by Morgana Best
He opened his mouth to speak, but then the strange sound started again. This time, I could tell it was coming from behind the long bench that separated the kitchen from the rest of the Community Hall. Thompson hurried over to it and then looked down. He threw his hands into the air. “I really can’t believe this! This is just crazy, simply crazy.”
I did not know whether he was talking to me or to himself, but I walked over to see what the problem was. There, on the ground, was an overly fat wombat happily munching biscuits. “That wombat has just eaten the last of the police issue biscuits,” Thompson said angrily. “Where’s that woman who’s supposed to be looking after it?” He stomped off in the direction of the WIRES office. I backed away carefully. I knew that wombats could be quite aggressive if they were upset, and I sure didn’t want to upset this huge wombat.
When I reached my seat, I looked around for something I could use as a shield if the wombat decided to come for me. Thompson stormed back out of the WIRES office and stomped all the way to the external door. Right behind him was a woman wiping her brow. I walked over to her. “Do you need any help getting the wombat back in?” I didn’t really want to help her, but I thought it only polite to offer.
She shook her head. “Thanks, but he’ll come for food.”
“I think that wombat has already eaten rather a lot of food,” I said.
She sighed long and hard. “Yes, the detective just told me he ate all the police issue biscuits, and yesterday he got out of his crate and drank all the police issue beer.”
“They have police issue beer?” I asked her, surprised.
She shrugged. “They’re Australian.” With that, she rattled something in her plastic bag and the wombat waddled over to her. I backed away slowly, but the wombat did not seem to be aggressive.
Detective Palmer walked out of the room, rubbing his temples. “Please come in, Ms Myers.” He opened the door to the interview room.
“I hope there are no snakes or other wild animals in there,” I said for a joke.
Palmer gave a ghost of a smile. “These are very difficult working conditions,” he said in what must be something of an understatement. “I’d offer you coffee, but I think the wombat drank it all.”
I didn’t know if he was joking, so I simply smiled and nodded.
“Were you harmed in the alleged attack, Ms Myers?” he asked me. “Because if you were and have any bruises or anything like that, I suggest you go at once to a doctor and have everything documented.”
I shook my head. “He didn’t get near me. He came at me, but I, um, threw my salad in his face. The salad dressing seemed to sting his eyes, so he turned around and ran into a door.”
Palmer gave me a long, penetrating look. “All right then, we can go over your witness statement now.”
I sat down, and Palmer looked up at me, his pen poised over his notepad.
“I was making, um, salad with a nice salad dressing, and I think I put in a little too much garlic, so I opened the back door for some fresh air. Just as I finished making the salad, he ran at me. I threw the salad in his face.”
“Did he say anything to you?” Palmer said.
I nodded. “Yes, he said, ‘Don’t tell anyone, or it will be the worse for you. This is your only warning.’” I wasn’t entirely sure if they were his exact words, but they were close enough.
“Tell anyone what?” Palmer asked me, scribbling furiously.
“He didn’t say anything else, because that’s when I threw my salad in his face,” I explained. “But I assume he thought I could identify him.”
“Identify him from where or when?” Palmer said.
Now I was confused. “You know, after he murdered Bob Jones and ran out my gate, knocking me over. Didn’t he think I could identify him? I thought that’s what he was telling me to be quiet about.”
Palmer bit his lip and then leant back in his chair, rocking it a little. “Could he be referring to anything else?”
“What do you mean?” I asked him. “Are you telling me he’s not the murderer?” Surely that couldn’t be right.
The front two legs of Palmer’s chair landed on the ground with a thud. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” he said. “Graham Gibson has an ironclad alibi for the time of Bob Jones’ murder.”
“Are you sure?” I knew it was a silly question as soon as it was out of my mouth. Of course he would be sure. Without waiting for him to respond, I added, “But why did he attack me?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, Ms Myers,” the detective said, some frustration creeping into his tone. “What else did he want you to keep quiet about?”
I shrugged and rubbed my forehead. “I can’t think of anything.” I went through the conversation we had in my garden. “Oh, I think I know what it is.” I shot a look at Palmer, but he was waiting expectantly. “He came around to my house the other day and stuck a microphone in my face. He was trying to interview me. He asked what it was like to have a best friend who was the main suspect in a murder case. In turn, I reminded him that he’d had a huge falling out with Bob Jones that led to him being fired from a Sydney newspaper.” I stopped talking and looked Palmer.
He simply nodded, and said, “Go on.”
“He got very angry then, so angry that for a moment I thought he would hit me. That must have been what he was talking about.”
“What did he ask you to keep quiet about, specifically?” Palmer said.
I tapped myself on my forehead. “I forgot that part. I told him that several Sydney newspapers would be interested to know that he’d had a terrible argument with someone who was now murdered. Perhaps he thought that was a threat of some kind.”
Palmer raised his eyebrows and stopped writing. “And was it?”
I shook my head. “No. I was just trying to stop him reporting that Carl is your main suspect. Anyway, he got quite angry after I said that. He drove off with a squeal of tyres. He must’ve really thought I would tell one of the Sydney newspapers.”
“Perhaps. You know the procedure by now, Ms Myers. I’ll have this typed up and then you can sign it. Then you can continue with your afternoon.”
As soon as he was out the door, I called Tom. This time he picked up. “Narel, I was just about to call you. I left my phone in my office by mistake. When I came back, I saw your message, but when I was on my way to my office, Cheryl from one of the local bakeries told me that the police dragged someone out of your shop. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about it in person.” I could hardly confess to using pepper spray on someone when I was in danger of being overheard.
“Who was it?” Tom asked me.
“It was Graham Gibson, the reporter, but the police said he’s not the murderer because he has an ironclad alibi.”
“Or he’s clever enough to make his alibi look ironclad,” was Tom’s immediate response.
I nodded. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. Have you seen Carl? He’s not answering his phone, either.”
“He’s right here,” Tom said. I heard muffled voices in the background.
“Hi Narel,” Carl’s voice said.
“What are you doing in Tom’s office?” I asked him, surprised.
“I was at the bakery looking for gluten-free bread, and I happened to run into Tom when Cheryl was telling him what happened. I didn’t have my phone on me, so Tom said to go to his office and we’d call you.”
An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. Was Tom involved in Carl’s secret, too? Were the two of them plotting something that I didn’t know about? It wasn’t my birthday for ages, so they couldn’t be planning a surprise party.
Carl was still talking. “Are you sure you’re okay, Narel? Did that reporter attack you? What happened?”
“I can’t talk right now,” I said slowly and carefully, trying to give him a hint. “I’m at the temporary police station. I’ve just given my statement, and the detective is going to bring it
back to me to sign. Then I can leave.”
I heard muffled talking once more, and then Tom said, “I’ve invited Carl for dinner tonight. I think the three of us need to put our heads together. I just don’t like this, Narel. I don’t like it at all. I have a bad feeling.”
“Me too,” I said. “I’d like to check into Graham Gibson’s so-called ironclad alibi. The detective didn’t tell me what it was, of course. I wonder if there’s anyone who would have any information on it?”
“I’ll see if I can find out anything,” Tom said. “Narel, are you going back to the shop this afternoon after the police have finished with you?”
I didn’t really want to, and I said so. “If it’s all right with you, Tom, I’d like to go straight back to your place. I’ve had a bit of a scare what with being attacked and all.”
“Of course. Feel free to treat my home as your own.”
I heard Carl giggling in the background. I glared at the phone.
Chapter 16
After I signed the witness statement, I walked out into the main room at the Community Hall, intending to drive straight to Tom’s. To my surprise, Peter The Purr-suader walked out of the WIRES office.
“Narel!” he exclaimed. “I heard you had a run in with that nasty reporter.”
“News travels fast,” I said ruefully. “What are you doing here? I mean, at the WIRES office.”
Peter smiled. “The WIRES people always tip me off as to the location of any stray cats. I trap them and then have them taken into care where they can be rehabilitated and then rehomed.”
“That’s admirable!” I said. “Carl was always saying he wanted to do something like that.”
A strange look passed across Peter’s face, but then I might have been imagining it. After all, I’d had a hard day. “Do you have time for coffee?” he asked me. “You might want to ask me more questions about your cat. After all, I owe you.”
I shot a look around the room, but could see no police officers. “Not about my cat, but how would you feel about me asking you questions about Graham Gibson and Bob Jones?”
Peter held up both hands, palms facing up. “Sure! Anything I can do to help.”
We walked into the café next to the Community Hall. Marketed as a healthy café, it still had plenty of chocolate. We ordered at the counter and then sat down at one of the vacant tables. Peter was the first to speak. “I thought all those rumours about you were exaggerated, Narel, but now I’m beginning to think they are accurate.”
“What rumours?” I said somewhat defensively.
“That you don’t eat anything but chocolate.” He laughed heartily.
I laughed, too. “I am trying to get better. I ordered chocolate soufflé with orange sauce just then. Weeks ago, I would have ordered chocolate soufflé with chocolate sauce.”
For some reason, Peter seemed to think I was joking. He continued to chuckle until the waiter put our meals in front of us. Before I tucked into my food, I said, “The police told me that Graham Gibson has an alibi for the time of Bob Jones’ murder. He wouldn’t happen to have a twin brother, would he?”
Peter finished his large mouthful before answering. “Not as far as I know. Why do you ask?”
“The alibi,” I said. “I’m sure Gibson did it. He’s smart enough to figure out a way around the alibi. I thought the answer might be that he had an identical twin.”
Peter shook his head and kept eating.
“You know that TV show, Death in Paradise?”
Peter nodded.
“Sometimes the murderers in that show have really good fake alibis by clever means, but it’s usually based on faking the time of death. I know the time of death is accurate in this case, because it happened right behind my shop. I find it very hard to believe that Gibson really does have an alibi.”
“Surely the police would know,” Peter offered rather unhelpfully.
I shrugged. Maybe it had been a mistake having coffee with him. He didn’t seem to be a good source of information at all. He did, however, tell me some funny anecdotes about his cat whispering adventures. “I’ve never come across a cat as, shall we say, strangely behaved as Mongrel,” he concluded.
I had to agree. Mongrel was unique, that was for sure. On the drive back to Tom’s house, Graham Gibson’s alibi was bugging me. When he had appeared in my shop earlier, I had thought he was there to kill me. The police were convinced otherwise, simply because he had an ironclad alibi. I had watched too many murder mysteries on TV to be fooled by an alibi, allegedly ironclad or not.
I prepared dinner that night, after first asking permission from Tom. He had seemed delighted. I wasn’t worried when I heard someone at the front door, because I knew only Tom could get in. I didn’t know whether to go to meet him or stay in the kitchen. I didn’t want to appear overly keen, so I stayed in the kitchen and fussed around, looking busy. I had already prepared the dinner.
Tom greeted me with a wide smile, then turned around and marched straight back to the door when the doorbell rang. He presently returned with Carl. Carl rushed straight past Tom and grabbed me by my shoulders. “What happened? The suspense has been driving me mad, Narel! Out with it!”
I pushed him off me with a laugh. “How about I pour us all a glass of wine and we can sit down to hear all about it?” Tom said.
Presently, the three of us were sitting in his living room. I hadn’t wanted to sit next to Tom on one of the sofas, because being close to him made me nervous. I sat on the sofa opposite him. Carl sat next to Tom and jerked his head slightly to show me that I should be sitting there. I ignored him. “I was making pepper spray in the shop kitchen when a masked figure ran through the back door at me,” I began, but Carl held up one hand.
“Your back door was open? Narel, you should keep it locked at all times.”
“I know,” I said, “but the pepper spray was overpowering the space, so I had to open the door to let the fumes out. Anyway, do you want to hear or not?”
Carl made a zipping motion across his mouth. I pushed on. “Anyway, he was wearing a ski mask. He ran at me and said something about not telling anyone and that was his only warning, so I picked up the pepper spray and sprayed him in the face.”
“Ouch,” Tom said.
Carl asked, “Did it work?”
“It sure did. He screamed and turned around and ran headfirst into the door and knocked himself out cold. I rang the police.”
Tom’s brow furrowed. “Are they going to lay charges against you?”
“For the pepper spray?” I asked him.
He nodded. Mongrel chose that moment to look at him, so he kept perfectly still.
“No, because they don’t know I used pepper spray. I told them I was eating a spicy salad for lunch and I threw it in his face.”
They both looked shocked. “And they believed you?” Tom said.
“Not at first, but then I ate some. I tell you, it nearly killed me! I’m sure I’ll reek of garlic for days.” I said the latter to give Tom a hint that I didn’t usually smell of garlic. In fact, I was surprised that I still had a garlicky taste in my mouth, because I had consumed about five packets of peppermints. They had made not one iota of difference. “Tom, did you find out anything about Gibson’s alibi?”
Tom shook his head.
Carl groaned. “Gibson having an alibi has thrown suspicion onto me, I’m afraid. I mean, more suspicion.”
I looked at him sharply, nearly spilling my wine in the process. “What do you mean?
Carl bent down to stroke Mongrel, who had walked over to him and planted himself firmly in front of Carl’s feet. In cat-speak, that translated as, ‘Stroke me now, slave, or else!’ “Oh Narel, it was awful. They dragged me in there this afternoon and…”
“They dragged you in?” I said in disbelief.
Carl shrugged. “That’s just a figure of speech. It wasn’t as if they put me in handcuffs or anything, but their manner wasn’t very nice. I know they think I did it. They made me go over my
story again and again and again.” He put his head in his hands. “It was a nightmare, I tell you, an absolute nightmare. They must have asked me the very same thing five times. I know they think I did it. They were trying to trip me up with my story.”
“That’s terrible,” I said with feeling. “And I’m sure they only suspect you because Graham Gibson has an alibi. Did you find out anything about him, Tom? Does he have an identical twin?” I added hopefully.
Tom shook his head. “He does have a brother who looks a lot like him,” he said. “I found him on Facebook. They look very similar, so he might have been able to pass himself off as his brother to people who didn’t know him terribly well.”
“That’s just the problem. We need to find out what his alibi was. If we don’t know what he’s claiming his alibi to be, then we can’t look into it at all.” Carl’s tone was dejected.
“I’ll do some more digging into it,” Tom said.
I slapped my hand on my forehead. “I’ve just remembered something! I was just thinking how clean Tom’s house is, and it reminded me of Linda Forrester.”
“What about her?” Carl said.
“It’s just dawned on me,” I continued. “Whoever broke into my house to poison my food must have known I wasn’t home. Who knew I was out with Tom?”
“Who did know?” Carl asked me.
“Linda Forrester!” I said triumphantly. “When we were going into the restaurant, she saw us. She looked straight at us.”
Tom tapped his chin. “Yes, she did.”
Carl shook his head. “That doesn’t really narrow it down. She could have told any number of people.”
“Unless she was meeting people for dinner that night, she was hardly likely to call people at night and tell them she saw me with Tom. Even though she thought I was two timing you, Carl,” I added.
“Whatever makes you say that?” Carl said with a chuckle.
I smiled. “You should have seen the look she gave me.”
“It seems we have too many suspects now rather than not enough,” Tom said.
