Jones grumbled distractedly. “You suspect something, though?”
“Suspect? Yes. Am I certain, though?” Bloom shook his head.
While Jones talked to the doctor and got him to fill out the appropriate forms to release the body, Cassy took the opportunity to check the small metallic bowl next to Jane Fontaine. It had been the first thing she’d spotted when she’d entered the room. She’d been waiting for a moment to inspect it. It contained the effects of the deceased—a single ring; a wedding band.
Chapter Eight
When Deputy Jones was finished, they said goodbye to the peculiar Dr. Bloom and made their way to the cruiser. The farther they got from the morgue, the more relaxed Cassy became. The feelings she’d been picking up inside the morgue dissipated. Soon she was feeling like herself again, and by the time the car was halfway to the station Cassy felt like talking once more.
“It’s murder, right? It has to be.” The silence that greeted her told her everything she needed to know. Jones suspected foul play. “Circumstances alone have to raise a few flags; toxicology report be damned.”
“It takes more than circumstance.”
“You’re not saying there’s no motive, though. I think we both know there’s a lot of negative sentiment toward her and who she represents.”
“Which leaves us with a town full of suspects.” Jones sighed. He turned off Main Street and continued the short, winding drive to the station. “When anyone might have a motive, and there’s no murder weapon—hell, there’s not even a definitive sign of injury—then there’s very little to go on.”
“But—”
Jones downshifted as he neared a residential area. On all but two lawns Mrs. Hamswell’s crudely printed posters were on proud display. Some even had two or three. When the people of Havenholm got behind something, they really got behind it.
“But nothing. My personal ‘hunches’ don’t come into this,” Jones snapped. And neither do yours. As a representative of the law, I must have something more substantive. Starting with you.”
“Me?”
“You found the body, didn’t you? What compelled you to go out of your way to check her car? You don’t drive, do you? So what were you doing in the parking lot?”
This was the first time Cassy had seen this side of the deputy- official and forceful. She liked it.
“I didn’t find her.” Cassy thought back to the night of the death. It had been Ms. Fontaine’s associate, Willows, who had first spotted her. He’d seen the body from afar, even though Cassy had been closer. Until then, Cassy hadn’t thought this was strange, but on reflection it seemed convenient. Nobody suspects the person who finds the body, do they?
“Who found the body then, if not you?”
Cassy looked out at the passing colonial houses of the more affluent area of Havenholm. Town meeting tonight! More than ever she was convinced there was something going on.
“I mean, there were a lot of people there that night. The car was stopped, and any number of people walked past. Someone must have seen something,” Cassie pointed out.
He must have bought her misdirection, as he didn’t bring it up again.
* * *
After a disappointing follow-up interview at the station (disappointing because even though the police got what they wanted, Cassy hadn’t been able to glean any new information) she returned to the store for a well-earned cup of tea and, finally, something to eat. Famished beyond all reason, she practically devoured all of Patty’s cookies—the ones she kept by the cash register and would routinely snack on throughout the day.
One benefit of having a store at the intersection of two streets is that it becomes a meeting place. You never ask someone to meet you halfway down the road, but always on the corner. And so, the Spicery would often become a hub for gossip.
With her hunger tamed but not defeated, she was about to head into the world when she overheard a conversation between two women browsing the meager selection of books, hoping to find recipes.
After being bewildered by the shelf of identical books (Allow’s Thousand-and-One Recipes for Potatoes, Sweet and Otherwise) their conversation turned to the meeting the night before. One of them mentioned how she’d seen someone whom she called “the scrawny little sidekick guy” at the Auberge.
The ‘sidekick guy’, Cassy assumed, was Willows. She’d planned to accidentally-on-purpose bump in to Mrs. Hamswell after eating, but now she had an idea that Willows was still in town, and tracking him down gained priority. The police would want him to stick around for a while, she guessed, but she wouldn’t have long before he went back to the big city.
“Where are my cookies?”
Sheepishly, Cassy turned to Patty. She wiped crumbs from the corner of her mouth then struggled to swallow the last of her ill-gotten loot before replying, “I’ll buy you some more. I promise.”
“Aww, man!” Patty had a way of making anything sound like it was probably the end of the world.
“Things are going to get worse before you get more cookies, though.” Cassy put on her best ‘you know you love me’ smile before continuing.
“Go on.” Patty groaned, already resigned to her fate.
“Do you think you can hold down the fort for the rest of the day?”
“I thought you were going to take over. I’ve been struggling without Dot.”
Dot had a very relaxed relationship with timekeeping and would often come to work late. This wasn’t out of laziness or contempt for her coworkers but more a deeply ingrained disconnect with reality. Late in life, she’d been diagnosed with dyslexia and other associated disorders, which meant that she was officially and clinically scatterbrained.
“Well, where is she then?”
As if on cue, the bell above the door heralded Dot’s arrival. She entered as always with a beaming smile.
“Morning all,” she said, then looked at her watch. “Good afternoon.”
Patty threw her hands in the air in celebration. It would be painful for Cassy to inform her that Dot was needed elsewhere.
“Let’s say I pay you double-time today, and then you can have all of tomorrow off?” she said to Patty before she got any ideas of freedom.
Even with her youthful and naturally cute face, Patty pulled off quite a determined scowl.
“Seriously?”
“I can’t drive, Pats, and Dot has a car.”
“I have a car,” Dot offered, as she made her way round behind the counter.
“Not so fast, Dot. I need you to take me to the Auberge.”
“The place just out of town?”
Cassy nodded. “I’ve got this bee in my bonnet about that poor woman who died, and I have to get a better sense of who she was. Her partner is still in town, it seems.”
Dot rubbed her chin for a second. “Do you mean the woman who wanted to destroy Havenholm?”
“That’s not quite accurate, Dot,” Cassy responded, “but yeah, her.”
“Well, let’s get going then. We can’t wait all day.” Dot was already halfway out of the shop before Cassy realized what was happening. Patty waved Cassy away.
“I promise you’ll get a whole day off tomorrow,” Cassy said.
“And double pay.”
“Of course.”
“And two packs of cookies.”
“Three, I promise.”
“And I get to choose the radio station in the store.”
“Don’t push your luck, Pat.”
* * *
With a belch of black smoke, Dot’s car spluttered to life. It was a small old thing with what Dot liked to call ‘character’ and a high yearly maintenance bill. The seat on the passenger side was a good three inches lower than the driver’s. Dot was already much taller than Cassy, so the older woman now towered over her. It was disconcerting, and Cassy tried to keep her eyes fixed on the road ahead rather than crane her head up when talking.
“You know where it is, don’t you?” Cassy asked. She had no idea how to get
to the Auberge, a tavern on the outskirts of Havenholm. It was the place of choice to stay when visiting the area for those who could afford it.
“The roads are my second home, hon. Don’t you worry.”
By the time it became apparent they’d set off in the wrong direction, the cookies Cassy had stolen from Patty were wearing off, and she dreamt of what she might eat at the Auberge. Swearing in the mildest and most restrained—and to Cassy highly amusing—manner possible, Dot turned the car around and raced back across town.
The forest started suddenly as they passed the sign thanking them for visiting Havenholm and warning them to drive safely. The trees were tall, dark and tightly packed, with deep shadows creeping between them, even by the light of the summer sun. They formed a wall that separated the town from everywhere else. It was a psychological thing above all; there were many roads that cut through the forest, and the town was readily accessible, but that great, dark sea was a mental barrier of sorts that gave the residents of Havenholm an island mentality. It played no small part in the business with Newmark. Haveners (as they called themselves) enjoyed the remoteness of their hometown, as it made them special. Havenholm was a place you either stumbled upon or didn’t find at all.
Chapter Nine
The Auberge was a halfway house, neither consumed by the forest nor part of the town. It had been a safe house for smugglers many moons ago but in more recent times was a sought-after retreat for those keen to get away from life. Rarely was it home to visiting suits planning their next big commercial construction project.
As they pulled into the short driveway leading to the grand, old, wood-fronted building, Cassy sensed trouble. A car she recognized, a tasteless gold-sprayed old thing, some might call ‘classic’, was parked askew across several parking spots.
“Is that Donald’s Cadillac?” Dot asked, as she cautiously navigated her way around the vehicle, then delicately parked beside it.
“Yeah.” It was his car. The license plate read BLDR 4 Cassy guessed 1-3 were already taken.
As they got out of Dot’s car, the cool air hit Cassy. The first days of summer hadn’t warmed this part of the world yet. The skyscraping trees on both sides of the tavern cast long shadows.
“What do you reckon Saint-John is doing all the way out here?” Dot questioned, pronouncing the name Sin-jun as Donald was constantly correcting people to do.
“My guess is that he’s doing the same thing we are.”
“Putting his nose in where it isn’t wanted?”
“Exactly.”
* * *
The reception area was empty except for a large bear carved from a single block of wood that stood menacingly at the center of the room. Whether it should greet visitors or give them second thoughts was unclear. Dot walked right up to it, entranced.
While Dot was occupied, Cassy had a preliminary look around. It was a nice place and had an unforced quaintness that spoke of great care and attention to detail. Caught somewhere between log cabin and five-star Manhattan hotel, Cassy thought she might like to stay there. It occurred to her a desire to take a vacation somewhere just minutes from home showed a lack of ambition, but it did little to dissuade her. There was a bell at the reception desk and a small sign inviting guests to ring for assistance. Cassy almost touched the bell, but stopped, not wanting anyone to stop her from sneaking around.
“Dot!” Cassy cried in a loud stage-whisper. She beckoned her over, and together they crept through the foyer, through the double doors that led them to a maze of corridors.
“Do you hear that?” Cassy whispered.
Dot tilted her head. “Voices.”
“They’re coming from over there.” Cassy nodded farther down the hallway. One of them was Saint-John for sure. She recognized his booming, pompous baritone. The voices led them to a mess hall. Four walls were floor-to-ceiling windows looking into the forest. The trees swept down a steep incline, revealing the true expanse of the woodland that seemed to stretch to the horizon.
Silhouetted against the expanse of blue-gray pines were two dueling figures, wielding jabbing fingers, neither daring to get anywhere close to physical contact. Cassy sighed. It was the kind of rage-fueled, but conservatively restrained fight that only men in their fifties would engage in. She’d been secretly hoping she might find Saint-John challenging Willows to a punch-out. The worst-case scenario here would be that one of them might get a stained shirt if his pen burst during a mild scuffle.
“He’s gone off the deep end,” Dot said. “He’s frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog.”
She wasn’t wrong. Donald had turned a delightful shade of puce, and his neck strained at his collar. Despite being loud, none of his words were intelligible from where the two of them hunkered down behind the entrance door.
“Something’s got him riled, that’s for sure. You’d think he’d be a bit more restrained.”
“Especially as that poor man just lost his friend.”
‘That poor man’ was considerably calmer than Saint-John, though from his balled fists Cassy could tell that Willows wasn’t serene.
“Should we break them up? We don’t want this getting nasty.”
Cassy considered doing just that, except she wanted to know what they were talking about. Believing they were having a private argument meant that they would be unguarded.
“No, I’m going to get a bit closer,” Cassy responded. “You stay here. If a member of the staff comes by, you knock three times.”
“Got it.”
Between Cassy and the two men were a dozen long, wooden tables with thick benches on either side. She could go from one to another without being seen. That was the plan, anyway.
Getting onto her hands and knees, Cassy scurried to the nearest one. For a moment, she considered what she might do if a porter, or even the manager of the Auberge walked in, drawn by the sound of Donald’s booming voice, and found a middle-aged witch crawling around on all fours. When she decided there was no possible explanation she could give that wouldn’t sound implausible, she relaxed. There was a certain amount of confidence in knowing what you were doing was inexplicable. It took some of the danger out of it; that uncertainty just wasn’t there. In a way, sneaking around between the tables was liberating. If she was caught, then it would be a fair cop, and she wouldn’t argue with it. But Cassy still had to focus on the task at hand. Untroubled by the consequences, she wanted to hear what was being said.
The closer she got, the more she was hidden from view. The angle at which the tables were aligned made it nearly impossible to spot her. Besides, both Willows and Saint-John were focused on each other.
“…wouldn’t be here if you’d just accepted the deal.” The calm voice hid a tremble of anger. It was Willows’ smooth, lawyerly delivery.
“That was no deal,” retorted Donald’s deep gurgle. “That was extortion. And this changes nothing; all this mess! If you think that I’m going to be somehow more amenable to your offers out of sympathy, then you’ve got a shock headed your way.”
“Mr. Saint-John,” Willows pleaded, “would you please show a little decency? The tragic loss of my close partner has nothing to do with this. The offer we’re making is the same revised contract as before. If you think that I would somehow try to use this terrible situation as leverage in a property deal, then you have greatly underestimated me.”
“No, it’s just a happy coincidence, isn’t it?” Donald’s voice lost a little of its solid footing, aware that he’d perhaps stepped over a line. “You know what I mean. You’re in a better position now than before. The police suspect she was killed, and that just makes me look bad, doesn’t it? If I capitulate, then I lose face, but if I stand strong, then I’m heartless and quite possibly liable to incriminate myself.”
“I hardly think that—”
“You don’t know the small-town mentality. If someone sees smoke, they cry fire. Mark my words. You may have lost a colleague, but my reputation is at stake.”
The exten
t of Donald’s insensitivity was staggering, and Cassy had to restrain herself from standing up and calling him out on it. It was a miracle that Willows had refrained from punching the man for as long as he had.
After a deep, tired sigh Willows spoke once more.
“The truth was that Jane was not the best-loved person. She was hard to get along with sometimes, but she was professional and got the job done, and that alone got her a lot of friends. Even her enemies respected her. If you’re talking of a small-town mentality, it’s the kind that would erase a problem rather than solve it.”
“What are you implying?”
“You very well know what I mean. I spoke to Sheriff Noyce earlier today, and they have suspicions that she was poisoned. And the way I see it, there aren’t that many people who would benefit from Newmark pulling out from Havenholm. We can still make this backwoods little town a prime holiday destination, and you can still be involved. I just need to know what kind of a person I’m dealing with.”
“Are you saying that I was somehow responsible for Mrs. Fontaine’s death—?”
“Miss.”
I hear you, thought Cassy. After a certain age, you become a Mrs. whether you like it or not.
“Miss, Mrs., Señora for all I care. If I was the killer, you’d still want to do business, wouldn’t you? I bet it would make the deal more attractive even. That’s how unscrupulous you are.”
“Scruples are forged by circumstance, Mr. Saint-John.”
A bench juddered back as someone knocked into it, and Cassy shrunk down so as not to be seen. Judging by the sudden halt in the argument, it was neither of the dueling men who had made the noise. They made idle noises like children having been discovered somewhere they shouldn’t have been. If Cassy dropped close to the floor, she could see Saint-John’s shiny black shoes (with a preposterous golden buckle) and Willows’ sleek brogues. There was another pair, bright white trainers, just a little farther beyond the men. A cleaner had entered the room and was wiping down the tables. Cassy had to back off now or risk being discovered. Suddenly the threat of being found became real, especially as she now knew that all parties on the panel the previous night at the town hall were in cahoots. Without getting up, Cassy shuffled back the way she’d come but paused when Saint-John talked once more.
Murder & Spice Page 5
