by Morgana Best
“But what about Cressida’s cleaner, Susan Woods, picking hemlock plants?” I said.
Blake ran his fingers through his hair. “I know, but the detectives could just see that as small town gossip, and Janine Templeton did not go to them directly with that information. Cressida made matters worse with this Colin Palmer stuff. If only she’d come clean in the first place about their previous relationship.”
I nodded. “True, but Susan is tall, and the killer was much taller than Cressida is. The killer went right by me on the porch. I told the detectives that, but they thought I was covering for Cressida. Is there anything you can do?”
“Sibyl,” Blake said, turning to look in my eyes. “I promise you I’m fighting them on this. I’m doing what I can. The trouble is, they don’t have any suspects other than Cressida.” I made to protest, but he held up a hand. “Seeing someone pulling up weeds by the roadside is not evidence to them. It’s probably only a matter of time before they decide they have enough evidence to arrest Cressida. They’re combing through the boarding house right now. I guarantee that they’ll find something, some little thing, and then they will arrest her. Sad to say, there’s nothing I can do to stop them.”
“That isn’t fair!” I said. I buried my face in my hands. I wanted to clear Cressida’s name, but I had no idea how to do so.
“She needs a good lawyer.”
I nodded. “Yes, she’s agreed to get a lawyer. But will it come to that?”
Blake’s silence told me all I indeed to know. Those detectives were likely to arrest Cressida, and I had to do whatever I could to stop them.
Chapter 16
I took the program from the smiling student at the doors and walked into Lecture Hall A2, the biggest lecture hall at the university in Pharmidale. Mr. Buttons had managed to talk me into going with him to the Public Seminar on Socrates to keep an eye out for suspects and to get the general vibe.
I looked behind me for Mr. Buttons and saw to my dismay that he was adjusting the student’s glasses. “There, you’ll see much better now that your spectacles are straight,” he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork.
I took Mr. Buttons by the arm and guided him to the back of the lecture hall. The huge room was filling fast, but there were two spare seats in the middle of the back row. We squeezed past some elderly ladies’ knees, excusing ourselves, and sat down on the seats.
Mr. Buttons leaned over to me. “I’m glad we got a back row.”
“Pity our seats weren’t on the edge,” I said.
Mr. Buttons signaled me to be quiet, and jerked his head over his shoulder at two professors who were talking directly behind us.
“Should we have a minute of silence for Martin Bosworth as well as a minute of silence for Colin Palmer, or just a minute of silence all up?” one said.
The other rubbed his chin. “I doubt people will want to be silent for two minutes. We’d better have just a single minute of silence.”
The other professor readily agreed. “More like we should have a party for Martin Bosworth’s untimely demise.”
The other professor snorted, trying to muffle his laughter.
“See, I told you it was a good idea to come here,” Mr. Buttons said. “We’ll overhear a lot of good gossip like that. You mark my words!”
I nodded and looked down at the sheet of paper in my hands. The first item was the Welcome Address. “We have to sit through the boring seminar first,” I said.
A woman came forward to the microphone, and after the usual microphone adjustments and accompanying screeching sounds, introduced herself as Dean Judith Wreath. “First we will have a minute of silence for our departed colleagues, Martin Bosworth and Colin Palmer,” she said. “All please stand.”
The two elderly ladies sitting to my left grumbled and complained about having to stand, and simply remained seated. The minute of silence seemed to stretch onto two, or even three minutes, and I wondered who, if anyone, was timing it. Mercifully, it came to an end, and we were able to sit down.
The Dean introduced a Professor Edwin Boring. “Professor Boring will read Professor Bosworth’s lecture notes to you today,” the Dean droned.
“Boring by name, boring by nature, I’ll bet,” I whispered to Mr. Buttons.
It turned out I was right.
Professor Boring did not introduce himself, but simply stepped up to the microphone, smoothed his outrageous comb-over, and began to read from sheets of paper which he held up in front of his face. “There is no purely biographical account of Socrates; we know him only through his influence on other people,” he said in a monotone. “There are three contemporary sources of information: Plato, Xenophon, and Aristophanes. As different as the Socrates of Xenophon and Plato are, there is general agreement. Plato is absorbed with the theoretical side of Socrates’ mind, while Xenophon reveals the practical side.”
At this point, I leaned over to Mr. Buttons. “Oh really, who gives a…”
“Sibyl!” Mr. Buttons pursed his lips. “Your cockatoo is clearly a bad influence on you.”
I shut my mouth and felt my cheeks flush red, so turned back to be bored by Professor Boring.
I’m not sure at which point I fell asleep, and the last words I heard were something about Socrates admiring Sparta. I woke up on the shoulder of the elderly lady beside me. She elbowed me hard, and then said in a sweet voice, “Dear, you fell asleep.”
I mumbled my apologies, and turned to Mr. Buttons. “Is the talk almost over?” I asked hopefully.
“Only ten minutes or so in,” he said, shaking his head.
I sighed, and looked around the lecture hall. No one else appeared to be asleep. I yawned twice in succession and then stretched out my arms in front of me. I yawned again, and then noticed the detectives in one of the rows on the far right, near the front. At least, the back of their heads looked like the detectives. Clearly, Mr. Buttons and I were not the only ones who thought that there was some information to be gleaned at the Pubic Lecture.
That brightened me up somewhat, so I scanned the room. Blake was sitting several seats behind the detectives. To my delight, he was sitting next to a man. Still, that didn’t mean that Blake didn’t have a girlfriend; it just meant that he didn’t have a girlfriend who was silly enough to come to a public lecture on Socrates.
I shook my head to clear it from thoughts of Blake, and tried to focus on the murder case—or, more accurately, cases. Two philosophers from the same university, even the same academic department, had been murdered, so it was obvious that there was a connection. Yet what? And why was Professor Bosworth murdered with such painstaking irony, whereas Colin Palmer was simply pushed down the stairs? I knew there had to be a clue in that. The logical explanation was that the murder of Martin Bosworth had been planned, possibly for some time, whereas the murder of Colin Palmer was more spur of the moment. Yet that still didn’t help. What was I missing?
I settled back down to listen to Professor Boring’s droning voice. Finally, his reading of Martin Bosworth’s lecture notes came to an end, although that meant Question Time would start. How bad could that be? Mr. Buttons and I smiled at each other.
“Remind me never to ask you to attend another Public Lecture,” Mr. Buttons said in a whisper.
Question Time went on for about fifteen minutes, and consisted mainly of people trying to show off their knowledge about Socrates, rather than asking genuine questions. Professor Boring fielded the questions admirably.
Much to my relief, Dean Wreath took the stand again, and announced that refreshments would be served outside. She then did a sales pitch for the Philosophy Department, trying to encourage students to enroll in their courses.
The two elderly ladies took their time extracting themselves from their seats, so Mr. Buttons and I, and the people lined up behind Mr. Buttons, had to wait patiently to make our escape.
Tables were set up outside the lecture hall. They were covered with white tablecloths and filled with all manner of cakes and pa
stries, several huge urns, and packets of teabags and instant coffee. “Oh goody, instant coffee,” I said sarcastically.
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” Mr. Buttons said.
I had no suitable comeback, so just pulled a face.
“Mingle, and ask questions about Martin Bosworth and Colin Palmer,” Mr. Buttons said, and then at once took off to speak to one of the professors.
I reached for a cupcake, and then turned around to see a young man standing close behind me. “So, did you enjoy the seminar?” he asked.
“Did you?” I countered.
“Oh yes, so wonderful, wasn’t it?”
Before he could say any more, I got in first. “Professor Boring did a good job, reading the notes. Such a shame poor Martin Bosworth died. Did he have any enemies?”
The young man looked around, and then leaned forward. “Oh yes, no one liked him, no one at all. He had quite the reputation for causing trouble for everyone.”
“Did Professor Bosworth cause trouble for Colin Palmer too?”
The young man shook his head. “I don’t think so. Professor Bosworth liked Palmer as he wasn’t too successful and thus not a threat. So, I haven’t seen you around. Are you a student here?”
“I was a student, at Sydney University,” I said.
“What do you do now?”
“I have a mobile pet grooming business.”
The young man at once lost interest, and shuffled away, mumbling about having to speak to others.
“I didn’t know you were interested in Socrates.”
I swung around to see Blake standing there, his arms folded across his chest. “Actually, Blake, I did a semester of ancient philosophy at Sydney University.”
Blake looked surprised at that. “Did you enjoy the lecture?”
“Hardly,” I said. “I nearly died of boredom. Mr. Buttons forced me to come.” That, at least, was the truth. “Did you enjoy the lecture?”
Blake’s face softened. “No.” He smiled.
“I didn’t know you were secretly interested in Socrates,” I said archly.
Blake’s eyes narrowed. “You caught me. I’m doing some snooping around, in an unofficial capacity.”
“Let me guess. You’re asking everyone about Martin Bosworth and Colin Palmer, and you’ve found out that everyone hated Bosworth, but everyone said that Palmer was nice.” I wondered if I’d said too much, and waited for the lecture.
“Yes, that about sums it up,” he said. “Can’t you just have a vision and then tell me who the culprit is?”
I knew he was joking, but it rankled. It was bad enough having visions, without having to explain to everyone how they worked. Over the years, I’d been on the receiving end of plenty of smart remarks suggesting I should have visions of the lottery numbers.
I let out a long breath. “It doesn’t work like that, Blake. I can’t just summon up a vision. I never know when one’s going to come on me. I have absolutely no control over them.”
“What did you think of your namesake being mentioned tonight?”
That got my interest. “What do mean?”
“That professor quoted Socrates as saying that the Sibyl, the prophetess, had visions that saved people from danger. Didn’t you hear that?”
“I was most likely asleep at the time,” I said, “but yes, I’m named after the ancient Sibyl from Delphi. Every first born daughter in our family for generations has been named Sibyl in her honor. And, believe it or not, they all had prophetic visions.”
Blake nodded. He didn’t look quite as skeptical as he had previously. “Do you need a ride home later, Sibyl?”
“Thanks, but Mr. Buttons is taking me.”
Blake nodded and walked away. I watched as he struck up a conversation with one of the professors. I noticed with some delight that the detectives were on the other side of the room, talking to Alec Steel, who looked uncomfortable.
“That was silly, Sibyl.”
I looked over at Mr. Buttons. “What was?”
“You should’ve accepted Blake’s invitation. You’re really not good with men, are you?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, and thanks for pointing that out.” I felt silly. Had Blake been flirting with me? How would I know anyway? My track record with men was dismal.
Thankfully Mr. Buttons didn’t pursue the subject. “I can’t find any connection between the two victims to explain why both were murdered,” he said. “They weren’t working on a paper together, although why anyone would want to murder someone over research into philosophy is quite beyond me. There seems to be absolutely no connection between them, about from the fact that they were colleagues. And no one disliked Colin Palmer. Cressida’s cleaner, Susan, is still looking like our main suspect, although as to what motive she had, one can only guess.”
I bit my bottom lip. “Blake said he doubted that the detectives would consider the evidence about Susan gathering the hemlock on the roadside. What are we going to do, Mr. Buttons?”
Mr. Buttons’ face took on a solemn appearance. “I don’t know, Sibyl, but whatever we’re going to do, we had better do it fast, or Cressida will be heading for jail.”
Chapter 17
“It’s so nice to know we finally have a mobile groomer,” the older woman gushed as she flipped slowly through my portfolio. “And Cameo has just taken a shine to you. She’s usually so shy with strangers.”
“I’m happy to have passed inspection,” I said, while brushing a squirmy little Pomeranian. Coming to the town’s annual dog show had been one of my better ideas. My appointment book was filling for the rest of the month.
I was surprised that I was the only professional dog groomer there. I silently congratulated myself for bringing my grooming gear and setting up a table.
“There’s Tracey, a lady in Tamworth who does a wonderful job,” Mrs. Williams said, as she looked over pictures of the dogs I had groomed since arriving in town. “But that’s over an hour’s drive from here, one way. And Cameo and I don’t really go out as much as we used to. Tracey doesn’t have a waiting room. Just some pens to wait in, and those metal chairs are so uncomfortable. Cameo so hates those pens if I can’t stay with her. She sulked for days the last time.”
“I’ll be happy to schedule an appointment for Cameo anytime. I’m sure she’ll be a lot more comfortable,” I assured her. “No pens, Cameo. You’ll be right there at your home. You’ll like that, won’t you?”
The little dog shook and wagged her tail so hard at the attention that she almost fell out of my lap. It was hard to believe that the little dog was at all shy. I laughed and scratched the small creature behind her ear. Cameo looked adorable; her eyes were closed in rapture, and her tongue hung out while she enjoyed a good scratch.
Mrs. Williams picked up one of my business cards. “Well, that settles it. Cameo is a good judge of character. Do you work on Saturdays, dear?”
“There is an extra fee for evenings and weekends,” I explained, as I handed her a printed postcard with my fee table. “I’m more than happy to schedule a weekend visit if that’s more convenient for you and Cameo.”
“Wonderful.” Mrs. Williams took Cameo from me, and stroked the Pomeranian. “I’m always doing one thing or another all week. Saturdays will just make things so much simpler. Cameo can have a little pampering without us having to leave town to do it.”
To my surprise, Mrs. Williams proceeded to order a grooming every other Saturday for the next six months. I tried to hide my delight while I carefully input the days into my calendar, trying not to be distracted by the bustle and barking all around me. I was glad I had not let my newness to the area intimidate me into avoiding the show this year. It would have been a mistake to wait until next year, after I had built a local reputation. Between the participants and their guests, I had already gathered several new clients who were willing to test an unknown for the convenience of having a local groomer come to them. My appointments had tripled, and the dog show hadn’t even started yet.
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Mrs. Williams stood and reached out her hand. “Thank you so much again, Sibyl. I’ll let you get back to work. Cameo and I will see you next week.”
I shook the woman’s hand and smiled, elated that my business was improving significantly. I had gone from struggling to figure out next month’s expenses to having the assurance that I could make it as long as I was careful. For the first time in a long while, it felt as if everything was coming together. Of course, if my ex-husband would pay out on the property settlement, all my money worries would be over.
I narrowed my eyes and looked at my surroundings. I had been surprised at the scarcity of vendor tables, considering this was a major dog show. Most of them were unmanned sponsor tables with promotional products from banks and real estate agents. There was a makeshift snack stand manned by volunteers who hosted the show. Only one table carried shampoos, dog food, and other pet products.
I tidied up my table, carefully brushing up stray fur and collecting it into a plastic shopping bag. I needed to make a good impression on all my potential clients.
As the show was now in full swing, I wondered whether I could risk getting coffee. I’d been in such a rush preparing for the show that I’d only gulped one coffee just before heading out the door. I felt a wave of tiredness settling in now that things were quiet. I had been so nervous about the event that I had barely slept, and then had skipped breakfast. I needed coffee—and fast. I picked up my purse and headed to the makeshift snack stand in the covered tent in the back.
The tent was bare compared to the various breed rings. My eyes at once alighted on coffee pots to one side of the snack stand. Oh no, it was instant coffee, much to my dismay.
I made my way to the table and paid for the coffee. An elderly lady told me to help myself to sugar, and then she left. I grimaced at the coffee, but figured that lots of sugar would disguise the taste, and after all, it was caffeine.
I reached for the sugar canister, only to discover it was empty. I didn’t know if I was brave enough to drink primordial ooze without something to hide the taste. I looked around in desperation for any sign of extra sugar.
