by Mona Marple
He turns the vehicle onto his drive, slows to a stop, and a good ten minutes pass without him opening the door.
“Think he’s considering making a run for it?” I ask.
“Nah.” Patton says. “He wouldn’t drive all the way back and get spooked because we’re sitting on a bench. Let’s just go and talk to him.”
We find him rifling through the car, filling a plastic bag with rubbish. He’s a travel eater. Such a beautiful classic car and it’s piled high with empty coffee cups, bags of sweets, and the sugar from the sweets. The passenger seat has a chocolate stain where one of his goodies has melted.
Patton clears his throat and makes Lovey jump.
“Can I help?”
“We need to talk to you, can we go inside?” Patton says. He flashes his Sheriff’s badge, which actually gives him no authority since he went and died, but impresses a fair number of people, who agree to talk to him and open up as if he’s still law enforcement.
Maybe it’s like being the President. Once a POTUS, always a POTUS.
“Sure thing.” Lovey says. “Give me a minute.”
He returns to filling the plastic bag with his junk, and then climbs out of the car, leading us up onto his small veranda and inside the house. I try to look surprised at the interior, as if I’ve never set foot in the house before. Well, I haven’t set foot inside, since I don’t have feet any more.
“You erm, don’t want a drink?”
“No, no, we can’t drink. But thanks.” Patton says.
Lovey leads us into the room that houses most of his collections, and stands, hands in pockets, waiting for us to talk.
“We’re working with Sheriff Morton on the Emelza Shabley murder case.” Patton says. “We have some questions for you.”
“Don’t ya normally call people into the station to be questioned?”
“We thought this would be more discrete.”
Lovey nods. “Well, how can I help?”
“Can we all sit down?” Patton asks.
“Sure.” Lovey says, and pulls out a chair. We sit across from him, as if it’s a police interrogation, which I guess it is. My hands are shaking with nerves and adrenaline.
“I need to start by asking what you know about the murder?”
“As much as anyone else, I guess.” He says with a shrug. “I heard about it. Awful.”
“Did you know her?”
“Not really.” He says. “I keep myself to myself, really. And I travel a lot. I’ve just got back from a few days away.”
“What exactly do you do?” I ask. “I mean, history is clearly your thing, but…”
He cracks a huge grin, happy to get on to this topic. “I’m a historian. I buy antiques. I should sell them, but very often I find it hard to part with them. I mean, I do sell some things. Your friend, Sheriff Morton, I sold his wife a few things to furnish their new home. I also give lectures across the country, sometimes internationally, and I’ve had the occasional appearance on TV as a history expert. I’ve just been approached actually, thanks to Lavinia, to work as an advisor behind the scenes on a documentary series, I don’t know if the details for that will work out, but it’s fun to be considered.”
“I bet.” I say, but I can’t imagine anything more dull. Spending all day checking that really old, fusty things are the right kind of old and fusty. Ugh.
“Where were you the night Emelza was killed?” Patton asks.
Lovey bristles. “Am I a suspect?”
“At the moment, you’re helping with enquiries. If you’re not willing to do that, we can make this more formal and go to the station.”
“No, no.” Lovey says. With a TV deal pending, he doesn’t want word getting out that he’s been taken in for questioning. “I can’t remember where I was.”
“You can’t remember?”
“I could consult my day planner, but I only record my appointments. If I was at home, it will be empty.”
“Would it help jog your memory if we said that you’d been in Screamin’ Beans that day, where you were seen speaking to Emelza Shabley and arranging to visit her that evening to take a look at the journal she’d found?” I say.
“Ah, yes, yes, that would help, thank you.” He says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “In that case, I was at home, alone, all night.”
“But you said you’d visit Emelza.”
“She didn’t seem keen. I didn’t go. I don’t even know where she lives. Lived.”
Patton clasps his hands together, holds eye contact with Lovey, and waits. It’s a tactic he’s told me about. How sometimes, all you need to do to get a suspect to trip themselves up is be quiet. Apparently people would rather confess to murder than handle an awkward silence.
Not Lovey, though. He breaks eye contact pretty quick and looks down at his hands, but he doesn’t speak.
“Are you saying, on record, that you didn’t visit Emelza Shabley’s home at all on the night she was killed?” Patton says, his words clear and definite. There can be no misunderstanding him. He needs that to be obvious.
“Yes, sir.” Lovey says.
“Do you know how she was killed?” Patton asks.
Lovey’s cheeks flush. “I believe she was stabbed.”
“You know that how?”
“I like to keep up with the news. I read the newspaper. I hear, erm, gossip.”
“Do you own any knives? Daggers? Swords?” Patton asks.
“Well, of course.” Lovey says. “I mean, I own a few. It’s not really my thing, but if one comes up, I‘ll consider it. I don’t tend to hang on to them, though, I’m happy to sell them on.”
“Can we see the ones you have?” I ask.
“Sure.” Lovey says with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Follow me.”
He leads us into the bathroom and opens the cabinet. Inside, one shelf has a small pile of items secured in bubblewrap.
“Oh.” He says as he pulls the items out.
“What?”
“This is odd.” He says, peering back into the small cabinet. “There should be… there should be four.”
He walks back into the room and places the items on the table, where he opens each. “This is a Prussian hunting cutlass. Amazing condition. The handle’s deer horn. Had a gentleman from Germany interested in this, would you believe? And then this, its a piper’s dirk. Scottish, World War One. This one…” He says, handling the last. “is a Piha Kahetta, from Sri Lanka. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“But there’s one missing?” Patton says, trying to keep Lovey focused from wandering off on a tangent about ancient daggers. To say they’re not his thing, his eyes have still glazed over as he talks about them. Please God, I hope I never have to talk to him about cash registers, his one true love.
“Yes, absolutely.”
“What’s it like?”
“Oh, stunning.” Lovey says.
“Describe it.”
“It’s a Hungarian Air Force parade dagger, dates back to World War Two if not earlier. Not terribly valuable, I bought it with the Piha Kahetta, that’s the one I really wanted. Old guy wouldn’t split them up. I don’t think he wanted the hassle of more viewers. So I took them both. He could see I was mad about the Piha Kahetta! They’re the royal knives, you know. No way was I leaving without it.”
“When did you last see it?”
“The Piha Kahetta? This is the -” Lovey says, stroking the straight-backed blade. It looks like the kind of thing I’d toss in the trash if I came across it. I’ve never had an eye for antiques, though.
“No. The dagger that’s missing. When did you last see that?”
“I’ve got no idea.” Lovey admits.
“Well, try. This is important.”
“I honestly don’t know. I live alone, I don’t have many visitors, I’ve got no need to check that all of my things are where they should be.”
“Why are they in the bathroom cabinet?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I’ve always put them there. I grew up
in a gun house. My father schooled me on making sure anything dangerous wasn’t kept out on show.”
“Did he put his guns in the bathroom?” I quip.
“In a trunk in the basement.” Lovey says. “I don’t have a basement.”
“Lovey, I need you to realise how serious this is. The dagger used to kill Emelza Shabley, it’s been tested, it’s yours.”
Lovey drops the dagger that’s in his hand and sinks down onto a seat at the table. “My goodness, it can’t be.”
“It is. We traced it back to the seller.”
“Oh my.” Lovey says. He clasps his head in his hands and begins to cry. “Can I make a call?”
“Who to?”
“I think I may need a lawyer.”
“Do you want to make a confession?” I ask.
He sucks in a huge gulp and shakes his head. “I have nothing to confess, but I know my rights. I need a lawyer. Can I call one?”
“Do you have one?” I ask.
He looks at me aghast. “Why on Earth would I have one? I’ve never needed one before. I need to make some calls. I need to think. Can you leave now?”
“No.” I scoff. “We need to get to the bottom of why your dagger was used to kill a woman you promised you’d be visiting that evening!”
“I can’t explain that.”
“Let’s talk about the journal.” Patton says. “You wanted it, didn’t you?”
“Well, of course I did. I’m a historian, I want lots of things. I don’t get them all.”
“But you really wanted this? Like you said about that knife - you wouldn’t let it go.”
“The Piha Kahetta is different. Sentimental, really. I learnt about them in school.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Right here.” He says, chest high. “Born and raised right in Mystic Springs.”
“So surely a journal written about the founding of your town would be sentimental too?” I ask, and I see Patton glance at me and feel myself swell with pride too.
Lovey realises the trap he’s walked in to, but too late. His eyes dart around the room, but no help can be found. “I’d never hurt anyone.”
“Would Lovell agree with you about that?” I ask.
His cheeks turn flame red. Incensed, his mouth tightens. “How dare you? Have you spoken to her? You can’t believe a word that woman says! She left me high and dry to go off with some model, did she tell you that? Did she tell you anything apart from how awful I am?”
“She told me lots of interesting things.” I say.
“I need a lawyer.” He says, and stands from the chair. We let him go, and hear him pacing in the hallway, then lifting the receiver of the phone and punching digits. “God darn it!”
“Are you ok, Lovey?” Patton asks, following him out into the hall. I remain in the room and look around, wondering where Lovey could have hidden the journal. If the man keeps daggers in his bathroom cabinet, there’s no way to guess where he might be hiding the journal.
I look around anyway, but the place is creeping me out. There’s something unnatural about being surrounded by so many old things. I’ve been twenty years dead and I’ve got a better grip on modern life than Lovey Lovegoode has.
“They’re not answering.” Lovey curses as he returns to the room. “Look, I know this doesn’t look good. I do see that. But you have to let me speak to a lawyer, and then maybe I can come to the station and we can get this all cleared up? I’ll help you in any way I can. I don’t want this to get out, though, please. My reputation would be ruined.”
“I don’t know.” I say. “Historian kills for historic item… it could launch your media career.”
“I’ve got no interest in a media career. It’s a necessary evil to spread the word, to bring me bookings for lectures. Please, have some respect. I’ve worked so hard for my career.”
“And the journal would put you right at the top of your game.” Patton says. “Your motive’s clear. Your opportunity was right there. We know how you did it.”
“You should just confess, it’ll make things easier for you in the long run.” I suggest.
“I’ve got nothing to confess to!” He cries, slamming his hand on the table so hard I instinctively jump back, even though he can’t hurt me. As a spirit, I can’t feel physical pain, and I’ve already died, but that instinct to move away from danger is hardwired into us all, I guess.
“Enough.” Patton says, pushing himself in between me and Lovey.
Lovey trembles, his eyes wild. He says nothing but he knows. The mask has slipped. He’s revealed his temper. His shadow side.
“Let’s go.” I say.
“Lovey, don’t leave the town, okay? We’ll talk to Sheriff Morton and then we’ll be back. We can keep doing this the discrete way or we can haul you in so everyone sees. So don’t make us have to hunt for you.”
“And don’t try to contact Lovell.” I add, suddenly regretful for mentioning her name. The thought of her all alone in the woods makes a chill run down my spine.
“I’ve got no interest in contacting that woman.” He says, and he collapses into the chair, his energy and power gone, like a huge bear defeated. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Well, I bet Emelza Shabley thought similar when you turned up at her house with a dagger.” Patton says.
“Her house? Well, that proves it, I wasn’t there! She lives in a waggon!” Lovey shouts, then realises what he has just admitted.
“Ah, so you do know where she lives.” Patton says, casting a wink in my direction.
“This isn’t fair.” Lovey moans, but we’re already heading down his hallway, and then out into the stifling warm air. The roads are empty, but the smell of a nearby barbecue floats over the lawns, and a small girl lies on her back on a nearby lawn, gazing up at the clouds.
“Did you used to do that?” I ask as we walk away, leaving a pitiful Lovey Lovegoode to await our next move.
“Look at the clouds? Nah. I was an all-action hero, too busy splashing in streams and building dens. I had the best den in the whole state. Kids used it for years after I’d grown up. Still think that’s one of my best achievements in life.” Patton says with a lazy smile. “So, what do you make of Lovey?”
“He’s so screwed.” I say. “We need Morton to get over there and arrest him ASAP.”
“The things that drive people to kill will never stop amazing me. All this over a tattered old journal.”
“A tattered old journal we still need to find.” I say.
“We should search Emelza’s waggon. I wonder if Lovey hid it there, knowing we’d suspect him and search his place.”
“Ooh, that’s a good idea.”
“And then, I’d like to take you out for breakfast.” Patton says, his voice clipped, nerves screaming out. “I mean, if you’d let me.”
I flash him my most winning smile, the one that makes my eyes twinkle. “I’d love to.”
14
Connie
I’ve purposely not contacted Adele, but the radio silence from her worries me.
What if baby Axel has taken a turn for the worse, and she’d desperately like some support but can’t find the time to ask for it?
I’m not the kind of friend to risk leaving her like that, in need of help.
And so, I trudge down the road towards her home, enjoying that the evening has finally grown cooler. It’s been a sweaty, sticky kind of day and I’m not thin enough for that heat. I can feel every single one of the extra pounds I carry on days like today, and the humidity is hell for my hair.
I groan as I walk up the path, already anticipating the whirr of Adele’s AC unit and the reassuring tick of her ceiling fans. To say she hasn’t been here long, she’s made the house a beautiful home. I guess that’s what an overachiever does when she’s got no career to focus on, unlike me, who just apparently gets grumpy.
“It’s not happening!” Taylor’s scream stops me in my tracks just as I’m about to knock on the front
door. I glance towards the living room window and see the shape of him by the glass. There’s no way I can retreat back down the path without him seeing me and realising I’ve heard. I’ll have to wait it out, right here.
“We’re not staying.” Adele replies, and her voice is the ice of the lawyer I’ve heard in her before. She’s so in control, it stuns me a little. I grew up with a mum making it alone, no man around, but she was breaking her back to barely get by. And being single was hardly her choice. In the world I come from, a woman finds a man and tries her best to hold onto him, no matter how bad for her he might be. Adele is so strong, so independent, if she wants to leave, she’ll up and go.
“You need to give this time.” Taylor pleads. “This was such a quiet town. It’s bad timing, that’s all.”
Adele scoffs. “No. I’m done talking about this. I can’t believe you’re arguing with me about it! There’s a murderer on the loose! We all need to pack up and go.”
“I can’t just walk out halfway through a case…”
“We’ll go ahead of you, then. Like we came here before you.” Adele says.
“No, Adele.” Taylor says, his own voice growing more firm. “They’re my babies too. You’re not allowed to take them across state, remember.”
I bristle at this, the threat in his words.
“Don’t you dare.” She retorts.
“You signed it.”
“You demanded it.” She hisses.
“I know what you’re capable of.” He says, and I want to duck for cover from him then, at the audacity of his words.
“And I know what you’re capable of, Taylor, let’s remember why we ended up in this dump.”
“You need to let that go.” He says, tone soft again. He’s pushed it too far, he’s the one who needs this to work out, to be smoothed over. This power balance within couples fascinates me. The way that, right down at the heart of it, there will be one of you who needs the other more. One who is more invested. One who will walk away, and one who will beg you to stay. And it’s surprisingly difficult to predict which way it might go ahead of time. But here, as I listen to this awful argument, I have no doubt. It will be Taylor watching Adele leave.
