A Cereal Killer (A Sibyl Potts Cozy Mystery, Book 1)

by Morgana Best

  I looked at my phone and squeezed it tightly, resisting the urge to throw it across the room.

  So, cyanide was available in India and Jamaica. How did that help me? As far as I knew, it didn’t.

  I looked over at Sandy, only to see she was half way through eating a cushion.

  "I talk to him when I'm lonesome like; and I'm sure he understands. When he looks at me so attentively, and gently licks my hands; then he rubs his nose on my tailored clothes, but I never say naught thereat. For the good Lord knows I can buy more clothes, but never a friend like that."

  (W. Dayton Wedgefarth)

  Chapter Twelve.

  I had my first client for my new business. I had done many washes and clips before, but this was the first client for my fledgling Sibyl’s Mobile Pet Grooming business in my new van. I was fortunate that the client had known my sister, what with the dog show scene being such a small world here on the east coast of Australia, and I assured her that I had prepared many of my sister’s poodles for show.

  My sister had bred and shown toy poodles for years before she and her husband had gone to the United Arab Emirates to teach. I had learned to do a pretty good poodle show clip over the years, and that’s no mean feat as they are time consuming and complicated, so it was with relief mixed with trepidation that my first customer wanted a Scandinavian trim. That’s the show trim used outside Australia, and always on poodles under the age of twelve months old here in Australia. I hoped the poodle had been trimmed recently, as otherwise, the time for scissoring could be up to five hours, and I sure wouldn’t enjoy that. The client did say that the trim shape was good and that she only wanted it shortened, but I’d heard that before. It was always faster to shorten an already perfect shape, rather than to change a style or shape.

  I was glad that the van had a large stand dryer as it always takes hours of blow drying all the poodle hair straight before any scissoring takes place.

  “I can’t believe my luck having an experienced show poodle trimmer here in town,” the new client said by way of greeting as she peered inside the door of my van.

  I introduced myself. We had only spoken over the phone previously. I cast my eye over her dog, a delightful, black, toy poodle in, thankfully, a reasonably good state of trim.

  “How long will it take?” she asked. “I’ve always done my own trims before, but I usually take several breaks, so I’ve no idea how long it takes to do it all at once. I stop for coffee, or a piece of cake, or to call a friend, as it can be boring, especially when I have to do several poodles at once.”

  “A wash, blow dry, clip and tidy up scissoring could take from two hours, depending on coat quality for drying and amount of hair to dry.” I stroked the poodle’s head and she licked my hand.

  “So, did you learn to trim from your sister?”

  I nodded. “Pretty much.”

  The client, Susan, nodded. “Really, only people who show poodles learn how to do the trims. Show grooming’s a much more specialized talent than the normal grooming they teach in courses. Most show groomers learn from friends or family. There are professionals who come to Australia and do seminars on the art, but no actual schools where you can go and learn. There are competitions for grooming though; did you ever win a prize at them?”

  When Susan stopped to draw breath, I nodded. “Yes, I have, actually.”

  “Can I stay and watch?”

  I frowned. Susan was the talkative type, and I didn’t want to lose concentration, and besides, I didn’t want her looking over my shoulder while I was grooming her poodle. I tried to think of a way out of it. The first step was to wash and condition the dog, and then blow dry all the poodle’s hair straight and totally dry. Next was the clipping, including paws, face, and underneath. After that was the scissoring to shape the coat. No talking can happen while blow drying or clipping, as the noise level is too high. Talking is possible during scissoring, but I did not want to talk to Susan.

  “I have a policy of not talking while I’m grooming,” I said, hoping what I’d made up on the spur of the moment would be believable. “I hope you understand. It’s just that I can’t afford to lose concentration while doing something so important.”

  Susan hastened to agree. “Oh, yes, of course. Can I just stay while you’re shampooing and conditioning?”

  I sighed. “Okay then, but only while I’m shampooing and conditioning? You wouldn’t like me to lose concentration while doing the clipping, would you?”

  Susan shook her head. “Don’t forget, all the areas that require clipping are sensitive, and you have to make sure that clippers don’t get too hot.”

  I raised my eyebrows, but Susan hurried to add, “Sorry about that. I know you know what you’re doing.”

  We went inside the van, and Susan was clearly impressed by the interior. “Oh, you have that expensive brand of shampoo and conditioner,” she gushed. “It’s the one I always use.”

  Susan handed me the adorable toy poodle who was full of personality. I placed her in the hydro bath. I soon lost myself in what I was doing, Susan’s chatter receding from my consciousness, until she said, “Jamaica.”

  I looked up. “Jamaica?” I repeated. I stopped shampooing for a moment.

  “Yes, Cressida Upthorpe has just returned from Jamaica. She said it was so lovely, the beaches, the people, the…”

  I didn’t listen to the rest as I was in shock. Cressida in Jamaica? She had just shot to the top of my suspects list.

  The next few hours were spent in deep concentration as I groomed, clipped, and scissored the poodle, and then delivered her to her satisfied owner.

  As I went back to my cottage, Mr. Buttons was standing at my gate, patting Sandy who was slobbering all over his hand. Half of one of my socks was hanging out the side of her mouth.

  "Sibyl, Cressida told me you had a dog," he exclaimed with delight.

  "I only got her yesterday," I said. "Her name's Sandy."

  "Yes, yes, Cressida told me the whole story. Can Sandy come and stay with me some time?"

  I looked at Mr. Buttons, and for the first time realized how lonely he was. "Yes, of course. She can stay with you as much as you like."

  Mr. Buttons beamed. "Thanks, Sibyl. Perhaps I could walk her every day, when you’re too busy?"

  My heart went out to him. "Of course," I said.

  "If a dog will not come to you after having looked you in the face, you should go home and examine your conscience."

  (Woodrow Wilson)

  Chapter Thirteen.

  I had just had my morning coffee and a bowl of microwaved oatmeal - I’d lost the taste for cereal - when my phone rang. I looked at it in disbelief; could this be another client? I didn't know the number; I hoped so.

  "Hello, Sibyl's Mobile Pet grooming, Sibyl speaking," I said in an official tone.

  "Hi, this is Barry Hetherington. I need you to come and wash my dog right now. It's an emergency," he said all at once. "My wife's at work; I accidentally left the back door open and her dog Gigi ran into the yard and rolled in the dirt. My wife will kill me. I have to rush to work now. If she comes home and finds Gigi all covered in dirt, I’ll never hear the end of it!" The man's voice rose in panic.

  "It just so happens I'm free now and can come at once. What's your address?"

  I wrote down his address and hurried over there. The district appeared to be in a newer part of town, the houses being all brick and expansive glass, with well manicured lawns and barely any gardens to speak of.

  As I pulled my van over to the curb, a man hurried over to me. "I'm late. You'll find Gigi in the house. When you've finished, can you leave her in the house and lock up? I own the Hetherington Art Gallery in the middle of town; can you bring the keys to me there and I’ll pay you? I'm late. Thanks." He handed me the keys and ran to his car.

  I stood there, surprised that he would give me his house keys. After all, he didn't know me from a bar of soap. I walked up to the house to fetch Gigi. I didn’t even know what breed t
he dog was, although I figured she'd be a girl with a name like Gigi.

  I unlocked the door and stepped inside, and a very dirty Maltese Terrier hurried over to me, barking furiously and snarling. I couldn't blame her; for all she knew, I was an intruder. I had a moment of disquiet as I thought that I shouldn't have accepted the job so quickly. Nevertheless, it turned out that Gigi was all bluff. She soon rolled over so I could tickle her tummy.

  I picked Gigi up and headed for the door, the key in my hand. As I opened the door, I saw Sergeant Blake Wessley and Constable Wright hurrying down the path toward me. Blake had his hand on his gun.

  "Hi," I said, wondering what was going on.

  "What are you doing here?" Blake snapped at me.

  "Mr. Hetherington asked me to wash his wife's dog," I said, holding out the dog, who struggled and growled at him.

  Blake took a step closer to me. "How did you get in?"

  I didn’t like his tone. I had done nothing wrong; what was he on about? "He gave me his spare key," I said, none too politely.

  Constable Wright pushed past Blake. "A likely story," he said. "If he'd given you the key, he would’ve turned off the alarm."

  "What alarm?" I said. "I didn’t hear any alarm."

  "It was a back to base silent alarm," Blake explained in a patient tone as if he were speaking to a child.

  "Mr. Hetherington was rushing; he obviously forgot and turned on the alarm; that's all," I said.

  "I'm sorry, Sibyl," Blake said. "Put the dog back in the house and you'll have to accompany us to the station."

  I put Gigi back in the house and Blake locked the door. He indicated that I should walk ahead of him to the police car. He opened the door and I got in the back seat. I felt awful, like some sort of criminal. Clearly coming to Little Tatterford had been a huge mistake. Nothing had gone right from the second I had arrived here.

  Constable Wright looked over his shoulder at me. "You are not obliged to say or do anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say or do may be used in evidence. Do you understand?" he said.

  I was horrified and more than a little frightened "I'm not arrested, am I? And if so, aren’t you supposed to read me my Miranda rights or something?"

  Constable Wright made a strange sound, half way between a snort and a laugh. "We don’t have Miranda rights in Australia. There's simply an obligation on police to caution a person in an interview that their statements may be used in evidence. You've been watching too much TV."

  "Not really," I said. "I only watch Murdoch Mysteries, CSI, and Law and Order…" My voice trailed away. Why on earth had I said that? I tend to ramble when I'm nervous. "Do I look like a criminal?" I added.

  Constable Wright had turned back to the front while I was speaking, but now looked over his shoulder at me again. "Put it this way, Ms. Potts. There hasn’t been a murder in this town for years. No sooner do you arrive than there is a murder, and right in the boarding house where you're staying."

  I could have pointed out that I was not staying at the boarding house, but rather, the cottage, but thought it better to remain silent. The whole time, Blake sat behind the wheel and appeared to be focused on driving. He did not say a word the entire time.

  Five minutes later, I was sitting in the little waiting room at the police station while Blake had gone away, I assume to call Mr. Hetherington. I looked around the room. It was sterile and depressing. The walls were pale green, and the seats were black and hard. Two women sat on the opposite side of the room, and they occasionally shot me dark looks.

  Constable Wright came out and shot a look at me, and then left by the front door. He came back quite some time later, and I was still sitting there, bored and irritated. He went into Blake's office, and then came straight back out. "Ms. Potts, Sergeant Wessley will see you now."

  Blake muttered to himself and then looked up at me. He indicated that I should sit opposite him. The chair was old and worn, about the same as I felt. "I can’t get onto Mr. Hetherington. His cell phone rang out and Constable Wright went to the art gallery but there was no one there. It was shut. I can't verify your story."

  I knew he was only doing his job, but that rankled. "My story?" I said. "It wasn't my fault."

  Blake leaned back in his seat and put his hands behind his head. "I can't believe a complete stranger would give you a spare key to his house."

  "It’s the truth," I said, somewhat annoyed. "My sister used to be a realtor and she was always saying how weird it was that complete strangers gave her keys to their houses."

  "Well you have an answer for everything, don’t you."

  Before I could hit Blake with a rude reply, he continued. "Sibyl, can't you stay out of trouble?"

  I was furious. "It’s not my fault," I said, standing up. "None of it. I've done nothing wrong, and I don’t like your attitude. You’re being most unfair."

  Just then his landline rang. From the conversation that ensued, I could tell it was Mr. Hetherington. After a few moments, Blake looked up me. "Mr. Hetherington apologizes. He was in such a rush that he set the alarm automatically, without thinking. He had a flat tire on the way to the art gallery, and he left his cell phone in the house by mistake. He wants to know if you will go over there now and wash his dog."

  I thought of all the things I would like say to both Blake and Mr. Hetherington, although I could see that Mr. Hetherington was just having a really bad day. He wasn't the only one. Besides, I couldn’t let down a new client, even one who had nearly had me arrested, albeit inadvertently.

  "Tell him I'll be right there," I said through clenched teeth. I folded my arms across my chest.

  When Blake hung up, I said, "I assume I'm free to go?"

  Blake nodded. "Look Sibyl, I'm sorry -"

  I left him and walked out of the police station as fast as I could.

  "Ever consider what our dogs must think of us? I mean, here we come back from a grocery store with the most amazing haul, chicken, pork, half a cow. They must think we're the greatest hunters on earth!"

  (Anne Tyler)

  Chapter Fourteen.

  I was beginning to be more than a little sorry that I had ever moved to Little Tatterford. I had only just barely escaped being arrested, and now Cressida Upthorpe, my Number One Suspect, had invited me to dinner at the boarding house. Surely she couldn’t poison me there, in front of witnesses? I hoped not. Yet what could I do? There was no way I could refuse her dinner invitation.

  As I approached the expansive house and the acres of open land surrounding it, streams of fear swept through my veins. The sight around me was eerie and dreadful. Dark clouds loomed above; there was a cold, chill wind and the house still looked like something straight out of an old horror film. I wanted to do nothing more than to run back to my cottage.

  I took a deep breath, and crossed the path toward the house. I steadied my hand to reach for the door but was startled when the door swung open.

  “Sibyl, I’m so happy you’re here; come in.” Cressida had a warm smile on her face. She opened the door wide so I could enter.

  I followed Cressida into the house, pausing to stroke Lord Farringdon. This time, Cressida led me through a small room, which held a small square table and some old, dead flowers. Behind that were two old red couches covered with yellowing, crocheted cushions. The rest of the room was filled with antiques and piles of dusty leather-backed books crammed on numerous bookshelves.

  “Come this way, Sibyl; Lord Farringdon told me that Mr. Buttons is waiting for us in the dining room.”

  I was relieved that Mr. Buttons was already here. I wasn’t sure I could sit through dinner with only Cressida.

  Cressida led me into the large dining room with its long, rectangular table spreading from one end of the room to the other. Four brightly lit candles rested on top of the table which was adorned with exquisite china and wine glasses. It was as if Cressida was expecting the royal family for dinner. Clearly she, or more likely Alison, had put quite some time and effort into t
his occasion.

  “Sibyl, it’s so good to see you,” Mr. Buttons said, rising from his chair around the dining table and nodding at me.

  “Nice to see you too, Mr. Buttons.”

  I chatted with Mr. Buttons while Cressida disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, followed by Lord Farringdon. Mr. Buttons and I soon ran out of things to say, so we just sat and smiled at each other awkwardly.

  When Cressida returned, my palms grew sweaty and I felt sick to my stomach. Is she going to poison me? I wondered. Surely not, not in front of witnesses. I stared at the food suspiciously; my palms were sweating and my breathing was heavy. I fought the urge to run from the room.

  I put on a brave face and subtly smelled the wine placed in front of me. My hands shook so I placed them in my lap. I looked up and locked eyes with Mr. Buttons who looked at me suspiciously.

  “Cressida, I heard that you’ve recently returned from vacation in Jamaica.” I watched her face carefully for any reaction.

  “Oh yes.” She took the pair of long feather earrings from her ears and dangled them in front of me. “A very friendly Rasta man on the beach sold these to me for such a good price, so cheap. People are so nice there.’’ She slipped her earrings back in her ears and sipped her wine.

  I didn’t know much about Jamaican jewelry or the type of food they had there. However, thanks to my ex-husband’s ending droning on about his work, I did know a thing or two about the Jamaican cassava plant and I was certain it contained cyanide if not prepared properly. “Did you bring any cassava plants back?”

  Cressida looked at me as if I were mad. “Of course not. That would be illegal. I’d never get any food through customs.”

  I felt like an idiot. Of course not; no food was allowed through customs; how silly of me. I noticed that Mr. Buttons was staring curiously at my odd behavior.

  How is he so calm? I wondered. Can’t he connect the dots?