by Morgana Best
“I have no doubt she’s visiting a friend,” Thyme said dryly. “But the only way we’ll find out is to ask someone who it is that lives there.”
“But our coffee will get cold,” I complained.
My words fell on deaf ears, as moments later I was following Thyme across the road to the pottery store.
We looked around at the pottery items, much to the annoyance of the shop assistant. “Do you wish to buy or are you just looking?” she said.
“Just look at this gorgeous ceramic bowl,” I said in an attempt to deflect the question.
“Do you live around here or are you just passing through town?” the woman persisted.
“We’re locals,” Thyme said. “Would you happen to know who owns the apartment behind the shop? It looks quite private. My brother’s moving to town and wants to rent somewhere quiet and private for six months or so until he finds somewhere to buy.”
“It’s already rented,” the woman said. “It’s owned by Clara Smith, you know, the wealthy Merino breeder.”
Thyme raised her eyebrows at me. “You said it’s already rented? Do you know if the tenant is long term, or would the apartment come available soon?”
A strange look passed over the woman’s face. “You’ll have to ask Clara. I don’t think it will be coming up for rent anytime soon, if you ask me.” She looked as though she were enjoying a private joke with herself.
“Oh yeah, she rents it out to that man, doesn’t she?” I said in an attempt to draw her out.
The woman nodded. “Yes, her butler,” she said derisively.
“What!” Thyme said, but I gave her a sharp jab in the ribs.
“Yes, Gilbert Lowe,” I said. “A young man.”
The woman nodded again. “Yes. Clara spends a lot of time in that apartment. Still, I can’t say too much because I rent my store from her. I can’t comment on the comings and goings.” Her tone held clear disapproval.
We thanked her and left the store. As soon as we were back in the car, I sipped my coffee which was still pleasantly warm. “Did you hear that?” Thyme said with a giggle. “She does have a toy boy! It’s the hot young butler.”
I couldn’t stop laughing. “Ah well, it’s none of our business, I suppose.”
“What?” Thyme shrieked. “It is our business. We’re the ones looking for the murderer, since the police are off in happy land, and this could mean that Clara is even more of a suspect.”
“How do you figure that?” I asked her.
“If Clara couldn’t divorce her husband because he’d get a sizeable portion of her property, then it’s likely she did away with him so she could be with the butler.”
I took another gulp of coffee before answering. “No, that makes no sense at all. Gilbert is clearly not husband material. He’s just a bit on the side, as they say in these parts. She’s not going to kill her husband just so she can marry her toy boy. He’s obviously just a fling.”
“How do you know that?” Thyme asked me.
“Look, he’s young and hot. He’s not going to want to marry an older woman like her.” I thought for a moment. “Okay, I might have that wrong. Anyway, she won’t want to marry him. She’s obviously a very clever woman and he’s, well, if what we’ve seen so far is any indication, a bit of a bimbo. They hardly seem like marriage partners. It does give him a motive though,” I added. “Perhaps Nick found out about him, and was going to put a stop to it. That would be the end of his meal ticket. Anyway, we might get more information at the funeral.”
Chapter 10
“Oh, this is fantastic, isn’t it?” the strange woman asked me, with an enormous smile.
“Not especially,” I admitted, looking around. “I mean, it’s nice for what it is, but it is still a funeral.”
“But look at how many people have turned up.” She swept her arm across the crowd. “And the food is so wonderful. So many have lined up to do eulogies. It will be a great time for everybody,” she announced, still smiling.
“I, um, have to go now,” I said, failing to think of a more clever excuse. I left the woman, without waiting for a response, and stood next to Thyme at a table. There were several kinds of food scattered all over it, ranging from several different kinds of finger foods to curries and seafood. I thought it a bizarre mix until I realized that nearly every guest must have brought something of their own.
“Having a good time?” Thyme teased me, popping a grape into her mouth.
I sighed and grabbed the sweetest thing I could find. It looked like it contained a combination of chocolate and liqueur, so I didn’t really care what else was in it. I ate it in a single bite and immediately regretted it. Whatever liqueur had been inside was much stronger than I thought legal.
“I can’t wait to get home,” I admitted. “I don’t like regular funerals because everybody is so dour. Some part of me thought that today might be better, because of the spell, you know. But of course it’s much, much worse.”
Several people nearby laughed at a joke, and a few strangers smiled broadly and waved to me. I ignored them entirely, but Thyme mustered up the energy to wave back, albeit half-heartedly.
“It’s not so bad, Amelia,” she said, eating some kind of sushi at the same time as speaking. “The food is good. Or, abundant, anyway. Some of it’s not so good.” She nodded at a nearby plate covered with pitch-black sausages.
“It feels like we’re at a party where guests have to wear black,” I sighed. “This doesn’t feel like a funeral in the slightest, but it’s not any better. If it weren’t for Selena relying on us, I think I would just go home.”
Thyme nodded, and I followed her gaze over to Selena. She was talking to a cheerful man nearby, though she herself appeared to be on the brink of tears. I thought that Selena would have a horrible time being so near Nick’s family during all of this, and it was obvious that they wouldn’t enjoy her presence, either. Thyme and I had decided that we should try to keep her out of trouble to the best of our abilities.
So far, we had managed to keep her away from Clara, Harrison Blake, and Chris Blackwell. None of the three had been in town when the spell hit, which meant that they were all able to be their regular grumpy selves, while everybody else was extremely happy and friendly.
“Hello, Thyme! Amelia!”
I swung around to see Constable Dawson.
“Oh, hello.” I smiled sheepishly, though Thyme managed a considerably more sincere greeting.
“Enjoying the funeral?” he asked, smiling broadly.
“Enjoying the food,” I said. I felt like I needed a way to avoid this question in future, as everybody I had come had across asked me the same thing. Maybe I needed a name tag that read. Hello, I Am: Enjoying the Funeral.
“Did you know Nick?” I asked.
“Oh, no, I only met him as a corpse,” Dawson admitted merrily. “He was the corpse, not me, of course. Anyway, no, I don’t know much about him other than what the investigation entails, but I suppose that’s a lot more than many people here.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Thyme asked, shooting me a glance. I knew what she was doing, and I had to agree. This was a great opportunity to try to learn more about Nick.
“He wasn’t a very successful, interesting, or likable man,” Dawson said with a smile. “Died in a stupid way too, if I’m honest, which I always am.”
I wondered what Dawson meant, and asked him.
“The initial forensics suggest that the vic—that is, Nick—was killed with aconite,” Dawson admitted casually, as if his mind was largely elsewhere.
“Wolfsbane?” Thyme asked.
Dawson grinned at her and selected a piece of garlic bread from the enormous spread on the table. “Exactly! Gold star to you.” He giggled. “Anyway, yes, it’s a very brutal way to die.”
“Oh,” I said, unsure of how to reply to that. “Well, are you sure? Could it have been natural causes?”
“Certainly,” Dawson nodded, clearly enjoying his garlic bread, “b
ut that would be a chance in a million. The toxicology results will be confirmed in four to six weeks, but it’s clear that aconite does fit the circumstances of death.”
“Which are?” Thyme prompted him.
“Oh, uh,” Dawson cleared his throat. “You know. Horrible, non-party related stuff.”
“Well, we’re at a funeral, not a party,” I urged. “It seems to me that it’s very funeral-related.”
“I suppose, but it still doesn’t seem right to talk about it.” Dawson took a handful of blueberries and began eating them slowly. “You’ve both asked so nicely, though, and I’d hate to be rude.” He sighed. “All right. Well, it certainly mimics the effects of a heart attack, which should make it a more popular poison. Unfortunately for both the killer and the victim, it also induces severe vomiting, which is what happened to dear old Nick,” Dawson said, still as calm and happy as ever.
Thyme and I couldn’t hide how disgusted we were at the news. I was glad I had only briefly looked at the murder scene. but Dawson was still eating his blueberries, seemingly unaware of the effect his explanation was having on us.
“How did it happen?” I asked, wary of the answer. I couldn’t imagine that it would get worse, but I wasn’t excited to find out.
“Well, vomiting occurs when...”
I sighed. “I mean how did he get poisoned, Dawson.”
“Oh!” Dawson cleared his throat. “Of course. Apparently the aconite was found in his antacid medication, which places it very clearly as a murder weapon, unless some poor pharmacist mistook aconite and antacid, of course,” he explained. I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
“Excuse me,” a man said as he approached us. As I looked at him, it was at once apparent that he was a minister. “The eulogies are about to begin. Please be seated.” He motioned to the myriad chairs that were sitting in neat rows throughout the room.
I walked away, leaving Dawson and Thyme in conversation. I sat down in the nearest seat and got comfortable, wanting nothing more than for this funeral to end. A few moments later, Thyme sat next to me, and Dawson looked at me with a sad, forlorn expression, which I took to be heartfelt considering the happiness spell. I sighed, got up, and moved seats, allowing him to sit next to Thyme.
The minister stood at the front of the crowd, waiting for everybody to be seated. I heard several people apologizing profusely to each other as they tried to maneuver to their seats. Once everybody was seated, he spoke. “We will now begin the eulogies,” he said with an enormous smile. “Firstly, Mr. Clarke, an old friend of the deceased.”
The crowd clapped happily as a middle aged man took the stage. He was well-dressed, with neatly groomed short dark hair and an astounding mustache that took up most of his face. It was even curled at the ends, and for a split second I wondered if it was some kind of prank.
“Hello, everybody,” he said cheerfully. The people in the crowd all said ‘Hello’ back to him, as if we were in elementary school. “Well, where to begin?” he asked rhetorically, pacing the stage before returning to the podium. “Nick wasn’t a great man. He wasn’t particularly impressive, attractive, hygienic, or interesting. And now he’s dead.”
That was met with wild applause.
Mr. Clarke cleared his throat before continuing. Thyme and I looked at each other. She was wearing a shocked expression, and I assumed I was, too. I looked over to see Clara and Harrison looking stunned and furious. It was hard to blame them. Chris giggled.
Unfortunately, Mr. Clarke continued. “However, he was at least there for me, whenever my other friends were busy and I wished to contact him on those occasions I had forgotten the number of the local illegal brothel. And I will always remember him for that. Or, at least, I will remember him for the next month or so, to be honest.”
The crowd applauded cheerfully as Clara evidently sunk into a deeper rage.
“Nick is gone. However, many believe that death is not an end, but a beginning,” Mr. Clarke continued. “I agree. I believe that death is the beginning of anguishing alone in eternal darkness from which there is no escape or relief. However, that endless black pit is now a little brighter for having Nick in it.”
The crowd applauded wildly, as Thyme and I sat in stunned silence. A woman behind me started crying. I heard her mutter, “That was too beautiful.” I thought Clara was going to run on stage and tear the man in half, but luckily she managed to keep her cool. Selena wasn’t handling it much better and had been crying nonstop since Mr. Clarke had started speaking.
The minister returned, clapping cheerfully. He wiped a tear from his eye, and made the unfortunate decision to announce the next speaker. I slumped back into my chair, wondering how long this was going to drag on. If any of the others were as bad as Mr. Clarke, this was going to be a long day.
The next speaker was announced as a Mr. Edwards. He was a tall, older man, with thinning gray hair. He hobbled up onto the stage and opened his mouth. I held my breath.
Chapter 11
“Hello,” Mr. Edwards said, waiting several moments for the applause to die down before continuing. “Despite what many will have you believe, I always found Nick to be an inspirational man. He was a man who touched all our lives. He also touched far too many women, which in my sincere opinion, is why he’s dead now.”
The crowd clapped politely.
Mr. Edwards, whom I would have described as a sweet old man until I’d heard him speak, continued. “I like to think that Nick has gone to a better place. He worked his whole life. Not hard, you know, but still, he worked. I think he’s earned some small improvement in the afterlife, if there is one. Though, we don’t exactly have wars and global famine because God loves us, do we? Still, it’s nice to hope.”
Mr. Edwards marched back into the crowd to enthusiastic clapping and a few nice words from the front row.
As the minister announced the next speaker, I leaned over to Thyme. “We have to stop this,” I whispered, glancing at Selena. “This is horrible.”
“We can’t stop an entire funeral, Amelia,” she said. “We’ll just have to bear it. We’ll help Selena however we can, but it will be okay once the eulogies are over. Maybe this next one won’t be so bad.”
The next speaker was a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties. “Like many, I was having an affair with Mick,” she began. I glared at Thyme, who sighed. This definitely wasn’t getting better. Selena continued crying, and Clara’s knuckles had gone completely white from clenching the back of the chair in front of her. I wasn’t sure what was making her angrier; the fact that Nick had been sleeping with so many women, or that this woman couldn’t even remember his name.
“Mick didn’t seem especially happy to me. He was always complaining about his wife, among other things. I like to think that he was looking forward to his death,” she said with a big smile. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over him. But if anybody wants to help me try, please see me after the eulogies.”
The crowd applauded. Meanwhile, Clara looked like she was about to explode. I wondered how long the eulogies could go on until she spontaneously combusted from rage.
The next speaker was a man about the same age as Nick, who identified himself as Jim. He ran up to the stage and grabbed the microphone enthusiastically. “I knew Nick way back in his college days,” Jim said, smiling at the memory. Or at anything, really, it was hard to tell. “We got up to all sorts of trouble, but he always had my back. He never even told anybody about the time I accidentally ran an old man down with my car!”
The audience laughed and clapped. I was mortified. I only hoped Jim was joking.
“Anyway, I have to admit that it’s always sad when a member of a loving family dies. In the case of Nick, it’s also a bit sad. While he wasn’t particularly easy to like, or even be near, he was at least quite funny to talk about with my other friends. Now that he’s dead, it’s hard to do that without feeling guilty. We will miss that.”
The crowd clapped and nodded, and many audience members were st
ill smiling broadly. To call it unsettling would be a drastic understatement, though I thought that maybe it was good that at most people were enjoying themselves. Clara and her family sure weren’t.
The minister introduced another speaker, a middle-aged woman named Sarah, who took the stage reluctantly. It occurred to me that she probably wouldn’t have even given a eulogy if it weren’t for the spell.
“They say that you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” she said, before staring blankly for several moments. After at least a full minute, she took her seat back in the crowd to polite clapping.
“When is this going to end, Amelia?” Thyme asked desperately.
I shrugged. “Hopefully soon. It can’t really get any worse, and Clara’s managed to keep her cool so far. With any luck, she’ll stay calm until it’s over. Selena even seems to have stopped crying.”
“Why are they saying mean things? I thought the spell would make them nicer,” Thyme muttered.
I thought for a moment before replying. “Perhaps they think it’s the nicest thing they can say about him. Maybe they’re so happy that it’s impeded their judgment.”
The next speaker was a young man named Hank, though I couldn’t figure out his relationship with Nick. Hank was in his mid-twenties at most, with medium length hair and poor choices in clothing.
“We always told Nick that he should be a better person,” Hank began cheerfully. “It looks like he took our advice.” He motioned to the coffin as he spoke, and I put my head in my hands. This funeral couldn’t be over soon enough. Like the others, his eulogy was strangely short, and he took his seat without saying much else. I imagined that the spell was making people feel as if they should be honest, and once they had gotten everything off their chest, there was nothing else to say. It was better than having them drag on, though that was a small comfort.
The next speaker was an older woman, who seemed have at least a decade or two over Nick. She wore thick-rimmed glasses and a white sequined dress that was bizarrely out of place at a funeral. “Let us give thanks to God,” she began, closing her eyes and clasping her hands together. “He has seen fit to take Nick from us, an act of great benevolence and wisdom. The world has become a richer place,” she finished. Several people in the crowd muttered ‘Amen’ before she took her seat in the crowd.
