The Cat That Got Your Tongue

by Fiona Snyckers

  It was hours before Fay could make her escape and get back to Penrose House.

  The police questioned her for ages, going over her story again and again. By the time she got home, lunch was already over. Her housekeeper Morwen Hammett was stacking the dishwasher.

  “I’m sorry,” said Fay, dashing into the kitchen. “So sorry. I know I’m late.”

  “Not to worry. I got your texts. There’s food for you in the oven.”

  “You’re a life saver, Morwen, thanks. I’m starving.”

  Fay opened one of the doors of the wood-burning kitchen range and took out a covered plate.

  “Chicken stew. My favorite.” She sat at the kitchen table to eat, heaping vegetables onto her plate.

  “I can’t believe there’s been a murder in the library,” said Morwen. “It is such a gentle, civilized place. It doesn’t seem real somehow.”

  “I know. And now I’m one of the prime suspects.”

  “You? But nobody in their right mind would think …”

  “The only people who were in the library at the time were me, Mrs. Tribble, and the assistant librarian, Paul Leblanc. He was down in the basement. He wasn’t even in the main part of the library.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if it could have been any one of you. It must have been someone else. But who? And how?”

  “And why? The poor man might have been lying there dead for quite a while before Mrs. Tribble and I found him. It could have been as much as forty-five minutes. Whoever did it had plenty of time to leave the scene before we found the body. There are two exits from the building – the front door, which was standing wide open, and a fire door leading out of the basement. It could have been anyone. I don’t know why Sergeant Jones is pointing the finger at us.”

  Morwen shook her head. “Does he honestly think Mrs. Tribble is capable of killing a grown man with a single blow? She can barely carry her shopping across the road.”

  “I’m sure he’ll exclude the three of us soon and move onto someone else as a suspect. Even if Mr. Macavity is our only alibi.”

  “Who is Mr. …? Oh, Mrs. Tribble’s cat.”

  “That’s right. And speaking of cats, how are the babies doing?”

  Along with Penrose House, Fay had inherited her grandmother’s reputation as a rescuer of cats. She had recently been handed a box of newborn kittens to bottle-feed and raise by hand. They were now one month old and becoming increasingly active.

  “They’re getting wrigglier by the day,” said Morwen. “It’s just a matter of time before we have a prison break.”

  The kittens lived in a wooden nesting box that Fay’s grandmother had made for mother and baby cats. They were being looked after by Smudge and Olive, two female cats with a strong maternal instinct, but no milk. Recently, the kittens had shown every sign of being about to climb out of the box.

  “It’s a good thing my trip to Island Hardware was successful,” said Fay. “I got everything I need to build a nursery for them. Pen promised to unload the car and take the stuff up to my office. Luckily, the guy at the hardware store remembered exactly what my grandmother used to build her kitten nurseries, so he could sell me the right equipment. I’ll start putting it together this afternoon.”

  “If you’re not in jail by then,” said Morwen gloomily.

  Fay laughed. “I don’t think it will come to that. Mrs. Tribble and I are each other’s alibis. She was at the checkout counter working the whole time I was in the library. And she can remember me poking around in the mystery and thriller section. Paul was down in the basement. I can’t swear he didn’t come upstairs into the main section, but I certainly didn’t see him there. The village library is not exactly big.”

  “The police will still want to talk to you.”

  “That’s fine. The nice thing about chatting to Jones and Chegwin is that I get more out of it than they do.”

  Fay took a last nibble of her stew and stood up. She rinsed her plate and popped it in the dishwasher. Then she went upstairs to her office.

  She peeped into the nesting box and saw that the kittens were more than ready for a nursery. Morwen had just fed them and they were full of energy. They crawled all over each other and over their long-suffering foster moms. The ginger male that she had named Tigger was alarmingly close to being able to climb out of the box.

  Fay looked at the stacks of clear Perspex sheets that Pen the grounds-man had brought upstairs for her. They were about five feet long and two feet wide each. They came with a set of interlocking hinges that Fay could click together to join them into a long chain. This would form the wall of the nursery. It would be low enough that the adult cats could jump in and out at will, but high enough that the kittens couldn’t, at last until they were old enough not to need a nursery at all.

  “But first – the floor.”

  Morwen had discovered a large homemade quilt in one of the storerooms. Apparently Fay’s grandmother had used it to line the floor of her kitten nurseries. It was too big for a bed but just the right size to form a play area for kittens.

  Fay spread the quilt out on the floor and set up the Perspex walls around it. She put two clean litter trays on either side of the playpen. She picked up the nesting box and placed it inside the playpen against the wall. Then she unhinged the front flap of the box and laid it flat.

  The kittens sensed freedom immediately.

  Within seconds, Tigger ventured out of the box and down the ramp created by the front flap. His brother and sisters soon followed. The female that Fay had named Zorro stumbled ahead of her brother, unsteady on her tiny paws. She had almost died on the day Fay had got the kittens, but a bout of CPR and a few hours of being carried around against Fay’s chest had revived her. Now she was as lively as her litter mates.

  Fay smiled to see the eagerness with which they explored their new domain.

  Smudge and Olive were less sure about the new arrangement. At first Olive kept picking the kittens up and carrying them back to the nesting box. But as fast as she put them in, they crawled out again.

  “It’s okay, Olive.” Fay scooped her up and showed her the borders of the playpen. Smudge sniffed her way along the edges of the Perspex walls as though checking for a place where the babies could escape.

  When Smudge and Olive were convinced that the playpen was secure, they settled down to watch their charges play.

  Fay knew she should be updating her blog. A new indoor soft-play area had opened up in the village and she wanted to write about it. It was perfect for families with young children when rainy days interrupted their island holiday. She had been to visit the play area and had inspected its facilities. She felt confident about giving it a positive write-up.

  The kittens ran out of steam quickly as their post-lunch burst of energy subsided. Soon, they were back in the nesting box curled up in a sleeping heap between the reassuring presences of Smudge and Olive. The show was over.

  Fay moved back to her desk, determined to get started on her blog. She had written about half of it when the chimes of the old doorbell reverberated through the house.

  “What now?”

  She glanced out the window and saw a blue and white police van parked in the driveway.

  “Perfect timing, gentlemen.”

  Morwen shouted from downstairs. “Fay! Sergeant Jones would like a word.”

  “I’m coming.”

  She decided to see them in the residents’ lounge. It had the advantage of being comfortable and of commanding a spectacular view of the bay. It was also completely empty at three o’clock in the afternoon. The day had cleared up wonderfully and most of the guests had dashed outside to enjoy the spell of good weather. They would be back for tea at four no doubt, but for now the police could question Fay in peace.

  “We’re having those chocolate brownies I made for tea today, aren’t we?” Fay asked Morwen as she walked past her into the residents’ lounge.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Are they ready?”
>
  “They are. In fact, they’re still warm. I just drizzled the melted chocolate over them.”

  “Won’t you bring a plate through for us? There’s no harm in softening up the cops before they start interrogating me.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Morwen went to the kitchen and Fay entered the residents lounge. Sergeant Jones and Constable Chegwin were standing with their hands clasped behind their backs, looking awkward.

  “Good afternoon, officers,” she said. “Am I still a suspect?”

  Chapter 3

  The awkwardness increased.

  “Now, Fay love,” said Sergeant Jones. “Of course not. No such thing. This is just a routine …”

  Constable Chegwin cleared his throat. “Sir …”

  “What is it, Constable?”

  “She is a suspect, sir. You said so yourself. She was one of the three people in the library when that man was killed.”

  “Well … yes.” Sergeant Jones looked unhappy. “I suppose so.”

  “Then you have to caution me,” said Fay. “If you are questioning me as a suspect you must read me the formal caution.”

  Sergeant Jones patted his pockets. “Do you have a copy of it, Chegwin? I always forget how it goes.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, sir.”

  “I know the American one off by heart,” said Fay. “I’m not so sure about the British one. Hang on. I’ll Google it quickly.”

  She handed her phone to Sergeant Jones who solemnly read out her rights as a suspect.

  “You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “There we go.” Fay took back her phone. “Now we can be comfortable. Tea, anyone?”

  Tea, coffee, and hot chocolate were available in the residents lounge twenty-four hours a day. Guests could help themselves. Fay made a pot for the three of them. As she brought it over, Morwen came in with the brownies. In deference to Fay’s known prejudices, no nuts had been sprinkled over the melted chocolate. It was Fay’s strong opinion that nuts and baked goods should never mix.

  “This looks lovely, Mor,” said Sergeant Jones. “Thanks ever so much.” Constable Chegwin agreed. It was a civilized setting for an interrogation.

  “Tell us what you were doing in the library this morning, Fay.”

  “I went to return my books, as I already told you. And to choose new ones for Morwen and me. Mrs. Tribble was at her work station the whole time I was there.”

  “There must have been times when you were looking at books and not as Mrs. Tribble. Reading the back covers, maybe. Trying to decide which books you wanted to take. You weren’t staring at her the whole time.”

  “True. But every time I looked up, there she was – sitting at the checkout counter. I don’t see how she could have killed that man.”

  “That’s what she says about you,” said Sergeant Jones. “The truth is, we’re a bit stumped.”

  “Have you identified the victim?”

  “His name was Desmond Pinkerton. He was a rare book collector and an anti … an antiqua…”

  “An antiquarian?”

  “That’s it. He was a rare book collector and antiquarian from Truro. He seems to have had a shop there. We don’t know where he was staying on the island, or even if he was staying here. He might have just popped across on the ferry for the day.”

  “I wonder what he was doing in the library,” said Fay. “He must have been looking for a book that he couldn’t find at home. I know tourists can take out temporary memberships at the library. I always tell our guests that. Maybe the form he filled in has some useful details on it.”

  Sergeant Jones nodded at Constable Chegwin who made a note on his clipboard. “We’ll check that out. Whoever did this was very brazen. To murder someone in broad daylight in a small library, with two other people present, is madness.”

  “I remember hearing something,” said Fay. “It was a kind of thumping noise. I thought Mrs. Tribble had dropped a stack of books. It must have been that poor man being hit over the head.”

  “Mrs. Tribble heard something similar.”

  “I suppose the murder weapon hasn’t been found yet?”

  “No. There’s no sign of it.”

  “You should check the garbage bins and dumpsters in the vicinity of the library.”

  Sergeant Jones smiled. “You’ve been watching too much telly, love. That doesn’t happen in real life.”

  Fay could have told him that it did happen in real life. It was common for suspects to panic and dispose of weapons or bloodied clothes on the street by throwing them into the garbage. Dumpsters were especially popular. But she didn’t want to tell them how to do their job. It would only cause resentment.

  The two officers stood up.

  “Thanks for the tea and brownies, Fay. We’ll let you know if we need to speak to you again. We’re starting to think this might have been a random mugging. The victim had his wallet on him but there was nothing in it. All cash and bank cards had been removed. Luckily the mugger left his business cards behind or we might still not know who he was.”

  After they had driven off, Fay stayed where she was, thinking hard. A mugger who attacked his victim in a public library? Somehow, she didn’t think so.

  She was still skeptical of the mugger theory when she walked down to the village later that afternoon.

  She had a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves in one hand and a long wooden stick in the other. When she was a cop in New York City, dumpster diving had been her least favorite activity. She had looked forward to leaving it behind forever when she became a B&B owner. Now here she was having to search through garbage again just because the police refused to do their jobs properly.

  Fay started at the public library and moved outwards from there. She put on the rubber gloves and hooked a surgical face mask over her ears. Then she used the stick to poke around in garbage bins. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for but had a feeling she would know it if she saw it. It would have to be something solid and heavy enough to knock an adult man out with a single blow. Old cigarettes butts, limp vegetables, and ketchup-smeared takeout cartons did not qualify.

  Unsurprisingly, digging around in garbage in the middle of the high street did not go unnoticed. Bluebell Islanders were never ones to mind their own business when there were witty remarks to be made instead.

  “Looks like times are tough, Fay?”

  “You could always go to the market if you’re looking for bits of old lettuce.”

  “Would you like fries with that?”

  “Did you lose your earring, love?”

  Fay greeted each witticism with a weak smile. By the fifth or sixth bin, anyone who commented earned a glare.

  One block along from the library and down a side road was a large metal dumpster. The British called it a skip. Fay had a feeling that what she was looking for would be found in there, probably buried under layers of garbage.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t be that bad. Some skips were used for builder’s rubble, rather than garbage.

  But the moment she turned down the side road, Fay’s nose told her that this dumpster was not one of those. The smell of rotting garbage hit her in the face. Groaning to herself, she slipped the facemask into place and approached the dumpster with caution.

  There were wooden packing crates stacked at the side of the it. She would use them as a ladder to climb up and peek inside. The smell was so bad as she climbed the crates that Fay added a couple more drops of camphor oil to the facemask. It was an old police trick for dealing with unpleasant odors.

  She peered over the side and groaned again. It was just as bad as she had feared. When last had this dumpster been cleared? She tried to be grateful for small mercies. If a garbage collection had happened that day, all hope of finding the murder weapon would have been lost.

  Fay lifted her stick and poked ar
ound in the garbage. The crates wobbled, and she almost fell. She grabbed the side of the dumpster and held on, waiting for her heart to stop racing. Then she poked around some more. Everything was soft and yielding under her stick until she reached the middle of the dumpster and felt something hard. She knocked it with her stick to bring it to the surface. It was dark, heavy, and cylindrical. Fay squinted at it in the gloom of the alleyway. Whatever it was deserved a closer look. She used her stick to nudge it to the edge of the dumpster. But all attempts to scoop it out failed. It was too heavy and unwieldy.

  The only way to get it out was to climb inside and pick it up by hand.

  Feeling very sorry for herself, Fay braced her arms against the side of the dumpster and lifted herself up. She swung first one leg and then the other over the side and lowered herself onto the garbage. It took her a moment to realize that the whimpering sounds she could hear were coming from her.

  She sank ankle-deep into the mess. The whimpering sounds increased as she felt wetness seeping into her sneakers. Shuddering, Fay bent down and picked up the object. It was even heavier than she had expected, causing her to sink deeper into the garbage.

  It was darker inside the dumpster than it had been on the outside. Fay had no idea what the object was. All she knew was that it was completely unlike anything else she had encountered in her afternoon of garbage poking.

  Holding the object awkwardly under one arm, Fay levered herself out of the dumpster and climbed down the wooden crates until her feet were on solid ground. She carried her prize out to the high street where she could look at it in daylight.

  The bolt of excitement that shot through her when she saw what she was holding made it all worthwhile.

  It was an antique iron candlestick – heavily chased and carved. It looked very old. If Fay were to guess, she would say it came from the late Middle Ages or the early Renaissance, but she was no expert. The late Desmond Pinkerton, on the other hand, certainly was.

  Unless Fay was mistaken, she was looking at the murder weapon.

  Holding the candlestick carefully in her gloved hands, Fay squelched up the high street in her wet sneakers. People who passed her visibly recoiled at the smell.