“This isn’t a game.” Jones had become deadly serious, all trace of the southern gentleman evaporating, replaced with an officious monotone. “I’d like to take both of your statements, starting with Cassandra.”
“No problem,” Cassy responded, shooting daggers at Dot. “Just one thing though, before we begin.”
“Certainly,” Jones said.
“Go in there and tell me that the crime scene doesn’t look funny to you. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it.”
* * *
By the fourth time she’d recounted her version of events leading to the discovery of Mrs. Hamswell, Cassy was feeling the need to embellish just to keep herself engaged. The problem was there was so little to go on. The discovery of the body was as straightforward as anything; and that put Cassy on edge. Death is often a messy thing, and she wasn’t thinking about the blood that had stained the kitchen floor. Besides the smashed mug there was no sign of forced entry (the door was never locked anyway), no sign of struggle or confrontation. Nothing. By the fifth time she’d spelled out what she’d done, even Cassy was conceding that perhaps this was just an unlucky coincidence. Maybe it was just a curious twist of fate that the one person she believed could shed some light on the Newmark killing had wound up dead herself.
Depleted, tired and resigned to facing a dead end in her short run as a sleuth, Cassy graciously accepted the simple, yet hearty food provided by the police station’s in-house catering. Deputy Jones brought a beef stew (with two dumplings) and a mound of mashed potatoes while she was waiting in Noyce’s office. With limited space, it was the only place available to keep her until she was needed. Besides, Noyce was neck-deep in work and didn’t need the space.
“I thought you looked a little hungry, so I brought you this.” Jones smiled. The meal came on a tray with little compartments for each food, and Cassy ate it from her lap.
“You have no idea how hungry I am,” she said. “Apart from a few stolen cookies, I haven’t touched anything today.”
“So, you’re admitting to the crime then?”
Cassy went pale, convinced that Jones would arrest her for the murder of Mrs. Hamswell. When he saw the change in Cassy’s complexion, he stumbled over his words to put her straight.
“I meant the theft of cookies. It’s okay—we don’t tend to deal with crimes on that scale.”
She could just about swim in the man’s smooth voice, put a few candles around it and soak for the rest of the day. Cassy noticed that she was staring at the deputy in a half-daze when he waved his hand in front of her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, returning to the food she so desperately craved. “No energy and my mind’s wandering.”
“I’m sorry. I guess we don’t need you after all. When you’re finished, I’ll take you home.”
“That’s so nice, James,” Cassy said. As he got ready to leave, Cassy called to him. She wanted him to take her home, anything to get close to him, but there was something else she needed to do first. “But, it’s okay, I’ll make my way back. Fresh air will do me good.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
Chapter Twelve
The door closed behind Jones with a soft click, and Cassy found herself alone once more. It took less than a minute for her to finish the tasty food, and having satiated her hunger, Cassy leaned back in the chair. From her seat, she could see the entire office. It was, as expected, a blandly official-looking room. It was however, punctuated with personalized elements—inevitable, considering how long Noyce had held the position. He’d been sheriff for as long as she could remember.
Pacing the room with an idle curiosity, she perused the photos on the shelves behind the big desk where Noyce did most of his work. There he was, holding a fish half as long as he was tall, a grin splashed across his face. There were other similar photographs, not of him fishing, but that proudly displayed the triumphs of his manly pursuits. Noyce with his soccer buddies, a group photo from his days in the military. Next to those was a faded Polaroid of a young, dark-haired woman. The hairstyle, the beads and the quality of the photo itself suggested that it was taken in the 1970s. The woman was pretty, smart-looking, and nothing like Rebecca. Men…so predictable. They go soft in the head over a pretty face. Was it impossible for them to date someone their own age? Cassy picked up the tray of food, which she had all but licked clean (although she was tempted) and made her way to the door before it became suspicious just how long she was taking. As she passed the wastebasket by the door, she spotted the most incriminating piece of evidence she was ever likely to discover.
“Why Noyce, you little devil, you,” she murmured.
Cassy retrieved a hastily stashed card box with a golden filigree design printed on the side. She recognized it as the packaging used by the Buttercup Cake Shop in town. There was the proof that the sheriff, in his efforts to woo his young lover, had sought external help. And to think he’d let everyone believe he was making a cake!
She tossed the box back into the basket and covered it back up so not incriminate the man, then left the station.
* * *
Mrs. Hamswell’s house wasn’t on the way back to the Spicery, but it was close enough that it wouldn’t seem strange that she passed by. Besides, the detour would take her past Coffee & More, where she could pick up one of their pumpkin spiced lattes, which she’d become increasingly fond of.
All traces of the police investigation were gone from the front of Mrs. Hamswell’s house, except for the yellow ribbon that barred the door. Entrance to the house was out of the question, and not even Cassy would push her luck that far.
Instead she went to the back of the house. A small window looked out to a small yard from the kitchen where the body had been. To get to it, and the view inside, Cassy had to use an upturned wheelbarrow. She teetered awkwardly for a moment then went up on tip-toes to get a look in. She cupped her hands over her eyes to shield them from the light, and slowly the scene within revealed itself. Although the carpet was still stained red and probably always would be, the rest of the crime scene was clean. That wasn’t surprising to Cassy, because even when the body had been there it had been oddly neat and tidy.
It was almost as if the killer had taken as much care with the murder as the police had with tidying it up.
Cassy let out a concerned sigh as she sat on the edge of the wheelbarrow and absentmindedly spun the single wheel. The killer was familiar with crime scenes and had taken care not to leave any trace. This was all based on the speculation there had been a killer, of course, rather than the whole sorry affair resulting from some tragic accident.
Cassy thought back to just a few hours earlier and tried to remember who had entered the crime scene first. Had it been Deputy Wolinski? It wasn’t Jones, as he had taken their preliminary statements. Noyce had arrived first, as he’d conveniently been nearby.
The tingle crept over her body again, the same one she’d felt at the morgue; an empty chill. It was her own fault for going back to the place where she’d found Mrs. Hamswell dead. She reminded herself she was not a detective but a misfiring witch with a nice little business that sold herbs and now had a very limited selection of books.
This was all beyond her. This was not her territory.
* * *
Cassy marched to the front of the house and strode all the way to her own familiar neighborhood of Nether Edge. The name struck her as silly. Maybe it was the desire to flush bad thoughts from her mind, but it was all she could think about on the walk back home. The part of town near the river was appropriately called the Edge. But long ago, someone had built farther away from the fishing area and had struggled for a name. The best they’d come up with was Near the Edge, which over time had transformed into Nether Edge. The name was used so frequently that it had lost all its absurdity for her. Odd, she thought, that something as patently silly as that name had become accepted over time.
It was much like Coffee & More, which she was now appr
oaching. When she’d first heard it, the name sounded casual to the point of being pretentious in its over-studied, noncommittal expression of what it was: a café. But the more she said it, the name was just as a good as any other. It got her thinking that perhaps The Spicery was a little too on-the-nose.
She looked though the large window of the café before entering and saw Mrs. Orange at the helm that afternoon. She waved at Cassy as she entered. There were a few tables occupied, more than Cassy had ever seen before.
“Things are looking up.” Cassy smiled as she went to the counter.
“Not bad. We’ll survive.” Mrs. Orange grinned. “Can I get you anything?”
The news of Mrs. Hamswell’s death and Cassy’s discovery of the body clearly hadn’t reached this part of town yet, otherwise it would have been the first thing they would have talked about. Cassy would have pounced on Mrs. Orange for all the gory details had she been in the same position. She chose not to bring the subject up and ordered a drink instead.
“No can do, Cass. Very sorry.”
Cassy’s face crumpled with disappointment. The thought of that latte had kept her pace up across town. She’d have to fall back on one of her trusty tea blends back home.
“No coffee? Are you just selling & More now?”
Thankfully, Mrs. Orange laughed. She’d tire of jokes like that soon, Cassy was certain of it.
“You can’t spice a pumpkin latte without spices, and we’re all out of what we need.”
“And just what do you need? I’ve got a shop full of them. Everything you could possibly need.”
Mrs. Orange shook her head, correcting Cassy. “That’s what I thought, but you’re all out of nutmeg, and I can’t do anything without that. What I can do, though, is get you an un-spiced pumpkin latte or anything else on the menu.”
“It’s okay, I’ll get some tea,” Cassy said, softly. Already she was retreating into her head to face thoughts of murderers and their weapons of choice. “I’ll be back…” she added as she turned and hurried across the street.
Chapter Thirteen
Nutmeg. It was delicious stuff. It’s spicy and with an intoxicating smell but not as strong as ginger or mace. And that was the right word. Intoxicating. Used in something like a coffee, or even a cake, it added an earthy zest. In her own work, Cassy used it as an ingredient for good luck spells, especially ones to aid gamblers, as it was always linked to prosperity and fortune.
It had other effects if used in enough quantity—quantities that would leave both a café and an herbalist’s stocks depleted.
The bell above the door chimed gently as Cassy entered the Spicery. Dot was already there, having been released from questioning a lot earlier than Cassy had been, but it was Patty who approached her, bounding across the room.
“Finally,” she cried, “there you are. It’s been hectic without you two. Seriously, I don’t care how much you beg or offer to pay me, I’m not doing this again.”
There would be a time to apologize to the girl, but it was not right now. “Patty, you have the easiest job in all of Havenholm. Buck up, kid, and listen to me.” Cassy took Patty by the shoulders and looked her right in the eye. “It’s very important that you tell me who’s been buying nutmeg over the last few days.”
“We sold some to the sheriff,” Dot replied, over the heads of several customers.
“We gave some to the sheriff,” Cassy corrected, “to make a cake he never made.”
“No, I mean we sold some to him,” reiterated Dot, “in addition to the stuff we gave him before. It wasn’t just nutmeg, though. Star anise, cloves…”
Dot rattled off a short list, but Cassy wasn’t paying attention. Nutmeg could be fatal if used improperly, bringing on hallucinations, high blood pressure, and then death. It also wouldn’t show up on a toxicology report.
* * *
Despite Patty’s protests, Cassy left the shop. She took the tightly wound staircase to her apartment. There she found her mother’s old Grimoire, a hulking book with wooden covers that made it almost impossible to read comfortably. She laid it on the floor and flipped through the fine pages inscribed with small text that on a first look might be mistaken for print. It was the deceased Mrs. Dean’s immaculate handwriting.
Cassy found the entry on nutmeg where it specified the exact amount needed for a fatal dose. The book was as much about science as about magic.
She read and re-read the entry, but she was only delaying the inevitable conclusion. She had a murder weapon, she had circumstantial evidence, and she was certain that Dr. Bloom could run further tests to back up her theory. She could do nothing about it, though. Without real proof, or even a solid motive, she could not waltz into the sheriff’s station and point fingers. She needed air. The heady scents coming from the shop below had become overwhelming, when normally they comforted her.
She opened the window and spotted Mrs. Mayweather in the court below, still watering the plants, though she’d progressed to the other side now.
“Mrs. Mayweather,” she called out. “Do you have a minute?”
Slowly, the old lady looked up and smiled when she saw Cassy leaning out the window. “I’ll always have a minute for you, dear.”
* * *
Cassy was down in a flash, her feet tapping out a quick rhythm on the metal fire escape to the courtyard. Already the fresh air was doing her some good. She breathed in deep, smelling the perfume of Mrs. Mayweather’s garden.
“You seem a little flustered, Cassandra.”
“That would be putting it mildly.”
“Man trouble?”
Cassy stifled a laugh. “If only. Not yet. I’m working on that kind of trouble.”
“Something else then?”
“You remember we were talking about the Newmark case? Well there’s been another death—Mrs. Hamswell.”
Mrs. Mayweather nodded solemnly, casting her eyes to the ground. “She was a nosy old woman, wasn’t she?”
“I think she got a little too nosy this time, and she found something.”
“Like the killer?”
“I think so.”
“And you know who it was? The one who killed Bonnie Hamswell and Mrs. Fontaine?”
Not this again. “It’s Miss. I know for your generation it was probably frowned upon to be single so late in life, but things are different now. We can get away with it.” By the stars, Cassy had enough of this kind of casual judgment from her mother when she was alive.
“No dear,” Mrs. Mayweather said, “I’m right. I know that girl. And she’s no Miss, I’ll tell you that.”
This was news to Cassy. She took Mrs. Mayweather by the arm and led her to the bench that ran along the north wall. It was as much for Cassy’s benefit as the older woman’s. “What do you mean? How do you know her?”
“I saw her picture in the Gazette this morning. Little Jane Fontaine. I guess she went back to her maiden name after the split, but I don’t recall there being a divorce.”
The ring. Cassy had thought it odd, but in the morgue Dr. Bloom had removed a single ring from the woman’s body, the only piece of jewelry on her. If you have only one ring, it probably means it's a wedding band. Cassy closed her eyes and cast her thoughts back, feeling once more the creeping chill that comes from being in the presence of death. The ring had been white gold, just like the ring worn by—
“Noyce.”
“That’s right, dear. It was the talk of the town when those two got married, but not half as much when she left. She said she’d outgrown not just him but the town.” This befuddled Mrs. Mayweather more than anything. The thought that Havenholm might not be enough for anyone was almost inconceivable.
“Jane Noyce used to live here,” Cassy mused. “That’s why she was chosen to represent Newmark in this deal. But none of this has anything to do with them. This isn’t about the redevelopment of the town. I’ve been looking in the wrong place all along.”
She hugged Mrs. Mayweather with a suddenness that caught the w
oman off guard. “Oh my, Cassandra. What’s come over you?”
“I know who did it and how, but more importantly, thanks to you, I now know why.”
“Glad to be of help, dearest!” The old woman winked. She picked up her small watering can and returned to her flowers, muttering to herself.
Chapter Fourteen
The sports car that must have pushed the small-town sheriff’s salary to just beyond its breaking point was parked outside the station, exactly what Cassy had been hoping for. Noyce was in.
Jones was there, too, leaning against the wall, a hand-rolled cigarette jumping up and down on his lip as he talked into his phone.
He ended the call and extinguished the embers when he saw Cassy coming up the driveway, chauffeured by Dot. After a few spasmodic stutters, the car stopped, and out came Cassy, Dot and Patty, who had refused to stay at the shop and be left out of all the fun once again. For the first time since it had opened, the Spicery had closed its doors early.
“Ladies,” Deputy Jones said in a voice so low it was felt more than heard, “can I be of assistance?”
“We’ve come to tell you who killed the Newmark lady,” Dot replied, unable to keep quiet.
“Cassy’s worked everything out,” Patty added. She put an arm round her boss’ shoulders and pulled her in close, displaying her proudly to the deputy.
“Well, this all sounds just great. Sure, it saves me having to do any work. And here we were considering bringing in outside help. I’ll get State Office on the line and tell them to not bother, shall I?” Cassy noted his deep, molasses-thick sarcasm and ignored it.
“Is the sheriff in?”
Jones nodded.
“Then tell him I know who murdered his wife.”
* * *
Inside the station things were busier than usual. With only Noyce, three deputies and Marcie on reception, things quickly got out of hand when something big happened. No wonder they were considering bringing someone else in, although now they didn’t need to.
Murder & Spice Page 7
