Any Given Sundae (Australian Amateur Sleuth Book 5)

by Morgana Best

  I was a bit too far away to hear what was happening, but the woman was talking to Cressida at the counter, so I assumed that she was checking into the boarding house. I always tried not to judge people based on their appearance, but this woman seemed to be undeniably stuck up, as during the entire conversation she held her chin high, as though she were literally looking down her nose at Cressida.

  Cressida was doing her best to remain polite, but having known her for so long it was obvious that she was uncomfortable. Still, I found watching the two of them talk to be quite funny. Both of them had a penchant for extremely strange make up, and I briefly wondered what a stranger would think if they saw them here. They’d surely think that they’d accidentally stumbled into some kind of strange clown hotel.

  “Hello,” I said, smiling as I approached the counter. Cressida smiled back, and the woman turned to face me, nose still held high. I considered that seeing directly up somebody’s nostrils was one of the least elegant ways you could be introduced to them. “I’m Sibyl. I live out the back,” I explained, though I immediately realized that made me sound like I was squatting behind the boarding house.

  “Florence,” the woman replied simply, before turning back to Cressida. Her voice was nasal and irritating. “Are we all done here?”

  “Yes, we are. Let me show you to your room,” Cressida said with a strained smile.

  “No need,” Florence said with what seemed to be a small sigh. “This place is awfully small. I’m sure I can find it myself.”

  As she spoke, Florence drew a long, black stick from her purse and placed a cigarette in the end of it. She calmly lit it and drew a long, deep breath, before exhaling the smoke, idly watching as it drifted further into the boarding house.

  “I’m afraid we have a no smoking policy, dear,” Cressida informed her politely, though Florence took no notice whatsoever, and blew rings of smoke into Cressida’s face.

  I shrugged at Cressida, who appeared to be quite distressed and at a loss as to what to do. I personally found it quite annoying. Florence didn’t at all give a good first impression. Florence wandered further into the boarding house, presumably hunting for her room.

  “Who was that?” I asked Cressida, hoping to gain some insight into why Cressida was treating her so nicely despite her rudeness.

  “Florence,” Cressida said simply, as though it were a perfectly normal explanation. “She’s here to board for a little while.”

  “But she was so rude!” I said perhaps a little too loudly, lowering my voice before I spoke again in case Florence heard me. “Why did you let her act like that?”

  “Well, Sibyl, she’s a paying customer. That’s all it really is,” Cressida explained sadly. “This boarding house has had one too many murders to turn away paying customers willy nilly.”

  I felt for Cressida. There had been an unusual number of murders in the boarding house, though I supposed that even one murder was an unusual amount.

  “Hello,” Mr. Buttons said, announcing his arrival. “How are we today?”

  “Not great,” I said honestly. “The rudest guest just arrived, but Cressida’s in a tough position, so she can’t say anything.”

  “Oh, Cressida,” Mr. Buttons said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You need to start being more strict with people. Especially Dorothy.”

  “Oh, enough of that!” Cressida gently slapped away Mr. Buttons’ hand. “You just want Dorothy gone.”

  “No!” Mr. Buttons sounded offended. “Well, yes. But I also want you to be happy. This boarding house deserves to be successful.”

  “I’m happy, I promise.” Cressida smiled. “With the success of my art, profit from the boarding house is less essential than ever. Though I would like to have fewer murders here. None would be ideal.”

  We all sighed collectively. “Well, if money’s not an issue, why are you putting up with her?” I asked again.

  “It’s professionalism, Sibyl,” Cressida explained. “I don’t want to generate a reputation as a boarding house that rejects guests, especially after what happened to poor Roland. So it isn’t her money so much as the business that I need, if that makes sense.”

  I nodded, though I didn’t quite agree. Florence struck me as the type who would either complain about her lodgings or just wouldn’t bring them up at all.

  “Well, I’m yet to meet the woman, but judging from your tone, she sounds like bad news,” Mr. Buttons said, nodding sternly. “We don’t need more bad news, that much is certain.”

  “You might be right,” Cressida said softly. “But let’s give her a chance. Maybe she’s just been having a bad day, or something.”

  “Sibyl, why don’t you come to dinner tonight with all the guests?” Mr. Buttons suggested. “It will be a good way to learn more about the new arrival, and who knows, maybe we’ll turn out to get along just fine.”

  I readily agreed. I also wanted to have another conversation with Sally. She was now my prime suspect, which made confronting her in private quite nerve-wracking. A dinner sounded like the perfect way to try to dig up more information about her, or to catch her in an incriminating lie.

  I decided to spend the rest of the day at home, alternating between trying to relax and thinking about the case. Being at home in the cold cottage was unpleasant, and even more so, given the fact that Roland had died there, but at the same time it felt like nothing was different about it. Maybe that was the strangest thing—despite the fact that a man had died in my house, it felt exactly the same.

  Just before nightfall, we all met in the dining room. There was myself, Mr. Buttons, Cressida, Florence, and Sally. I was pleased to see that Sally had come, as my whole plan would have been a disaster if she had been otherwise engaged.

  I thought about asking why Prudence hadn’t come, but decided it might be a bit of a sore point for Sally after seeing her flirt with Roland. Besides, Prudence was probably just busy with her quoll work. I also wasn’t sure if Mr. Buttons or I could handle any more information about quolls.

  Florence seemed more talkative than I had initially assumed, although she still wasn’t especially friendly. We all spoke for a little while over dinner, typical small talk with no real meaning. I didn’t like feeling so manipulative, but I just wanted to try to talk to Sally to fish for clues, so all of this small talk was frustrating me.

  Suddenly, Mr. Buttons jumped out of his chair and ran to the kitchen door. The rest of us sat in stunned silence, waiting for several seconds as loud banging sounds echoed through the building. About a minute later, he sprinted back into the room with a can of fly spray. Instead of explaining what was happening to anybody present, he instead opted simply to spray Florence’s dress.

  Florence screamed wildly and jumped to her feet, knocking her chair to the floor and brushing the spray off herself.

  While Florence struck me as the kind of person who would overreact to simple issues, this seemed a fair reaction. I noticed that one of her fake eyelashes had floated to the floor.

  “What are you doing?” she screamed, blinking furiously.

  “There was an enormous fly on your face, and it was an eyesore,” Mr. Buttons said calmly. “It fell onto your dress and so I took care of it for you.” He slowly walked back to the kitchen.

  I looked at the fake eyelash on the ground and sighed audibly. I wasn’t sure if Mr. Buttons had mistaken it for a fly, or if he simply didn’t like Florence much. Either way, it was hard not to find it quite amusing.

  I fully expected Florence to scream in Mr. Buttons’ face, but to my surprise she managed to remain quite diplomatic about the whole thing—that is, once she had returned from the bathroom, inexplicably with new fake eyelashes. Before too much longer, we had returned to eating in relative peace, though Florence took to flinching every time Mr. Buttons made a sudden move. That was probably wise.

  “So, what brings you here, Florence?” I asked, trying to get the conversation flowing. I really just wanted to talk to Sally, but I couldn’t think of
a good way to start a conversation with her.

  “My boyfriend, Roland, was recently killed here,” she replied simply. An awful silence fell over the room, and I briefly considered simply running away. It wasn’t the best or most dignified response to an awkward social situation, but it would have been an effective way to remove myself from it.

  We all looked at Sally, who was wearing an expression that sat somewhere between horrified and enraged. All of a sudden, she launched herself from her chair across the table, diving at Florence. Dishes and food flew everywhere. Mr. Buttons, Cressida, and I stood up and backed away from the pair.

  “Oh, dear,” Cressida said, putting her hand to her mouth. “I can’t believe Lord Farringdon didn’t tell me who she was.” Lord Farringdon sprinted from the room by way of response.

  I realized we should help somehow, but the three of us were in complete shock. Sally had Florence by the hair and was pulling as hard as she could, before Florence did some kind of judo throw and pulled Sally’s hair. I was worried that getting close would result in severe injury. Still, the fighting didn’t seem like it was going to cause any permanent harm. At least, I hoped it wouldn’t.

  What really surprised me was Sally’s reaction. Up until that point, I had been convinced that she had been the one to kill Roland, but now it seemed like she had really loved him. Was I wrong? It was possible that she was simply acting enraged, but as I dodged a chair that flew through the room, that felt more unlikely than ever.

  It was also possible that Sally was angry with Florence for something else, but she hadn’t become angry until Florence had revealed that she was Roland’s mistress. I nimbly ducked a plate, breaking my concentration in the process. I’d have to figure this out after we’d stopped them from killing each other, or at least balding each other. Thank goodness Dorothy hadn’t entered the fray.

  Mr. Buttons and I managed to drag them apart after a great deal of effort, and then they both returned to their rooms in private. I felt responsible for the whole fight, given that I had asked the question that had started it all, despite the fact I knew it hadn’t truly been my fault. I sighed and rubbed my temples. This was all too much. I needed some sleep.

  Chapter 16

  “Why would Florence just come out and announce that she was his mistress?”

  Mr. Buttons shrugged. “And didn’t you say you saw Sally with a man? If she herself had a lover, then why would she object to her husband having one?”

  “I thought about it all last night,” I admitted, “and I didn’t come up with anything useful.”

  “It certainly was a strange dinner,” Mr. Buttons said. “Anyway, has she gone yet?”

  I looked around the corner to check, saw that Dorothy was still in the kitchen, and ducked back to safety. “She’s still here,” I hissed, hoping desperately that Dorothy couldn’t hear us.

  “But we heard her say she was going to town!” Mr. Buttons said far too loudly, again displaying that he had no sense of volume. “What do we do if she’s changed her mind?”

  I shrugged at him. “Mr. Buttons, I don’t know what you want me to do as it is, much less if she changes her mind. Do you have something planned?”

  Before he could reply, Dorothy marched loudly out of the kitchen, muttering to herself. Mr. Buttons and I followed her as carefully as we could, all the way to the front door, to make sure she had actually left. Sure enough, we saw her car fly down the driveway and away from the boarding house.

  Mr. Buttons practically cheered, though he still looked strangely nervous about something. “What is it?” I asked impatiently. “Why were you so eager for her to leave? More than usual, I mean.”

  “It’s our chance!” he explained unhelpfully. “We can check the shed behind the kitchen for antifreeze. If she has some, it will prove her guilt, surely.”

  “Mr. Buttons, everybody has antifreeze,” I explained with a sigh. “I do mean everybody. It’s hard to live in such a cold town without it. We’ve been over this a thousand times already.”

  “All the same, we should explore. There might be a clue of some kind. Surely you won’t turn down a good chance to find evidence, Sibyl?”

  I sighed again, pinching the bridge of my nose. “All right, okay, fine. You win. Let’s go have a look, but quickly,” I said nervously, realizing that we had no idea how long Dorothy was going to be away. She could be gone for hours, or be back any minute. Either way, we had to hurry.

  As Mr. Buttons and I walked to the garden shed, I couldn’t help but feel it was a terrible idea. It all felt so rushed, and there was no way Dorothy would leave any kind of evidence somewhere so accessible. At the same time, I didn’t want to disappoint Mr. Buttons, and if Dorothy wasn’t guilty, perhaps we might even find something to make him less obsessed with the idea.

  Mr. Buttons eagerly rushed ahead of me and threw the doors to the shed open. I considered that Dorothy definitely wouldn’t have left them unlocked if she was hiding evidence inside, but before I could bring it up, Mr. Buttons let out a blood-curdling scream. I sprinted to catch up as fast as I could, my heart pounding. “What is it? What’s wrong, Mr. Buttons?”

  “It’s such an unseemly mess!” The color drained from his face. “Sibyl, surely this is proof enough,” he said, turning to face me and motioning to the mess in the shed. “No innocent person could keep a shed this messy!”

  While I knew this was just Mr. Buttons being his usual self, I couldn’t help but agree on some level. The shed was in complete tatters. It was extremely dusty, which implied that it went largely unused, though I knew that couldn’t be the case. It smelled of damp plants and moldy wood, a kind of pungent mix that was entirely unpleasant.

  The worst part was simply the clutter. Ancient tools and rubbish were scattered about seemingly at random, leaving almost no room to so much as move through the shed unhindered. I noticed that Mr. Buttons had knelt down and was starting to tidy things up. I didn’t know what else I had expected.

  “Mr. Buttons, we don’t have time for this,” I said, nearly tripping over a rake as I stepped toward him. “Dorothy could be back any minute and we don’t want to be in here when she does.”

  Mr. Buttons sighed, carefully placing a shovel neatly under a nearby table. “Very well. I’ll just have to try to endure it all.” He looked around the shed nervously as he spoke, clearly uncomfortable with the mess.

  I grabbed Mr. Buttons’ arm as a scratching sound came from the door. My heart sank and I froze all over. Was that Dorothy? What was she doing? Mr. Buttons and I swung around, and I saw that the door was still shut. I remained still, listening for any other sounds. After what felt like an eternity, a loud meow sounded out from the door. I breathed a massive sigh of relief, not realizing exactly how nervous I had been until that moment.

  “Go away, Lord Farringdon!” Mr. Buttons yelled. Lord Farringdon meowed angrily in response and continued to scratch at the door. “Sibyl, he’s just attracting attention! We need to get him out of here.”

  I nodded in agreement, but knew that no matter where we would put Lord Farringdon, he would find a way back. I made my way through the sea of junk to the shed door and opened it wide, ushering the cat quickly inside. Lord Farringdon slowly trotted in and calmly sat down as soon as he was through the doorway. I closed the door quickly, trying to be as quiet as I could about it.

  “Come on little buddy,” I said softly as I leaned down to pick him up. Just before I could grab him, Lord Farringdon took off, meowing wildly. He knocked things over left and right, all the time meowing loudly as he jumped all over the shed. Mr. Buttons wildly flailed at him in a futile attempt to stop the cat, but ended up causing more of a ruckus.

  Before I could make a move to stop him, I heard another sound that made the blood in my veins freeze. Footsteps were coming up the path, slowly but surely. “Mr. Buttons!” I hissed as quietly as I could, and his expression told me that he’d heard it too. Lord Farringdon was still trying his best to destroy everything inside the shed, but it w
as far too late to stop him now. “Hide,” I whispered, looking around desperately for a good spot as the footsteps drew nearer.

  There was absolutely nowhere to hide. The shed was messy, but it was still very small. There was simply nowhere for either of us to hide, unless we could somehow flatten ourselves and hide under all of the junk. The door flung open before I could make a decision.

  “What are you doing in here?” the voice demanded.

  I swallowed nervously and looked up to see Cressida. I was so relieved I nearly passed out on the spot.

  “We’re looking for evidence that Dorothy is the murderer,” Mr. Buttons explained tactlessly. “She’s not gone long, so we have to hurry.”

  “But Dorothy can’t be the murderer,” Cressida said simply with a small shrug. “It doesn’t add up.”

  “We won’t be long,” I promised, then spoke just quietly enough for Cressida to hear, but not Mr. Buttons. “It’ll help him get over it.”

  Cressida nodded slowly. “All right, let’s have a quick look. But just a quick one. I can’t imagine Dorothy will be gone for long.”

  Lord Farringdon had stopped his outburst when Cressida entered, much to my relief. We searched through the rubbish and clutter. I was searching more slowly than I would have liked, but I had to be careful not to cut myself on anything.

  “Aha!” Mr. Buttons yelled triumphantly. I spun around to see him holding a bottle of antifreeze aloft, as if it were some kind of grand trophy. “Proof!”

  “Everybody has antifreeze, Mr. Buttons,” Cressida said flatly. “I would be more worried if she didn’t have antifreeze, since it belongs in the shed and it would be more suspicious if she’d gotten rid of it. Moreover, do you know what happens to a car if it’s driven without antifreeze in this weather?” she asked quite seriously, only to be met with a look of total confusion from Mr. Buttons. “Let me tell you. First, the engine will overheat extremely quickly. The seals and gaskets will give out, which will cause fluid to leak into and out of places they ought not to be, which can stop parts of the engine from working altogether. Depending on how long this goes on, the entire engine might need to be scrapped. Does that sound sensible to you?” Cressida punctuated her question by putting her hands on her hips.