Murder Sweetly Served

by Morgana Best

  “What do you mean?” Carl asked innocently.

  “Stan is, or rather was, crooked. He was a nasty piece of work. He trampled anyone who got in his way. I suppose he could have changed in the years since I knew him, but then they say that a leopard never changes its spots.”

  I offered Peter the cheese platter, but he shook his head. “Go on,” I said. “How did you know Stan? I must say, I only met him last night, but I was chatting to one of his colleagues and he didn’t have a good word to say about him, either. Even his personal secretary said he had a lot of enemies.”

  Peter nodded. “It sounds like he hasn’t changed, then. I’m not surprised.”

  “So how did you know him, Peter?” I tried not to look too interested as I said it. I took a large sip of wine in an attempt to look nonchalant but I somehow managed to pour it down the side of my face, missing my mouth completely. I quickly wiped my face, hoping Peter hadn’t noticed.

  “We actually worked in the same advertising agency in Sydney, back in the day,” Peter said. “I know it’s a competitive business, but he did all sorts of nasty things.”

  “Like what?” Carl asked him.

  “Just the usual sort of office politics, only in his case, it was worse. In fact, I’m pretty sure he blackmailed a few people. He also lied to the boss about what other people were doing. I mean, blatant lies. He got at least one guy sacked that I know of. He was just a thoroughly nasty human being.”

  “That’s awful,” I said after a long interval, when it became clear he wasn’t going to add anything. “I’ll just check on the dinner.”

  Carl stood up. “I’ll help you.”

  “It’s clear that this guy is the one Tom heard about, for sure and certain,” Carl whispered to me. “Obviously the police haven’t been to see him yet, because he was awfully shocked when you told him that Stan died. Either that, or he’s a good actor. You know, I should check whether he has a theatre background.”

  I ignored the latter remark. “Yes, Peter must be the one Tom told me about. Peter didn’t say that Stan stole his wife, but that’s probably something too personal to tell strangers.”

  “We could always tell him that if he doesn’t confess, we’ll throw a piece of rope on him and let Mongrel out of his basket.”

  I eyed Carl warily. “Carl, sometimes I don’t know whether you’re joking.”

  Carl plastered an innocent look on his face. “Would you like to tell Peter that dinner is ready?”

  I duly summoned Peter to the table. Carl was part way through serving us all, when Peter let out a bloodcurdling shriek. “Oh my goodness, what is it?” Carl said. “I nearly dropped this food all over the floor.”

  Peter seemed unable to speak, because he merely pointed. Mongrel had left his basket and was now sitting at the end of the table in his usual position, his paws resting on top of the table. “Oh, how cute,” I said. “Mongrel must like you after all, Peter. He only comes out of his basket when he’s comfortable with someone.”

  “Or if he’s going to attack someone,” Carl added, rather unhelpfully.

  I glared at Carl. “He only comes out to sit at the table when he’s happy,” I reiterated.

  Peter appeared to be shaking, but managed to speak. “He’s staring straight at me.”

  “That means he likes you,” I said. “Isn’t that right Carl?” I glared at Carl and raised my eyebrows.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Carl’s tone was less than convincing, but I was telling the truth. If Mongrel had wanted to attack Peter, he would have done so already, but I thought I perhaps should not point that out. And if Mongrel liked Peter, that meant Peter couldn’t be the murderer.

  “Please eat up,” Carl said to Peter. “You haven’t started eating.”

  Peter appeared to be frozen to the spot. “I don’t want to make any sudden moves.”

  “Oh, you’re perfectly all right,” I assured him. “He only attacks people if they have a piece of rope.”

  “And murderers,” Carl added.

  “Murderers?” Peter repeated in rather a high voice.

  “Yes, he’s attacked two murderers in the past.”

  Carl nodded vigorously. “Yes, that’s right. He doesn’t like murderers.”

  Peter appeared to be thinking that over, but gingerly reached for his fork and ever so slowly started to eat his food. I fully expected him to ask how Mongrel had come to meet murderers, but he didn’t. All the time, he didn’t take his eyes off Mongrel, not even for a second.

  Peter excused himself after finishing his pasta, thanking us very much for our hospitality but saying he needed to go home to bed and take painkillers. He couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. I was shocked that he didn’t want dessert, given that it was a white chocolate fudge brownie cheesecake with chocolate custard. Oh well, there’s no accounting for taste.

  “That didn’t go very well,” Carl said only seconds after I shut the door.

  “Shush, he’ll hear you.”

  “He won’t know what I’m talking about,” Carl continued in the same loud tone,

  I hurried back to the kitchen. “Oh well, we can’t waste this dessert. Now there’s more for us. Why did you think it didn’t go very well? I thought it went very well indeed.”

  “We didn’t really get any information out of him.”

  I spooned half the white chocolate fudge brownie cheesecake into a bowl for Carl and the remainder into a bowl for me. I poured the chocolate custard over the top. Mongrel was still sitting at the edge of the table, so I put some little treats in front of him. He was developing good table manners, in the sense that he allowed me to remove my hand before he viciously attacked the treats and gobbled them up. “To the contrary, we did. We know he’s the guy that Tom mentioned, and he genuinely seemed surprised when he heard that Stan Wellings was dead. More to the point, Mongrel didn’t attack him.”

  “Mongrel would have attacked him if there was any rope on him.”

  “True, but you’re missing the point. Mongrel only comes out of his basket near people he likes, and he was sitting in the chair with his paws on the table directly opposite Peter.”

  “Narel, you’re right! Mongrel wouldn’t be so comfortable around Peter if he knew he was a murderer. Cats can sense these things.”

  “I’m sure Mongrel can sense things like that,” I said with confidence. “Carl, would you think I was silly if we crossed The Purr-suader’s name off our list of suspects?”

  “I won’t cross him right off, Narel, but I will put him on the bottom of the list. Actually, I’ll remove him from the main list and put him on the secondary list. And tomorrow, we investigate someone who is near the top of our list, namely, Mick.”

  “But it’s a Sunday,” I protested. “I like to sleep in on Sundays. It’s the one day of the week when I can sleep in. I don’t use my alarm on Sundays.”

  “You can sleep in if you want, Narel. What I have in mind starts late morning.”

  “I’m not going to his house, Carl,” I said firmly. “I felt awful going to Miriam’s house. I simply can’t go to Mick’s house.”

  Carl smiled. “Mick will be at the local rugby game tomorrow. We’ll just happen to turn up and pretend we’re there to support the local team. I even have a couple of old team scarves.”

  “Where did you get those?”

  Carl flushed red and waved his finger at me. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Just be ready by ten.”

  I sighed. I wasn’t into rugby, not at all.

  Chapter 11

  I watched as Tom busied himself in the kitchen, making us a breakfast of coffee, chocolate, and toast. A lock of golden hair kept falling into his eyes, and he smelt like fresh laundry, while the morning sun streamed in through the window, and birds chirped outside. It was such a nice morning, I didn’t think of murder. Not even once.

  “Breakfast is up.” Tom set our plates down at the table. I picked up a slice of toast and sat down, while Tom stood behind me, giving
my shoulders a rub.

  “Such good service,” I told him. “Will this cost me extra?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom said. “I just work here.”

  And then I woke up.

  It took me a moment or two to realise that I was in my own bed, and that I had been dreaming. I reached out to look at my phone. It was only seven. I realised then that it was Sunday morning, and I usually slept until eight on Sunday mornings. I tried to snuggle back under the covers and resume my dream, but gave up after a few minutes. It had been such a lovely dream, too.

  I struggled out of bed and screamed when my foot brushed something furry. I looked down to see Mongrel sitting there. “Good morning, Mongrel,” I said. “I’ll have a shower and then fix you some breakfast.”

  Mongrel tilted his head to one side, and then stalked off, obviously affronted that I wasn’t putting his needs first.

  It wasn’t until after I had a shower, fed Mongrel, and had several cups of coffee that I started to wake up. I expect the strain of worrying about the future of my chocolate shop had taken its toll on me. Hopefully, I would find out some more information today from Mick Holder at the rugby game. I certainly hoped Carl had a plan for extracting the information, because I sure didn’t.

  Carl had said he would collect me at nine, and he was right on time. I opened the door. I was surprised to see him dressed informally, and looking somewhat rugged—if anyone could ever call Carl rugged. “Dressed for the occasion, I see?”

  Carl looked down at himself ruefully. “I’m trying to blend into the crowd,” he said.

  I didn’t see how Carl could ever blend into a crowd, let alone a crowd at a rugby league game, but I knew better than to comment. “Good idea,” I said wisely. “Do you have a plan for questioning Mick?”

  “We’ll just play it by ear.”

  I groaned. “You keep saying that.”

  “Exactly. And it’s worked out so far, hasn’t it?”

  I had to admit that it had, although it had given me several tense moments. “When do we leave?”

  “Now.”

  I looked at the time on my phone. “Already? But the game doesn’t start until ten.”

  Carl nodded. “That’s right. The game starts at ten, and then there will be lots of screaming, swearing, and drinking, and I suspect Mick will get drunker and drunker as the game goes on. The only chances of speaking to him are before the game, after the game, and at half time, but he’ll probably be too drunk by half time.”

  I shrugged. “I see what you mean.” I looked down to see Mongrel looking up at us.

  “What does he want?” Carl asked nervously.

  “I think he wants a pat.”

  Carl pulled a face. “You don’t pat cats; you pat dogs. You stroke cats.”

  “All right then, Carl, you stroke Mongrel.”

  Carl put his hands behind his back. “No way! You stroke him, Narel.”

  As there wasn’t any rope in sight, I bravely reached down and gave Mongrel’s back a quick stroke. He purred and arched his back.

  Carl clutched my arm. “What’s that sound? Thunder?”

  I laughed. “Mongrel’s purring.”

  Carl looked doubtful. “Are you sure?”

  I briefly stroked Mongrel again, and the purring got louder. “See, he likes it!”

  “Are you sure he’s not growling at you?”

  “Of course not, Carl. You try.”

  Carl snatched his phone from his manbag and looked at the screen. “Oh goodness, is that the time? Let’s go!” He was out of the door before I could speak.

  I gave Mongrel another little stroke and then hurried after Carl.

  It didn’t take us long to reach the football field. In fact, it didn’t take us long to go anywhere in this small town. There were lots of dirty utes parked all in a row, and some had cattle dogs tied up in the back. Luckily, those utes were parked in the shade. Men in old faded jeans and flannelette shirts wandered around. They were clutching cans of beer and swiping at flies, and were followed by red or black and tan kelpies and red or blue cattle dogs.

  The home side fans were decked out in blue and white football scarves. I knew that was the home side because Carl and I were wearing the same scarves. The other side’s fans were wearing scarves in stripes of the most hideous shades of brown and yellow imaginable. The colour reminded me of babies, and I don’t mean their cute faces.

  Carl nudged me. “Is that Mick? That man with a red kelpie standing next to him?”

  I squinted and then shielded my eyes from the sun. “I think so, but I only saw him that night.” I swatted at a dozen flies buzzing around my head.

  “So did I,” Carl reminded me. “He’s wearing the home team’s scarf.”

  “So is most of the crowd,” I pointed out. “Oh my goodness, look at that.” A brawl had broken out between someone wearing a blue and white scarf and someone wearing the hideously coloured scarf. They were pushing and shoving each other, but hadn’t actually started punching each other yet. However, the string of obscenities they were screaming made my ears burn. A crowd gathered around them and egged them on, but before it could escalate, their mates intervened and pulled them apart.

  “Follow me,” Carl said as he took off towards the fight. “Let’s speak to Mick.” I hurried after him.

  “Hello, Mick,” Carl said. “It is Mick, isn’t it? Do you remember me?”

  Mick swallowed some beer before answering. “Do I know you?” His tone wasn’t hostile, just surprised.

  “We haven’t met. I’m Carl, and this is my friend, Narel. We were at the dinner on Friday night. Narel made the chocolates.”

  Mick looked at me appraisingly. “Oh yes, you were in the paper.”

  “I didn’t kill him!” I said, and then regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.

  To my relief, Mick laughed. “I’m sure you didn’t. I’m sure you didn’t know him well enough to kill him.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so simply said, “No. I never actually met him. It was his secretary, Miriam Moreton, who ordered the chocolates for him. Anyway, your girlfriend must be upset.”

  “My girlfriend?”

  I was puzzled. “Yes, Minnie.”

  Mick took a large gulp of beer. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I thought…”

  Mick interrupted me. “We were kind of dating a while back, but her father didn’t approve of us, so we both moved on. I was surprised when she invited me to the party. I didn’t realise it was his retirement party or I never would’ve gone. I just thought it was a bash.” He bent down to rub his dog’s head.

  “A bash?”

  Mick shot me an impatient look. “Yes, a bash, a party, you know?”

  I didn’t know, but I nodded. “That’s strange.”

  “You’re telling me! Perhaps she was hoping I’d punch the old fool.”

  “They didn’t get on?”

  Mick shrugged. He pulled his cigarette out of his mouth, and ground it under his foot. “Dunno. I just know he didn’t want her dating the likes of me. He only wanted her to have those fancy boyfriends.”

  “She didn’t have a boyfriend at the party,” I said. “At least, I didn’t notice one.”

  “Perhaps her father didn’t approve of him, either. I know she’s got one though, that’s why we broke up.”

  “Did she invite you to the, um, bash in person?” I asked him.

  He downed the rest of his beer, threw the can in a nearby garbage can—his aim was good—and then opened the beer in his other hand. “No, she texted me.”

  “How did the two of you meet?” Carl asked him.

  “It was a B&S ball.”

  Carl was possibly afraid that I would ask what a B&S ball was, so he quickly said, “Oh yes, a Bachelors and Spinsters ball.”

  Mick nodded lazily. “Yeah, we were both blind drunk when we met, and then we woke up in my swag on the back of my ute the next morni
ng. We figured we might as well start dating, since we’d both enjoyed ourselves as far as we could remember, you know?” He laughed.

  Carl and I nodded.

  “But we never really dated. We just had a few one night stands here and there, I figure on her part just to annoy her father, and then she went off with some other guy, some Jake someone or other. Look, the game’s about to start. I gotta go.”

  Mick and his dog abruptly took their leave, to join a crowd of people hanging over the fence and yelling verbal abuse at the referee before the game had even begun.

  “We can go now, Narel,” Carl said. “I don’t think we’ll get any more information out of him, not now that the game has started. What did you think of that?”

  “I was surprised to hear that Mick wasn’t Minnie’s boyfriend,” I said, shooing away a particularly persistent fly.

  “Miss Myers!”

  I swung around to see a camera in my face. It was the dreadful reporter, Graham Gibson. “Can I have a quote, Miss Myers? Do you deny that your chocolates were responsible for poisoning Stan Wellings?”

  Carl grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the reporter. “Don’t say a word,” he said.

  Graham Gibson followed us, hot on our heels as we made our way to Carl’s car. I had awful mental images of how my surprised face would look on the front page of the next newspaper. Carl changed direction and took me into a crowd of local supporters. “That man’s harassing us,” he addressed the crowd at large. “He supports the other team, and he says they’re going to thrash us today!”

  At once, the angry throng crowded around the reporter, while Carl and I made our escape.

  “Come on, let’s go straight to my place so I can rearrange my whiteboards.”

  I shot a look over my shoulder, but the reporter hadn’t managed to break free of the crowd and follow us. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I’m going to put Mick on the secondary suspects whiteboard and move Minnie to the top.”