by Morgana Best
I stopped crying and took a deep breath. “Yes, I know. Thanks, Carl. It’s just such a shock. On top of all my other problems, the last thing I needed was to become a suspect.”
I looked out the window once more and saw a shadowy figure standing to the side of my house. A moment later, the figure ducked out of view. “Did you see that man outside just then?”
Carl shook his head and crossed to the window.
“The police have people watching me, Carl. If that was a burglar or something they’d be on him in no time. It was almost definitely just a police officer,” I explained, though the thought hardly made me feel better.
“At least they won’t come inside,” Carl said simply. I looked at him and raised an eyebrow, to which he replied, “If they did, Mongrel would make quick work of them.” He laughed. “No burglars or police are getting past him. They’d probably need to call the national guard.”
I smiled. Though the thought of people skulking around my house didn’t help my mood at all, the fact that Carl was trying to cheer me up was taking my mind off it to some degree. “Carl, I know you hate my house, but can you stay the night?” I asked. “I don’t feel comfortable as it is, but seeing somebody sneaking around like that was the final straw.”
Carl looked at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay. Though honestly I feel like you’d put up a better fight than I would if somebody tried anything.”
Then again, I considered that maybe it wasn’t a joke at all. I tentatively looked out the window again, suspiciously eyeing my surroundings. It looked as though whoever had been here was gone, though that did little to settle my nerves.
“What if it wasn’t a cop?” I hissed. “It could’ve been anybody!” I felt panic rising inside of me.
Carl placed a hand on my shoulder and looked at me calmly. “It’s fine, Narel. We couldn’t even see for sure if it was a person—it could’ve been anything. Even a trick of the light.” His nervous glances out the window told me that he believed otherwise. “You said yourself that the police are keeping an eye on you. I admit that it isn’t the best news in the world, but it does mean that no criminals are getting anywhere near your house.”
“You’re right,” I admitted with a sigh. “But I’m more than a little on edge even without all the stalking. I’m a major suspect in a murder case! I don’t think I’m going to be sleeping calmly.” I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. I thought about how much good a proper sleep would do for my health, but knew it wasn’t likely to happen.
I unlocked the front door and peered inside, though I couldn’t make out much through the gloom. I flicked on the outside light and looked back inside at Mongrel, who was peering out of his carrier basket, shooting us a suspicious look.
I closed the door behind me, checking twice to make sure it was locked. Carl investigated the rest of the house, making sure that there was nobody inside, including under my bed and in closets. I checked that all the windows were locked, eventually sitting down in the living room after I was satisfied that it was safe.
“Well,” I said, slapping my knees with my open palms. “Would you like some dinner?”
Carl laughed and thought for a moment. “I’ve already eaten, but when you say ‘dinner’ I assume you really mean ‘dessert’ anyway, so yes, please.”
I got up and walked to the kitchen, opening up the cupboard and fetching an assortment of chocolates. Why Carl always took offense at the idea of chocolate for dinner astounded me. Before I could ask him about it, Carl let out a blood curdling scream, and I a chill ran down my spine. I dropped the chocolates on the counter and ran out into the living room to see what was wrong.
Latched onto Carl’s leg was Mongrel. His teeth had disappeared into Carl’s shin.
“Get him off!” Carl yelled, wildly flailing his arms. Mongrel stubbornly remained attached. I ran into the room and bravely grabbed the angry cat, putting all my might into pulling him off Carl’s leg. After a huge amount of effort, he let go, opting to run back into his carrier basket, watching the two of us warily.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Carl,” I said, inspecting the injury. “Did you want a bandage or anything?”
“Don’t be silly,” Carl said calmly, followed by, “Of course I want a bandage!” in a loud voice. He sank down into the nearest chair, clutching his leg.
“I wonder why he did that?” I said, more to myself than to Carl.
“I was only trying to help,” Carl lamented. “I was just trying to clean up your place. Mongrel’s cat food bowl was in the middle of the floor and I just wanted to move it closer to his cat basket.”
“Aha! That explains it.”
“What explains it? I’m bleeding to death here, Narel!”
I looked at Carl’s leg, and droplets of blood were oozing through his fingers. “Mongrel’s very attached to his food,” I said. “He hates anyone moving his food.”
“You reckon?” Carl said sarcastically. “Quick, get a bandage or something. Or an ambulance!”
I hurried off to find a first aid kit, or whatever I had that would pass for one. I eventually found some old bandages and some kind of rub-on cat medicine I’d bought for Mongrel, figuring that if it worked for cat injuries, it would probably work for cat-inflicted ones.
Carl politely disagreed, deciding that putting some kind of luminous green powder all over his wounds might not help as much as it would for cats. I bandaged his tiny bite marks, hoping—but not expecting—the act to stop him complaining.
I looked at Mongrel, who was peeping out from his basket, and considered telling him he was naughty, but figured he was probably scared. I also didn’t want to discourage his habit of attacking people, especially when it had saved my life in the past.
Carl suddenly spoke, causing me to jump. “Narel, I think we should go to Peter Prentiss’s funeral tomorrow.”
“What? Why?” I asked, confused. “I mean, I know he died at my shop, but we didn’t know him, Carl. Do you think we’d be welcome?”
“It’s not so much about paying our respects,” Carl admitted. “I just think it would be a good way to get more information. We’ll learn all sorts of things about him, and it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Er, so to speak.”
“I don’t want to shut my business down for a day. With everything that’s happened, I don’t think I can afford to!” I said loudly. I noticed Mongrel duck back into his basket and forced myself to calm down. “Sorry, Carl, I didn’t mean to yell. But with someone murdered in my shop, and the business being new, I can’t just take an entire day off, even for the investigation.”
“Narel, how many days will you have to take off if you’re in jail?” Carl asked, and I could hear the gravity in his question.
I sighed aloud, resigning myself to a day off. Or, more accurately, a day of investigating the murder of a stranger instead of looking after my dream business. It felt heartless to think about the murder as a personal problem, but it had caused me so much trouble that it was hard not to feel that way.
“All right, Carl, we’ll go.”
Chapter 12
The building was much larger than I had expected, though still all on one level. It seemed to be made entirely of brick, rather than the more modern steel and glass office that I had imagined. I stood in front of the door, swallowed nervously, and gave it a push. It didn’t budge an inch. I took a step back and looked around, wondering if perhaps I’d gotten the wrong building. I noticed a small intercom tucked away behind a bit of the wall that was extended. I assumed the intercom was used to contact the lawyer himself, or at least a receptionist inside. Still, I couldn’t help but worry that I had the address wrong, especially since the fact that the front door of a lawyer’s office was locked seemed so strange to me.
I buzzed the intercom and waited for several seconds, then several more. I buzzed it again, the feeling that I had the wrong address being almost overwhelming. Just as I turned to leave, the intercom buzzed to life.
“Yes?” a woman’s voice asked, thick with stat
ic. I wondered why the intercom would have so much static interference, much less exist in the first place. This was all very strange.
“I’m here to see Mr. ...” I stammered as I realized I didn’t know his name. “The name escapes me, I’m afraid, but he’s an older man, a lawyer. I’m due to meet him at eight,” I said, hoping it would be enough to convince the woman on the other end. I waited a few seconds in complete silence before a loud buzzing sound signified the doors unlocking. I swung them open and hurried inside.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. There was clearly some kind of incense burning, though it was apparently only being done to cover the building’s natural damp and mold. Beneath the sweet smell of the incense smoke was a kind of musty dampness that I related to older ill-kept structures, rather than the kind in which people regularly worked.
The interior of the building itself was also not at all like what I was expecting. It looked as though it was an old house that had been converted into an office. There was a rather hideous lime-green carpet spreading into other rooms as far as I could see, as well as sickly potted plants lining the brick walls. There was an unused fireplace with a mantle that had several legal books atop it, and a couch and chair set placed in the middle of the room around a small circular dining table.
The only thing that really betrayed the fact that this wasn’t a house was the large desk opposite the entrance, where a woman was idly typing at a computer, ignoring my presence entirely.
“Hello,” I said, approaching her. She continued to type away at the computer, ignoring me. I stood awkwardly for several seconds, assuming that she was simply distracted with her work. I cleared my throat and cocked my head to look at her.
“Yes?” she finally asked without looking up at me.
“I’m, um, here to see my lawyer,” I stammered. “He’s...”
“I know who he is,” the receptionist replied coldly. She finally stopped staring at the monitor to reach down and grab a form from somewhere under the desk before handing it to me. “Fill this out,” she commanded. I nodded and picked up a pen chained to the desk.
The form requested quite typical things. Criminal history, address, age and so on. I completed it as quickly as I could, though the sheer volume of the form meant that the whole process still took me several minutes. I handed it back to the receptionist, waiting for nearly a full minute before she actually took it from me. I was quite annoyed at the entire process, becoming increasingly worried that I wouldn’t get to my shop to open it in time.
The receptionist continued to type, once more ignoring my presence entirely. I cleared my throat to get her attention, but it didn’t seem to faze her at all. “Excuse me,” I said, trying to stay polite. “How long until I can see my lawyer?”
The receptionist continued to ignore me, but at least started to read over my form. I stood in front of the counter and watched as she perused the document, wondering why she was taking so long. “You’ve used a possessive apostrophe for a simple plural,” she said, looking at me as though I were a child.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, confused.
“What are you after?” she asked.
“I want to speak to my lawyer,” I repeated, more and more frustrated at the entire ordeal.
“I understand, but I have my own paperwork to complete,” she explained, vaguely motioning toward her computer. “Can you explain the situation simply?”
I sighed loudly, but complied. I explained the opening night, the murder, and the interrogation.
“Is that it?” she barked.
“Well, there are a few smaller details that may not be important.”
The woman waved her pen at me. “Might!” she exclaimed.
I felt as though I had fallen into Alice in Wonderland. “Excuse me?” I said.
“You used the word ‘may’ incorrectly,” she snapped. “‘May’ is only used in a permissive sense. You should have said ‘might.’”
“I see,” I lied. “Sorry about that.” I continued to supply her with the smaller details leading up to the police questioning. She now seemed to be intently listening to every word, in stark contrast to the way she had been ignoring me previously.
“Borage and me,” she said sternly.
“What?” I asked, totally confused. “I’ve never even seen you before, much less with Borage.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘The police came to speak to Borage and I,’ but that is incorrect. You should have said ‘Borage and me.’” The receptionist spoke with so little emotional investment in the conversation that she could have been talking to a tree.
“What are you talking about?” I asked again. I was growing angry.
“Imagine if you were only talking about yourself,” she said. “If you’d said, ‘The police came to speak to I,’ the sentence would make no sense at all.”
I was absolutely dumbfounded as to what this had to do with my situation. “Can you please just direct me to my lawyer?” I asked, checking my watch. There was practically no chance of making it back to my shop in time for regular opening hours, no matter how short the meeting with my lawyer ended up being—assuming I was actually going to have one at all.
“Go right through.” The receptionist pointed to a door down the hallway. I grimaced at her and hurried off, hoping to get this whole affair over with as quickly as possible. I’d had enough of this place long before a strange woman had tried to correct my grammar, so my mood wasn’t what I’d describe as anything positive.
I knocked on the door and felt an immense sense of relief when my lawyer’s voice called for me to enter. Up until that point I’d had a sneaking suspicion that this was one giant mistake, or even a joke.
“Hello, Narel,” he said, standing up and coming over to shake my hand. “You’re a bit late,” he said as he checked his watch.
“Yes, sorry. I was in fact early but I had some strange trouble at reception.” I glanced back at the entrance as the office door closed behind me.
“Ah, yes, she’s an odd one. Good receptionist, though. Before you ask, no, I don’t know why she’s so obsessed with grammar,” he said with a laugh. “I’m only in town three days a month, so it’s actually very lucky that you caught me today,” he said. That at least partially explained why such a supposedly hotshot lawyer was working out of such a strange building. “Anyway, sit down, and let’s get to business,” he said with a smile. I happily obliged, eager to get back to my shop. “First things first, Narel. Did you kill him?” he asked with deadly seriousness.
“No!” I replied, shocked. “Of course I didn’t. Do I look like a killer to you?” I asked.
The lawyer thought for a moment before responding. “I’ve met killers, Narel, and I’ve learned that they don’t look anything like each other,” he said sternly. “Anyway, I do believe you.” I breathed a sigh of relief as he said it. “I’ve looked over the evidence and I don’t think you’re involved,” he continued.
“I’m glad someone feels that way,” I said. “From the start I’ve felt like Rieker and Clyde are trying to pin this on me.”
“They’re the detectives on the case, yes?” he asked. I nodded, and the lawyer leaned back in his chair. I realized I should probably ask for his name, but felt like we’d been talking too long now to bring it up naturally. I would look at his card again later. “Don’t worry about them,” he assured me. “I’d say they treat everybody like that to coerce a confession.”
“Is that legal?” I asked, and his small chuckle didn’t reassure me.
“Yes, actually, it is. As long as they don’t go too far, but it seems to me that they were just asking questions quite sternly, which is perfectly within in their rights. Enough of them, though.” The lawyer filed through some notes. “You’ll need to tell me everything you know about the case. Everything, regardless whether you think it’s important or not. Don’t leave out a single detail.” He clicked a pen and began jotting down notes before I’d even begun to speak.
I de
cided to start way back at the beginning of this mess: about my car accident, my stay in the hospital, the anonymous tip and so on, all the way up to the murder. He asked me to describe the murder itself in painstaking detail, and when I went over everything I knew, he asked me to repeat it from the beginning. It was exhausting, but eventually I’d told him every single thing I could think of from beginning to end.
“Thank you, Narel,” he said earnestly, flashing me a big smile. “I do believe that you’re innocent, in case you were wondering.”
“Thanks,” I said, summoning my best smile. “I’m not sure that the detectives do, you know? And the so-called evidence against me is so slim.” I sighed.
“Slim at best,” he said with a nod of affirmation. “Do try not to worry. You’ll get through this mess fine. Eventually, that is. It might not be an easy road, but I’m confident that they don’t have enough evidence to convict you, even if you were guilty. Which you’re not. Anyway,” he continued. “I have a lot to do, on your case and others. Please see yourself out, if you’ll permit me to be so rude, and I’ll get to working on a solution to all of this.”
“Thank you so much, really,” I said, smiling at him. “This means a lot. Should I call you later for an update, or…?”
“I’ll call you,” he said to his paperwork, not looking up at me. I walked out of the room, back past the strange receptionist and out the door. The entire experience had been weird, but I was more concerned with getting my shop open than anything. It was already past my regular opening hours, and the shop was still quite a long walk away.
As I walked up the block, I looked back over my shoulder at the strange building. I suspected that perhaps it was used as an office for rent for people who were only visiting town briefly.
As I looked back, I noticed Borage getting out of his car. Before I could wave or call out, I noticed that the same mysterious woman was with him. They walked up to the office building together, waited on the intercom as I had.
I had no idea what was going on. Could it be his ex-wife? Was Borage’s lawyer friend handling their divorce? Was it something else? Were they even romantically involved? I didn’t have time to think about this, I decided, and hurried to my shop.
