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

by Morgana Best

  “What was Jamaica like?” I asked, as I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Oh my! Jamaica was amazing. I was a little sad about going on my own, but once I got there, the locals made me feel right at home. Jamaicans are wonderful people, so warm, happy and friendly.”

  “Did you go to any interesting places?” Mr. Buttons asked.

  Cressida beamed. “I went to so many places. They have a beautiful natural falls called Dunns River Falls, which was just around the corner from my hotel in Ocho Rios. Then I went to Dolphin Cove to swim with the dolphins. Then on my last two days I traveled to Negril, which is on the far west of the island. I went cliff diving and snorkeling there.” Cressida let out a loud sigh of happiness as she leaned back in her chair. “There’s truly something special about Jamaica. In Negril I met a really nice Rastafarian man who makes jewels and craft. He was the one that sold me these earrings.”

  Mr. Buttons set down his fork. “I’d like to head to Jamaica one day, too.”

  Cressida laughed. “Oh you’d love it there.”

  “May I use the bathroom?” I asked. I had to get some space to get my head together. I was failing miserably at playing detective, but I could hardly come straight out and ask Cressida if she had illegally obtained cyanide in Jamaica.

  “Sure, it’s the second door on the left, right down the far corridor,” Cressida said before turning to tell Mr. Buttons more tales about Jamaica.

  I struggled to find my way to the bathroom. The narrow hall was dark, the only lighting from a window at the end of the corridor. The light through the old, lace curtains created a spectral shadow on the paintings hanging on the wall.

  On the way back from the bathroom, one particular painting caught my eye. It was an oil painting of a handsome man, perhaps in his late 20s or early 30s. The picture looked like it was from the 1990s. His brown eyes popped out of the frame and his black hair fell over one eye. His chiseled features and boyish good looks were captivating. I was surprised just how handsome he was and how pleasant he appeared. I was also surprised that he was holding a three headed dog. Cerberus, the guardian of the Underworld, or just another example of Cressida’s bizarre artistic bent? Probably both.

  I stared at the picture for a long time. I had heard that Cressida had been married before and that the estate had been his family’s; had she poisoned her husband to gain the inheritance? And even if she had, what possible motive would she have had for poisoning Tim Higgins? Or trying to kill me, for that matter?

  I jumped as Cressida appeared behind me. "Just wondering if you got lost, Sibyl; you seem to be taking a long time."

  I felt guilty, although I hadn't exactly been doing anything wrong. "Is that your former husband? The painting is quite realistic, photographic almost."

  “Why would you change perfection?” Cressida fixed me with a steely gaze. “Paintings, photographs, both catch an image at its truest. The ones who want to change it are usually the disillusioned and liars. I’m a firm believer in leaving a great thing as it is. What good does unnecessary change do? I do not approve of impressionist paintings and the like. ”

  I looked at her more closely. “How can I argue with such logic?” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  Cressida's face returned to its sunny state. “I knew you were an honest one.” She turned her attention back to the painting. “Lord Farringdon told me that people in this town are saddened by this murder. If only the police could have pretended, and told them it was suicide.”

  “I thought you loved the honestly and unchanging nature of photographic art,” I said before thinking.

  “But I’m not a photograph, am I?” Cressida countered, “I'm just a flawed human with a canvas, and I paint pictures to capture the truth, so I’m reminded of what it means never to lie.”

  I took in her words. She seemed just as strange as ever. I hoped the police were making progress with this case, as I certainly wasn't. I followed Cressida back to the dining room to join Mr. Buttons. When I sat down, my plate was still in front of me just as I had left it, while Mr. Buttons and Cressida were soon busily chatting away.

  I half-heartedly speared a piece of baked potato with my fork.

  Cressida peered at me. “Are you all right, Sibyl? Lord Farringdon just told me that haven’t touched your food, and you’ve barely said a word all night.”

  I sat silent for a moment, debating my options, and then decided to take the coward’s way out. “You know, I’m not that hungry. I haven’t been feeling so well these past couple days. I think I may have to head home. I’m so sorry; I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not a problem at all.” Cressida’s tone was sincere. “Would you like me to pack your dinner, so you can have it later tonight if you feel better?”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I wouldn’t be able to eat it.” That part, at least, was true.

  Mr. Buttons, Cressida, and Lord Farringdon followed me to the door as Mr. Buttons and Cressida continued to make small talk.

  After we said our goodbyes, I walked outside, huddling into my coat as an icy chill had descended. I had a moment of unease and looked back at the house. There, in a high window, was the face of a woman staring down at me. No light could be seen from the room, but the image of the woman was clear. When the woman saw me looking at her, she ducked behind the curtain. Was it Alison or Nora? I couldn’t tell at this distance.

  "No philosophers so thoroughly comprehend us as dogs and horses."

  (Herman Melville - Redburn. His First Voyage, 1849)

  Chapter Fifteen.

  The early morning air was hazy, the light soft, as I sat at my small, round dining room table which was just placed in the corner of the kitchen in my miniscule cottage. Sandy was lying at my feet, chewing on the edge of the table. There was a mug filled with coffee in front of me, the steam rising in large loping spirals from it. I was huddled over the top of it, with my hands on either side of the ceramic cup, using it to warm myself.

  I had discovered that the wood fire did not burn all night, so I faced a cold house every morning. It was early winter, and I had been warned that the nightly temperatures would soon reach 23 degrees (Fahrenheit that is, but it’s known as minus 5 degrees Celsius in Australia).

  I would have heard the police car pull up to my cottage if I hadn’t been day dreaming about ways to make the fire last longer. I thought I heard a slight squeal of brakes, but I paid it no attention, and the only time I became aware that I had visitors, was when there was a heavy knock upon my front door.

  I had no any inkling of who could be visiting me at that time, so there was nothing for me to do but get up from the table, take my mug along for the ride, and head to answer the door.

  I was barely able to keep my face from contorting with surprise when I saw the two uniformed police officers on my front porch, Blake Wessley, and Constable Gordon Wright. Constable Wright wore sunglasses even though it wasn’t really bright enough for them. Blake glanced at me when I opened the door, and then turned his head, making a show of looking across my front yard, leaving the other cop to be the one to speak.

  At that point, Sandy ran past me and jumped up on the two officers, trying to lick their faces. She was beside herself with excitement. “Excuse me; I’ll just go put her out the back,” I said, dragging the over exuberant labrador toward the back door. I shut the door, and hurried back to the front door, my heart in my mouth.

  “Miss Potts?” Constable Wright asked, and I nodded my head, not yet having found my voice. It was early, and my caffeine levels were low. He knew who I was; he had been there at the whole unfortunate alarm incident.

  “We’ve had an anonymous tip that we can find a stolen painting in your cottage,” he said.

  I was shocked and my jaw fell open. “A stolen painting?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” the man said.

  “That’s ridiculous. What painting?” They didn’t answer, so I stepped back and set my mug down on a small table near the door, where
I threw my keys whenever I got home. I looked at them. “Come in,” I said, without really thinking about it, but the small look Blake shot me was enough to make me instantly regret being so inviting. What kind of rights had I just given up, letting them in so easily? I didn’t know, but I bet it hadn’t been a good idea. Still, I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  Both officers stepped inside. “Tell me about the painting I supposedly have,” I said, hoping that my voice wasn’t shaking.

  Constable Wright glanced around my small living room and then turned to me. “It’s by Ian Bleakley.”

  I searched my mind for Ian Bleakley, but I came up short. I didn’t know too much about art, but I knew the big names in Australian art: Arthur Boyd, Sydney Nolan, Brett Whiteley, Tom Roberts, Albert Namatjira, John Passmore, William Dobell – and I was still recalling names when the constable spoke again.

  “An anonymous tip said you have the painting here.”

  “An anonymous tip? Not many people know I’m living here,” I said.

  Blake spoke up. “We have to check out all cases of anonymous tips.”

  Constable Wright shrugged. “Mind if we look around?” he asked.

  I looked at Blake, who was standing a little behind the other cop, and when our eyes met, Blake mouthed the word, “Warrant.”

  I was worried that would make me look guilty, so I turned back to the constable and nodded. “Go ahead,” I said, but Blake shook his head softly as Constable Wright smiled.

  “Thank you so much, Sibyl,” the constable said in a slick voice that made me feel uncomfortable. I did not like him using my name. I opened my mouth to tell him to call me Ms. Potts, but I thought better of it and held my tongue.

  “Do you mind waiting outside?” he asked. “It’s a small place, and it would be easier that way.”

  “You don’t have to,” Blake said.

  “I’ll stay,” I said, earning a small nod of approval from Blake.

  “Suit yourself,” Constable Wright said, as he pulled a small camera from his pocket and strode into the center of the living room. He began taking pictures, turning in a slow circle, and he repeated the process in the kitchen, one bedroom, and tiny bathroom as well, before he even started touching anything.

  After he finished taking photos, however, he certainly did start touching. He opened drawers, emptying them out on the floor; he lifted the mattress on the bed, and left it leaning on an angle. All the while Blake was searching as well, but I could tell he was taking more care, working to not disturb my home too much.

  An hour passed, and I was shocked that a search of my tiny place could take so long. I was beginning to grow resentful toward Constable Wright. I glared at him. He was tall and broad, with a slight belly, his hair thick. His face was handsome, a wide jaw, a nose that had been broken once.

  The cop caught me looking at him, and grinned, his lips curling in an unpleasant manner. “Well, it looks like I got some bad information, huh?”

  “I guess so,” I said sharply. Blake was drifting toward the front door, but Constable Wright remained in the center of the living room. He craned his neck, looking toward the ceiling.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “What?” Blake and I said in unison, and Blake came over to stand beside the officer. He pointed upwards, and there was a small square hatch in the ceiling. I had never noticed it before.

  “How do you get up there?” Blake asked, looking at me.

  I shrugged, worried that they were interested in the hatch.

  “I’ve never noticed it before,” I said.

  “There’s got to be a ladder out in that shed,” Constable Wright said.

  “There might be; I haven’t looked around out there yet,” I said, and the officer left to check.

  “What’s up there?” Blake asked in a quiet voice, and I felt myself growing annoyed.

  “I told you, I don’t know anything about it,” I snapped. “I just moved here.”

  Blake nodded, and then Constable Wright was back, banging through the screen door with an old, wooden ladder. He unfolded it and placed it under the hatch, then climbed the ladder quickly.

  The hatch was a wooden square which lifted upwards. We call them “manholes” in Australia; they are for access to the roof space, as Australians very rarely have attics.

  “Seems to be empty up here,” Constable Wright called, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Hang on, there’s something here.” He soon climbed back down the ladder with large, black bag under one arm. Then he went to the couch, placed the bag upon it, and unzipped it.

  Blake and I crowded in behind him, as he finished the zipper and reached inside the bag. Out came a painting, a landscape of an early Australian scene of the early colony days, the painted sunlight falling in an angle over half of the picture.

  “Aha,” Constable Wright said softly, leaving the painting on the couch and turning as he turned to me. “Sibyl Potts, you’re under arrest,” he said as he stepped forward, but Blake stepped between us and held his hands up.

  “Now wait just a minute,” Blake said. “She just moved in here. She says she doesn’t know anything about it, and I’m inclined to believe her.”

  “I can see why you would be inclined to believe such a sweet little thing, Sergeant, but the fact is we got a tip that said her name, and said it would be at her new house, and there it is. That’s good enough for me, and I know it’s good enough for you.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s not,” Blake said firmly.

  Constable Wright made to step around Blake, but Blake cut him off.

  “This is what will happen, Constable.” He emphasized the word constable as if to show that it was a lower rank than sergeant. “I’m going to take the painting down to my office, and I’m going to leave Ms. Potts right where she is, until I get some more information. I will, however, send the fingerprint team out.”

  Constable Wright was fuming. His lips were thin, his eyebrows down so much they were almost meeting in the middle of his forehead. Finally he took a deep breath and stepped away. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Don’t go anywhere, all right? You have enough on your plate besides running from this.”

  “I didn’t know about the painting.” I snapped. I was scared; it was clear that someone had framed me. But who? Had Cressida tried to poison me last night, and, having failed, tipped them off as to the painting’s whereabouts?

  Constable Wright ignored me, and then he turned away. “I’ll be outside,” he said to Blake over his shoulder. Blake went to the painting, put gloves on, and slid it back into the bag.

  “Sorry about that,” Blake said. “Try to say out of trouble.”

  “I am trying,” I said. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Blake nodded and left, and I was left with a somewhat messy house.

  I started to clean up, but my curiosity got the better of me and I sat on the couch and pulled my small laptop onto my lap. I typed in Ian Bleakley, and his painting came up. One looked just like the one the cop had found in the hidden space in my house that I didn’t even know I had. One of the first links I clicked on was about its theft, and I read up on it.

  A private collector in a town called Warwick had owned it, along with some other art. Several paintings had been stolen from his private collection three years ago. The collector was a man who had wished to remain anonymous, and I was unable to pull any other information about him through any other articles.

  Still something kept prodding my mind, with each article about the theft that I clicked through. Finally it came to me. Warwick. I had heard the town’s name somewhere else, only recently. Then I remembered. Mr. Buttons had said Warwick was where Tim Higgins had lived up until he moved to the boarding house.

  I shut my computer and sat back, and slowly a plan formed in my mind.

  "I've seen a look in dogs' eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts."

  John Steinbeck

 
; Chapter Sixteen.

  I knew I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere, but within a half hour of deciding to go to Warwick, I had delivered Sandy to a delighted Mr. Buttons, had an overnight bag packed, and was throwing it into my mobile pet grooming van. I climbed behind the wheel and cranked the engine. It started on the third go, and off I went.

  I had GPS on my phone, though service dipped and dropped completely, but Warwick wasn’t hard to get to; it was just time consuming, being several hours away. A few hours into the trip, it was well past lunch and I realized I hadn't eaten all day. I stopped off the highway and went through a drive through, eating a burger and sucking down a milkshake as I got back onto the road.

  I wondered what Blake was going to say if he found out I had left, worse still that I had gone away right after the constable had told me not to go anywhere. I decided I really didn’t care all that much. After all, the constable hadn’t said, “Don’t leave town,” like they do in the movies.

  This was serious; someone was framing me. I didn't think Constable Wright cared much about who he fingered with the crime; he just wanted to close the case. That left it all up to me, and I would do what I could to clear my own name.

  The sun was just starting to fall when I reached Warwick, and I found a small motel built a bit back from the main stretch of road in town. I stopped at the front office and got myself a room.

  I quickly let myself into the room and looked around it. It was just like any other motel room; nice enough but unremarkable. After freshening up, I left my van parked there and walked back to the main road, moving up and down the street as I looked in the windows of the shops, all of which were either closed now or getting ready to close.

  I had a bit of a start when I saw the antique store. It was brick and nondescript, with brass letters that hung over the doorway. I recognized it; it had been Tim Higgins’ place. I had seen a picture of it in a scrapbook of sorts that he had kept, when I had gone through his room. I tried the door but it was locked, and I resolved to come back first thing in the morning once they had opened.