Any Given Sundae (Australian Amateur Sleuth Book 5)

by Morgana Best

  I turned back, right as my text tone signaled an incoming text. It was from Mr. Buttons.

  The phone was closer to Blake than it was to me, and I saw him looking at it, and as he did, he frowned. I picked up the phone and read the text.

  We’re booked in tomorrow. Prison. James. I’ve booked our tickets to Brisbane.

  Blake was the first to speak. “Sorry I saw that message, Sibyl.”

  I waved his apologies away, but he continued. “Sibyl, I’m concerned that you and Mr. Buttons are investigating. I’m concerned for your safety.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair, and then jumped as the child emitted a particularly loud, high pitched shriek. “I’m only doing it to make Mr. Buttons happy,” I said. “You know how he’s firmly convinced that Dorothy did it. He’s sure that James, given that he’s Dorothy’s nephew, will have some dirt on Dorothy.”

  Blake shook his head. “Sibyl, someone was the murderer. If that person thinks you’re getting too close, then you could be in danger.”

  “No one knows we’re going to visit James,” I said, “least of all the detectives, as they told me not to leave town. I seriously am only doing it to keep Mr. Buttons happy. The thing is, he said it would take ages for the paperwork to visit James to be processed, so I can’t understand how we’re getting in so soon.”

  “That’s because it won’t be a personal visit,” Blake said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It takes a long time for the paperwork to be processed when you want to visit an inmate in person, with no barriers between you,” Blake explained. “You’ll have to speak to him tomorrow through a glass barrier. It’s called a non contact visit. I’m sure you’ve seen that on TV.”

  I agreed that I had. “So do you mean that the paperwork is only for a visit with no barriers?” I asked him. “And it’s much easier and faster to arrange to visit a prisoner if you speak to them behind a wall?”

  “That’s right. You have to be there an hour before your appointment time, in order to be processed,” Blake said. “If you’re not there an hour beforehand, they won’t let you in, no matter what. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m helping you, because I don’t want you to go.”

  I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. Just then, my phone rang. The Caller ID showed that it was Mr. Buttons—what bad timing! I wasn’t going to answer, but Blake indicated that I should. “Hi, Mr. Buttons. I’m here with Blake,” I said by way of answer.

  Mr. Buttons disregarded my warning, and launched into a spiel about the prison visit the following day. I finished the conversation as fast as I could, only too aware of Blake’s opinion about the matter. I switched off my phone and put it in my handbag.

  Blake reached across the table and took my hand in his. “Sibyl, please stay safe.”

  Chapter 19

  The plane ride had been turbulent, and we had to keep our seatbelts on for most of the flight. Even worse, the coffee had been disgusting, almost undrinkable. Added to my dismay was the fact that I was only coming with Mr. Buttons to keep him happy. I’d had to cancel several of my appointments to make the trip to Brisbane, and the fact that it was going to be a wasted day was irritating me somewhat. Still, I told myself to make the most of it.

  “That was the worst flight ever!” I clutched my stomach.

  Mr. Buttons continued to look out the window of the prisoner transport bus. His next statement showed that he had ignored my comment. “I don’t know why they call this a prisoner transport bus, when it’s transporting visitors of prisoners, not the prisoners themselves.”

  I shrugged. There was no point complaining about the plane ride to Mr. Buttons. He was entirely too consumed with excitement, as he was so utterly convinced that he would discover Dorothy’s motive for murdering Roland Cavendish. It was impossible to convince him that she hadn’t even known the man, apart from his short stay at the boarding house.

  I was relieved when we finally approached our destination. It was a stereotypical prison, just what I had imagined, gray concrete, gray iron, and everywhere I looked there were high steel fences. In fact, everywhere I looked there were five layers of coiled barbed wire. The green lawns beside the dark gray tarmac road did not provide any relief. I was hugely intimidated.

  We followed the signs to the front office, where the people in front of us ripped a ticket from a ticket machine and then walked through a security gate. Mr. Buttons and I did likewise.

  A guard appeared and directed first time visitors to form a line at the side. I was at once taken into a separate room. A rather scary looking prison officer took my ID and spent some time tapping into a computer. He then informed me that he was going to fingerprint me by using the Biometric Identification System.

  “Fingerprint me?” I said, alarmed. “I thought only criminals were fingerprinted.”

  The man shook his head. “This is not a fingerprint image as such. It scans the finger to create a mathematical template. It cannot be matched against fingerprint images. It’s stored in our computer database, along with your photo, details of your identification, name, address and date of birth.” I was still puzzled, but the man continued. “It’s simply to make the visitor system more easy, and to hasten the time it takes visitors to be processed.”

  I nodded, although being ‘processed’ wasn’t a term with which I felt too comfortable.

  After the man took great pains over my identification documents, and fingerprinted me, he told me I would later have to put all personal items in a locker: my handbag, my paperwork, my jewelry and any hair ties and a belt. I wasn’t wearing a belt or a hair tie, but I supposed he gave the same speech to everyone.

  After about half an hour, he directed me to join the other first time visitors in the waiting room. Mr. Buttons was already waiting for me. There were several other people within earshot, so I leaned forward to Mr. Buttons and whispered, “Why are you wearing that red armband?”

  Mr. Buttons shrugged. “They told me that all male visitors are issued with red armbands, and that it’s not to be removed under any circumstances.”

  “I see. I suppose that’s in case some prisoners escape, as it’s their way of being able to tell you apart from the prisoners.”

  Mr. Buttons looked alarmed. “Is that supposed to reassure me, Sibyl?”

  Mr. Buttons and I sat in the waiting room for around half an hour, barely speaking to each other. There was nothing really to say, and I was a little nervous about meeting James. After all, the last time I had seen James, he had tried to throw me out a window to my death. Actually, that was the second last time I had seen him. The last time was when I had given evidence against him in court. I’m sure I wasn’t his favorite person.

  I looked around the room, but could find nothing of any interest on which to focus. It was the same prison gray, albeit a darker shade. The walls were gray, and the cold hard plastic chairs were gray. The room smelled of disinfectant, something akin to the smell of a hospital. Finally, a guard appeared and announced that he would take us all to another building to have our non contact visit with the prisoners.

  I was surprised to see that Mr. Buttons was shaking, whether it was from nerves or anticipation that in his belief that he would finally get evidence against Dorothy, was anyone’s guess.

  It was quite a walk to the other building, a walk along a concrete pathway flanked by tall steel fences. It reminded me of the list they had given us of items we were not allowed to bring into the prison, items such as explosives, weapons, and ladders as well as grappling hooks. I bit back a smile. I wondered if any visitors had ever attempted to bring in such items.

  We arrived at yet another gray concrete building, and were given a locker key. We were instructed to put absolutely everything in the lockers, including the entire contents of our pockets, even any tissues. After everyone put their stuff in the lockers, we were given a name tag to wear around our neck.

  A burly prison guard appeared. “Everyone here for the ten o-clock appointment, line up on t
he yellow line!” he barked. He reminded me of an army drill sergeant, not that I had ever seen one in person.

  After we lined up on the yellow line, a dog on a leash appeared. The guard announced that this was a drug dog, and we were not to touch him. The dog made his way up and down the line, sniffing. I felt guilty, and even more intimidated. It was an awful experience, and I fervently wished I had never agreed to come. I hoped Mr. Buttons would not feel the inclination to straighten the dog’s collar, or any such thing.

  To my relief, we all passed the dog’s inspection, and were ushered into a corridor. One by one, we had our fingerprints scanned. My photo popped up on the screen, along with the word ‘Accepted.’ I breathed a sigh of relief. I returned to the line and waited until everyone had been fingerprinted.

  We were then told to take off our shoes, and our shoes were passed through a metal detector. After that, we all had to walk through a metal detector, and then turn out our pockets. I just wanted to turn and run.

  “People for contact visits stand over here, and people for non contact visits stand over there,” a guard yelled. After Mr. Buttons and I lined up with about a quarter of the people present, we were all given a number, and then we were ushered in like cattle to our assigned seats. To my surprise, there was absolutely no privacy. Mr. Buttons and I were shoulder to shoulder with strangers.

  I sat down on a dark blue, hard, uncomfortable plastic chair. “Where are the prisoners?” I asked Mr. Buttons.

  “I suppose they’ll come in next,” he said.

  There were rows and rows of glass booths. I had expected a phone, but the glass had mesh at the bottom, so we were obviously to speak through that. Once again, we had to wait, although the wait this time was about five minutes. All at once came the loud sound of yelling and laughter, and footsteps. “That must be the prisoners coming,” Mr. Buttons said.

  The prisoners entered the room on the other side of the glass booths, all together. I shuddered when I saw James. I was sure it was all a bad idea.

  “What are you doing here?” James said without preamble. “I didn’t think I’d ever see either of you again. Do you realize that I have to wait in the holding room for one hour before I have visitors and for one hour after?”

  I stuttered out an apology, and would have said more, but James kept speaking. “And I’m only allowed to have two visitors a week, so now I won’t be allowed to have any more for a whole week.” He pouted, but in a mean way.

  I figured that prison had only hardened him. His soft, sulky face had been replaced with hard lines. Mr. Buttons interrupted my thoughts. “Do you get many visitors?”

  James leaned back and laughed. “No. The only visitor I get is Frank.”

  “Frank?” I echoed. “Oh that’s right, Dorothy’s son. Your cousin.” Frank used to visit Dorothy at the boarding house, but I hadn’t seen him in ages. I felt sorry for him, as Dorothy was even meaner to him than she was to the boarding house guests.

  James shrugged. “He rarely visits, and Herman hasn’t even visited me once.”

  “Herman?” Mr. Buttons and I spoke in unison. “Who’s he?” I asked.

  “Frank’s brother,” James spat. “Anyway, what are you two doing here?”

  Mr. Buttons came straight to the point. “Dorothy. We’ve come about Dorothy. I assume you don’t like her?’

  James looked interested. “I can’t stand the old bat. She was the one who put me in to the cops. I’ve never liked her. And poor Frank! She’s been so mean to him. She’s a bully! Herman was her favorite son.” His speech disintegrated into a verbal tirade against Dorothy.

  Mr. Buttons looked entirely too pleased. “I am quite sure that Dorothy has murdered a boarding house guest, but the police have been unable to connect her to the victim. I wondered if you had any idea.”

  James shrugged, but his eyes sparkled with interest. “Who was the victim?”

  “Roland Cavendish.”

  James burst into laughter. “You’re kidding! Cavendish the quantum physicist? Well, sure, Dorothy killed him.”

  I felt my jaw drop open. I just couldn’t take it in. Was James joking? But how would he know that Roland had been a quantum physicist? What was going on? I looked at Mr. Buttons, but he was rubbing his hands together with undisguised glee.

  “Did Dorothy know Roland?” he asked.

  James hesitated, and I could clearly see he was having an inner struggle. He did not want to help us, but he despised Dorothy. Finally, he decided to speak. “Dorothy’s son, Herman, was her favorite son, or to be precise, the only son she liked. She always said he was the only one in the family who had any brains. She was always horrible to Frank—always said he was a good-for-nothing and that he’d never amount to anything. She’d buy Herman new clothes, designer brands, and she’d buy Frank’s clothes from the thrift store. I’m not kidding. Anyway, Herman was doing a doctoral thesis in quantum physics, and Roland Cavendish was his supervisor. He failed Herman’s Ph.D.”

  I butted in. “But supervisors can’t fail Ph.D.’s.”

  James shook his head. “I don’t remember all the details, but Cavendish sent the thesis to some obscure examiners who had the opposite point of view to Herman. He set Herman up to fail. Anyway, Herman was disgraced in academia and left to travel the world backpacking, leaving Dorothy to work as a cook. Prior to that, Herman had been on good pay, and Dorothy didn’t have to work. After his Ph.D. was failed, he turned to gambling and alcohol. Dorothy found out that Cavendish published Herman’s work as his own.”

  I was shocked throughout the whole revelation. “But how?” I asked. “How did Roland get away with it? Didn’t Herman complain?”

  James shook his head. “Herman was a stuck up pig, but he went into rehab in northern India. Cavendish published Herman’s work when Herman was in rehab.”

  “But didn’t Herman complain when he got out of rehab?” Mr. Buttons asked.

  James snorted rudely. “No, because when he got out of rehab, he went to Tibet and became a Tibetan Buddhist. Then he met a girl from Kyrgyzstan who looks like you, Sibyl, come to think of it. Frank told me all that. Anyway, the nerve of that old bat! She accused me of murder and then she went and killed Cavendish!”

  The rest of the meeting was a blur, although we left soon after James’s disclosure. All I remembered after that was Mr. Buttons’ mantra of, ‘I told you so! I told you so!’ as we collected our things from the lockers and went back on the transport bus for the flight home, a flight where all I heard was Mr. Buttons saying, “I told you so! I told you so!”

  Chapter 20

  I was still in disbelief. I was having trouble accepting the fact that Dorothy had a motive. Could Mr. Buttons indeed have been right, after all?

  We had called Blake from the prisoner transport bus and told him what we’d learned. When I turned my phone back on after the flight, he hadn’t called me, and I didn’t like to call him again while he was working. All I could do was wait it out.

  Mr. Buttons, on the other hand, was most anxious to find out if Dorothy had been arrested for the murder of Roland Cavendish. I had pointed out to him that we had only discovered that Dorothy had a motive, and that we already knew full well that Prudence Paget had a motive, but that, of course, had fallen on deaf ears.

  We had called Cressida several times, but she hadn’t answered. I secretly hoped that Dorothy wasn’t holding her hostage, or worse. Of course, I didn’t voice those concerns to Mr. Buttons. He was already nervous enough.

  When the taxi arrived at the boarding house, I saw with great relief that Cressida was standing at the end of the path. Mr. Buttons paid the driver, while I hurried over to Cressida. “Mr. Buttons and I called and called you! I thought something had happened to you! Why didn’t you answer your phone?” I pulled my jacket tightly around me as the cold assaulted me.

  Cressida pulled her phone from her pocket. “Oh, I didn’t hear it. It says I’ve had missed calls.” She handed the phone to me and I saw that it was set to silent. I expla
ined this, fixed it, and handed it back to her.

  Mr. Buttons hurried up behind me. “What’s happening about Dorothy? Has she been arrested?”

  Cressida shook her head. “I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it.” She dabbed at her eyes furiously, and it was only then that I noticed some black pools of mascara beneath her eyes.

  “Can’t believe what?” Mr. Buttons said altogether too sharply.

  “Dorothy, of course.”

  I could see Mr. Buttons growing impatient, so I hurried to speak. “Cressida, we’ve had a long flight. In fact, we had two long flights, and a horrible experience visiting someone in a maximum security prison. Could you please tell us exactly what has happened with Dorothy, and tell us fast.”

  Cressida clutched her throat. “The detectives came here, wanting to question Dorothy.”

  “And?” I prompted.

  “They didn’t arrest her.”

  “What?” Mr. Buttons shrieked.

  Cressida shook her head. “She did a runner.”

  I was silent for a moment while I tried to process that information. “What do you mean, exactly?”

  Cressida gestured expansively around herself. “She was in the kitchen when the detectives arrived, and I’d finally convinced that awful woman, Florence, to leave the boarding house, so I was checking her out. I pointed the detectives in the direction of the kitchen, and then they came back. They were quite upset, and they said that there was no sign of Dorothy.” She sniffled again for a few moments before continuing. “They said they wanted to question Dorothy over the murder of Roland.”

  “Get a grip on yourself, madam,” Mr. Buttons said kindly. “It will all be all right. Where is Dorothy now?”