by Cathy Ace
There was still no input from either man, nothing to tell me if I was on the right track or not, but I carried on, regardless. ‘He gave her gifts – some small, like the plush hippo – but he showed her his true self when he gave her the knock-off handbag. I have a suspicion that did it for her; it showed he didn’t understand her at all. She’d have been worried by that; I suspect it was his birthday-slash-Christmas gift to her, and it didn’t go down well. For her, it was the beginning of the end. He strikes me as a chancer – a guy trying to slither up the social ladder, not climb it. A classier man wouldn’t have been taking her to strip clubs, no matter how “high-end” they might be. Show him a shortcut and he’ll take it, even if it means breaking or bending the law. Probably makes his money in something like “imports and exports”, or some other catch-all phrase that means he can do some shady deals. I would suggest he’s never really come to terms with her dumping him; he probably thinks of himself as a real ladies’ man. He’s at the apartment for dinner, something goes wrong. Maybe he’s turned up thinking they’ll even have a one-night stand for old times’ sake, or maybe he tries to win her back, or gets a bit too close for comfort. Possibly she says something he doesn’t like.’ I tried to calm myself as I recalled how a single wrong phrase used to be able to set off my ex-boyfriend Angus – how I’d never known what might turn him from a normal person into a ranting, fighting machine. ‘Something sets Don off, and she’s taken by surprise. He quickly overpowers her, and strangles or smothers her. There was nothing broken or knocked about, so it probably wasn’t an accidental, deathly fall. Psychologically Don’s a bully – he almost sneers that she’s only getting one gift for both her birthday and Christmas in the card he signed; being a bully doesn’t necessarily mean a large stature, but often does. I wouldn’t be surprised if Don works out quite a bit – playing to his narcissistic tendencies – so maybe he surprised himself that he actually killed her. I don’t know enough about Don to be able to say if he went to her condo with deadly intent, but, as I said, he’s a chancer, so – even though he possibly hadn’t planned to kill her, once she was dead, he knew where all her good stuff was, so he reckoned he might as well take it. A woman as well-turned-out as this one would have had a good stock of both real, and good quality dress jewelry – and there was none in the apartment. She’d also have probably had a few good art pieces about the place in those empty niches in the wall unit, for example, possibly from local galleries; I can tell from her clothing she has an eye for design, and art was strangely absent from her home, so I suggest he took such items too. But, without more information, I couldn’t have told you more. I would have had no way of finding out who this Don person is. Sorry.’
I was looking at a huge, smiling face on the screen; it was so big I couldn’t really make it out, Bud Anderson had pulled the camera close to him. ‘You can see me, right?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I confirmed. I can almost see what you had for dinner, I thought.
‘Then this is for you, Professor Cait Morgan,’ and he kissed the lens. It looked disgusting. As he pulled back from the smeared glass – which he made worse by rubbing it with a tissue – Bud said, ‘I can’t see you, so I guess you could be a wizened old gargoyle, but I don’t care. You deserved that kiss. What I’ve just heard is amazing; you’re so on the money it’s spooky! We picked up the ex today; the idiot was trying to sell some of her possessions – locally carved First Nations’ masks, as you surmised – and we had the insurance records. I want all my officers to come and learn how to do what you just did – well, okay, not all of them, but some. How much do you cost to hire? Can I afford you, I wonder? Can I not afford you? Anyway – give me your e-mail address and I’ll get in touch tomorrow, right?’
Impressed by the man’s perspicacity and ability to make an instant decision rather than waffle about, I gave him my e-mail address, but thought it only fair to warn him about Chief Superintendent Dufray’s outburst earlier in the evening.
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Anderson, ‘I’m used to him dumping on me. And he doesn’t run the I-Hit anyway; he’d like to, but we report directly to his boss, which the poor man hates. So if I want you, and I can justify the budget, I can have you. And you know what? If Dufray goes off on one about this tomorrow, he’ll just be helping me prove my point that you’re good, and you can help us. Think of all those man-hours we could have saved, if only we’d used one woman-hour – so long as that woman was you.’
I had to chuckle and couldn’t resist. ‘But any woman-hour is worth ten man-hours, Bud.’
‘Just what my wife’s always saying,’ he replied amiably. Then he added, ‘By the way, just so you know, Don Waverly – that’s the creep’s name – won’t get away with it; he had the rest of her stuff in his place, and we’ll nail him with DNA in any case. Her fingernails hold the key to his conviction, I’d say; she put up a fair fight as he smothered her, poor woman. He’s still covered in the scratches she made. Sounds like there was a screaming match, and he was trying to shut her up; he keeps saying he didn’t mean to do it. But to take all her stuff like that after he’d killed her? That sort of callousness won’t play well with a jury. Her parents are in from Alberta, and they’re going to clear her apartment tomorrow, they’re pretty much emotionally shredded, of course, and, you know what, Professor Morgan – here’s something I think you’d understand – that’s what pushes me to make sure we do the best we can at I-Hit. We’re here to represent the victims, and those they leave behind, and I’d be really glad if you could maybe help us out, professor. It’s about justice for those who’ve gone, and those left behind.’
‘Please call me Cait,’ I asked, ‘especially if we’re going to work together, which I’d love. I echo your sentiments about justice needing to be served; it’s what’s driven me to develop the theories I have. I look forward to hearing from you.’ I meant it.
‘I’ll be in touch, soon – over and out, professor.’ The screen went black.
And there I was, all alone in the lecture theatre; it seemed suddenly very quiet. The adrenalin rush was still coursing through my veins, but I had nowhere to direct my energies anymore. It had been quite an evening. It was almost ten o’clock; time for home, a bit of TV, and a large Bombay and tonic – refreshment in a glass on a summer’s night, for a forty-something workaholic woman with no one to talk to but a remote control, and a frozen burrito or two.
I realized too late that I hadn’t asked the name of the victim – the woman herself. I wondered about that as I drove home; why I hadn’t asked? Had I been dehumanizing her, as much as her killer had? Had my analysis been just a game – a puzzle to solve? Had I begun to lose my connection with reality? Just the usual sort of things you mull over while driving home from work of an evening.
When I finally walked in through my front door, I couldn’t help but wonder what someone would say about me if they performed the same analysis of my home as I had of the nameless dead woman. Given my general lack of interest in domestic chores, and knowing my own quite individual taste in interior décor, I shuddered. I decided to clean out the fridge the moment I entered the kitchen, and promised myself I’d make an effort to fold my laundry and wipe down the bathroom counter before bedtime. I also made a mental note to find out the victim’s name from Bud, and to ask if there was to be any sort of memorial service for her in Vancouver; even if I didn’t know her name, I almost knew what it was to have lived in her skin, and I wanted to say goodbye to a stranger I now felt I knew so well.
JULY
Tea for Two
Edna Sweet had known from the age of ten that she wanted to own a tea shop. By the time she was fifteen and a half she’d further decided that since she didn’t really like boys, and they didn’t seem to care for her, she would probably never have to change her name, so her shop would be called The Sweet Olde Tea Shoppe. She liked the way it sounded; it spoke to her of a genteel clientele and gingham tablecloths. English through and through, like her, it would be a sig
n that the times had not left behind the manners and expectations of a more chivalrous age.
With a specific vision before her, and the family recipe for teacakes as her only inheritance, the sadly and suddenly orphaned Edna left school the day after she turned eighteen and promptly buried her parents, who had both, tragically, been run down at a bus stop by a drunk driver a week earlier. She got herself a job at the checkout in Tesco’s by day, and two other jobs by night – one as a barmaid in a pub during the week, the other as a nightclub server at weekends. She literally worked every hour she wasn’t asleep. While earning as much as she could, she spent as little as possible on what passed for a life at her meager bedsit in Finsbury Park.
By the time she was twenty-five Edna still hadn’t saved up enough money to realize her dreams. Then, although she had given up all hope of it happening, she finally received a payment in compensation for the loss of her parents; thanks to a thoughtless man from Edmonton who couldn’t say no to just one more pint, Edna was finally able to leave North London to hunt down an opportunity to start her new life.
After much searching she purchased a small, rundown roadside café on the edge of a village just outside Oxford. The village was pretty, though not pretty enough to draw the tourist coaches that clogged the streets of other local market towns, and, although it had four pubs and two churches, it had nowhere for ‘ladies’ to take morning coffee or tea.
Having moved into the little flat above the café, Edna spent an entire month scrubbing, cleaning, bleaching, and fitting out the grease-pit she had bought. She couldn’t believe the previous owner hadn’t killed anyone; everything was filthy. However, with maximum effort, and minimum expenditure, Edna proudly flipped the sign on the door at ten a.m. sharp on Monday the 2nd July. The Sweet Olde Tea Shoppe was open for business.
It was, without doubt, the happiest moment of Edna’s still relatively short life. As she turned to survey her world she grinned with satisfaction, because it was exactly as she had imagined it, all those years ago: white walls and paintwork; small, round, dark wooden tables; traditional Windsor-backed chairs with little blue cushions for comfort; and, set against the farthest wall, a large, darkly reassuring Welsh dresser bedecked with willow pattern china. Fresh blue-and-white gingham cloths covered every table, each of which was laid with sparkling white cotton napkins and gleaming cutlery.
The walls bore cross-stitched panels of floral arrangements, or homilies such as ‘Home is where the heart is’, all executed by Edna herself over the past several years during her ‘spare time’. The very air itself was almost edible, being full of the aroma of Edna’s special toasting teacakes, which she had promised, in her advertisement in the local newspaper, to serve free to anyone ordering a pot of tea between ten a.m. and five p.m. on her Grand Opening Day!
As she looked about her, Edna told herself not to blub with excitement, and she certainly couldn’t stay still, so she busied herself straightening the already thrice-straightened tablecloths, and made imperceptible adjustments to the positioning of the polished cutlery. The tinkling of the bell on a spring that Edna had placed above the door sent a shiver of anticipation through her entire being; she was about to meet her first customer. Edna swung around to see two ladies enter. They were perfect! Both had probably already celebrated their seventieth birthday, had gloriously unruly gray hair and each was wearing a well-pressed, lightweight, open-necked blouse atop a cool cotton summer skirt, artlessly gathered around a spreading waist. To Edna’s great joy they both sported tights with their sandals; an arrangement that she felt spoke of proper county ladies who would never go about barelegged, whatever the weather.
‘Welcome to The Sweet Old Tea Shoppe. My name is Edna Sweet, I’m the owner.’ She bristled with pride – she was so excited to hear those words fall from her own lips. ‘Please come in and make yourselves at home.’
The ladies cast their eyes about Edna’s establishment and seemed to be satisfied.
‘Let’s sit here in the window, Betty,’ suggested the one wearing the pink blouse above a pink and blue skirt.
‘That’ll be nice, Joan, yes, let’s,’ replied the one in the yellow blouse and green skirt.
‘Do you have a lavatory?’ enquired the lady in pink.
‘Indeed I do,’ replied Edna, waving her arm toward two discreet doors in a small corridor that led off from the main tearoom. Years in the hospitality business had taught her that the quality of the ‘facilities’ would attract, or repulse, certain types of customers. Edna had installed new white bathroom fittings, within white-tiled cubicles, and had decorated with soft lemon gingham curtains, silk flowers, and dishes of pot pourri. She had ensured that both the Ladies’ and Gentlemen’s washrooms were designed to be able to be kept spotlessly clean, and delicately fragranced, at all times.
Edna noted the lady in pink was gone for no more than thirty seconds – hardly enough time to wash her hands, let alone powder her nose – before she returned, and nodded approvingly toward her friend. Edna knew instinctively that her shop had just passed an Important Test.
‘Tea for two please, Edna – and make sure it’s piping hot, mind you,’ said the lady in pink.
‘But of course,’ replied Edna, gushing, ‘and would you like some teacakes? I bake them myself, then lightly toast them under a real grill – not in one of those machines. I serve them with butter on the side so you can choose just how much you want, and I can bring you a selection of jams and preserves.’
The two ladies made eye contact with each other and the one in pink replied on their behalf, ‘That would be excellent, Edna. Thank you.’
As her customers settled themselves into their prime window seats, and began to discuss the décor and the facilities, Edna made sure she was able to present her first customers with the best tea and toasted teacakes ever served in the British Isles. Her hands shook a little as she carried the tray toward the table. She placed the tea pot, cups and saucers, side plates, and serving plate bearing the warm teacakes, lightly upon the table. ‘I’ll be right back with the preserves and the hot water,’ promised Edna, and was as good as her word.
‘Oh Edna?’ called the lady in pink.
‘Yes,’ replied Edna, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘My friend Betty here . . .’ began the lady in pink.
‘Hello, Betty – pleased to meet you,’ nodded Edna.
‘My friend Betty and I – I am Joan by the way,’ she paused.
‘Hello to you too, Joan – and thanks for being my first customers,’ said Edna.
‘We were wondering where you’re from. You’re not a local, are you?’ Joan made the statement sound almost like an accusation.
‘No,’ admitted Edna, wondering whether all those stories she’d heard about villagers being unhappy to admit strangers into their midst were true. ‘I was born in Willingdon, but I grew up in Finsbury Park. Mum and Dad died when I was eighteen, and I stayed on in the area. I moved into the flat upstairs here about a month ago when I bought the café. It’s a very nice village – not too much traffic and lovely people.’
‘I see.’ Joan looked at Betty with one eyebrow raised. ‘We were just wondering if that was a London accent we could hear.’
‘Very perceptive, I’m sure,’ Edna replied. If she’d had a forelock, she’d have tugged it.
Joan sailed on regardless. ‘Betty and I were wondering where you were from because the name Sweet is so unusual, and there was a girl by that name in our school, wasn’t there, Betty?’
Betty seemed to jolt to life and took up her cue. ‘Oh yes, indeed there was – Emily Sweet. Though she wasn’t, was she, Joan?’
Edna smiled. ‘I know my dad didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and there weren’t even any cousins that I know of, so I don’t think we could be related.’
‘Of course not, my dear,’ interrupted Joan, rescuing Edna as she floundered, ‘it was just a co-incidence that you have the same name.’ She seemed to change the subje
ct. ‘And such a suitable name for a Tea Shoppe!’
They all laughed and smiled, and Joan and Betty proceeded to heap upon Edna general compliments about the strength of the tea, the delightful way the milk jug didn’t drip, the taste, texture, and correct toasting of the teacakes, and the décor.
When they left, about an hour later, Edna had gone so far as to refuse to let them pay a penny for their refreshments – as a recognition of their being her first customers. It wasn’t like Edna to baulk at asking for money, but this was a special day – she was beginning to develop genteel ways for a genteel village, where people lived genteel lives in genteel homes.
Around noon, an elderly married couple came in and took tea and teacakes; around two p.m. a couple of young mums popped in for a quick coffee on their way to collect their toddlers from kindergarten, then took up Edna’s offer of stopping in on their way back to pick up some complimentary teacakes for the kiddies themselves. At four p.m. sharp – the time at which most people think that everything stops for tea in England – a young man with a ruddy complexion and a panicked expression almost fell in through the door, making Edna wonder if the clattering bell would fall off it’s wildly-bucking spring.
