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

  "My ex-husband is a chemical engineer," I said, doing my best to keep my tone even. "He works for one of the mining companies, manufacturing sodium cyanide."

  The cop looked at me again, “You are saying that you can smell it?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve never heard of that,” the cop said, standing straight. “You’ll be renting the cottage here, won't you?”

  I nodded. "Yes, I'm Sibyl Potts."

  The cop folded his arms across his chest. "Sergeant Blake Wessley. All right, everyone needs to get out of here, but stay in the house until I take your statements. Would you all please go and wait in the dining room. I have to secure the scene.”

  I turned with the others and left, noticing that the fat cat had followed me out. I bent and picked him up, holding him in one arm and stroking his back with my free hand.

  “Interesting,” the British man said, as we walked. “You smelled a poison?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I’d know that smell anywhere."

  “My handbag!” Ms. Upthorpe said, turning and hurrying back into the entrance hall. When she returned, she had the handbag over her shoulder and a set of keys in her hand. “Here you are, Sibyl. Quite the excitement for your first day. Please do be careful, and come up whenever you like. Dinner is at five thirty in winter, and you’re welcome to come and join us anytime."

  “Thank you,” I said, wondering if it was too late to cancel my lease. I'd come here for peace and quiet, and the people I’d met so far had been either eccentric or bordering on rude. I bent to release the cat, but Ms. Upthorpe stopped me.

  “Please take Lord Farringdon outside, Sibyl. He says he’s quite disturbed by seeing the dead body.”

  Had I stepped into an insane asylum? I shook my head, certain I had fallen into a parallel world. Or perhaps I hadn’t heard her properly; surely Cressida didn’t believe that the cat actually spoke to her? As I took the purring cat to the front door, I saw Blake Wessley and a uniformed cop fastening yellow and black tape with the words, Crime Scene: Do Not Enter, around the outside of the door to the storage room. "I'll interview the three boarders who found the body," Sergeant Wessley said to the uniformed officer, "if you wouldn’t mind waiting here at the door for forensics to arrive."

  The uniformed police officer agreed, but I noted he looked quite irritated. "Back in Sydney, our station had its own forensics team," he said.

  Sergeant Wessley said, "Yes, well, that would be nice, but the nearest team is in Tamworth, fifty minutes away."

  I put the cat on the ground outside the door, shut the door firmly, and turned around. I jumped when I saw that the sergeant was standing right behind me.

  "What are you doing out here? You were told to wait in the dining room." His tone overflowed with disapproval.

  "Mrs. Upthorpe told me to put the cat outside," I said, unhappy that my voice sounded defensive.

  Sergeant Wessley narrowed his eyes in response, and nodded in the direction of the hallway. I hurried away, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl who had just been sent to the principal. Thankfully Mr. Buttons was waiting for me. "This way to the dining room," he said. "This house is so rambling, that it would be easy to get lost."

  Rambling was not the adjective I would have chosen. I could think of several, and none of them polite. I shuddered as I thought that Norman Bates certainly could have been comfortable in the house. It looked as if it wouldn’t be out of place in an old thriller.

  The hallway was lined in garish, light pink wall paper with white flowers speckled across it. Paintings lined the walls. There were colorful landscapes, and a strange one of a young woman crying tears of blood as she held a single, vivid red rose.

  “Cressida Upthorpe paints these herself,” Mr. Buttons said, nodding his head to a picture of a sailboat crashing into rocks, and people falling overboard.

  “Oh yes, um, they're good,” I said, pretending to admire the bizarre paintings.

  Mr. Buttons chuckled and then stopped in front of the second door down on the left. It was closed tightly, but opened freely, despite there being a small keyhole under the brass knob. Mr. Buttons pushed the door open and stepped inside, and I followed him in.

  The room was freezing, and I wrapped my coat around me tightly. Everyone had warned me that Little Tatterford was cold, but I had no idea just how cold it was, and coming from a sunny coastal town, I was unprepared for the brutal bite of cold in the air. It was not even winter yet, and winter was not my favorite season. I didn't mind it being cold outside, if I was in a warm house, but this large, rambling house was not warm, and I very much doubted my cottage would be warm, either.

  I figured I was in the winter of my life, and I soon I would be heading for spring, or so I hoped. I always tried to look on the bright side of things.

  We stepped through the door into a large dining room, with a long, polished table of cherry wood that could easily seat at least twenty.

  The room was large but was filled with plenty of clutter, or rather, antiques, but they were not arranged in an attractive manner, simply crammed one against the other. There was a faded green, antique love seat in the far corner, tucked in under a window where the sun came in and fell along the bottom half of the worn upholstery. There was an imposing, mahogany credenza across the room from that, and beside it, a frayed and patched reclining chair in another corner. It was difficult to identify the other furniture, as piles and piles of antique china and glassware covered every available space.

  Mr. Buttons crossed to the large dining table and sat down. I sat opposite him. The dining table was well dusted, but the sunlight shone through the small window, and particles of dust were easily seen suspended in the air. The whole place had a decidedly musty smell, and I wished I could open all the windows so fresh air could flood in.

  Cressida Upthorpe peered out from the doorway, and then crossed to the table to take her place. "I've been eavesdropping on what the police are saying," she announced proudly with an accompanying wave of both hands.

  I took the chance to study her. She had bright red hair, and oversized bright red glasses. I had noticed that before - who wouldn’t? - but now I took in her long, blue velvet dress with golden brocade trim. I wondered if she had been on stage at some point in her life, as the entire effect was quite theatrical.

  I didn’t quite know how to respond to her words, so asked, "How many police officers are out there now?"

  "Only two," Cressida said. "Blake Wessley is the sergeant in charge of the police station here in Little Tatterford. There are two constables, Gordon Wright and Bill Barnes. Bill's on sick leave, and Gordon is new; he replaced the former sergeant, Colin. Colin was a large man, and a heart attack ended up doing him in, right as he was midway through a double decker burger and order of gravy cheese fries. Blake's still getting used to working with Gordon; he's from the city and has no understanding of country ways."

  I nodded, trying to take it all in.

  "What did you hear them say?" Mr. Buttons leaned forward in his chair, making it squeak loudly, and I wondered if the old chairs were actually practical or whether Mr. Buttons was about to be deposited on a heap on the floor.

  Cressida looked discomforted for a moment before she spoke. "Sorry Sibyl, but Blake told the other sergeant, Gordon, that you were pretty, although he was disappointed to find out that you are a nut job. He said you'd fit right in with the other eccentric residents at the Upthorpe boarding house."

  At that Mr. Buttons gasped. "How rude, and I thought he was a pleasant young man. I'll go and make us all a nice cup of tea."

  I put my head in my hands and rubbed my temples to offset the headache that was coming on. I feel I'm going mad, I thought. Mr. Buttons and Cressida Upthorpe are really strange. And that police officer is just plain rude. What on earth have I gotten myself into by moving here?

  "He said that there was no way that people could smell cyanide," Cressida continued after Mr. Buttons had left the dining room, "and there was no way it was genetic, but
that he didn’t have any time to worry about that at the moment."

  I was furious. I wanted to march straight into the crime scene and set that smug officer straight. How dare he call me a nut job?

  Cressida appeared not to notice my discomfort, as she continued talking. "Blake's called the forensics team and detectives, but they're at least fifty minutes away." She paused to smile. "Gordon seems quite put out that the forensics team's so far away; he keeps going on about the fact that there was one at his old station in Sydney. I think Blake's going to have trouble with him. City slickers," she added derisively.

  At that point, a woman hurried into the room, and addressed Cressida without so much as a glance at me. "Mrs. Upthorpe, whatever's happened? Why are the police here?"

  Cressida leapt to her feet. "Sit down, Alison." She all but pushed the woman into the closest chair. "I'm afraid I have some awful news. Mr. Higgins is dead!"

  "Tim?" Alison's hands flew to her throat. "What happened? He's dead?"

  Cressida thrust a tissue into the woman's hands. "The police are treating it as a suspicious death,” she said. "I overheard Gordon saying it was probably a heart attack and Blake saying that he could well be right, but Blake said that they won't know for sure until the forensics team gets here."

  I looked at Alison. To my relief, the woman didn't appear to be eccentric, although who would know what would eventually prove to be the case. She looked about forty or so, around the same age as Cressida, and was slim and well groomed. Unlike Cressida, however, Alison appeared to be conservative. Her shiny, brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her jewelry, although it looked expensive, was subtle. I figured the gold fob chain around her neck would be worth at least $3000. My ex mother-in-law had often told me, or rather, gloated to me, about the value of her own jewelry and antiques.

  Cressida was still talking. "It could be murder."

  Alison wrung her hands in obvious discomfort. "Poor Mr. Higgins has been unwell; surely they don’t think someone murdered him?"

  Mr. Buttons chose that moment to return with a tray. He placed a delicate, pale green teapot on the table and four cups and saucers, along with a matching cream jug and sugar. Next to the cups he placed a row of sandwiches cut into small triangles, with the crusts removed. "Cucumber sandwiches," he said. "Tea and cucumber sandwiches are always cheering." He turned to the new arrival. "I saw you coming down the stairs, Alison, so I brought you a cup too. How is your migraine?"

  Alison frowned. "It's eased off now, thanks."

  "And you've met Sibyl?" Mr. Buttons continued.

  Cressida suddenly stood up. "I'm so sorry, Alison, allow me to present Sibyl Potts, who will be renting the cottage. Sibyl, this is Alison Turner, our maid."

  We nodded to each other and murmured greetings.

  "I couldn't help but overhear what the police said," Mr. Buttons said. "The forensics team just arrived, so when they were all inside the room, I pricked up my ears to see if I could hear anything."

  "And did you?" Cressida said.

  Mr. Buttons nodded. "Blake asked them if Tim Higgins could have been poisoned."

  At that, Alison gasped, and Cressida waved Mr. Buttons on.

  "Then I overheard a man say that some poisons give a pretty clear indicator. He said there was no vomit in the passageway, or the area, so that discounts a few poisons. He said there’s a nasty one that melts your tongue and throat if ingested, and that’s not the case here either. He asked Blake if he was thinking of any poison in particular, and Blake said cyanide."

  Alison gasped again. I was pleased that it appeared that the cop had taken me seriously after all, at least to some degree.

  Cressida waved her hand at Mr. Buttons again. "Well, go on, Mr. Buttons, what did the man say to that?"

  Mr. Buttons finished his cucumber sandwich before he answered. "I couldn't hear it, but I think he said they'd have to run tests. He said cyanide is usually very hard to detect. Anyway, you might be right, after all, Sibyl."

  Alison set down her tea cup. "Right about what?"

  "Oh, you don’t know, do you?" Cressida said. "Sibyl here says she can smell cyanide. Only a small percentage of people can smell it; isn’t that right, Sibyl?"

  I shrugged. "I don’t know what the percentage is, but it's a genetic ability, and so only some people can smell it."

  Alison simply nodded and sipped her tea.

  I put two spoons of sugar in my tea and then rapidly consumed a cucumber sandwich. It didn’t taste too good, but I was hungry. Just as I stuffed the second cucumber sandwich in my mouth, the door opened. It was Sergeant Blake Wessley. "Outside now, Ms. Potts, please."

  “The better I get to know men, the more I find myself loving dogs.”

  (Charles de Gaulle)

  Chapter Four.

  I walked over to the door, and Sergeant Wessley indicated that I should follow him. I soon found myself in the living room. It looked much like every other room I had seen so far, a stale smell hanging in the air and overcrowded with antiques.

  I leaned against the doorframe and folded my arms across my chest.

  "Come and sit down," the sergeant said. His tone now sounded like a request rather than an order.

  I crossed to an ugly, uncomfortable looking chair and took my seat opposite Sergeant Wessley, who was already flipping open a notepad, pen in hand.

  “I asked one of the forensics team about that stuff you were talking about, the cyanide smell.”

  “And you discovered that I wasn’t an eccentric nut job who was making something up, Sergeant Wessley?” I was unable to keep the accusatory edge out of my voice.

  I was satisfied to see that the sergeant flushed beet red.

  "Err, yes," he said. "Sorry about that. I'd never heard of the fact that only some people can smell cyanide before. It's a good thing you mentioned it, as the pathologist said that they wouldn’t normally do a toxicology screening for cyanide. If it does turn out to be cyanide, we'll have you to thank for discovering it. By the way, call me Blake. We're all on first name terms here, in this town. Now, I need your full name, date of birth, and address." He flushed again. "Oh yes, your address is here, of course, the cottage."

  After I supplied him with the details, Blake continued. "Now tell me everything that happened, from the time you arrived here this afternoon. Please make it as detailed as possible, and leave nothing out, even if you consider it to be insignificant."

  For the next twenty minutes, I sat there, recounting my afternoon to Sergeant Blake Wessley. After he finished, and advised me that I’d have to tell my story to the detectives as well when they arrived, he told me that I was free to go.

  I moved to the door, unsure of what to do with myself now after such a strange and uncomfortable start to my new life in Little Tatterford. I was hungry, so I decided to do the mundane - to go into town and pick up a few groceries. I needed something to eat before I unpacked my things. I figured I could explore a bit and get some word of mouth going on my business. At least that would get my mind off the strange events of the day.

  I walked down the driveway and thought that I would need to buy a scarf, and perhaps some sort of warm hat. This cold air had a bite to it that had to be experienced to be believed, at least for a beach side, city dweller like I had been. Still, I had trouble collecting my thoughts.

  I climbed into my truck and headed into town. I pulled to a stop in front of the small grocery store, the only one in town, jumped out of my truck, and headed in. I was glad that there were three big parking spots, as we call them in Australia, outside the store, as the rest of the street had reverse angle parking, and the main street of town was actually on a major highway, which narrowed through town. There was no way I’d be able to reverse my truck into one of those spots in the face of oncoming traffic. In fact, as I’d been driving down the street, I saw a car with Queensland plates narrowly miss someone doing a reverse angle park. I figured they didn’t have reverse angle parking in the northern state of Queensland. />
  There were three checkout lines in the front of the store, and all but one of them open, though there was no one checking out. Two of the clerks were younger, possibly school kids working after class, but one was an older man with thinning black hair and a smile on his face.

  “Hi,” the man said, as I walked past him. “Haven’t seen you before; are you passing through?”

  “No, I just moved here,” I said.

  “Ah, you took Cressida Upthorpe's cottage?”

  I nodded, and then hurried to a grocery cart from a small line. I pushed it toward the back of the store, wondering if the "friendly" description of people in small country towns was a polite way of saying "extremely nosy."

  I spent half an hour selecting what I thought I needed - the necessities mainly: chocolate, ice cream, bread, milk - and when I returned to the front, only the man was there.

  “All finished?” he asked, and I nodded. “So what brings you here?” he asked as he scanned the groceries I had emptied from the cart.

  “Divorce,” I said.

  “Oh yes, divorce," he said. “Nice truck you have out there.” He nodded his head through the window that ran almost the whole length of the front of the store.

  “Do you have any pets?” I asked. “I have a pet grooming business. I do dog baths, mainly, although I can do some show clips."

  The man muttered to himself as one of the items wouldn’t scan. He punched some keys on his screen before answering. “I have one old dog, and my wife always complains about washing him. I might take you up on it.”

  I loaded my groceries and then looked the bags over. I had forgotten to buy eggs and butter, and goodness knows what else, but I could do that tomorrow. Right now, I just wanted to check out the cottage, pack the food away, bring my clothes in, get warm, eat something, and then take two headache tablets and lie down.

  I had seen photos of the cottage, inside and out, in the emails my ex-husband, Andrew, had sent me, but it looked altogether different in real life. For one, it was much smaller. Still, I didn't mind small; it would be easier to clean. There was a white picket fence around the front of the house, but not in front of the carport which was attached to the house. At first glance, I realized that the roof was too low for my van, so I'd have to park it at the outside the front of the cottage. The back fence was nicely dog proof, being high, and pale green Colorbond, an Australian brand of modular steel fence which I assumed was inspired by the Aussie corrugated iron industry. I was looking forward to getting a dog, once I’d settled in. However, if I could get my cockatoo from my ex-husband, the large garden room which was attached to the back of the house would be ideal for him.