by Morgana Best
“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.
“No worries. 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 be seen.
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 the dog 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 the 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. There was a murder the very day that you arrived in town, 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.
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 also 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 contact 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 to 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. “Assuming one of you drives me back to my van.” I folded my arms across my chest.
When Blake hung up, he said, “Look Sibyl, I’m sorry…”
I whirled around and walked out of the police station as fast as I could.
Chapter 15
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 dry paddocks surrounding it, streams of fear swept through my veins. The scene 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 it 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 onto 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 Cressida alone.
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 in silver candlesticks 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 this occasion.
“Sibyl, it’s so good to see you,” Mr. Buttons said, rising from his chair at the dining table and nodding at me.
“Nice to see you too, Mr. Buttons.”
I chatted with Mr. Buttons, doing my best to keep the image of him in the dog bath from my mind, 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 was looking at me suspiciously.
“Cressida, I heard that you’ve recently returned from a vacation in Jamaica,” I said. 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 the 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 endless 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?
“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. And on my last two days I traveled to Negril, which is on the far west shore 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 who 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 needed 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 coming from a window at the end of the corridor. The light coming through the worn 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 twenties or early thirties. The picture looked like it was from the 1990’s. 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 at 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 them 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 honesty 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. 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 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 might 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.
Chapter 16
The early morning air was hazy, the light soft, as I sat at my small, round dining room table in the corner of the kitchen in my minuscule cottage. Sandy was lying at my feet, chewing on the edge of the table instead of her chew-toy. There was a mug filled with coffee in front of me, the steam rising in large looping 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 drop well below freezing. Perhaps I needed large logs.
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 on my front door.
I had no 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 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.
