Dye Hard (Australian Amateur Sleuth Book 3)

by Morgana Best

  “You do realize that Blake will have the poisonous hair dye tested, don’t you?”

  Mr. Buttons nodded. “Yes, but Blake is away in Sydney in court, and nothing’s happening right now.”

  I agreed. “You do have a point.” I was going to say more, when I heard a shout from outside.

  Mr. Buttons heard it as well. “What was that?”

  I set my cup on the coffee table and stood up. We both walked to the front door. I pulled it open a crack. I saw nothing amiss, but then we heard the angry voice again, off to the left, toward the boarding house. Mr. Buttons and I hurried outside, and skirted behind the row of wattle trees.

  Mr. Buttons caught my arm and I stopped in my tracks. From our vantage point behind the wattle trees, we could see Dorothy, the new cook, and her son, Frank. Dorothy’s son, Frank, had visited her at the boarding house once or twice.

  Dorothy had been the one yelling. I peered through the bushes, and saw she was wearing a white coat and bright orange plastic shoes as she stood on the side of the path with her son. They had come from the boarding house, no doubt, and I wondered if they were simply taking a walk, or whether they were coming to see me. I had no idea why they would come to see me; I hadn’t said more than five words to either of them in the month since Dorothy had started the job.

  “You idiot!” Dorothy screamed. She was holding a big, wooden spoon in her hand, and she pulled it back and then whacked her thirty year old son on the arm with it.

  “Momma,” Frank yelled, rubbing his arm with his hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “I worked hard to get this job. And I’m too old to be working at all, much less hard, and here you are making it worse for me.”

  “I didn’t know,” Frank whimpered.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Dorothy yelled. “You never do. How could you be so stupid as to tip off James about the boarding house! Why would you tell them there are ghosts here? There are no such things as ghosts! Do you think I wanted James here?”

  “I didn’t think.”

  “No, you never think!” Dorothy whacked Frank’s arm again with the wooden spoon. With that, she threw up her arms and turned to face the direction of the boarding house. She hurried forward, leaving her adult son bounding after her.

  Mr. Buttons and I looked at one another. “What’s that about?” I whispered. “She and Frank seem to know James.”

  Mr. Buttons scratched his head. “Dorothy hasn’t let on that she knows James, and James certainly didn’t let on that he knew Dorothy. How strange.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Mr. Buttons simply shrugged.

  “I wish we could find out.”

  “I’ll keep an ear open. Perhaps you should come to dinner this evening.”

  I nodded. “Thanks, I will.”

  Mr. Buttons and I parted company, and I returned to my cottage. I had only been sitting in the cottage for a short time, listening to my cockatoo insult me for a few minutes, when I pulled my shoes back on and went outside.

  I didn’t know exactly where I was going, but I walked along the path toward the boarding house. When I reached the boarding house, I kept walking, and then made my way down the side of the building and into the back yard. Past that was the bushland, and I strolled this way and that as I wound through the eucalyptus trees, stepping over small, fallen branches.

  I often walked this way with Mr. Buttons, of a morning when we both walked Sandy. I sat on a fallen branch that was set close to a stream of water, and listened to Pobblebonk frogs croaking. One large such frog was sitting on the edge of the water, and I watched it for a while, as it, in turn, appeared to watch me with its bulging, yellow-rimmed eyes. The air was still, and the frogs were the only sounds I heard, apart from the occasional screeching of the yellow-tailed, black cockatoos, an eerie, high-pitched sound that always, for some reason, chilled my blood.

  I thought about Cressida. She was always so full of life, so loud. She wore too much make up, and dressed like a theatrical teenager instead of a woman in her fifties or sixties. I looked out at the creek, but my vision blurred and my eyes stung, as warm salty tears welled.

  I stayed on the tree branch until I was sure I would not cry again. I had to go back past the boarding house, and I did not want anyone to see me. Finally, after half an hour or so, I stood and turned. My heart leaped into my throat when I saw Dorothy walking my way. She, in turn, seemed just as alarmed to see me. Her head snapped up and she shoved her hand into her coat pocket, but not before I saw she was holding something.

  “Oh, didn’t know anyone was out here,” Dorothy said, her tone snappy.

  “I come out here sometimes,” I said.

  Dorothy simply nodded and hurried past me. I shrugged and walked past the woman, heading toward the bushland that led back to the boarding house. When I was in the trees, I looked back.

  Dorothy was still there. I saw her pull something from her pocket and throw it into the lake.

  Chapter 7

  “Hello, Sibyl!” Cressida greeted me with a broad grin.

  I gasped. “Cressida! What on earth are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly!” She hiccupped. “You know you’re welcome whenever there’s an event on here. Come on, have a drink.”

  “Did the doctors say you could come home?’

  Cressida shrugged. “I didn’t bother to ask them. I released myself on my own recognizance.”

  She handed me a tall glass of some clear liquid, and I took a sip. As soon as I did, I regretted it—it burned the whole way down my throat. Whatever it was, I didn’t think it should be in a glass this big. “What on earth is this, Cressida?” I asked, managing to keep myself from passing out immediately.

  Cressida gave me a puzzled look. “Oh, some little cocktail. Death in the Afternoon, I think,” she unhelpfully tried to explain. It sounded more like one of her artworks than a painting.

  “What’s in it?” I asked again, desperately.

  “Just some champagne, and something called absinthe. We have wine if that’s not to your taste.” She handed me a glass of wine. I considered throwing my cocktail out the window, but couldn’t bear the thought of destroying Cressida’s garden.

  The night wasn’t off to a fantastic start, then. That one small sip had already made me uncomfortably drunk, and I wasn’t exactly looking forward to long conversations about ghosts. Mr. Buttons had invited me here for a dinner at the boarding house. It wasn’t a formal celebration of anything, just a nice way to relax and get to know everybody better. He hadn’t mentioned that Cressida had escaped from the hospital. Perhaps he hadn’t known at the time.

  I looked around the room and tried to take it all in. There were the usual suspects, so to speak. Mr. Buttons was sitting at the table, sipping wine delicately and keeping an eye on any potential mess. I hoped that maybe some alcohol would relieve his urge to clean everything, but didn’t get my hopes up.

  Cressida, obviously, was also in attendance. I had no idea how she had come into possession of complicated super cocktails, or for that matter, how she had discharged herself from the hospital, but I also knew I’d probably be happier not finding out at all. She was busying herself talking excitedly to some of the ghost hunters.

  They were all here, too. Alex was sitting silently alone, ignoring everything happening around him. I assumed he was still in shock over Sue’s untimely death, and it was hard to blame him. I’d seen more murders than the average police officer, and I sure wasn’t starting to get used to it.

  James and Ken were talking with Cressida, or rather, Cressida was talking at James and Ken. Looking hard enough, it seemed as though they were actively trying to stop their eyes from glazing over. They’d nod occasionally and react just a little bit too slowly to any prompting from Cressida, as though she’d asked a question and they only realized after several seconds.

  Finally, Michael was sitting opposite Mr. Buttons, although he seemed to be admiring the ar
chitecture of the building rather than conversing. I followed his gaze, and understood how somebody who hadn’t seen this room as often could be so distracted by it.

  The table was long—long enough for all seven of us to sit at comfortably, with space for even more guests—and made of polished cherry wood, which reflected the light of the chandeliers beautifully. There were several candelabras scattered along the table, flames dancing softly, casting a soft light that beautifully accompanied the warm electric glow from above.

  It was, however, undeniably musty. It was a large boarding house, and was simply too much for such a small staff to manage. I always thought it added to the charm, though, and somehow made it more authentic. I’d visited older houses like this before, but they’d always either been too modernized or too unkempt, losing the charm that the boarding house seemed to display so well.

  I sat down opposite Mr. Buttons, next to Michael. It wasn’t my first choice of seating arrangement, but if I’d walked the whole way around the table I suspected it might seem rude.

  “Hello, Sibyl. Glad you could make it.” Mr. Buttons said earnestly, greeting me with a smile.

  I thanked him and smiled back. “Glad to be here. Are you both having fun so far?” I asked both Mr. Buttons and Michael. Michael cleared his throat and looked away, so I turned to Mr. Buttons for an answer.

  “Cressida has been showing us her, ah, art,” he explained grimly. As soon as he said it a crack of thunder sounded outside and I heard sudden heavy downpour of rain. I felt a chill run down my spine and took a drink of wine.

  “What was that?” Cressida asked, looking up at us. “Did you want to see more art?”

  “No!” the three of us yelled in unison, but Cressida had already hurried out of the room to get it. Suddenly, a Death in the Afternoon didn’t sound so bad.

  “What do we do?” I asked in a strained whisper.

  “I’m getting out of here. Tell her I’m in the bathroom,” Michael announced, standing up.

  I grabbed his wrist and held it as hard as I could. “If you go, she’ll wait around with it until you get back!” I hissed. “You’re just prolonging it for us all. Sit down.”

  Michael obeyed, taking a seat and looking like he was about to cry. I couldn’t blame him. Maybe I could just leave and say I wasn’t feeling well.

  “Here it is!” Cressida announced from behind me. I saw the color in Mr. Buttons’ face drain as he saw it, and slowly turned to see it for myself.

  There weren’t words in any language from throughout the history of humanity for what she’d painted. It was as if she’d looked into another, darker dimension and pulled back some unspeakable horror.

  “I call it Into the Light,” Cressida announced happily. The entire room was speechless. At that moment, a loud crack of thunder sounded out at the same time as a flash of lightning blinded us, resulting in everybody present screaming simultaneously.

  The lights cut out, and we were left sitting in the candlelight, staring at the painting. I hadn’t thought it possible, but it had become even more disturbing. “Please put it away,” James asked, sounding as though he was about to scream.

  Cressida shot him a hurt look.

  “You don’t want it to be damaged. What if you put it down and somebody steps on it?” I offered, hoping to deflect some of the blame upon James while making sure the painting was moved away.

  Cressida smiled wanly and then walked out of the room, and I heard Mr. Buttons sigh with relief. I took another sip of wine, being careful that my trembling didn’t cause me to spill any. I thought that Cressida should really sell the business and start working in horror films, but decided she’d just take offense at the suggestion.

  “What is happening down here?” Dorothy demanded as she entered the room. “Why are you people always screaming?” Her voice was filled with anger. She exchanged a quick furious glance with James, who stared back with equal animosity.

  “There was a painting,” Ken explained with a tremble in his voice. Dorothy’s jaw dropped and she backed out of the room without a word, clearly knowing exactly what had happened. For a while I worried that she wouldn’t have the courage to come back out with the food once it was done.

  Cressida strolled back out into the dining room empty handed, met with our collective sighs of relief. I was feeling more than a little on edge, and the lights going out hadn’t helped. After seeing what was possibly the scariest painting in my life—a statement that was true every time I saw one of Cressida’s works—I didn’t particularly want to be trapped in a conversation with ghost hunters at all, much less in the dark.

  There was another flash of lightning and crack of thunder, making us all jump. Rain pelted hard against the windows and the candlelight flickered furiously. I wondered what could be causing it to flicker so much, as I couldn’t feel any wind. I shivered and pressed in closer to the table, noticing that nobody else looked exactly comfortable either.

  “I hope you brought some cameras,” I half-jokingly said to Michael, who barely seemed to acknowledge me. He was clearly feeling a bit anxious himself, and I couldn’t help but wonder if ghost hunters should be a little braver in the face of this kind of thing. Then again, I was telling myself that I was just being silly, so if I really believed in those kinds of things it would probably be that much worse.

  We sat for a few minutes of pained silence, broken only by the occasional attempt to start a conversation. Finally, Dorothy appeared again with the food and started plating it up for everybody. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was in the dim light, but it looked to be some kind of meat with vegetables. It was nothing especially exciting, but it tasted fine. Actually, it was much better than Dorothy’s regular cooking, and I wondered if perhaps she was improving. Or maybe she was just starting to hate us less.

  “Ah, whoops,” Ken said, startling everybody. “Sorry, just dropped some in my lap.”

  Mr. Buttons leaned down and wordlessly began to rub Ken’s leg.

  “What are you doing?” Ken demanded as he shot up out of his seat.

  “Oh, hold still. I’m cleaning you off. You’ve made a mess of yourself.” Mr. Buttons explained, continuing to wipe the food off Ken’s leg.

  Ken sat back down awkwardly and went back to eating. It was one of the strangest experiences of my life, sitting there in flickering candlelight, eating something I could barely see with an almost completely silent group.

  Finally, Cressida broke the silence. “Is this the kind of environment you see ghosts in?” she asked, making me all the more on edge.

  “Yes,” James said, clearly opting not to explain further.

  “Why is that?” Cressida pressed, apparently either extremely interested or just trying to make the meal less awkward.

  “Well, there are a few reasons and theories,” James explained, setting down his cutlery and clearly settling in for a lengthy explanation. “One of the most common is that electricity, such as in lights, can interfere with our EMF readers. Many also believe that spirits are scattered by UV rays—in much the same process that causes sunburns to us—which is one reason that so many opt to investigate at night and in the dark.”

  Cressida, Mr. Buttons, and I were all listening intently. It was something I’d long wondered.

  James cleared his throat and continued. “Another reason for night-time investigation is simply silence, though that matters less here in the country. In cities, investigations need to be done well after midnight, or the sound of traffic and people can interfere too much. We do, however, try to keep the environment as similar as possible to how it was during the initial sighting. If a spirit has only ever manifested in daylight, we’ll investigate during the day.”

  Cressida nodded furiously, following every word. “Isn’t it a bit, you know, scary?” she asked. It was a fair question. I was feeling anxious here, with candlelight, surrounded by people. Plus, I wasn’t even hunting ghosts, and I knew the boarding house quite well.

  “Not when you’re as experience
d as I am,” James said coolly, and I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

  “It’s a good point, though,” Michael added. “It certainly makes for more atmospheric and compelling footage, even if not much happens. Try selling footage of a door move slightly in the middle of the day.” He laughed.

  I looked around and shuddered. It might not be good for their business, but I couldn’t wait for daylight.

  “I feel sick!” Cressida suddenly announced out the blue.

  “No wonder!” Mr. Buttons exclaimed. “I have already lectured you about leaving the hospital against the doctor’s orders. Now I’ll have to take you straight back there.”

  Chapter 8

  There was a knock so soft at my front door that I almost didn’t hear it. I was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop and eating from a bowl of oatmeal that I held in one hand. I sighed and glanced at the clock. It was a little after seven, and I thought that was too early for anyone to be bugging me.

  I kept my bowl in one hand and passed through the living room and to the front door. I opened the door to find the head ghost hunter on my step.

  “James, what can I do for you?”

  “Oh my goodness,” the man said in a dramatic tone, stepping forward. “I feel them. May I come in?”

  I hesitated, remaining in front of the man so he was barred from entering my home.

  “You feel what, exactly?”

  “Spirits,” James said, but his voice was soft, and his attention seemed to be far away.

  “There are no spirits here,” I said firmly. “You came to tell me my home was haunted?”

  James shook his head. “No, I came to ask you something, but I’m telling you, I feel them here. Truly. I would love to come in.”

  I sighed and stepped out of the way.

  James walked directly to the center of the room. He stretched his hands out and spun slowly. “I wish I had brought my equipment,” he said. “This feels like ghosts.”

  “Who you gonna call?” Max said, and James opened his eyes and glared at the cockatoo.