Natural-born Grillers (Australian Amateur Sleuth Book 2)

by Morgana Best

  “That’s fine, dear. You have fun,” Cressida stated flatly and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. I looked around the room and tried to take it all in, looking for a good place to sit where I could remain in relative quiet.

  I spotted Colin Palmer across the room nodding at somebody. I followed his gaze to see Susan Woods nodding back at him, before spotting me and hurrying away to another room. Colin took a seat casually. I didn’t think too much of it at the time, deciding to take a seat next to Colin. He was two seats down from the edge of the table, and I figured that if I had to sit next to somebody boring, it might as well as be somebody boring that I knew. I was more than a little worried that the rest of the people here would be like Hubert Whatever the Third, the man who had met me at the door.

  Before I made it to my seat, I heard my name called out. I spun around. It was Mr. Buttons at the other side of the room, waving politely to me. I waved back and walked over to him.

  “How are you, Sibyl?” Mr. Buttons asked, polite as ever, but with a noticeable strain in his voice.

  I smiled. “I’m fine, thanks. Are you okay? You seem a little stressed.”

  Mr. Buttons looked away. “Yes, well, I’m afraid that this many people are likely to cause quite a mess, you see.” He shuffled nervously from one foot to another and glanced around at the large gathering around us. I had to stifle a laugh. As much as I found his penchant for cleaning to be entertaining, I felt bad that it genuinely made him worry.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine, really.” I tried my best to sound reassuring. “Everyone here is respected and professional. Nobody’s going to do anything to cause a mess.” I glanced at Alec out of the corner of my eye and realized what I said wasn’t necessarily true, but hopefully Mr. Buttons hadn’t caught on to that fact.

  “Yes, you’re right.” He sighed. “Still, I can’t help it. I do believe that I’ll have a drink. Please excuse me, Sibyl.” He shot me a rigid smile and walked to the kitchen.

  I looked over at Colin and saw that he hadn’t moved. I hurried over and sat next to him, greeting him politely. He shot me a well-mannered smile and glanced back to where Susan had been earlier. I wondered what she was up to, but didn’t have time to think about it for long.

  “Hello again,” Mr. Buttons said as he sat down on the other side of me, holding a strange-colored drink that I knew couldn’t be good for him. Not physically, at least. He took a swig and winced.

  “How are you holding up?” I asked with genuine concern.

  “Oh, yes, fine, thank you Sibyl.” Mr. Buttons sounded genuine, but he was looking just to the side of me as he spoke. I considered that maybe this wasn’t his first glass of the night. “Just needed something to take my mind off it, I think.” He smiled again, this time without a hint of stress. I smiled back, but I was a little worried about his solution. To be honest, Mr. Buttons was strange enough when he was harnessing all the powers of sobriety.

  The party continued, and a few more late-comers arrived. Everyone eventually settled into a seat and got to chatting. Both Cressida and Alec sat across the table from me, to my relief and dismay respectively. Alec kept trying to make small talk, which I ignored by striking up a conversation with Colin. I wasn’t sure which was the lesser of two horrors, though.

  Colin had spent the better part of the last two hours talking to me about philosophy. I didn’t understand enough even to pretend to make conversation with him, so I just occasionally nodded and tried to focus on eating my dinner. I did hesitate for a minute before eating anything, considering what had happened at previous boarding house meals.

  I eventually decided to try to make the conversation with Colin a little less boring by spinning it into something we could both discuss. He was halfway through explaining Immanuel Kant’s belief that fundamental concepts of the human mind structure human experience when I cut him off with a question.

  “Colin,” I asked, “who do you think the most boring philosopher is?”

  Colin considered the question for a time. “Well, they’re all enthralling, of course.” He thought a moment longer. “I suppose if I had to choose, I tend to find most post-Wittgenstein philosophers in the Anglo-American tradition to be slightly less exciting. This is, of course, owed to their unnecessary over-scholarization of the discipline.” He pondered a little longer.

  I sighed deeply and took a long sip of wine. I figured I might as well keep trying. “Right, of course,” I replied, although I hadn’t the slightest clue what he meant. “But is there anybody in particular that you find especially dull?”

  Colin rubbed his chin. “Yes, I suppose there is. Despite our sharing a name, I find Colin Heidegger to be a difficult read, if only because I find I have to read quite slowly to keep up with him. I couldn’t tell you if this was because of his writing style or because his thoughts are simply beyond me.” Colin laughed as if he’d made a riotous joke, and I blinked furiously to stop my eyes from glazing over.

  Before I could reply, I felt something brush against my shoulder and instinctively leaned back into my chair to avoid it. I quickly realized that Mr. Buttons was leaning over me to look directly into Colin’s eyes. Colin looked back with what seemed to be a mixture of confusion and fear as Mr. Buttons reached up and wiped some food from the edge of Colin’s mouth.

  “Ah, much better.” Mr. Buttons returned to his chair, satisfied, and continued eating. Colin didn’t move for at least two straight minutes, and I didn’t really know how to react to it, either. I supposed that I should have taken in the fact that Mr. Buttons might have done something worse, though I wasn’t really sure what it would have been. Colin seemed to be taking it relatively well, in any case.

  The rest of the night passed in peace—too much peace, as I was bored out of my mind. It was certainly preferable to a murder, of course, but I wasn’t sure that going to dinner had been the best decision. Both Mr. Buttons and Cressida had seemed to appreciate my presence, even if I hadn’t spoken to Cressida much for most of the night.

  I wondered whether the recent excitement in my life had made this kind of event more boring than it would have been otherwise, then remembered Colin’s various speeches on the nature of aesthetics and how they arise from a faculty of disinterested judgment, and considered that perhaps it was just a really boring night after all.

  When I got home I went straight to bed. I’d had quite enough un-excitement for one night, and having a good sleep was exactly what I’d felt like doing for hours.

  Chapter 7

  I was sitting in my tiny dining room. It wasn’t a dining room as such, just a table with chairs around it against one end of my living room. Opposite me sat Mr. Buttons, who was fidgeting nervously. “Are you okay?” I asked him. He didn’t look at me, but sat where he was, still fidgeting.

  “Do you think it was Alice?” Mr. Buttons asked, still avoiding eye contact.

  “Of course not,” I replied. “She’s still in custody, and she’d have no reason to come back and murder somebody she’s never met. This murder was unrelated—though I’m not sure that makes it any better.” I sighed as I said it. Two murders in as many months had to be some kind of record, and it’s one the boarding house probably wasn’t interested in holding.

  “I’m going to do a tarot reading,” Mr. Buttons stated flatly. I wasn’t sure it would make him feel any better, but it was worth a shot. He brought the cards out from his pocket—a standard Rider-Waite deck—and laid them flat down on the table, after first scrubbing at it furiously with a white linen handkerchief.

  Despite the last few hours, the atmosphere in my house was quiet and relaxed, though I was beginning to feel quite nervous. Mr. Buttons spent some time shuffling the deck before cutting it. He lay three cards face down on the table in front of him—a normal three card spread. I was no expert on tarot, but I knew that one card represented the past, one represented the present, and the final card represented the future.

  Mr. Buttons flipped the first card over, a card which was to r
epresent the past. The image on the card was of a man on a throne holding a sword in his right hand and scales in his left. It read, Justice.

  I looked up at Mr. Buttons. “That’s the card you drew the other day. You said someone would be falsely accused.”

  Mr. Buttons grimaced. “Yes, and again, the card is reversed. This is not looking good. While it can mean other things, it seems obvious what this card is referring to.” As he said this, he leaned down and flipped the second card, representing the present.

  It was The Fool—it showed a man on a cliff, holding a staff and a flower, with a dog looking up at him. Again, it was reversed. “The Fool often represents challenges,” Mr. Buttons said, more to himself than to me. “The Fool is in search of something. However, it can also be a warning that significant change is coming.” Mr. Buttons swallowed nervously, and flipped the final card.

  The image was of a large burning tower being struck by lightning, as people jumped from the windows. Fittingly, it was called The Tower. Mr. Buttons was staring at it intently.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. I knew it wasn’t the best card to draw, and I’d seen him scared or nervous, but never this serious. “This isn’t a good card, Sibyl. Not now, at least. This card represents chaos, crisis, and ruin. I think somebody else is going to be murdered.” Mr. Buttons said this without looking away from the card.

  I remembered that this card also represented the future. So, we had injustice, challenges, and another murder in the future. No, that was certainly not the best mix. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Mr. Buttons,” I said with fake enthusiasm. “Tarot cards can be interpreted differently. It’s hardly proof that something bad is going to happen.”

  He looked up at me and smiled. I could tell he was still worried, but I think it made him feel a little better. “You’re right, Sibyl, of course. But it doesn’t exactly put my mind at ease. In case something does happen, though, who do you think it would be? The person doing it, mind you, not the victim.” He swallowed nervously again as he said it.

  “Well, it’s clearly related to the philosophy club in some way,” I said, thinking aloud. “Though I think it’s too early to say, honestly. We just don’t have enough clues or evidence. It could have been anyone, even somebody we’ve never met.” I noticed Mr. Buttons didn’t seem to be put at ease by my statement. “However, I don’t think we’re in any danger. Alice had a reason to try to hurt me, but what have we done to upset anybody else? Well, to the point of trying to murder us, I mean. I hardly think somebody’s going to want to murder us because Sandy’s barking at night, or something.”

  As if on cue, my big yellow Labrador, Sandy, came over and slobbered on the coffee table. Mr. Buttons snatched his cards to safety. Sandy ate more than I realized was possible. I fed her a normal, healthy amount of premium dog food and avoided too many treats, but she always found a way to eat something she shouldn’t. Typical Labrador, I guess.

  I put Sandy out the back door into the garden room, and returned to find Mr. Buttons with a fistful of disinfecting wipes and a bottle of disinfectant, scrubbing my coffee table. He looked up when I re-entered the room. “You’re right again, Sibyl, but it isn’t us I’m worried about. I’ve been around two murders now, which is far too many for any normal man to bear.” Mr. Buttons’ voice trembled. “I just want it to stop.”

  Before I could reply, I was rudely interrupted by a loud, screeching voice. “You’re an idiot!”

  Mr. Buttons looked around wildly for the source of the insult. I sighed, stood up, and walked over to Max. I wiggled my finger at him, and he screeched, “One more wrinkle and you’d pass for a prune!”

  My cockatoo, Max, was sweet tempered, but no one enjoyed his company any more thanks to my ex-husband teaching him to swear and insult people, I suppose as some kind of joke, while he had temporary custody. It made it that little bit harder for people to love Max, as is normal with anyone who insults you, I suppose. “Max, no! Don’t insult people,” I ordered.

  Ignoring me, he replied, “You stink!” before releasing a torrent of words no polite company should hear.

  I turned to Mr. Buttons whose face had flushed beet red, no doubt as a result of the improper words uttered by the cockatoo. “I’m sorry about Max. He’s getting worse.” I sighed loudly. “Now he’s even imitating sounds and even whole sentences from TV. I have to be careful what shows I watch now.”

  “Your ex-husband isn’t a very nice person,” Mr. Buttons said.

  I laughed bitterly. “You could say that. He did try to have me murdered, after all.”

  Mr. Buttons threw the used wipes in the trash, and then returned the spray bottle of disinfectant to my cupboard. He yawned and stretched.

  “Mr. Buttons, I’m going to bed, and you should do the same. Sitting here worrying isn’t going to help, but a good night’s rest just might.” I smiled at him, and he smiled back.

  “Thank you, Sibyl, you’re right. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I showed Mr. Buttons out, and then walked back to my room with my hands over my ears, hoping Max’s fresh torrent of words couldn’t be heard up at the boarding house.

  Chapter 8

  I awoke early with help from my alarm clock. I swatted at it and knocked it off the bedside table. The clock clattered to the floor and continued to ring in the most irritating way. I grumbled and rolled over onto my stomach, one arm hanging down, my fingertips trailing along the rug while I tried to find it.

  Finally, my fingers brushed against it, and I pulled it up, looking at it through half open blurry eyes while turning off the alarm. Why was I getting up so early again?

  Mr. Buttons. The British man had asked me to breakfast at this early hour. He often accompanied me on my walk with Sandy at seven in the morning, but yesterday he had the bright idea that we should have breakfast at the boarding house first. I had accepted, with the bad judgment that being wide awake in the middle of the day brings. Now here I was, at six in the morning, the sun barely over the horizon, and I had to go to eat breakfast up at the boarding house.

  I let Sandy outside, showered and dressed quickly, and then pulled on some shoes before hurrying out the front door. The crisp air helped to wake me, and as I walked, I found myself happy to be going to breakfast after all. The rose garden flanking the pathway to the boarding house was full of all manner of scented Old English roses, along with native Australian Brown Boronia bushes with their bell-like flowers. These emitted the most delightful and incredibly strong lemon fragrance that reminded me of bubble gum.

  I kept up a quick pace, and I was at the boarding house before I knew it, now fully awake and desperate for my first cup of coffee. I stepped lightly up the front porch stairs and reached for the door handle.

  Before I could wrap my fingers around the brass handle, the door flew open.

  Someone rushed onto the porch, roughly pushed me aside, and sent me into a spin, all but knocking me over. I was so shocked that I was unable to take much in, only that the person was dressed in black and had a ski mask over their face.

  I reached for the walls, steadying myself against the door.

  The masked person was fast, running down the steps and off to the left, rushing for the trees there. For a moment I thought to run after whoever it was, but then common sense prevailed. My first thought was that there had been another murder, or at the very least, a robbery, although the figure was holding nothing.

  I looked into the front hall of the boarding house. “Mr. Buttons?”

  There was no reply, so I ventured inside, afraid of what I might see. I hadn’t gotten far before I saw the body at the bottom of the stairs. I rushed inside and left the front door hanging wide open.

  The figure was lying face up. I saw at once that it was Colin Palmer. His neck was bent at an odd angle, and one leg was bent as well.

  He was obviously dead. It could simply have been a fall, of course. Falling down a long staircase like the one in the front hall of the boarding house was certainly going to kill
almost anyone, but there had been the masked figure.

  I reached into my pocket, and then realized I’d left my cell phone at home. I hurried to the phone in the front hall, an old fashioned black thing with a coiled wire keeping the headset from traveling too far from the body. I called the police, and explained to Constable Andrews what had happened.

  “My word!” a voice called out, high pitched and British.

  Mr. Buttons was part way down the staircase, staring down at the body in horror. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and I was afraid he would dust the body.

  “We can’t touch him! It’s a crime scene,” I said.

  Mr. Buttons paused, his handkerchief in mid air. “A crime scene? Surely he fell?”

  “I think he was pushed,” I said. “When I got here a couple of minutes ago, a man or a woman pushed past me and ran out the door.”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  I shook my head. “They were wearing a ski mask.”

  Mr. Buttons gasped. “Someone in a mask?” he said. “I’m starting to think I should leave Little Tatterford and move elsewhere.”

  “Me too.” I helped a distressed Mr. Buttons to a chair in one corner of the room, near the phone. He sat and laid his long hands together in his lap.

  I sat next to him, and we waited for the police to make their appearance. I wondered where everyone else was, but then I remembered it was still early in the morning, and everyone else in the house would still be asleep. I wondered if I should wake Cressida and tell her about the boarder. I shivered, and decided I would save a job like that for Blake himself.

  “Who would want to kill Colin Palmer?” I asked.

  Mr. Buttons shivered. “Likely the same person who killed Martin Bosworth, but it was obviously someone who knew that Colin always came down for breakfast at six thirty precisely.”