Murder & Spice

by Wendy Meadows

  A grumpy old man named Frowd (Cassy had never picked up his first name, though Frowd might have been it) occupied the entire top floor of the opposite building. He was mostly a recluse, and Cassy suspected him to be a writer. When he came out of his hermit-hole, Frowd could be seen feeding the birds before chasing them away when he ran out of seed.

  Cassy called out to Mrs. Mayweather, a silver-haired woman who lived on the ground floor of the opposite building. She was performing her daily ritual of watering the plants in the courtyard. Mrs. Mayweather looked up sharply and adjusted her thick glasses. When she saw Cassy, her face brightened and she returned the greeting.

  Murder.

  Cassy shook her head and had a sip of tea. It was too early to have thoughts like that. She wanted to go down to the Spicery and check that everything was okay, even though Patty assured her she could open the shop up all by herself and make do until Dot arrived an hour later.

  The balcony on the other side of the apartment overlooked Main Street. From there Cassy could see all the shops as far as the bakery on the end and what had once been the video store.

  Across the street was Coffee and More, a small place with a few tables and chairs outside. She knew that each of those seats would be full come the start of summer.

  If Cassy couldn’t get rid of the prickly sensation she’d had since waking, she would have to go over there and ask a few questions. She fed Herzog his favorite (tuna and mayo) and went down the fire escape that led to the inner courtyard, bypassing the stairwell to her shop. She wasn’t sure if she had confidence in Patty, or if she just didn’t want to know what was going wrong just yet.

  She passed Mrs. Mayweather on the way out. She had just about finished watering the hanging baskets that adorned the walls on the side that caught the most sun. Petunias mostly, though an errant rose had found its way among them.

  “Cassandra, dear,” said the frail but tenacious woman. She always called her Cassandra. “What did I hear about that business at the town hall last night?”

  “A woman from out of town was found dead in her car.” There was no skirting carefully around the issue, and the old lady wouldn’t have entertained what she called ‘pussyfooting’.

  “Car crash?”

  “No. We don’t know what yet. It might be nothing more than natural causes.” Call it witch’s intuition, or even common sense, but something wasn’t right. “If you hear anything else, you’ll let me know, won’t you? I know you always have your ear to the ground.”

  “That I do, that I do.” The old woman returned to her plants, content to fill her morning looking after them.

  * * *

  Having skipped breakfast so she could plausibly order something from Coffee and More and not look like she was just snooping, Cassy entered the establishment with questions brewing between her temples. There was no good way to casually drop her concerns into conversation, so she would have to just come right out with it.

  By the looks of things, Cassy was the first customer of the day, but it was still early. As she entered, the woman who had served her yesterday and who had so rudely barged past her last night was wiping down the few scattered tables. It was the husband, the poor man she’d last seen being dragged helplessly behind his wife, who took her order at the counter.

  He beamed a great smile as she approached.

  “Good morning,” he said, and then a flicker of recognition crossed his face. “You’re from the herb shop across the road.”

  “The Spicery, yes. It’s my day off, so I thought I’d come over and introduce myself. I’m Cassandra; you can call me Cassy.”

  “Peter. Peter Orange.” Cassy smirked and he laughed. “It’s Dutch, or used to be a few generations ago.”

  “So, how’s everything going with the new café?” Cassy admired the small, rustic place.

  “Oh, you know how it is. We tried our best to get everything up and running before summer season, and now we’re kinda twiddling our thumbs until business picks up. In fact, I think you’re our only regular.”

  “Same at the Spicery. Although things are picking up.”

  “That’s what I keep saying; ‘things will pick up.’”

  The conversation had come to a natural pause that was almost impossible to get out of without a great deal of effort. Cassy could order some food, but then the conversation really would be over. There was no getting around it; she would have to be tactless. She had only one chance to leave a bad impression. Fortunately, Peter broached the subject of the town meeting without prompting.

  “We saw you last night. I guess you thought we were extremely rude.”

  Cassy glanced at Mrs. Orange, who was trying to both eavesdrop and concentrate on her work. “Never mind. I know how it is,” said Cassy dismissively, but she pressed on anyway. “What was going on there? You looked in quite the rush.”

  “We spent a lot of time, effort and money on this place, and did you know that this whole building is owned by Newmark? So we’re pretty invested with them. If they pull out of town, we’ll have to renegotiate the lease. It’s more than we can handle right now.”

  Of all the people who had gone to the town hall last night, the Oranges were possibly the only ones who welcomed the new developments. It was not what Cassy had expected. She chewed her bottom lip.

  “Did you hear what happened afterward?”

  Peter bowed his head. “I’m glad we left before all that. Only found out this morning; I don’t think either one of us would have slept after that disaster. Not to sound selfish—I mean it’s a tragedy that the poor woman died, but it really puts our future in doubt.”

  “How so?”

  Peter stole a look at his wife, then leaned forward to Cassy. “Don’t you think it sends a message to Newmark that they’re not wanted?”

  It was something that Cassy had entertained. If Jane Fontaine’s death were deliberate, even if it couldn’t be proved, it would sour any deals going on.

  “But, wait a minute.” Cassy stepped back from the counter and looked around. The posters so vehemently opposed to the redevelopment were gone. Why had they even put them up in the first place? “Where did Mrs. Hamswell’s posters go?”

  “Oh, her?” Mrs. Orange said behind Cassy. She came into view dusting down her hands. “She came in here like a hurricane and pretty much forced those things on us. We didn’t want to seem ungrateful—we don’t want to lose customers before we even have any. So, I said we’d put them up, and we did. Walking through town this morning they were like a plague covering every available surface. She sure gets around.”

  “But you took them down once she was gone?” If anyone wanted to send a message to Newmark it was Mrs. Hamswell. Cassy realized that perhaps she’d been looking in the wrong place. There were people on either side of the debate; even she was still on the fence. It was the people who had entrenched themselves firmly on one side that she had to look out for.

  Cassy ordered a pumpkin spiced latte to go and said goodbye to the Oranges.

  Chapter Seven

  When Cassy returned to the sidewalk, Deputy James Jones was leaving the Spicery. She nearly got hit by a car crossing the street to catch up with him. Her plan to pay Mrs. Hamswell a little visit must be put on hold. Holding the lid on her coffee, Cassy jogged up behind the deputy. She’d forgotten to get something to eat from the café, and her stomach protested as she bounded up to him.

  “James, isn’t it?” she questioned, before tapping him on the shoulder.

  He smiled when he saw Cassy.

  “Miss Dean. They told me it was your day off, but here you are.”

  “I live above the shop, so a day off rarely takes me far. Say, any news on the—” She wanted to say ‘murder’ but had to correct herself. “Any news on Jane Fontaine?”

  “Well, they’re just about to perform an autopsy. In fact, that’s where I’m going now. Noyce has asked me to take charge of the paperwork.”

  “Well, I did advise him to delegate. That man looks
overworked.”

  He laughed. “That’s not what I’d call it.”

  In the stark morning sun, Cassy found it hard to read the deputy’s expression. Was he trying to imply something about his superior? “What do you mean? Is he shirking his responsibilities?”

  “Hardly. I’d say he’s taken on more than he can handle. If you know what I mean.” Cassy didn’t. Sensing the confusion, the deputy spelled it out for her. “He’s got a new woman, quite a bit younger than him. I get the impression that he’s—how can I say—not getting enough sleep for a man of his age.”

  “Oh my,” she muttered into her coffee, keen to change the subject. It did however clear up the sheriff’s coyness about who he was baking a cake for. “Did you want to speak to me? Is that why you came by?”

  “Just a little follow-up. I thought I might ask you a few questions before setting off to the medical center. It’ll have to wait now. If I could ask you to come to the station this afternoon, I could get what I need.”

  “Why don’t I come with you now? Like I said, I’m free.”

  “I don’t want to impose on you. It’s really not necessary.”

  “You wouldn’t be imposing. Besides, I’d like to get to know you.”

  He mulled it over for a second. “Sure. Why don’t you ride along with me; if you don’t mind stopping at the morgue on the way. I have a few things to do there.”

  “Absolutely, no problem.” Cassy smiled. It was a date; a ride with the new deputy and an autopsy in one day? She couldn’t believe her good luck.

  * * *

  Knowing they didn’t have far to drive to the morgue, Cassy tried to strike up a conversation. “So, I’m having a drink with some friends later tonight; if you’d like to tag along, we’d love your company,” she said.

  “Sounds like fun! Where are you guys going?” the deputy asked.

  Cassy had to scramble to think of a place. “Dempsey’s,” she said, hoping the sports bar was still open. It had been too long since she’d gone out socially.

  “Noyce mentioned that place. Said they made good cocktails.”

  Cassy scrunched her brow. “I never pegged the sheriff as a cocktail kind of guy.”

  “Well, I think he was recommending it as somewhere to take a date. Sports and cocktails; you have all bases covered.”

  “Of course, the mysterious new woman in his life,” Cassy said. “Did you know he made a cake for her?”

  The cruiser pulled into Maybury Hill, two blocks from the morgue. Without taking his eyes off the road, Jones replied.

  “Had some this morning. It was all right. I reckon he brought it in for the boys because he had a lot left over. Gotta guess she wasn’t into it. I don’t know Sheriff Noyce that well, but I’d say he’s acting like a high school kid out on his first date. Don’t get me wrong; he’s a competent guy. I just think his mind’s elsewhere at the moment.”

  “How so?”

  The newly appointed deputy had started something he was now regretting, but he was too much of a gentleman to cut the conversation short.

  “Well, take this murder—”

  “Murder?”

  “I mean fatality,” he said wryly. “We were on the scene immediately, as you know, but a perimeter was not set up as soon as I would have liked.”

  “Do you think someone could have gotten to the body before it could be examined?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “But it’s a possibility?”

  “Look, I guess we’ll find out soon enough if there’s anything worth worrying about.” The deputy indicated they were at their destination already.

  The morgue was part of Havenholm’s modest medical center where the town’s only doctor held his practice. Dr. Nathaniel Bloom was as much a landmark in Havenholm as the town hall. He had seemingly always been a part of the daily life of the town. Cassy had noticed him right at the front of the meeting the night before, and he’d been on hand to see to Ms. Fontaine before the ambulance arrived.

  Now it was up to him to perform the autopsy.

  A wave of prickly ice crept over Cassy’s skin as they entered the morgue. She’d always been sensitive to auras and sometimes could tell if a place was good or bad before even setting foot in it. The morgue was neither; instead she was getting sensations of loneliness and regret. She tried her best to put it out of her mind and behave like anyone else would. But then again, who wouldn’t be a little freaked out by visiting the morgue?

  “Well, hi-dee-ho there! Is that little Cassandra Dean?”

  The short man with the eccentric gray hair who popped out of a doorway to greet them was Dr. Bloom. Cassy was surprised that he even recognized her. It had been a long time since she’d broken her arm as a kid, and she hadn’t been back to see him since that day.

  “Dr. Bloom,” she said, casting a look to Jones, who seemed a lot more amused by the situation than she was. “I hope you don’t mind me tagging along. Deputy Jones said it would be all right if I—”

  “The more the merrier, the more the merrier.” The doctor smiled, his voice lilting. “That’s what they say, isn’t it?” Bloom took a bite from the sandwich that hung precariously from his hand, the contents threatening to spill out on the floor but miraculously holding on tight. It reminded Cassy she was desperately hungry while simultaneously putting her off food. The doctor beckoned them to follow him. Far from being a sterile place, the morgue was a lot more welcoming, with varnished wood along the walls, making it almost homey. It didn’t do enough for Cassy to shake the sense of loneliness, but it was making up for it.

  The main room where they kept the bodies was smaller than she’d expected and with three corpses, it almost felt cramped. Except there weren’t three, Cassy had to remind herself, but at least six or seven. In addition to the table in the center of the room (where Jane Fontaine presumably lay, thankfully covered with a green sheet for now), there were four other gurneys, all occupied, and two cold chambers embedded in the walls.

  Bloom unceremoniously pulled back the sheet to uncover Ms. Fontaine’s pale face. Cassy was no stranger to death, and it took more than the regular dose to shock her, but on seeing the woman and her oddly peaceful face, she let out a gasp. She was comforted by Jones’ hand, which slipped into hers.

  “There’s nothing to be alarmed about, Miss Dean,” Dr. Bloom said as he fussed around the body. “It’s all quite natural.”

  “Natural causes?” the Deputy inquired. He let go of Cassy and approached the table, notebook in hand.

  “Ah, I meant nothing more than the state of death is a natural thing. The means by which it occurs can be anything but.”

  “So, what about Ms. Fontaine?” Cassy pressed. She was as keen to know the results of the autopsy as Jones was. Bloom rocked back on his heels and considered his response.

  “I must admit that I’m ashamed to say that I’m stumped.”

  Jones let his notepad fall to his side. “How so?”

  “She was a healthy woman with no prior ailments. For a woman of—” Bloom checked his notes— “for a woman of fifty-five she was in very good shape. No external trauma. Internally there are signs of inflammation, but nothing I’m not suffering from right now.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “I’ve tested for foreign substances, the usual poisons, drugs and the like, but nothing’s shown up on the toxicology report.”

  Jones looked concerned. This was not what he’d wanted to hear. Cassy could tell that as the new kid on the block, he’d wanted to prove himself, and this had seemed like the perfect opportunity.

  “But people can’t spontaneously just stop living,” he said. “Can they?”

  “Not entirely true. It can happen—rarely—but it does. In this case, however, I doubt it.”

  “What do you mean, Dr. Bloom?” Cassy asked.

  “When I said the toxicology showed nothing, that was true, but her body shows signs of a reaction to something. Look here.” Bloom pulled the cover back to reveal the stitches that kept the body together. Ca
ssy felt a little woozy and blamed her skipped breakfast. “Her skin is dry around the neck, uncommonly so. Her pupils are pinpoints—”

  Cassy leaned in. The woman was beautiful, hard-faced, and stern. Death hadn’t changed her much.

  “…which is odd, because it was nighttime when she died. They should have been fully dilated,” Cassy said. She looked to Jones, who was suitably impressed. But she wasn’t seeking his approval; her natural instincts were kicking in. “Is it possible that the toxicology report could have missed something?”

  With a long sigh, Bloom folded his arms. “It’s possible, certainly. But it would have to be a very exotic compound for it to not show up.”