thoughts, and Connie raps on the glass of his office door to blast him out of his thoughts.
“Oh, hey ladies.” He says. A line of four empty coffee cups stands on his desk.
“Good job we’re not Adele.” I quip, eyeing the cups.
“Oh, she never comes down here.” He says with a laugh. “I know I’m safe here.”
“Hmm.” I say, thinking back to him leading Lavinia through the building. Ain’t that the truth. I wonder if Taylor could be her mystery benefactor, but can’t imagine his small-town Sheriff’s wage would be enough to support her lifestyle.
“We need to run something by you.” Connie says. “About the case.”
“Sure.” He says.
“I think we should look at Lavinia Blackbottom as a suspect.”
Taylor coughs, then reaches for the calendar that hangs on his wall. He inspects it and then places it on his desk. “She didn’t do it.”
“How do you know?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“She was here.” He says, and points to the calendar. My eyes find the date of Emelza Shabley’s murder, one of the few dates with any writing on at all.
“Fundraising meeting?” Connie reads aloud. The writing is in a distinctive purple ink.
He nods. “Lavinia’s leading quite an ambitious campaign to get more funds coming into Mystic Springs. I was here all evening with her, discussing the plans.”
“What kind of fundraiser?” I ask.
“I can’t really say.” He says, shifting in his seat a little as he returns the calendar to the wall. “It’s early days.”
“Oh.” I say, the disappointment in my voice palpable.
“It was a good line of thinking, though, Sage. Well done.” Taylor says, and if there’s one thing I hate it’s being patronised.
“Come on, we’re done.” I say, and I don’t even wait for Connie, I float out of there.
She finds me in the parking lot, waiting for her.
“What got into you?” She asks, out of breath after her dash down the stairs and out to find me.
“He’s so patronising.” I whine. darn, whining again. What’s happening to me?
“I don’t think he was being patronising.” Connie soothes. “He said it was a good idea, and it was. Let’s just focus our energy on the suspects we’ve got, hey?”
“H
e’s clearly not concentrating.” I say.
“I know.” Connie admits. “He must be really worried about baby Axel.”
“I thought the kid was fine now?” I ask. Maternal instincts are not high in this one.
“He is, as far as I know.” Connie says. “But Taylor was there in the car with him when he took ill. It might have traumatised him.”
“I think a Sheriff needs to be able to handle some trauma.” I say with a shrug. “Anyway, it’s not my problem. Let him daydream all he wants. But I’m making sure we take the credit when we solve the case.”
“Now you’re talking!” Connie says with a grin.
“What do you know about Lovey Lovegoode?” I ask, because she’s been on her computer constantly, learning all she can about Mystic Springs, and I can’t imagine that the historian himself isn’t all over the articles she’s been reading.
“Well, he was married.” She says.
“I’m not surprised.” I say. She looks at me curiously. “The man’s handsome! He just happens to be a weirdo.”
“Sage!” She cries. “He isn’t a weirdo! Plenty of people like antiques.”
“Weirdos.” I mutter under my breath. “Where’s the ex-wife?”
“No idea.” Connie says. “We won’t struggle to find her, though, if she’s kept her married name.”
“Why, what’s she called?”
“Lovell.”
I stop floating and stare at my sister. “Lovell? Lovell Lovegoode?”
“Yep.” She says, and she can’t hold it in any longer, she bursts into laughter.
“Did he hand pick her for the name? He must have, surely?” I say, opening my eyes wide. If I didn’t think the historian was a weirdo before, I definitely do now. Although his ex-wife is just as bad, for taking his name.
Lovey and Lovell Lovegoode.
Unbelievable.
12
Connie
As I predicted, Lovell Lovegoode isn’t hard to track down at all.
The apparent opposite of her former husband, she’s active on every social media platform you can think of, and dozens you’ve never heard of. Her accounts are wide open, and Sage and I spend a pleasant evening reading her status updates and poring over her photos posted in the two years since her split with Lovey.
