“Also, if you lift his tail you will notice his sex organ is rounded, not a vertical slit like it would be in a female cat,” Violet continued. I was learning more than I’d ever thought I’d know about cats today.
I made my way back to the kitchen, the little orange ball of fluff following right on my tail.
Placing another spoonful of food on the plate, he happily ate it all up, his tail moving slowly from side to side as he did. When he was finished, he looked up at me expectantly.
“Not yet, little guy,” I told him. “I need to find out what your name is.”
I had a quick look around the apartment, trying not to get in the way of the police officers who I couldn’t help but notice looked at me as a bother, but didn’t dare say anything in front of Violet. When I started looking at Elizabeth Dalton's iPad, I opened up her Facebook account and found an album in her photos labeled Biscuit. A cursory glance confirmed that the little ball of fur begging for more food was the aptly named Biscuit.
“All right, Biscuit, you have to wait at least ten more minutes before I’m giving you anymore,” I told him, and he meowed at me loudly, as if in protest. Violet laughed as she came over and took the iPad.
“Do you mind if I have a look?” she asked, and I handed it over. After all, I reminded myself, this was a murder investigation. I may have solved the mystery of the cat’s name, but he had belonged to a woman who’d been killed, and we still had no idea who was responsible.
Fifteen minutes later, Violet announced that we were finished here.
“What about the cat?” I asked. She motioned to the cops, all of whom were moving around the apartment, absorbed in their work.
“They are not going to do anything for him. Pack of heartless morons, all of them.”
“I’ll report to DCI Williams that you said that,” one of them called out.
“Then I’ll report to him that you’re sleeping with DI Marshall,” Violet called out in reply. One of the women looking behind the television let out a small squeal, and the complaining about Violet’s insults stopped. I had to hand it to her; she knew how to both annoy people, and how to get what she wanted. “I suggest you take Biscuit back with you,” she offered.
“But how?” I asked, eyeing an empty shoebox and wondering just how much the cat would claw me if I walked him back to the hostel in that.
“There’s a leash with a harness attached behind the coats on the rack,” Violet said, motioning with her head toward the entrance. Great. When I’d planned this trip I’d envisioned myself confidently strolling through the streets of London, a cosmopolitan young traveler getting over her depression and conquering the world with her head held high, not wandering through the streets with a cat on a leash like a crazy person. Still, it beat the shoebox. As soon as I grabbed the leash Biscuit came running up, and thankfully calmly allowed me to put the leash on. At least all the scarring I was going to get from this experience would be mental, not physical.
“All right, Biscuit, let’s go,” I told him. Biscuit was obviously used to walking on the leash and led the way as the three of us made our way back outside. Violet guided us toward Bryanston Square, a couple blocks from the apartment, where we sat while Biscuit eyed the pigeons hungrily. I doubled up my grip on his leash, just to be safe.
“So what did you think?” Violet asked when we sat down on a bench in the square. It was nice; large trees and hedges blocked the view of the city around us, although they couldn’t dim the sound of traffic from the major roads nearby—Baker Street on one side and Edgware Road on the other. A nice breeze rustled the leaves on the trees, as Biscuit did his best to kill the leaves drifting slowly to the ground. I liked these quiet little nooks of London. They were peaceful, they were nice. Little pods of peace in the middle of the busy city.
“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “I mean, the apartment was more along the lines of what I expected from someone like Elizabeth, given what the receptionist told us. All those little cat figurines on the mantelpiece, the knitting, that sort of thing. And yet, at the same time, something didn’t really seem right about it.”
“C’est ça,” Violet replied, nodding. “And I will tell you what was not right, it was the expensive toys.”
“Yeah, they seemed a bit weird. I mean, everyone’s grandma’s place looks like Elizabeth’s, but most people’s grandmas hate technology.”
“It is not just the technology. It is the handbags. It is the expensive kitchen appliances. Most people’s grandmothers are frugal, they do not wish to spend any money. And that is partly evidenced in Mrs. Dalton’s flat. She still has the old sofa, the old furniture. And yet, also the new shiny toys. And they are new. None of those toys are older than six months.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“The Prada bag is from the spring catalogue, the Marc Jacobs and the Louis Vuitton were released only a couple of weeks ago. The KitchenAid has been used maybe three times. We have heard what kind of woman Elizabeth Dalton was; she would have baked cakes and used it regularly. No, she did not buy that more than one month ago. There was a receipt for the iPad and the TV in the wastepaper basket.”
“So lately she’s been spending all her money, on fancy things.”
“Yes, and that in and of itself is quite telling, no? It implies that either a situation changed and made her more willing to spend money in the last few months, or that she has come into a new source of money in that time. After all, a receptionist, even for so powerful a man as Leonard Browning, would not be making more than thirty thousand pounds per year.”
“So you think she’s a drug dealer or something? That seems unlikely.”
“Never assume!” Violet exclaimed in reply. “Never, ever assume! I once caught an eighty-four-year-old lady who had robbed eight jewellery stores of diamonds worth over fifteen million pounds in total. Another time, a man in a wheelchair killed six people he didn’t like. I also once caught a secondary school student running a million-pound drug empire from his school’s computer lab. You can never assume anything about anyone. Only follow the facts.”
“All right, all right,” I said, throwing up my hands. Another small breeze blew past and Biscuit began trying to pounce on the moving leaves at our feet. “So what happens now? We have to figure out why she suddenly decided she was going to spend money?”
“Exactly! Had she found out she was dying? Did she have only a couple of months to live and want to enjoy the rest of her time on earth? Most people, if that is the case, they go traveling and not shopping.”
I shook my head. “No, definitely not. She had menopause, and I suspect given the low dose estrogen she was given there was a small chance of depression associated with it, but those were the only drugs I found in her apartment. If she had cancer or something there would have likely been much more evidence of it.”
“You are almost certainly correct. All the same, I believe we should go speak with the coroner. He should have the autopsy done by tomorrow morning. Would you like to come?”
“I would, yes,” I replied. I was interested now; I was invested in this case. I needed to know what was going to happen.
“Good. I would like you there, just in case. He is not as dumb as the police, the medical examiner. He is in fact quite intelligent. But I find that those who deal exclusively with the dead have a tendency to forget that those people were once living, and as such sometimes their judgement is clouded. I will call you.”
“Yes, please call! I think I’ll have a heart attack if I wake up finding you sitting on my bed again,” I replied as Violet got up.
“It was important that you came with me. You are good for the thoughts. It turns out that speaking everything aloud to someone who responds is a good way to stimulate the thought process. Good afternoon, Cassie. I will see you tomorrow.”
I was half expecting Violet to drop a smoke bomb and disappear, but instead she simply casually strolled down to the edge of the square and back onto the street, staring at the ground
, obviously deep in thought. Biscuit looked after her, then looked after me.
“Ready to go little guy? Let’s see if we can’t sneak you into the hostel. I really need to find a new place to live.”
Chapter 7
I was extremely thankful that the hostel was only a bit over ten minutes away from the square. I felt like everyone was staring at me for walking through the street with a cat on a leash. Biscuit, to his credit, was incredibly good about it, and not self-conscious at all. He happily strode up the street, letting himself be pet, meowing at strangers, and generally being adorable, while I did my best to shrink into the scenery. At least no one looked at me like I was a crazy person. Not to my face, at least.
Luckily, sneaking Biscuit into the hostel was a lot easier than the bike. I just shoved the little guy into my purse for thirty seconds while I walked into the building, and made my way into my room. As an added bonus, it seemed my German roommate was gone; the bed next to mine was now devoid of occupants. Ah well, this was a hostel in central London. It wouldn’t be long before I had a new roomie for a few days.
And that was a problem. I let Biscuit out of my purse and let him wander around the room, where he sniffed the corners for a minute before happily settling on top of my pillow. Check-in wasn’t for another three hours, I probably had time to go out and get some cat supplies and a bit of lunch, I thought to myself. Promising Biscuit I’d be back, I searched Google, trying to find a pet store near me. Unfortunately, the pickings were slim. I ended up heading to the local grocery store, where I thankfully found a small supply of cat food, and a single litter box with litter included. Thank goodness. I’d hopefully be able to find a better place elsewhere later, but this would have to do for now.
I went back to the hostel and set up the litter box at the foot of my bed for Biscuit then headed out to grab lunch. I’d promised myself after breakfast with Violet that lunch would be a greasy slice of pizza, but when I found out there was a Chipotle on Baker Street, I was sold! I made my way back over there, avoiding Crawford Street lest I saw one of the police officers from this morning, and found my favorite Mexican restaurant. There was no line when I went in, and three minutes later the cashier was ringing up my order. She was a little bit on the short side, but with a pretty face framed by short red hair.
“Any plans for today?” she asked, with a strong Australian accent. I immediately thought back to what Violet said about practicing lying. And what she said about how bad I was at lying. There was no way that was a real thing, right? It was ridiculous to even consider trying it. After all, who does that? Nobody. It was just Violet being Violet. Violet being the weirdest person I knew. There was no way I could do it. There was no way I would do it. After all, wasn’t that the sort of thing a psycho would do? Practice lying to people who wouldn’t know the difference?
And yet, my mouth opened and a lie came out. “Oh, not much, just grabbing some lunch before starting a shift at work.”
What the hell? What was I doing? I was lying to a complete stranger. Why? Why would I do that? Because the world’s weirdest person told me I should try it? That was so not a good enough reason. My face flamed red, I could tell. I could just tell it was on fire. Great. The girl knew I was lying. She had to know. Oh God, Violet had been right about how bad I was at lying. I was about to get caught, and it would be so awkward.
“Cool, where do you work?” she asked as I handed over a ten pound note, trying to keep my hands from trembling.
“Oh… ummmm…” I started. I hadn’t expected any follow-up questions, or for her to even believe my lie. “McDonalds,” I replied, the first thing that came into my head.
“Nice. Working retail sucks, hey? Have a good one.”
“Thanks, you too,” I replied, grabbing my burrito and practically running out of the store. My face was on fire with embarrassment. She knew. Surely she had known that I’d been lying to her.
Oh God, I was so embarrassed. Why had I done that? I’d just made a total idiot of myself, and now I was never, ever going to be able to go back to Chipotle again. At least, not when that girl was working, anyway. My face burned as I made my way back to the hostel. That was the most embarrassing thing I’d ever done. I had no idea why I’d done it, either. It was crazy! Who lies to people, just to practice? Ugh.
I was still completely mortified, and ashamed of myself, when I got back into my room. Biscuit was very happy to see me, and tried more than once to steal part of my burrito. I had to laugh at his covert attempts at being subtle, which basically involved trying to smack the burrito at top speed with the goal of making the filling fall out.
Eventually I gave in and gave him a couple chunks of chicken, which he happily lapped up. He was a real cutie, and I thought to myself that I really, seriously had to get myself my own place. After all, I couldn’t secretly keep a cat in the hostel forever, and if I got caught I’d get kicked out of here for sure.
I laid down to rest my head for a little bit, and the next thing I knew I’d had a ninety-minute nap. I woke up to find Biscuit contentedly sleeping away in the crook of my neck. As it turned out, finding a murderer was really hard work. But at least one good thing had come from it, I thought as I reached up to pet Biscuit softly.
Luckily for me, that night I didn’t have a new roommate to try and explain my new cat to. Once again, I browsed rental sites looking for something in my price range. Finally, I made the decision to increase my budget a little, so I could find something liveable sooner rather than later. I also had never realized until acquiring Biscuit just how many rental places had a no pets rule.
I sent off a dozen emails to potential places, hoping to be able to get a viewing soon, then went out and grabbed a quick dinner before going back to sleep, wondering what kind of crazy tomorrow was going to bring.
Chapter 8
The next day my phone buzzed just after eight in the morning.
Ready at the medical examiners. Meet you outside in ten minutes.
Ten minutes? Jeez, how quickly did Violet think I could get ready? Luckily I’d gone to bed so early the night before that I was already awake and showered, so I brushed my hair quickly, tied it back into a quick ponytail and threw on a pair of leggings and a long-sleeved black shirt. It was more casual than business, but I didn’t think the medical examiner would care too much how I was dressed.
I quickly put some cat food into a bowl, prayed that no one from the hostel would come into the room until I came back, and left while Biscuit was still happily eating, or more accurately, inhaling his food.
Violet was waiting for me outside the hostel in skinny jeans and a Run DMC t-shirt, with a messenger bag slung over her shoulder.
“Good,” she said in greeting when I came out. “We will be at the coroner’s office to meet with the pathologist in fifteen minutes,” she said, hailing a cab on the street.
“Do the cops pay your expenses?” I asked. After all, I knew a cab downtown was around fifteen pounds, whereas taking the underground would only be a couple pounds.
“No,” Violet replied. “They do not pay me anything. I just pick and choose the cases I want to work.”
“How do you make your money then, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“You Americans,” she replied. “It is funny to be around you. You have no qualms about asking about anything. No English person would ever ask me that.”
“Sorry,” I said, feeling chastised.
“Non, non. You misunderstand me. I did not say it was a bad thing. I simply say it as a fact. Most of my work is not in fact with the police. Often I take private cases. And I am a socialist at heart. The bigger the client, the more they must pay. I take from the rich, and I give the money to me. I am half Robin Hood.”
I laughed. “So you weren’t born into money then.”
“Oh, I was. But I have not spoken with my family in a very long time. I assume I am completely disowned. I make my own money. And I make a lot of it.”
“Did you come up with any
other ideas last night as to why Elizabeth Dalton was killed?”
“I have four promising theories. None of them involve her spending money because she was dying, so I will be quite disappointed if Doctor Edmonds tells us that she had terminal cancer.”
“Ah, so even the great Violet Despuis can have opinions, instead of simply waiting on the facts,” I teased.
“I do have opinions, yes. But also, conclusions! Conclusions that I never come to without having the facts. I do not deny that sometimes I hope that the facts will support the conclusions that I have determined to be the most likely.”
Fifteen minutes later we were standing in front of an old red brick building with an imposing air about it. It was surrounded by a red brick wall and red iron gate, and looked exactly what I’d imagined an English government building would look like—though it was a bit smaller than I’d expected. Gold lettering adorned a dark red sign that matched the hue of the iron gate and read “Coroner’s Court”. This was quite possibly the most British corner in all of London. Next to the building was a red telephone box—which a double decker bus just happened to be driving past—and directly across the street from the Westminster Coroner’s Court was a pub called The Barley Mow, which advertised British food and had a picture of a farm boy sitting in a field of barley hanging above the door. Violet paid the cab fare and the two of us entered the building.
Violet obviously knew where she was going; she led us to an elevator that would take us to the basement level—we were going to the morgue.
The elevator doors opened directly into the morgue. Metallic cubbies holding individual bodies lined the far wall, while five sterile metal tables were aligned directly in front of us. Harsh fluorescent lighting made the white walls and grey tiled floor seem even more clinical. To the left were a few offices, where files on the deceased were obviously kept. Four of the five tables were empty; the fifth held Elizabeth Dalton’s body, covered below the neck by a thin white sheet.
Poison in Paddington (A Cozy Mystery) (Cassie Coburn Mysteries Book 1) Page 5
