by Mona Marple
“You look great, Sage,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he pulls away from me. The hug seems to have been as awkward for him as me. He was never a hugger. “Thanks for coming.”
“That’s okay,” I say, glancing behind me to make sure we’re not being watched. With the spray from the water, the Springs is rarely visited in such cold weather, and the position naturally hides any visitors from view of the town. Anyone meeting here on such a cold day is either up to no good or hiding out, which makes my mere presence here suspicious if I’m seen. In a small town like Mystic Springs, word would get back to Patton, or Connie, before I make it home. “You’re doing alright?”
He nods. Man of few words, this is going to be painful.
“Where are you living now?” I ask. If I know Bernard at all, he’ll have found his mum and will be spending the afterlife with her.
“Me and mum found a nice attic a few miles away from home,” he says. By home, he means Waterfell Tweed, and my stomach churns at the realisation that he’s remained so close to our daughters.
“Do you see the girls?” I ask. They can’t see him, but there’s no reason why he couldn’t hang around the village unseen, keeping up with their lives. He shakes his head, though.
“I’ve tried to avoid the living,” he says with a wry smile. “It seems, erm, healthier.”
I nod, not sure I understand. If I were back in Waterfell Tweed, I’d watch what my daughters were doing every day. I’d guard over them. I’d… well, I moved away, so I guess that conversation’s a nonstarter. I suppose I’ve been avoiding some living people too. Our daughters can’t see spirits, and the idea of being invisible to the people you love most in the world is a little too heartbreaking for me.
“Your mum’s okay?” I ask, out of courtesy. I couldn’t stand the woman when she was alive, I’m sure I wouldn’t be any more fond of her in spirit form.
“She wanted to come, actually. She misses you,” Bernard says. Of course she does. Misses telling me what I’m doing wrong. How I don’t vacuum often enough and how I’m not strict enough with the girls. How when Bernard was a boy, she ruled the house with a withering look so that by the time he could walk he knew not to step out of line.
“Well, that’s nice.” I say, because there are some lies I can’t make myself say. I wait for Bernard to speak, to explain why he’s here and what he wants, but he just returns his gaze out to the water. Eventually, I let out a small cough. I don’t have all day to hang around here with him, in silence.
“We had a good life, didn’t we? I was a good husband?” Bernard asks suddenly. The question throws me. While I couldn’t guess why he might be here, I knew it would be for something practical. Something that required both of our combined brains, or agreement. I certainly didn’t expect an existential crisis from him.
I let out a short laugh. “What’s brought this on?”
“You can be honest with me,” he says. “I’d like to know.”
“There was never enough money to go around,” I say, “and I was bored stiff at home all day, but that was the way then. You worked hard for us Bernie.”
“But was it enough?” He asks.
“What’s going on?” I ask, backing away from him slightly. This is a side of him I’ve never seen before. And if I’ve never seen this, what else could he be capable of?
Suddenly a voice interrupts my thoughts. I turn and see Patton, floating quickly towards us, his face tight with anger.
“Bernard Shaw, I’m Patton Davey, former Sheriff of Mystic Springs. I need to ask you some questions,” Patton says as he reaches our side.
“Erm, okay?” Bernard stutters. He glances around. “Here?”
“This’ll do for a start,” Patton says. I step back and say a silent thank you that he turned up when he did. “You’ll be aware of the murders of Lionel Wright and Tabitha Reed?”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Bernard says.
“You arrived in town just before the first murder,” Patton says.
“I believe that’s correct,” Bernard says. “It was the day before, I think.”
“Some people might say that’s suspicious.”
“I’d say it’s coincidence,” Bernard says. His tone is perfectly flat with no intonations at all. Is that how he always talks? Why have I never noticed that before? I’m sure that’s one of the ways of identifying a psychopath. I shudder.
“Well, it may be. Right now, it’s looking suspicious enough for me to need to ask you some questions.”
“I’ve said that’s fine, Sheriff,” Bernard says. “I’m happy to help with your investigation.”
“Do you have an alibi for the evening after you arrived in town?” Patton asks.
Bernard shook his head. “I just wandered around. New in town, nowhere to stay, I didn’t know where to go.”
“You wandered around for the whole night?”
“I found a bandstand eventually, in a park. I settled down there for the night.”
“Witnesses?”
Bernard shrugs. “People were milling around until the early hours but I didn’t speak to anyone. I don’t know if anyone would remember seeing me.”
“Did you go near the town hall at all?” Patton asks, cracking his knuckles as he speaks. The noise goes through me.
“Maybe,” Bernard says, “like I say, I did a lot of wandering.”
“You’re aware that it’s not allowed for a spirit to enter a private dwelling without permission or invitation? Is that the rule where you live?”
Bernard nods. It’s a universal rule, to my understanding. Every spirit’s informed of it as soon as they pass over into the afterlife.
“Did you, on that night, enter any private dwellings?”
“No,” Bernard says.
“And where were you yesterday afternoon?”
“Time?” Bernard asks, then cocks his head, “Actually, that doesn’t matter. I don’t wear a watch. I spent a lot of time exploring the town then returned to the bandstand when it got dark.”
“Did you go near Abe’s department store?”
“Yes, yes I remember that place. Lots of lights outside?” Bernard says.
“You were there yesterday afternoon?”
Bernard ponders the question. “I’d say around noon. It was before that woman was shot outside there.”
“How have you heard about that if you haven’t spoken to anyone?” Patton grills my husband. I watch him closely for signs of discomfort or dishonesty, but he’s never been a liar. Either that, or I’ve never known when he’s been lying.
“I overheard snippets,” Bernard says, with a shrug. “It’s a tragedy.”
“It sure is,” Patton says. “And from my position I have to wonder why you turned up in town?”
“Oh, I came to speak to my wife,” Bernard says, looking across at me. I see Patton’s flingers clench by his side. “Sage and I, we’re married.”
“I’m aware of that,” Patton manages, his voice strained. “So you came all this way to speak to her? Do you think it’s suspicious that you haven’t needed to speak to her before, but the time when you do, two people are killed and a third person’s attacked?”
“Like I said, Sheriff, I would call that a coincidence,” Bernard says.
“You two have spoken now?” Patton asks.
Bernard shakes his head. “We were about to, when you showed up.”
“I don’t want you speaking without supervision,” Patton barks. I stare at him. He doesn’t have the authority to order that. Even if he were alive and still serving as Sheriff, I don’t think he’d have that authority.
“With respect,” Bernard begins, and I close my eyes. There’s no better way to show your disrespect for someone, when you’re British, than beginning a sentence by saying with respect. This whole thing is going downhill. “I need to speak to my wife about something personal.”
Patton glances at me. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Well, Sage is an ad
ult, Sheriff, she came here freely today to see me. I’m sure if she was uncomfortable, she wouldn’t have done that.”
“Sage?” Patton asks, and I let out a breath. How can I choose? There’s still that thought at the back of my mind that perhaps Bernard needs to talk about our daughters. But Patton’s my partner now, and as over-the-top as I think he’s being, he’s an experienced Sheriff. If he’s telling me something is unsafe, why would I ignore him?
Because I’m already dead, I think to myself. There’s no danger for me anymore. Bernard can’t hurt me. But what if my actions put other people in danger? Is that what Patton’s concerned about?
I close my eyes for a moment and focus only on the roar of the Springs, then make my decision. “This is all just really intense. I need some time to think.”
And with that non-decision, I turn and leave the two of them behind.
Gone are the days when the idea of two men fighting over me brought me pleasure. I’m – finally – ready to settle down with one man and enjoy a quiet afterlife. Is that really too much to ask? Or is this karma? Am I being punished for my younger years, where I left a trail of interested men in my wake as I stomped over their feelings?
Whatever the truth is, I can’t think about it right now.
I stop at a crossing and a hearse drives by. Intrigued, I follow the car to the cemetery, where a small group of mourners already stand around the burial plot. The black of their outfits contrasts with the snow covering the ground. I stand near the back of the group and watch as the pall-bearers carry the coffin, their inappropriate footwear crunching on the snow. The coffin’s lowered and a few people toss in a handful of soil, before the service ends and the gathering is dismissed.
The whole thing lasts less than ten minutes. Pathetic, really.
I stay until the end, until there are only stragglers remaining at the graveside. One woman, tall and dressed in a heavy fur coat, looks across at me and offers a tight smile. She looks familiar.
“I guess he’s not as popular as he imagined,” I whisper, noting the lack of celebrity guests.
“I don’t think any of us are in this day and age,” the woman says, and I realise who she is.
“Antoinette?” I ask. She blinks at me with heavy spider lashes.
“Have we met?”
“No,” I admit, “I recognise you from the show.”
“Ah,” she says, then offers an embarrassed smile. She reaches into her handbag and roots around, eventually pulling out a screwed up piece of paper and pen. To my horror, without even pulling off her gloves she signs her name across it in looping cursive, and hands it out to me. “Not ideal timing, of course, but as Lionel himself would say, the show must go on!”
“Quite.” I mumble as I take hold of the paper. “Well, erm, I guess you’ll be going on to the wake?”
“There isn’t one,” Antoinette confides, and we fall into step together. “Nobody volunteered to organise one, and I take it the money left in the pot was stretched pretty far paying for the horses.”
“The horses?”
“A horse-drawn carriage took the coffin to the church for the main service. Clearly, the money wasn’t enough to get it all the way here,” she says with a disapproving air.
“Oh,” I say, lost for words. I had no idea that horse-drawn carriages were an option for regular people. “Aren’t the horses for public figures? Pillars of the community?”
“Exactly.” Antoinette agrees. “Well, it’s always nice to meet a fan. Thank you so much for saying hello. I need to get going. My daughter’s home from boarding school. She studies performing arts, of course. It’s in the blood!”
“Well, thanks for this,” I say, holding the paper awkwardly. Antoinette bats at the air with her hand, as if it really is no trouble to meet a fan’s needs, and begins to carefully step her way through the snow in heels that exaggerate her natural height.
Today really is turning out to be quite bizarre.
12
Connie
“Sheriff, we’ve got her in interview one for you,” the pimpled youth calls as we return to the police station. His face is red and his breathing laboured, as if sprinting down the stairs to greet us has worn him out.
“Thanks,” Taylor says and the officer retreats. Taylor looks at me and gives me a determined nod. “You want to sit in?”
“Can I?” I ask. I want nothing more than to sit in on whatever interview he’s about to do, and not just because of my sense of community spirit in wanting the murderer to be caught. I love how masterful Taylor is in interviews. I love watching him take control of the situation. It makes me want to pinch myself that this capable, handsome man is mine.
“I make the rules,” he says with a wink. “And I work better with you around.”
I grin and follow him towards the interview room, take a deep breath and flatten the fold of my blouse, then enter the room with him.
Antoinette Cross rises to her feet as we enter. She’s taller than I realised and stick-thin.
“Miz Cross, thanks for coming in,” Taylor says, then gives a little cough. He does this to create a vacuum, I know. A pause that a guilty person might jump in and fill with a confession or an incriminating comment.
Antoinette simply nods soberly and says, “Not at all Sheriff, I’ll help however I can.”
“I understand that my colleague has explained your rights, did everything make sense?”
Antoinette nods.
“I’ll need you to answer aloud, for the tape.”
“Oh, yes, sure, everything makes sense,” Antoinette confirms. She’s awfully posh. I wonder which part of England she’s from. Certainly not Waterfell Tweed, in the heart of the Peak District. She’d stand out like a sore thumb in the village.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Lionel Wright,” Taylor says. “Can you start by telling me how you knew him?”
Antoinette smiles, “We went way back. I’ve been helping out in his performances for years.”
“Would you say he was a friend?”
“No,” Antoinette says, giving the question consideration, “no, I wouldn’t say we ever became friends as such. I only saw him for auditions, rehearsals, etc.”
“You didn’t socialise with him?”
“Never,” she says. “He seemed at the time to be a man with an overflowing social life, and I was busy with my own life.”
“So, you didn’t dislike him?”
“No,” she says, giving another smile.
“You did have an argument with him the night before the show, didn’t you? What was that about?”
“Oh!” Antoinette exclaims, as if she’d forgotten all about that. “Well, yes, we had one of our spats. They were fairly common. Not just between us. Lionel was a little, erm, shall we say dramatic?”
“The argument you had with him that night, what was it about?”
Antoinette lets out a breath, then leans in as if she’s about to share a secret. Without meaning to, I find my body language mimicking hers as I lean in towards her. Taylor remains upright in his seat.
“Lionel had awful anxiety about his work,” she says. “As the shows got closer, he became a bundle of nerves. Awful to see. He’d take it out on anyone close enough. That night it was me. My performance wasn’t good enough, all the usual things. He threatened to give my role to poor Tabitha, and she was only in the show in the first place because she was cleaning the town hall when auditions were happening. Lionel took one look at her and decided we needed a maid in the show. She wasn’t leading lady material, as much as I hate to speak ill of the dead.”
“You must have been upset, having Lionel insult your acting?”
“You get used to it when you’re on the stage. Do you act, Sheriff?”
“No.” Taylor says.
“Well, anyone on the stage can tell you that it comes with the territory. I guess I’m here because you wonder if I killed Lionel over our little squabble. The answer’s no. I’d have a garden full of de
ad bodies if I killed everyone who insulted me, Sheriff.”
“Well, I haven’t accused you of anything,” Taylor says, “so it’s interesting to me that you’d say that.”
Antoinette raises her hands and gestures to the room. “I’m in an interview room, my every word being recorded. I put two and two together. Apologies if my maths is wrong.”
“What can you tell me about Lionel?” Taylor asks.
“Very little!” Antoinette says. “I’ve never seen such a poorly-attended funeral. The people who came appeared to be there purely for the thrill of it being a murder.”
“And that surprised you?”
“He couldn’t drop enough names into a conversation, Sheriff! It was all about his celebrity friends and, well, none of them were at the church. Put it that way.”
“Okay. Let’s talk about Tabitha Reed. You knew her how?”
“I barely knew Tabitha at all,” Antoinette says, “As I say, she was cleaning the town hall and Lionel got her to audition. She seemed terrified. I don’t know why he made her go through with it, really. She didn’t have the guts to say no to him. I saw her at rehearsals and that’s it.”
“You never saw her outside of the theatre?”
“No,” Antoinette says, then shakes her head a little, “I couldn’t tell you the first thing about her really.”
“The two of you never had a disagreement? I know that Lionel was suggesting she take on your role in the play. That didn’t create any drama?”
“Sheriff, the squabble with Lionel was no big deal. It was forgotten immediately by me and by him too, I’m sure. That’s amateur dramatics for you.”
“And on the afternoon of Tabitha’s death, where were you?”
Antoinette ponders the question. “I was at home with my daughter.”
“How old is she?”
“Fifteen. She’s home for the holidays.”
“From where?”
“She attends a boarding school for performing arts.” Antoinette says, chest swelling with pride.
