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

by Morgana Best

  I walked back to the motel and got some dinner from a dingy vending machine sitting in a covered hall a few doors down. I went back to my room and ate my fattening loot, and then I took a shower. I got into bed, made myself as comfortable as I could, and tried to go to sleep. Sleep did not come, so I turned on the TV and watched late night talk shows until I finally drifted off.

  The following morning, I dressed and walked into town. The antique store had been open for six minutes by the time I got there. As I pushed the door open, a small brass bell chimed over my head, and a thin woman of in her thirties came out from behind the counter near the back of the store.

  “Hello,” she said with a smile, and as I made my way to her, the thin woman was joined by someone who could only be her husband, a thin man himself, but taller than maybe anyone I had ever seen.

  “Hi, I have some questions,” I said, and the couple looked at me with interest.

  “Well, we’ll try to help you best we can,” the man said.

  I was a little discomfited, wishing I had said something to indicate that I was not coming to look at antiques. “Do you know Tim Higgins?” I said, figuring there was no point beating around the bush.

  The couple looked at one another.

  “Why do you ask?” the woman said.

  “I know him, well not really, but he lived near me,” I said.

  “We never knew whatever happened with him,” the man said. “And that’s all right with us.”

  “I’m Sibyl, by the way,” I said, offering my hand across the counter. The couple took turns shaking it, and introduced themselves as Cathy and Bob.

  “You bought this store from Tim?” I asked.

  “Why are you asking, if you don’t mind?” Cathy asked.

  “Tim died the other day. There are some questions about his death.”

  “Oh my,” Cathy said.

  “And you’re a police officer?” Bob asked.

  “No,” I said. “I’m just doing some digging, trying to help.”

  “I see,” Bob said, but it was clear he didn’t really. “Well, we didn’t know him well, but we bought the place from him when he was selling some years ago; gosh I guess it must be almost ten years now. He and his wife were moving.”

  “He had a wife?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know if they were actually married, but they were living together. They were inseparable. In all things I guess you can say.”

  That got my interest. “What do you mean by that?”

  “When we bought the place, the police came through and took inventory of everything. Literally marked down everything in the shop. Something was going on with those two, and everyone here in town knew it. We had always loved the shop; we love antiques, but dealing with them, well it wasn’t pleasant. When they announced they were selling it we both quit our jobs and bought it. It’s been a dream come true,” Bob said.

  “Only we had to keep an under new management sign in the window for a year,” Cathy added. “To let everyone know that reputable people had taken over.”

  “What were they doing?” I asked.

  “Maybe dealing in stolen goods,” Bob said. “It’s a pretty big racket for this industry, if you care to put your life and reputation on the line.”

  I nodded. I had guessed as much. “And the police went after them?”

  “I don’t think they ever got them on anything,” Bob said.

  “And he had a wife, um, partner? Had they been together long?” I asked. It had seemed odd that no one in Little Tatterford had mentioned his partner, and I hadn’t seen anything to indicate he had one in his room.

  “I think they had been. We moved here in our early twenties and they were together, and that was twenty years ago. They were together ten years after that, when they left here.”

  I thought for a moment. I didn’t know how and if Tim was involved with the stolen painting, but the timeline didn’t work out quite right, if he had left town ten years ago, and the painting was stolen three years ago.

  “What did his partner look like?”

  “She was a fair bit younger,” Cathy said. “Short and slim, blonde hair.”

  I shook my head. “Do you know about the paintings that were stolen from a collector in town three or so years ago?”

  The married couple looked at one another, and they seemed to hesitate together. Finally Bob spoke. “We heard about it of course.”

  “Do you know who the collector was?”

  “He doesn’t want to be bothered,” Bob said, somewhat sharply, and I knew not to ask any more questions about it.

  “Well, thanks for your time,” I said. I didn’t bother to shake their hands again, as the mood in the shop had taken a noticeable turn, and the chilly glares I got told me all I needed to know. I turned and headed back out to the street. I had only gone half a block back toward the motel when I paused. I turned, having felt the undeniable feeling of someone watching me. There were a few people out walking in the morning, and a couple cars buzzed by. A group of school children ran by, hurrying to the corner where the school sat. I couldn’t see anyone looking at me, but I knew I hadn’t imagined it. I turned and hurried back to my motel.

  I used the small key I was given at the desk to open my room, and at once a sense of nausea passed over me. The vision came out of nowhere, a vision of someone going through my things at my cottage. In my vision, I walked into my cottage, and I looked over to where I kept a few of my makeup items out on a table. They were in a different position. The vision faded as quickly as it had begun.

  I hurried to pack my small bag, and then checked out. I couldn’t wait to get out of Warwick, and I hurried out to the road, and then the few miles to the highway which would take me back home. I couldn’t shake the feeling of having been watched, and the feeling of being violated by having some unknown person go through my stuff. I felt queasy, and shortly after getting on the highway, I had to pull over as hot tears stung my eyes. They were tears of fear, and anger. I couldn’t stop them; I just had to let them fall down my cheeks, while cars sped by me on the highway. Eventually I got everything under control. I merged back into traffic, and started for home once more. I only stopped three times, once when I needed petrol (which is what Australians call gas), and twice for snacks. I didn’t dare speed in case I got a ticket, and then the horrible Constable Wright would know that I had left town.

  It was late afternoon when I pulled into my dirt driveway in front of my cabin. I hurried inside, and sure enough, my make up items were all out of position. Someone had indeed been here, going through my things. I locked both doors, and wedged chairs against them, then went through the small house and locked the windows as well. Sandy was with Mr. Buttons, so I had no concerns there. As it was winter, it was already dark, and I turned every light in the house on, and lit the fire before huddling in front of it. There was nothing quite so comforting as a wood fire, but my shivering was not only caused by the cold; it was also caused by fear.

  "A dog teaches a boy fidelity, perseverance, and to turn around three times before lying down."

  Robert Benchley

  Chapter Seventeen.

  The previous night my sleep had been uneven, and uneasy, and I had awoken often. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been followed and spied upon the previous day, and now I was worried that someone had been through my home. Still, the night had passed without incident, and in the morning, just as the sun was rising, I got out of bed. I waited until the stores on Main Street would be open, meanwhile taking a hot shower, both to warm up and to pass the time. The second my iPhone read nine, I picked up my laptop and climbed into my van.

  I drove down the main street and parked in front of a small coffee shop that seemed to have been wedged between two bigger buildings, a laundromat on one side, and a bank on the other. I managed to reverse the van with some difficulty, taking up two parking spaces. Still, there weren’t many cars in the street, so I hoped no one would mind.

  I decided t
o have a good look around the town, and check out the shops. I was soon captivated by one store, which had heavily scented candles as well as unusual lamps and cushions, all at good prices. I stood for some time, trying to decide between one candle with a triple fragrance of caramel, vanilla and coconut, and another which boasted a triple fragrance of gardenia, patchouli, and sandalwood. I eventually chose the latter.

  I also could not resist a shabby chic, silk lampshade complete with lamp stand. It appeared to be have been made with strips of pale pink raw silk, tied at top with the palest blue brocade which was held in place by an art nouveau clasp. It was more than I wanted to spend, but I wanted a lamp stand next to my bed so I could read at night and then go to sleep without having to get out of bed to turn off the light. This was especially important in winter; I had no desire to leave my electric blanket and climb out into the icy air. The warmth of the wood fire did not extend to my bedroom.

  I packed my finds into my van, and picked up my laptop, just as my cell phone vibrated. I looked at the number; it was my lawyer. Immediately my stomach churned, so I sat down in the passenger seat in the van and took a deep breath before answering.

  "Hello, bad news?" was the first thing I said.

  "To the contrary," came the official voice. "Your husband, sorry, ex-husband, has agreed to let you have the cockatoo in exchange for $5000 of the property settlement.”

  I was elated and confused at the same time. "So, you're saying I can have Max? And I don’t have to pay for him now? It will come out of the property settlement later?"

  "Yes," my lawyer said, "but I must advise you against it. That is an unacceptable price for a cockatoo. I suggest we wait it out, wait until the property settlement and have the bird as part of the property settlement. No judge will think it reasonable that you pay $5000 for a bird."

  "He's not just a bird," I said. "He's my Max. Yes, I’ll do it."

  My lawyer attempted to interrupt me. "Sibyl, I must advise you -"

  I cut him off. "No, I'm going to get Max. How soon can I do it?"

  "I'll call his lawyer and then call you straight back." My lawyer sounded weary. No doubt he thought I was making a big mistake.

  I sat in the van wringing my hands for what seemed like an age, waiting for the call. I was about to call my lawyer back when he called me.

  "Sibyl, your ex-husband said you can collect Max tomorrow, from his work."

  I thought for a moment. That was short notice, and it meant two plane rides, but at least I didn’t have to wait before collecting Max. "I’ll do it," I said. "Make sure he has the photo albums there, too." After speaking some more about the paperwork, I hung up.

  I got my laptop out of the van, and hurried inside the café. It was surprisingly empty, and I moved right up to the counter and ordered a latte from the barista, a young woman in her late teens with blonde hair and a crooked smile. I paid for the drink and dropped a couple coins in the tip jar before moving to a small circular table with two wobbly chairs around it by the roaring wood fire.

  I took a sip of my latte and opened the laptop. There was free WiFi in the café. To my surprise, my laptop connected to the internet at once. I immediately went to the flight center's website and booked a return flight to Rockhampton, which was the closest town to where my ex-husband worked. I also booked a flight for Max, and as it was such short notice, I had no choice but to buy the airline's expensive bird carrier crate.

  The whole exercise was expensive, as flights are always more costly if booked at the last minute, but I had no other option. I wanted Max back as soon as I could get him.

  When the bookings were complete, I rewarded myself with a slice of chocolate ganache cake. I sipped my latte and turned back to my laptop, this time searching for Tim Higgins. I started wading through all the Tim Higgins entries that came up, trying to find the one I wanted. It took me some time to find him, and the WiFi kept dropping out, but find him I did. I learned his middle name was Eugene.

  Luckily for me, he appeared to be the only Timothy Eugene Higgins in Australia. When I added his middle name, only a few sparse details popped up, but they were only about him. I scrolled through images, disappointed not to see any of Tim with a woman.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve actually seen you wash a dog,” a voice said.

  I jumped in my seat and looked up. There was Blake, standing over me with his thumbs hooked through his belt.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  The sergeant was holding a steaming travel mug of coffee, and he placed it on the table and sat down opposite me without being invited. He looked across at me. "We had the coffee and cereal analyzed; there was nothing in the coffee but they found traces of barbiturates in your cereal. Not enough to kill you, but enough to make you fall asleep at the wheel."

  I was upset by the news, but not overly surprised. After all, I’d had the vision. I was wondering whether I should mention the vision - just to rub it in; after all, I didn’t like being thought of as a "nut job" - when he spoke again.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Research,” I said, somewhat defiantly. “Yesterday I drove up to Warwick and dug into Tim Higgins. I went to his old antique store. The new owners say he was married, but I can’t find his wife anywhere.”

  Blake considered this for a moment. “Maybe they just lived together; maybe they weren’t married. We knew nothing of any wife.”

  “Yes, sorry; they said they didn’t know if he was married or not, but they were sure he had a woman in his life, long term.”

  “Hmm,” Blake muttered.

  “And they, um, they thought he was doing things, maybe selling stolen goods, stuff like that, so the painting, it could be, well you know, it could be something he was doing. They seemed sure he was up to something.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  The question caught me off guard. “What do you mean?”

  “Someone came after you, you know? You could've been killed. Are you looking to keep it going?”

  I wilted under his gaze. “I want to figure this out.”

  Blake stood up, and placed his hat upon his head. He grabbed his coffee and took a sip. “Well that’s my job,” he said sternly, and then he turned to go. He headed for the front door, put his hand upon it, and pushed it open. Then he turned back and shook his head softly. “Just stay out of trouble; I mean it.”

  “A dog will teach you unconditional love. If you can have that in your life, things won't be too bad.”

  (Robert Wagner)

  Chapter Eighteen.

  I was only halfway to the airport, and already dreading the rest of the journey. I was on my way to Rockhampton to meet my ex-husband and finally collect my childhood photo albums, and more importantly, my cockatoo, Max - unfortunately, this meant driving to the airport from Little Tatterford, flying to Brisbane on a tiny (and very uncomfortable) plane, then taking a connecting flight to Rockhampton itself.

  In all, it wasn't the most unpleasant or lengthy journey, but I was dreading the encounter with Andrew. It would be worth it, though; I was sick of empty promises, and knew that if I never went and got this sorted myself, I'd never get my hands on Max again.

  Plus, the flight from Brisbane to Rockhampton is actually a bearable one, on a much nicer plane than the little one from Little Tatterford to Brisbane. The flight is only an hour and a half. Better yet, the return trip would be even nicer, since I wouldn't have to worry about seeing Andrew and I would have Max.

  I arrived early to the airport, as was my habit. Normally, punctuality wasn't a big worry for me, but missing my plane would have caused all sorts of unnecessary problems, and you never know how long it takes to get through security.

  While waiting and on the (very small and uncomfortable) flight itself, I spent my time thinking over recent events. At the moment, I had three prime suspects - Cressida, who may have poisoned her ex-husband, Mr. Buttons, who cleaned up the crime scene directly after the incident, as we
ll as had easy access to Tim Higgins' meals and my own coffee machine, and Alison. Alison had the same ease of movement as the rest, although no known possible access to cyanide, and I as far as I could tell, no real motive. I couldn't discount the possibility that they were working together somehow, but that felt extremely unlikely.

  It could also be someone else entirely. Nevertheless, this whole mess was too much to think about with the impending Andrew-pocolypse, so I put these thoughts aside and tried to enjoy the rest of my trip. The second flight was a much more pleasant experience, with better seating, service, meals, and movies. At only an hour and a half, I didn't get the chance to see an entire movie, but the fact that they had them playing at all was a nice distraction.

  When I arrived, I got a taxi from the airport to the mining chemical production facility where my ex-husband worked. One hundred dollars later, I paid the taxi. The facility was sprawling and imposing, the kind of place you always see being blown up in action movies. There were strange metal pipes extruding from all structures that were going who-knows-where, as well as a sea of colorful shipping containers. There were two taller buildings, both extremely industrial in their appearance - though the word industrial encompassed this entire facility. Andrew worked in the most normal looking building here, a three storey office building, from the looks of it. I hadn’t been here in quite some time, and this building was new.

  I headed inside and, to my surprise, was greeted by a receptionist. I wondered how many people visited a place like this, but realized he was talking to me.

  "What can I do for you?" the receptionist asked, smiling. He was young, probably in his early twenties. I recognized that smile in most people his age. It was as though he'd rather be anywhere but here. I could relate.

  "I'm Sibyl Potts. I'm here to see Andrew Rankin." I checked my watch. "I have an appointment. He should be expecting me around now."

  The receptionist nodded and typed at his computer. A full minute passed without him acknowledging me outside of that simple nod, and I wondered if I should say something. Just as I was about to do so, he looked up at me and said, "You're fine to go up now. The elevators are over there; Andrew's on the second floor." The receptionist was wearing that same fake smile as he motioned toward the elevator.