2 Murder Most Fowl

by Morgana Best

The other rubbed his chin. “I doubt people will want to be silent for two minutes. We’d better have just a one minute’s silence.”

  The other professor readily agreed. “More like we should have a party for Martin Bosworth’s untimely demise.”

  The other professor snorted, trying to muffle his laughter.

  “See, I told you it was a good idea to come here,” Mr. Buttons said. “We’ll overhear a lot of good gossip like that; you mark my words.”

  I nodded and looked down at the sheet of paper in my hands. The first item was the Welcome Address. “We have to sit through the boring seminar first,” I said.

  A woman came forward to the microphone, and after the usual microphone adjustments and accompanying screeching sounds, introduced herself as Dean Judith Wreath. “First we will have a minute’s silence for our departed colleagues, Martin Bosworth and Colin Palmer,” she said. “All please stand.”

  The two elderly ladies sitting to my left grumbled and complained about having to stand, and simply remained seated. The minute of silence seemed to stretch on to two, or even three minutes, and I wondered who, if anyone, was timing it. Finally, it came to an end, and we were able to sit down.

  The Dean introduced a Professor Edwin Boring. “Professor Boring will read Professor Bosworth’s lecture notes to you today,” the Dean droned.

  “Boring by name, boring by nature, I’ll bet,” I whispered to Mr. Buttons.

  It turned out I was right.

  Professor Boring did not introduce himself, but simply stepped up to the microphone, smoothed his outrageous comb-over, and began to read from sheets of paper which he held up in front of his face. “There is no purely biographical account of Socrates; we know him only through his influence on other people,” he said in a monotone. “There are three contemporary sources of information: Plato, Xenophon, and Aristophanes. As different as the Socrates of Xenophon and Plato are, there is general agreement. Plato is absorbed with the theoretical side of Socrates’ mind, while Xenophon reveals the practical side.”

  At this point, I leaned over to Mr. Buttons. “Oh really, who gives a-”

  “Sibyl!” Mr. Buttons pursed his lips. “Your cockatoo is clearly a bad influence on you.”

  I shut my mouth and felt my cheeks flush red, so turned back to be bored by Professor Boring.

  I’m not sure at which point I fell asleep, and the last words I heard were something about Socrates admiring Sparta. I woke up on the shoulder of the elderly lady beside me. She elbowed me hard, and then said in a sweet voice, “Dear, you fell asleep.”

  I mumbled my apologies, and turned to Mr. Buttons. “Is the talk almost over?” I asked hopefully.

  “Only ten minutes or so in,” he said, shaking his head.

  I sighed, and looked around the lecture hall. No one else appeared to be asleep. I yawned twice in succession and then stretched out my arms in front of me. I yawned again, and then noticed the detectives in one of the rows on the far right, near the front. At least, the back of their heads looked like the detectives. Clearly, Mr. Buttons and I were not the only ones who thought that there was some information to be gleaned at the Pubic Lecture.

  That brightened me up somewhat, and I scanned the room. Blake was sitting several seats behind the detectives. To my delight, he was sitting next to a man. Still, that didn’t mean that Blake didn’t have a girlfriend; it just meant that he didn’t have a girlfriend who was silly enough to come to a public lecture on Socrates.

  I shook my head to clear it from thoughts of Blake, and tried to focus on the murder case – or, more accurately, cases. Two philosophers from the same university, even the same academic department, had been murdered, so it was obvious that there was a connection. Yet what? And why was Professor Bosworth murdered with such painstaking irony, whereas Colin Palmer was simply pushed down the stairs? I knew there had to be a clue in that. The logical explanation was that the murder of Martin Bosworth had been planned, possibly for some time, whereas the murder of Colin Palmer was more spur of the moment. Yet that still didn’t help. What was I missing?

  I settled back down to listen to Professor Boring’s droning voice. Mercifully, his reading of Martin Bosworth’s lecture notes finally came to an end, although that meant Question Time would start. How bad could that be? Mr. Buttons and I smiled at each other.

  “Remind me never to ask you to attend another Public Lecture,” Mr. Buttons said in a whisper.

  Question Time went on for about fifteen minutes, and consisted mainly of people trying to show off their knowledge about Socrates, rather than asking genuine questions. Professor Boring fielded the questions admirably.

  Much to my relief, Dean Wreath took the stand again, and announced that refreshments would be served outside. She then did a sales pitch for the philosophy department, trying to encourage students to enroll in their courses.

  The two elderly ladies took their time extracting themselves from their seats, so Mr. Buttons and I, and the people lined up behind Mr. Buttons, had to wait patiently to make our escape.

  Tables were set up outside the lecture hall. They were covered with white tablecloths and filled with all manner of cakes and pastries, several huge urns, and packets of teabags and instant coffee. “Oh goody, instant coffee,” I said sarcastically.

  “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” Mr. Buttons said.

  I had no suitable comeback, so just pulled a face.

  “Mingle, and ask questions about Martin Bosworth and Colin Palmer,” Mr. Buttons said, and then at once took off to speak to one of the professors.

  I reached for a cupcake, and then turned around to see a young man. “So, did you enjoy the seminar?” he asked.

  “Did you?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, so wonderful, wasn’t it?”

  Before he could say any more, I got in first. “Professor Boring did a good job, reading the notes. Such a shame poor Martin Bosworth died. Did he have any enemies?”

  The young man looked around, and then leaned forward. “Oh yes, no one liked him, no one at all. He had quite the reputation for causing trouble for everyone.”

  “Did Professor Bosworth cause trouble for Colin Palmer too?”

  The young man shook his head. “I don’t think so. Professor Bosworth liked Palmer as he wasn't too successful and thus not a threat. So, I haven’t seen you around; are you a student here?”

  “I was a student, at Sydney University,” I said.

  “What do you do now?”

  “I have a mobile pet grooming business.”

  The young man at once lost interest, and shuffled away, mumbling about having to speak to others.

  “I didn’t know you were interested in Socrates.”

  I swung around to see Blake standing there, his arms folded across his chest. “Actually, Blake, I did a semester of ancient philosophy, at Sydney University.”

  Blake looked surprised at that. “Did you enjoy the lecture?”

  “Hardly,” I said. “I nearly died of boredom. Mr. Buttons forced me to come.” That, at least, was the truth. “Did you enjoy the lecture?”

  Blake’s face softened. “No.” He smiled.

  “I didn’t know you were secretly interested in Socrates,” I said archly.

  Blake’s eyes narrowed. “You caught me. I’m doing some snooping around, in an unofficial capacity.”

  “Let me guess. You’re asking everyone about Martin Bosworth and Colin Palmer, and you’ve found out that everyone hated Bosworth, but everyone said that Palmer was nice.” I wondered if I’d said too much, and waited for the lecture.

  “Yes, that about sums it up,” he said. “Can’t you just have a vision and then tell me who the culprit is?”

  I knew he was joking, but it rankled. It was bad enough having visions, without having to explain to everyone how they worked. Over the years, I’d been on the receiving end of plenty of smart remarks suggesting I should have visions of the lottery numbers.

  I let out a long breath. “It doesn’t wo
rk like that, Blake. I can’t just summon up a vision. I never know when one’s going to come on me; I have absolutely no control over them.”

  “What did you think of your namesake being mentioned tonight?”

  That got my interest. “What do mean?”

  “That professor quoted Socrates as saying that the Sibyl, the prophetess, had visions which saved people from danger. Didn’t you hear that?”

  “I was probably asleep at the time,” I said, “but yes, I’m named after the ancient Sibyl from Delphi. Every first born daughter in our family for generations has been named Sibyl in her honor. And, believe it or not, they all had prophetic visions.”

  Blake nodded. He didn’t look quite as skeptical as he had previously. “Do you need a ride home later, Sibyl?”

  “Thanks, but Mr. Buttons is taking me.”

  Blake nodded and walked away. I watched as he struck up a conversation with one of the professors. I noticed with some delight that the detectives were on the other side of the room, talking to Alec Steel, who looked uncomfortable.

  “That was silly, Sibyl.”

  I looked over at Mr. Buttons. “What was?”

  “You should’ve accepted Blake’s invitation. You’re really not good with men, are you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, and thanks for pointing that out.” I felt silly; had Blake been flirting with me? How would I know anyway? My track record with men was dismal.

  Thankfully Mr. Buttons didn’t pursue the subject. “I can’t find any connection between them to explain why both were murdered,” he said. “They weren’t working on a paper together, although why anyone would want to murder someone for research into philosophy is beyond me. There seems to be absolutely no connection between them, about from the fact that they were colleagues. And no one disliked Colin Palmer. Cressida’s cleaner, Susan, is still looking like our main suspect, although as to what motive she had, one can only guess.”

  I bit my bottom lip. “Blake said he doubted that the detectives would consider the evidence about her gathering the hemlock on the roadside. What are we going to do, Mr. Buttons?”

  Mr. Buttons’ face took on a solemn appearance. “I don’t know, Sibyl, but whatever we’re going to do, we had better do it fast, or Cressida will be heading for jail.”

  "In order to really enjoy a dog, one doesn't merely try to train him to be semi human. The point of it is to open oneself to the possibility of becoming partly a dog."

  (Edward Hoagland)

  Chapter Fourteen.

  “It's so nice to know we finally have a mobile groomer,” the older woman gushed as she flipped slowly through my portfolio. “And Cameo has just taken a shine to you. She's usually so shy with strangers.”

  “I'm happy to have passed inspection,” I said, while brushing a squirmy, little Pomeranian. Coming to the town's annual dog show had been one of my better ideas. My appointment book was filling for the rest of the month.

  I was surprised that I was the only professional dog groomer there. I silently congratulated myself for bringing my grooming gear and setting up a table.

  “There’s Tracey, a lady in Tamworth who does a wonderful job,” Mrs. Williams said, as she looked over pictures of the dogs I had groomed since arriving in town. “But that’s over an hour’s drive from here, one way. And Cameo and I don't really go out as much as we used to. Tracey doesn't really have a waiting room. Just some pens to wait in, and those metal chairs are so uncomfortable. Cameo so hates those pens if I can't stay with her. She sulked for days the last time.”

  “I'll be happy to schedule an appointment for Cameo anytime. I'm sure she'll be a lot more comfortable,” I assured her. “No pens, Cameo. You'll be right there at your home. You'll like that, won’t you?”

  The little dog shook and wagged her tail so hard at the attention that she almost fell out of my lap. It was hard to believe that the little dog was at all shy. I laughed and scratched the small creature behind her ear. Cameo looked adorable; her eyes were closed in rapture, and her tongue hung out while she enjoyed a good scratch.

  Mrs. Williams picked up one of my business cards. “Well, that settles it. Cameo is a good judge of character. Do you work on Saturdays, dear?”

  “There is an extra fee for evenings and weekends,” I explained, as I handed her a printed postcard with my fee table. “I’m more than happy to schedule a weekend visit if that’s more convenient for you and Cameo.”

  “Wonderful.” Mrs. Williams took Cameo from me, and stroked the Pomeranian. “I’m always doing one thing or another all week. Saturdays will just make things so much simpler. Cameo can have a little pampering without us having to leave town to do it.”

  To my surprise, Mrs. Williams proceeded to order a grooming every other Saturday for the next six months. I tried to hide my delight while I carefully input the days into my calendar, trying not to be distracted by the bustle and barking all around me. I was glad I had not let my newness to the area intimidate me into avoiding the show this year. It would have been a mistake to wait until next year, after I had built a local reputation. Between the participants and their guests, I had already gathered several new clients who were willing to test an unknown for the convenience of having a local groomer come to them. My appointments had tripled, and the dog show hadn't even started yet.

  Mrs. Williams stood and reached out her hand. “Thank you so much again, Sibyl. I'll let you get back to work. Cameo and I will see you next week.”

  I shook the woman's hand and smiled, elated that my business was improving significantly. I had gone from struggling to figure out next month's expenses to having the assurance that I could make it as long as I was careful. For the first time in a long while, it felt as if everything was coming together. Of course, if my ex-husband would pay out on the property settlement, all my money worries would be over.

  I narrowed my eyes and looked at my surroundings. I had been surprised at the scarcity of vendor tables, considering this was a major dog show. Most of them were unmanned sponsor tables with promotional products from banks and real estate agents. There was a makeshift snack stand manned by volunteers who hosted the show. Only one table carried shampoos, dog food, and other pet products.

  I tidied up my table, carefully brushing up stray fur and collecting it into a plastic shopping bag. I needed to make a good impression on all my potential clients.

  As the show was now in full swing, I wondered whether I could risk getting coffee. I’d been in such a rush preparing for the show that I’d only gulped one coffee just before heading out the door. I felt a wave of tiredness settling in now that things were quiet. I had been so nervous about the event that I had barely slept, and then had skipped breakfast. I needed coffee - and fast. I picked up my purse and headed to the makeshift snack stand in the covered tent in the back.

  The tent was bare compared to the various breed rings. My eyes at once alighted on coffee pots to one side of the snack stand. Oh no, it was instant coffee, much to my dismay.

  I made my way to the table and paid for the coffee. An elderly lady told me to help myself to sugar, and then she left. I grimaced at the coffee, but figured that lots of sugar would disguise the taste, and after all, it was caffeine.

  I reached for the sugar canister only to discover it was empty. I didn't know if I was brave enough to drink primordial ooze without something to hide the taste. I looked around in desperation for any sign of extra sugar.

  “Sorry, I had to run out to get more. They thought half a jar was going to be plenty, apparently,” a familiar voice said. I turned to see Blake approach the table, a bag of sugar in hand. He was in a white shirt and jeans, wearing a blue apron with the dog show logo on it.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, by way of greeting.

  Blake simply grinned as he refilled the jar. He set the extra sugar in a box of supplies underneath the table before pouring himself a cup of coffee. “How is the show so far? Are you drumming up business?”

  “Yes, it�
��s going well,” I said, as I poured several spoons of sugar into my coffee.

  Blake took a sip of his drink and made a face, sliding the jar closer to spoon in an extra dose of sugar. “That’s disgusting; they should call in the Hazmat team.”

  I laughed and took a sip of my drink. It wasn’t good, even with the sugar. “No kidding.”

  “Can I interest you in a stale cupcake?” he asked, sweeping a hand toward a tray of sickeningly sweet-looking cakes topped with some shiny looking icing. “We also have extra sticky glazed donuts, crumbling oatmeal cookies, and some sort of brick disguised as a cake.”

  I laughed. “You really know how to sell your product, don’t you?” I was somewhat surprised that Blake was displaying a pleasant sense of humor. He didn’t have his serious cop face on today. “Anyway, why are you here? Are you undercover or something?”

  Blake seemed to think that was quite funny. “Hardly, not in a small country town where everyone knows me,” he said. “No, I was drafted by the regional inspector. His wife was drudging up volunteers, and Constable Andrews decided it would be hilarious to sign me up.” Blake inspected the snacks and opted for one of the stale cupcakes.

  I tried not to smile too much at that; it sounded like something my friends back in Sydney would have done to each other. I admired Blake’s good humor. My ex-husband would have sulked if his co-workers had ever tried that on him.

  “But the last laugh is on him.” He gestured to the half empty boxes scattered around. “I’m taking the leftovers back to Constable Andrews tomorrow.” Blake dipped his cake in his coffee, and it promptly disintegrated. He furrowed his brow and studied the drink. “Well, that wasn't the best idea.”

  I let out a strained laugh.

  Blake dropped the rest of the cupcake in the coffee and dumped the entire thing into the trash.

  Taking advantage of his good mood, I risked a question. “Do they know who the beneficiaries of Martin Bosworth’s will are yet?”

  Before he could say anything in response, a crackled voice chimed over the intercom calling for all hounds to go Ring Three.