by H. Y. Hanna
Henry frowned. “I think you’ve got the wrong man."
“Don't you remember me? We were propping up the bar together… stayed up half the night. That hotel had some damned fine whiskys—”
“I’m telling you, I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else,” said Henry impatiently.
“Aw, come on! I can’t believe you’ve forgotten that night already?” said Nick, still grinning like a buffoon. “We downed a couple and then that tasty little blonde came in—remember? You tried to chat her up.” He elbowed Henry and gave him a lewd wink. “You’ve got pretty good technique, old boy. You must teach me sometime—”
“Look, I’m telling you, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You’ve got the wrong man!” said Henry, starting to look really annoyed. “My name’s not Stewart and I’ve never been drinking with you…”
Poppy grinned to herself. She couldn’t help being impressed by Nick’s impromptu performance: that man could think on his feet! She dragged her attention back to the phone in her hands and was delighted to see that the green bar had disappeared. Instead, the phone’s home screen was displayed, with all of Henry’s apps neatly lined up in rows. She tapped the phone icon. The app opened and she navigated quickly to the call history, then began scrolling down through the list of calls, noting the dates, times, and caller IDs.
She frowned. There were several calls around the time of the murder but none listed as “Ursula”. Of course, Henry might not have had the murdered woman’s number saved as a named contact, although that seemed unlikely—given that they were essentially members of the same extended family, lived in the same household, and had probably contacted each other several times in the past.
So what did this mean? Was Henry not the person who had called Ursula after all? Poppy felt suddenly deflated. She had been so convinced that she would find proof of Henry’s connection to the murder. Well, there was no time to ponder it now. She glanced up again to see that the restaurant manager was approaching the arguing men. Quickly, she closed the app, removed Bertie’s device, turned off the screen, and slid the phone across the table. And not a moment too soon. She had barely pushed the phone back into place when Henry dropped into his chair.
“What a bloody nutter!” he said irritably. “Kept telling him that he’d got the wrong man but he just wouldn’t listen!”
Poppy made an appropriately sympathetic noise while she looked surreptitiously over his shoulder at the other side of the restaurant. Nick was being escorted back to his table by a harassed-looking manager. He caught her eye and lifted an eyebrow. She gave him a faint smile and a nod, feeling a sudden rush of camaraderie as he smiled back. It was strange: despite the tension and fear, a part of her was actually having fun. It was as if suddenly, with Nick there, she felt a part of a team and not like she was dealing with things alone—
An ear-splitting scream rang out across the dining room. A woman sprang up suddenly from a nearby table. She was shaking the folds of her skirt and smacking her bottom with both hands.
“Eeeek!” she screeched, slapping harder. “There’s something… in my…”
“WHAT THE—!” Her companion bolted out of his chair as well and looked back down at his seat in bewilderment.
“Sir… Madam… is everything all right?” asked a concerned waiter as the couple began twitching around.
“Hey! What’s going on?” demanded the American man at the next table. Then he sprang up as well and began hopping from foot to foot. “Holy sh—” He clutched his behind. “I think… I think I’ve got ants in my pants!”
“Ants?” screeched a woman at the next table. “Ugh! I hate ants! They make me itch all over!”
“Where are they? Where are they?” cried her friend, looking wildly around.
“Over there! I see one!” shrieked a woman on another table. She pointed a finger at a black speck marching across the white tablecloth. “Oh my God—it’s coming straight at me! HELP!”
She scrambled backwards, tripped, and fell flat on her face. Other customers also began jumping up from their tables, colliding with each other and sprawling on the floor. Poppy looked around the dining room in horror. It was absolute mayhem. People screamed and shouted as they ran around in a panic, alternately smacking any black spots they saw or scratching themselves furiously. Poppy groaned. She should have known better than to trust one of Bertie’s inventions!
Then she caught a glimpse of the old inventor himself suddenly appearing from the corridor on the other side of the dining room. He must have gone to use the Gents and had now returned to a scene of utter chaos. He looked around, then began waving his hands and trying to make himself heard above the uproar: “No… don’t worry… they won’t hurt you—they don’t bite!”
Poppy heard the restaurant manager yelling at a waiter to call the police and her heart sank. Then she saw Bertie rush over to his table and rummage in his leather case. He pulled something out—it looked like a giant red horseshoe magnet, the kind often seen in cartoons. Brandishing it in front of him, he hurried towards the first woman who had screamed and he waved it at her bottom.
Suddenly she stopped screaming. She stood, panting, and looked about her in confusion. “They’re… they’re gone,” she said. She patted her bottom nervously. “They’re gone!”
Bertie continued trotting around the room, waving his magnet about, and slowly the screaming abated. People calmed down and began returning to their tables, their expressions bewildered.
“What happened?”
“Dunno—I felt this thing crawling up my bum, and then suddenly it was gone!”
“I thought it was going to get me next!”
“Was it really ants?”
Poppy looked across the dining room to where the restaurant manager and two of the waiters were facing Bertie. Uh-oh. She didn’t like the expression on their faces.
“It’s him! He must have something to do with it!” cried one of the waiters, jabbing a finger at Bertie. “It all stopped after he went around and switched them off!”
“Well, I didn’t switch them off, per se—I demagnetised them,” Bertie explained, like a patient teacher speaking to a confused student. “You see, the ants are powered by an electric charge created by the tiny magnet in their bodies. I expected them to demagnetise within a short period of time, but for some reason they seemed to become self-recharging—which is marvellous, really, when you think about it—”
“Sir.” The restaurant manager crossed his arms and regarded Bertie sternly. “Is this your idea of a prank?”
“Oh no, it’s not a prank,” said Bertie. “Although I suppose you could use my ants in a jocular situation… but really, you see, I devised them as part of an espionage arsenal, with which one could manipulate subjects to suit one’s agenda—”
“Sir!” The manager cut him off. He was starting to breathe heavily and his colour was rising. “This is a serious matter. I do not find your facetiousness amusing. You have distressed my customers and caused havoc in my restaurant! I am reporting you to the police and…”
Yikes! Poppy half rose out of her chair, wondering what to do. She darted a glance at Henry, who was watching the whole scene with narrowed eyes. She didn’t want Henry to realise that she knew the eccentric old man with the wandering ants—she didn’t think Henry would realise that it was she who had unleashed the ants on him; on the other hand, she also didn’t want him putting two and two together and making five.
Then she saw the waiters grab Bertie’s arm and start to haul him away. Forgetting her reservations, Poppy sprang to her feet, but before she could say anything, a familiar deep voice rang out across the dining room:
“Wait!”
Nick Forrest strode over to the group of men. He stopped in front of the manager and gave him a conciliatory smile, saying, “Look… there’s probably been some kind of misunderstanding here. There’s no need to involve the police, really. Why don’t we just go somewhere quiet and have a little chat�
�”
“Sir…” The manager gave Nick a hard look. “Do you know this man?”
Nick hesitated, then gave a weary sigh and said, “Yes.”
“Son!” Bertie cried, beaming. “I didn’t realise you were here! How wonderful. It’s been so long since I saw you—” He peered at Nick. “Dear me, you’re starting to go grey, you know—just at the temples—but you’ve still got a nice thick head of hair. Don’t worry, though, if you do start losing it; I’ve invented a wonderfully effective formula for regenerating new hair follicles.” He glanced at the restaurant manager. “Actually, you are going rather bald on top, aren’t you? Would you like to try some of my formula?”
Nick took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then swung around to face his father. A strange mix of emotions played across his face. There was a pause, then he said, through gritted teeth:
“Hello, Dad.”
***
Poppy breathed a sigh of relief as the red Porsche pulled up in front of Hollyhock Cottage. She could barely wait for Henry to come around and open her door. All she wanted to do was to get to her room and flop on her bed. She felt absolutely drained by the events of the evening.
Henry walked her to the garden gate and paused expectantly.
“Um… thank you… I had a lov—” Poppy broke off. She had been about to utter the usual polite phrase, but to say that she’d had a lovely time would have seemed like a bad joke. There was an awkward pause, then she stuck her hand out and said: “Er… well, thank you again—”
“Surely you don’t expect me to shake hands!” burst out Henry with a laugh. “After a night like that, the least you can do is give me a kiss!”
Before she could react, he snaked a hand around her waist, yanked her towards him, and clamped his mouth over hers. Poppy went rigid with shock and outrage. She reared backwards, trying to push him away, but he was too strong. Squirming, she tried to jerk her head away from his, to break the kiss, but he held her so tightly that she could barely move and all she could do was make furious noises as he kissed her.
Poppy’s heart hammered with fear. She had been kissed before, of course, but they were mostly chaste pecks from hesitant dates—no man had ever forced himself on her like this. She struggled again and was just wondering if she could pull one leg back far enough to kick him when something dropped out of nowhere and landed on Henry’s head with a bloodcurdling scream.
“N-O-O-O-O-O-OWWWWW!”
Henry let out a cry of fright and released her. He reeled backwards, cursing and flailing his arms, then toppled over and landed with a thump on the ground. A big ginger tomcat sprang off his head and landed on the ground next to him.
“What the f—!” Henry gasped, staring at Oren. “Get away from me or I’ll… I’ll make you sorry!”
“N-OW?” said Oren, stalking forwards and eyeballing him.
Henry obviously had second thoughts about taking the cat on. He scooted backwards on his bum, putting as much distance as he could between himself and his furry assailant. Poppy almost wanted to laugh as she watched him crawl like a crab towards the car. His carefully cultivated languid manner was gone; his trousers were soiled with dirt, his hair was dishevelled, and there were claw marks on his forehead. He didn’t stand up until he was safely on the other side of the Porsche, whilst Oren watched, his yellow eyes narrowed and his tail lashing from side to side.
“I’m going to report that… that thing to Animal Control!” spat Henry, jabbing a finger at the orange cat. “I’m going to make sure they come and put it down!”
He opened his mouth to say something else, but Oren let out a loud hiss and took a step forwards. Henry yelped, jumped in the car, and roared away, leaving Poppy and Oren alone in the lane.
"Oh Oren!" cried Poppy, scooping the cat up and burying her face in his soft fur.
He purred loudly, and she felt his whiskers tickling her as he sniffed her face, as if reassuring himself that she was all right.
"Thanks, Oren… you saved the day.” She put him down again and smiled at him. “I think you deserve a big tin of tuna for that.”
“N-ow?” asked Oren hopefully.
Poppy laughed in spite of herself and opened the garden gate for him. “Yes, now. Come on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Poppy groaned as the curtains in her bedroom were whipped back, letting the bright sunshine in, and she heard Nell’s voice saying:
“Time to get up, dear. It’s past nine! Oh my lordy Lord, Poppy—look at this mess…”
Struggling to sit up in bed, Poppy yawned and rubbed her eyes. She looked blearily across the room to where Nell was picking up various items of clothing from the pile on the chair. Her dress from last night lay in a rumpled heap, next to various other outfits she had tried on and discarded, and her handbag and shoes were tossed on the floor next to the chair. The sight of them reminded her of the disastrous dinner date with Henry and she groaned again.
“I’ve made some pancakes for breakfast, dear,” said Nell. “They’re still warm; if you hurry—”
“I’m not hungry,” Poppy mumbled, burying her face in her pillow again. After two very early mornings and her emotionally draining day yesterday, she was feeling a bit fragile and petulant. “I don’t want to get up.”
“Well, I’ll just have to have tea with Inspector Whittaker myself then,” said Nell placidly.
“What? Suzanne is here?” Poppy shot out of bed. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Fifteen minutes later, after hastily washing and throwing on some clothes, Poppy hurried into the kitchen to find Nell facing Suzanne across the wooden table, grilling the elegant detective inspector about her love life. Suzanne looked slightly befuddled to be on the receiving end of a probing interview for once.
“…such a shame about you and Nick, although you do seem to have remained very good friends?” Nell was saying with an arch look.
“Er… yes… well, you see, we used to work together when we were both sergeants… and anyway, I don’t see why a man and woman can’t remain friends if a relationship doesn’t work out,” said Suzanne with a smile. “I’m sure we can all be mature about things.”
“Ah, so is Nick understanding about your current boyfriend?” asked Nell slyly.
“Oh… I don’t have a boyfriend at present.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Nell!” gasped Poppy, stepping into the room and giving her old friend a scandalised look. “You can’t ask people things like that!”
Suzanne laughed. “It’s all right. I suppose it’s a fair question. I guess… well, I work crazy hours and it’s not really the kind of job that’s very conducive to a social life, so it’s pretty hard to meet people. Plus, I’m not sure many men would be happy to have a wife or girlfriend who rarely takes weekends off and spends all her time chasing murderers and crooks.”
“But don’t you think you’d like to settle down and have babies at some point?” asked Nell.
“NELL!” Poppy glared at her friend.
“All right, all right… it’s just natural curiosity,” Nell grumbled as she got up from the table. “Well, I’m heading off to work so I’ll leave you two to chat. The pancakes are warming in the oven, dear.” And she bustled out of the room.
Poppy gave Suzanne an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Nell is a bit old-fashioned.”
Suzanne chuckled. “She would get on really well with my mother. Anyway, how are you? I’m sorry I couldn’t return your call the other day. The conference was completely full-on—I’ve had to come back to work for a rest!” She laughed again, then sobered and added, “I’ve been catching up on things and I see that there’s a new murder enquiry. Your name was mentioned in the reports—you found the murder weapon?”
Poppy nodded eagerly. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re back, Suzanne! Maybe now the investigation will be handled proper—er, I mean, make some progress.” Quickly, she told Suzanne everything she knew, ending with the eventful dinner the night before.
&n
bsp; “Bertie didn’t have to spend the night at the station, did he?” asked Poppy as she finished. The last time she’d seen the old inventor was when he and Nick were being marched off to the restaurant manager’s office.
“He was lucky he wasn’t arrested for breach of peace,” said Suzanne dryly. “I think Nick pulled some strings with his old contacts in the Force and managed to smooth things over.”
“I was really surprised when Nick stepped in—I thought he didn’t care about his father at all…” said Poppy.
Suzane gave her a wry look. “Well… things with parents are always complicated, aren’t they?” Then her expression turned stern and she said, “Those ridiculous ‘ants’ aside, you know hacking equipment like the one you used on Henry Farsnworth’s phone is probably illegal? If Bertie wasn’t already in so much trouble, I’d feel obliged to take action against him—and you too! But as it is, I’m going to let it go this time.”
“Thanks,” said Poppy, ducking her head meekly. “I’m sorry—I just really needed to find out if Henry was the one who called Ursula that day.”
“But doing what you did doesn’t confirm anything anyway.”
“What do you mean? It told me that it wasn’t Henry who called her. Her number wasn’t listed in his Call History.”
“That tells you nothing. He could have easily deleted the record of her call.”
“Oh.” Poppy sat back, feeling foolish. She hadn’t considered that possibility at all.
“I’m surprised Nick didn’t think of that,” said Suzanne impatiently. “He should have known better—”
“He did, actually,” said Poppy, remembering. “He mentioned something but I… well, I wasn’t really listening.”
Suzanne sighed. “Anyway, all those shenanigans were totally unnecessary. The police can easily get hold of Ursula’s phone records and check who called her just before she was killed. In fact, Sergeant Lee did that the day after the murder and I looked through the report this morning.”
“And?” asked Poppy eagerly. “Was she talking to Henry?”
