by Emily Selby
A weak, sad smile crept on Helen's face.
"Thank you, you've already been helpful."
"But let me know of anything changes."
"I will. I promise."
11
Heather went back inside with a firm intention of leaving immediately as it was getting late and the shops would soon close. But the moment she grabbed her handbag, her cell phone rang.
"Hi Heather," James said, a note of urgency in his voice. "I'm calling to let you know that Josephine is awake and able to be interviewed. I'm heading to the hospital right now."
"Thank you, I'm really relieved she's okay," Heather said. "Thanks so much for letting we know."
"No worries, there is a problem though," he said hesitantly. "It means I may not be able to see you tonight."
A heavy sensation settled in Heather's stomach, and she was surprised to identify it as disappointment.
"No worries, I understand. Work comes first."
"I was hoping work wasn't going to be like that anymore," he said slowly. "It may not take as much time as I think, though."
"What do you mean?" Heather asked trying not to feel hopeful.
"If the interview goes smoothly and there are no further urgent tasks to do following it, I will pop in. That is," he added promptly, "if it's not too late and you are happy for me to pop in."
Heather held her breath. What was the most appropriate response here?
She opted for a mixture of politeness, following her heart, and not being too needy.
"If it's not too late and if you have something interesting to share, you'll be welcomed, of course." A sudden thought popped in Heather's head. "Why do you have to do it? I thought you were helping Liam."
"That's the thing," he said. "He declined."
"I suppose it would not be going by the books if a nephew was allowed to interview his auntie."
"That's exactly what he says. He's asked me to help."
"He's been doing things very much by the book," Heather observed. She ran through the scenes of that memorable morning two days ago in her head. "I was quite surprised to see that he had a pair of surgical gloves in his pocket, even though it was an ordinary, civilian jacket."
"That's nothing unusual," James said. "I always have a pair in my pocket, too. Being a policeman is like being a doctor. We’re never really off duty."
"I see," Heather said, still unconvinced. "There was another thing that struck me back then," she said. "It was as if he didn't want to be left alone in the house by himself."
"With the evidence?"
"Yes, with the empty glasses, the food and Josephine. It was as if he wanted me to be the one to blame if anything went wrong."
A silence filled the other end of the phone.
"That's one way of looking at it," James said after a while.
"What's another?"
"That he couldn't be accused of tampering with the evidence either."
"Why would he be? He doesn't inherit from her."
"How do you know that?" James asked.
"I'm good, ain't I?" she said. Not that she needed the acknowledgement, but she was curious to see what his response was going to be. It was her way of checking if he had considered the inheritance angle without putting herself at risk of being accused of questioning his professionalism again.
"I must say I'm impressed by your ability to collect relevant data," he said, seriously.
"But did you know about the inheritance?" She failed to conceal the tone of excitement in her discovery in her voice.
"I did. Was telling me one of your indirect methods of getting information from the reluctant subjects of your interrogations?"
Heather hesitated. James' voice still sounded serious, and she wasn't sure how to react.
Dang it! She had to know if James had a sense of humor and was distancing himself. Because if he didn't...
"You're good, officer. Or shall I say Inspector Matthews? How did you find out?"
"I've got my own methods," he said, still seriously.
"The BS detector?" she pushed on. "I've got that one too. I download an upgrade whenever there is one available."
"I try to. I have failed to update the Kiwi version though. Mine is years out of date."
"You've got to tell me where to get it. And if it comes with a Kiwi accent that would be even better," Heather added and chuckled.
James chuckled too.
"It's lovely talking to you, Heather, but I've got to go. What are you going to do now?"
"I've got to run to town and get some food for tomorrow and something for dinner tonight. Since you not taking me out," she said. Her hand flung to her mouth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way."
"Well, that's fair enough. I'd better let you go, otherwise I would be responsible not only for standing you up but also leaving you hungry."
She disconnected the call, threw her cell phone into the handbag and rushed out of the café. She had exactly fifteen minutes to get her groceries.
Fifteen minutes proved more than enough time to buy the basics. It looked like she was cooking spaghetti Bolognese tonight. But at least she had all she needed, and she still had some lemonade left over from the party.
She considered mixing herself a drink, but the memories were still too fresh, despite the clearance her mixers received from the lab.
Heather unpacked the shopping bag and put the water in the pan on the stove. She put on an apron, grabbed a chopping board and headed to the pantry for an onion and garlic.
"Meow!"
The shriek cut through the quiet late afternoon. Heather jerked back.
"What are you doing here?" she asked the little black cat that emerged from the pantry.
The cat sat, tilted his head and looked at her. His big green eyes the epitome of innocence.
"When did you get inside? And how? How long have you been here? "
The cat kept staring at her.
"Are you refusing to answer?" Heather snorted. "Typical," she added. She squatted in front of the animal and gave him a pat on the head. The cat purred and brushed against her hand.
"I need to take you to the vet," she said. "It looks like you want to live here. You can't do it without having a clean bill of health, a few vaccinations and whatever else needs to be done to make sure you’re healthy and well."
She glanced into the pantry.
"Ah, your bowl is empty. Are you hungry, little cutie?" She picked up the bowl and rinsed it in the sink.
"I probably need to give you a name. What shall I call you?" Heather looked at the cat over her shoulder.
The cat meowed again.
"Sorry I didn't get that. I'll have to think of something. Maybe I should ask Josephine?"
She returned to the bowl, finished cleaning it and filled it with fresh food. She left it on the kitchen floor by the pantry.
Actually, it would be a good idea to ring the hospital and check on how Josephine was doing. Maybe she needed something from her flat. Some clothes or toiletries.
She washed her hands and grabbed the phone.
Fortunately, the nurse who answered the call was friendly and didn't mind asking Josephine if she wanted to talk to her, even though Heather wasn't a family member.
But Josephine didn't seem keen on talking.
"Thank you, Heather," Josephine said weakly. "I've got all I need for now. I'll be coming home soon."
"I'm glad you're better. I was worried about you."
"Doctors were, too."
Maybe against her better judgement, Heather decided to ask a few more probing question.
"Do you remember what happened? You seemed very sleepy. Was it the morphine?"
"Could have been, the doctors said."
"Did you want to-"
"No," Josephine interrupted firmly. "I didn't want to kill myself."
"Do you have an idea who could have done it to you?"
"Sorry, Heather," Josephine said abruptly. "I don't want to talk about it. It's the p
olice's job to find out. Me, I'm just happy to be alive."
"Sorry, Josephine, I didn't want to cause you any stress. Do you need anything from home?"
"No, I'll be fine." Josephine replied, her voice tired. "But speaking of the police, has Liam been there?"
"No, not after the morning when he came in. Why are you asking? Have you sent him to get anything?"
"That's okay then. I've got to go, bye."
The call disconnected. Heather listened to the signal for a few seconds.
Why did Josephine ask about Liam?
A sound of sizzling filled the kitchen.
"Sweet potatoes! I've forgotten about the water," Heather exclaimed and rushed to the stove. Moving swiftly, she got the situation under control. She trotted back to the pantry to find the pasta.
The cat was sitting by his bowl, watching her.
"We'll find you a name once Josephine is back home. Maybe if I let her name you, will she let me name the café?"
The cat got up and walked to the back door.
"You want out, kitty?"
The cat meowed. Heather added pasta to the pot of boiling water, stirred it, and let the cat out.
If she wanted to eat tonight, she had to get on with preparing the dinner.
She went through the motions of chopping, frying, adding ingredients and tasting. She tried not to think about the situation, but her brain, having at least partially adapted to the current time zone, must have kicked into overdrive.
How had the cat got into the pantry?
Through an open window.
Who opened the window? She remembered closing it after she'd checked it not that long ago.
Heather drained the pasta and stirred the contents of the pan with meat and sauce. Having made sure that her dinner was safe, she strolled across the kitchen towards Josephine's sleep-out.
She tripped. And fell, stepping on the little table that held a tray full of knickknacks.
The ornaments spilled from the metal tray making a lot of noise as they hit the bare floorboards.
"Dang it! What a mess!"
Heather clambered to her feet and collected the spilled knickknacks. Fortunately, there was no damage. Why would anyone want so many trinkets?
Heather shrugged. After all, it went together with polished wood and doilies.
Heather unlocked the door leading to Josephine's sleep-out. The little hallway giving on the living space looked quiet and dark. But instead of dust and damp, she could smell fresh air.
Again?
Heather marched across the hallway straight for the bedroom. The door was open, even though she was certain she'd left it closed.
She glanced at the floor, the little piece of paper she left between the door frame and the door was on the floor. She was not mistaken then. Somebody had opened the door.
The window was open too.
Heather crossed the floor and reached for the handle ready to close it, but she stopped just an inch away.
What if there were fingerprints on the handle?
She looked around but didn't find anything suitable so she returned to the kitchen. She checked on dinner and happy with its progress, she rummaged through the drawers.
They had to be a pair of rubber gloves somewhere in the kitchen.
She found them under the sink, snapped them on and marched back to close the window.
Was anything missing from Josephine's flat?
Heather walked around, looking at shelves and soft furniture. The layer of dust seemed untouched. The windowsill was clear. The bed was unmade, as it had been since the day Josephine was taken to hospital. She scanned the carpet.
Still nothing.
Aware that her dinner was on the stove, she knelt and quickly lifted the bedspread. Her nose tickled. She blinked in failed attempt to avoid sneezing. The stream of air expelled from her mouth lifted a cloud of dust. As it settled, Heather noticed a piece of paper.
Still wearing her rubber gloves, she reached out to pick it up. She sat on the floor and stared at the few lines written in a neat, spiky handwriting. She blinked.
She read the lines again.
She still couldn't believe it. She thought back to the book she'd been reading. The Long Goodbye...
Heather jumped to her feet and raced back to the kitchen. She turned off the stove, expecting her next conversation to take some time.
She checked the content of the piece of paper again.
No, she hadn’t misread it.
Heather grabbed her cell phone and found James' number. She pressed it and waited.
12
"You have to see it," Heather said as soon as James answered the call.
"See what?" James asked.
"The note I found under Josephine's bed. Listen." She wedged the phone between her left shoulder and her chin and grabbed the piece of paper.
"I tampered with Maree's brakes. I wanted her to have an accident and go to hospital so I could take control of the café. But now, I can't live with the guilt," Heather read out, her voice breaking. She stopped to clear her throat. "Signed, Josephine Barry."
A silence on the other end of the line stretched to infinity.
"Are you there, James?" Heather asked, her heart galloping.
"I am. I'm shocked though," he said. "She's been denying suicidal intent."
"Me too. I can't quite believe it, but the elements fit. The arguments between Maree and Josephine over the café, even more of them shortly before Maree's accident. She had the access to her drink, of course. She could have slipped something into it, or maybe even taken the morphine before or after the drink. Would that make sense?"
James exhaled slowly.
"This is a bit confusing," he said. "Because although the doctors are certain the drug that knocked her out was morphine, the timing doesn't quite align. According to the timeline I've got from all of you, the drinks were served at around 7 pm, but you found Josephine at around 6 am. Apparently, most people, if they take a morphine, or oxycodone overdose are dead within six to twelve hours. But Josephine was alive eleven hours after apparently taking the drug."
Heather's heart skipped a beat.
"That could have been because she took the drug not with the drink, but afterwards."
"Why would we have found traces of it be in the drink, then?"
"Maybe to confuse us, or..." Heather paused. Her brain was spinning. "Maybe she took a little, thinking it would be enough to finish the job, but woke up alive, so took a top-up. Morphine would make her sleepy, wouldn't it?"
"It would," James replied. "But there is also a suspicion she'd taken a sleeping pill."
"But she wouldn't need to," Heather retorted. "I remember very well her telling me she sleeps well. And besides, why would she do that?"
"To intensify the effects of the morphine. This and the alcohol should have killed her," James replied.
"You see, you're with me on that one," Heather said. "Otherwise, who else would have done it and why?"
"I can see the logic in it," James said hesitantly.
"What did she say about the event though? Does she remember anything from the evening?"
"Not much. She remembers the cat stuck in the tree. Something about a stilted conversation, but insists she was too tired, and too sleepy to remember much."
"And have no idea who else might have wanted to poison her?"
"She's been quite evasive, to be honest. I've put it down to confusion. Because she is still confused. She's also very guarded. She didn't want to talk to Liam, but accepted Anna, her niece. But had enough awareness to make me ring the headquarters to confirm my identity."
"Your local credentials have not been reinstated yet?" Heather chortled.
"Sadly, so. The upgrade is badly required. Anyhow, I'll need to return to the hospital and talk to her. I'm not far from your place. Would it be okay if I popped in to collect the note?"
"No worries."
Heather finished preparing the Bolognese sauce and turned the
stove off just the moment someone knocked at the door.
"Come in, it's open," she called.
"Smells lovely," James called from the entrance. "What are you cooking?"
"Spaghetti Bolognese."
He strode across the room and looked over her shoulder.
"Enough for two?" he said and flashed her the same smile that she found so charming. His cheekbones formed a delightful triangle with his chin.
"Well, I thought you had to work tonight."
The smile disappeared from his face as if wiped with a cloth.
"I am. Sadly, since this smells totally delicious. But where's that note?"
Heather grabbed the note from the shelf above the kitchen top and handed over.
He opened it and read it in silence.
"Where did you find it?"
She told him about her trip to the sleep-out.
He listened, watching her carefully. His jaw tensed.
"What made you go there?" he asked.
Heather took a deep breath.
"I suppose it was the cat. He shouldn't have been able to get in. And then I thought someone must have been in her flat since I last time I’d been there. So, I went to check-"
'What?" he interrupted her. His face furrowed. "Someone's been in Josephine's unit?"
"Yes, I think so."
"What makes you think so?"
"I set some traps."
He clasped his hands together so hard, the knuckles went white.
"What traps?"
Heather rolled her aching shoulders. This was uncomfortable. She was being interrogated.
She opened her mouth to protest and then realized she should have probably checked her bedroom, too.
"Sorry, tricks of the trade, but I need to check something." She dodged him and hurried up the stairs.
She heard his footsteps following her.
Heather pushed the door carefully. It opened with a screech. She flicked the light switch.
The room looked exactly the same as she’d left it.
She headed straight for the dressing cabinet and gently pulled the drawer.
The piece of paper was where she'd placed it.
She knelt by the wardrobe, but there was no thread in sight.
