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

  My ex-husband, Andrew, had refused to let me take our shared Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo, Max. I knew Andrew would take good care of Max, but I knew equally as well that he was keeping him just to spite me. I had raised Max from a baby bird after he fell out of his nest and broke his wing. Max could speak over two hundred words and I was careful only to say polite words around him. I wasn't so sure what words he was now hearing with Andrew.

  I opened the front gate and noted that the garden looked well cared for. The rose stems were bare, with it being winter, but the garden held the promise of being wonderful in spring time. Small camellia bushes were dotted around.

  The cottage was pale gray, almost white, with white shutters either side of the window to my right. The window to my left was equally large but had no shutters. I walked down the short pathway, opened the screen door, and turned the lock in the wooden door.

  As the door creaked open, I looked at the living room in front of me. The first impression was one of cleanliness. The pale gray walls looked freshly painted and contrasted nicely with the white gloss trim of the doors and windows.

  I had rented the cottage furnished, so the next thing to catch my eye was the weird furniture. It looked like reproduction antique French furniture, complete with gilt edging, and there were throw rugs over the top along with mismatched cushions. Thankfully the furniture was sparse, unlike the boarding house. I figured a few more throw rugs would disguise the worst of it.

  I walked in and adjusted the throw rug over the ornate, cherry pink chair making sure I also covered up the golden painted wood. There was an old, leather sofa, and when I lifted up the drab, beige rug and the old, yellowing cushions over it, I saw long tears in the upholstery. Oh well, I’d just get a brighter rug and some nicer cushions, and no one would ever know the difference.

  I was pleased to see that the kitchen was a good size for such small cottage, and recently renovated. The tiles were nice, bright, and white, and the bench tops appeared to be made of bamboo. Everything else in the kitchen was white. I was also pleased to see that the refrigerator was running. Cressida had assured me that it would be turned on for me before I arrived, but as she seemed a little odd, I thought perhaps she would forget. Clearly she hadn’t, as the refrigerator was humming along nicely, and was cold inside.

  I shivered and thought that the weather was probably colder in the house than it was inside the refrigerator, so I crossed the room to open the door to the wood fire. It was nicely cleaned out inside, and wood was included in my rent, but I had forgotten to buy fire starter cubes. I was too tired and stressed to go outside and gather kindling. At least someone had stacked a wicker basket full of firewood next to the fire.

  I looked in the cupboard under the kitchen sink, and to my relief, someone had left a box of matches in there, as well as a bottle of methylated spirits which is what we Aussies call denatured alcohol. I selected the smallest pieces of wood and placed them at angles in the fire place, then poured some methylated spirits over the top. I stood back at quite a distance and flicked in a lighted match. Boom! An instant roaring fire. I knew it was a dangerous way to light it, and I wouldn’t do it again, but I had been warned just how cold the nights are up in the mountains. I would be sure to buy fire starter cubes and gather kindling the following day.

  No sooner had I sat down on the old but comfortable sofa, than there was a knock on the door. What now?

  I walked to the door and flung it open, to see two men standing there. “Hello, Ms. Potts?”

  Before I could answer, one of the men said, “Good afternoon. I am Detective Anders and this is Detective Johnstone.”

  The other man nodded to me.

  “I assume the attending officers told you we would want to speak to you tonight?”

  I figured the attending officers must be Sergeant Wessley and the constable. “Yes,” I said.

  “May we come in?”

  I showed them into the tiny living room, where Detective Anders sat opposite me while Detective Johnston stood as close as he could to the fire, his back to it. “Now give me your version of events,” Anders said, flipping open a note book.

  I frowned. My “Version of events?” That made it sound like I was a suspect.

  Nevertheless, I recounted the whole afternoon’s events to Anders, while yawning every few moments. He questioned me over and again as to whether I knew the suspect, which irritated me no end.

  After telling me that the government contractors would take the exhibit, which I supposed must mean the body, after the crime scene exhibitors were finished with it, and explaining that they had to maintain the continuity of the exhibit, whatever that meant, they finally left.

  I put another log on the fire, poked it with the provided poker until it was nicely aflame. I sank back into the sofa, shook my head, and stared at the burning embers for so long that I nearly fell asleep.

  My first day in town, and what a day it had been. Surely it couldn’t get any worse?

  If you can look at a dog and not feel vicarious excitement and affection, you must be a cat.

  (Carrie Latet)

  Chapter Five.

  The morning light was bright and cheerful as it streamed through the bedroom window. It made yesterday's events seem as if they were a bad dream. I tried to push the unpleasant memories from my mind, as I was declaring today to be the official first day of my new life. I wasn’t having my first day tainted by dead bodies, strange people, allegedly talking cats, and rude police officers.

  I swung my feet up and over the edge of the bed, and jumped up to greet the day. I rummaged through the groceries for a microwave cinnamon bun and the coffee. It was easy to get used to vending food when moving on a strict budget. I was looking forward to some real food soon. A week of chips, poptarts, and value menu fast food had me craving some real cooking.

  I fumbled through the cottage, banging my shin on a desk while navigating the unfamiliar surroundings. My surroundings, I thought with pleasure. The fact that the cottage had come furnished too was a good feeling, stubbed toes and all. No more crashing on a friend's couch or in a cheap motel.

  While it would likely be some time before the cottage truly felt like home, it did already feel like a sanctuary to me. It was a good start, especially when I had given up everything I could sell to buy the mobile grooming truck.

  The coffee pot sputtered and grumbled as I shuffled outside to get the rest of my bags from the trailer. To my surprise, I found a rolled newspaper right at the doorway. I didn’t recall the paper being part of the rent. A bright yellow post-it note caught my eye.

  Thought you would like to catch up on the local news.

  Your card for today is the Two of Swords.

  Kind Regards,

  Bill Buttons.

  I bit my lip. It was nice of Mr. Buttons to draw a tarot card for me, but I hoped he wasn't going to keep telling me what my cards were. It was bad enough having visions of the future; I'd really rather not know. The Two of Swords - I thought hard. I didn't know a lot about tarot cards, but I knew a little. The card showed a woman blindfolded, a woman who didn’t know the truth of what was in front of her. It had other meanings too, but that one sounded right.

  It was also nice of Mr. Buttons to give me a paper, but I wasn't especially keen on my neighbors leaving favors on my doorstep when I was sleeping. Still, I figured it was better than him waking me up at whatever hour he had decided to walk over. And of course the community of a boarding house was very different to what I was used to. I would need to remember to thank him later.

  I tucked the paper under my arm as I went to the van to collect my bags. On the one hand, I was a bit sad to see my whole world condensed into a few bags, but the optimist in me thought that it was nice to know that I wouldn't be spending the whole day unpacking. Besides, a new life would be easier without a truck full of horrid, old memories.

  By the time I got my things inside, the coffee pot was full and growling as if in discontent for being put to work. I u
npacked my coffee mug and Ziploc of sugar packets from the tub and prepared to have a nice breakfast.

  With a sachet of instant oatmeal in hand, I inspected the microwave. It looked as if it had only barely survived the 80s. The dials and buttons looked quite vintage. I poured the oatmeal into half a cup of water and put it inside the microwave, then pressed the buttons for forty seconds. I wondered if I needed to leave the room as it looked like it might explode. I was happy to find out that the microwave still worked fine, even if I had to send the oatmeal through twice, and one side came out kind of lumpy. It would do though. I usually ate cornflakes for breakfast, but today, I felt like a change.

  I unrolled the newspaper as I settled to relax over my first breakfast in my new home. I tensed as I saw pictures and headlines of yesterday on the front page. The memory of the body flashed back in all its awful detail, the way the shadows fell, the way the sergeant glared at me when I spoke.

  I closed my eyes and took a steady breath and tried to calm my breathing. In through in the nose, hold, out through the mouth.

  I slammed the newspaper shut and opened my eyes. There was no point in processing the events of yesterday, no point in mulling over each and every detail. I opened the newspaper to the third page and glanced over the minor headlines. Proposals for roadwork, a community fundraiser, someone annoyed that someone had stolen their garden gnome. I had to smile at how normal this place was compared to the chaos of the city – not to mention the ugly divorce - I had left behind.

  I bit my lip and turned to the Help Wanted section. Ideally, I wanted my business to pay my bills. Realistically, I could not rely on my grooming service to pay the rent until I had built up a steady client base. I had money I could live on for some months, but if the town could not support a grooming business, I would need to find part time work. Of course, none of this would matter once I got the property settlement, but my ex-husband was doing everything he could to delay it.

  I considered myself lucky to have a sum to cover rent, utilities, and modest groceries for some time. It was a relief to have an emergency fund, no matter how small.

  I swallowed some lumpy oatmeal and pulled out my battered notebook, with its cover taped over with duct tape. The notebook was filled cover to cover with notes, post-its, lists, and dreams for the grooming van. I ran my finger wistfully over a photo of my cockatoo, Max, that I had taped to the cover.

  Max was a huge, white bird, with, as the name Sulphur-Crested suggested, a big yellow crest. He always had the cutest expression on his face. If I'd had a bad day, or got caught up during a sad movie, he was right there waiting for me to tell him all about it with big dark eyes and his head turned to the side.

  I blinked back the tears, trying to not let any fall. The divorce had been long and cruel. I had put that man through college, sometimes working two jobs and double shifts. I had forgone many nice things for myself. I even missed a family reunion when he said I had to choose between that and supporting him through his exams in his last semester. Andrew had rewarded my sacrifices by cheating on me.

  When I caught him when I had overheard him on the phone to a woman, a day I had come home early, he tried to throw the blame onto me, for always being away at work. In a romantic haze, I had intended to sign the pre-nup he had presented me with prior to us getting married, but, luckily as it turned out, I’d had a most disturbing vision of me being penniless, so I had gone to a lawyer and made sure that the pre nup was fair. Andrew had been furious about it at the time, so much so that I had even considered not marrying him.

  Now, any request I made, he made it a point to block, no matter how unimportant it was to him. He kept my cook books and even birthday gifts he had given me. His lawyer even said I had to give the engagement ring back to him. Andrew was from a wealthy family, and he wanted to make sure I didn’t get a cent of the family fortune.

  I was most upset that he had not allowed me to take our bird, Max. We were both fond of him, but Andrew knew that keeping Max would rip out a piece of my soul. He wanted to punish me for leaving him.

  Fortunately not everything had gone Andrew's way. I was awarded a modest monetary sum to take care of my needs and he was ordered to send me my personal items like my photo albums. I wished I had taken them earlier, but everything is clear in hindsight. There was so much in those photo albums, and I had no way to protect them.

  “I think dogs are the most amazing creatures; they give unconditional love. For me, they are the role model for being alive.”

  (Gilda Radner)

  Chapter Six.

  I felt at a loose end so decided to go the main house. After all, Cressida had invited me for a cup of tea, although had not specified a time.

  I hesitated in front of the boarding house, and looked at the enormous, dark, and somewhat creepy mansion towering above me. The peeling paint showed signs of years of neglect. The bleak, sparsely grassed paddocks spreading out to the horizon, and the looming dark clouds in the sky caused me to shiver to my core.

  There were several deciduous trees at the front of the house and their leafless frames danced wildly in the wind. I jumped as an open window swung in the wind and banged against the peeling wood. One shutter bore large holes that left a few jagged pieces dangling on the inside.

  There were no other homes around, just trees and an occasional, curious cow. On this visit, the boarding house seemed untamed, unwelcoming, and utterly unsightly. It made my skin crawl.

  I stepped from the overgrown, browning grass onto the creaky steps. I knocked on the boarding house’s main door and then stepped back. I expected someone to open the door and welcome me in, but no one came to the door. I figured that no one had heard me knock, and so I knocked again, harder this time.

  Again, no one came to the door. Frowning, I turned the doorknob and stepped in. I walk down the corridor and tried my best to avert my eyes from the police tape cordoning off the crime scene, but couldn’t help it. The sheer bright yellowness of the tape distracted me. I saw no police this time, but heard a humming sound coming from the room, so I walked over to it and looked in. To my surprise, I saw a vacuum cleaner, and Mr. Buttons polishing the coffee table.

  “Mr. Buttons.”

  Mr. Buttons looked up. His eyes barely flickered with recognition as he looked down again to polish the coffee table.

  “Hello, Sibyl. Welcome again,” he muttered, his crisp English accent ringing throughout the room.

  I was aghast. “Mr. Buttons, you shouldn’t be cleaning up a crime scene. The police might still need to collect evidence. What do you think the tape is for?”

  I pointed at the police tape that was barring my entrance to the crime scene, but Mr. Buttons continued to polish the coffee table wordlessly. I tried to catch his eye as he turned around to polish a different section of the coffee table.

  “Mr. Buttons.”

  The voice came from behind me. I swung around to see Alison, the maid. “Mr. Buttons, what do you think you’re doing?” she said, her voice bordering on angry.

  To my relief, Mr. Buttons put the rag away and came to meet us. He climbed under the other side of the tape.

  “I’m cleaning the place up,” he said. “It’s so messy and awful. I couldn’t stand it; I just had to do something about it.”

  My jaw fell open. At the same time, the cogs in my mind turned furiously, trying to work out whether Mr. Buttons could possibly be the murderer.

  I was about to speak, but Alison beat me to it. “Mr. Buttons, the police clearly aren’t done with the crime scene as it’s still cordoned off by the tape. What will they think of you cleaning up in here?”

  Mr. Buttons shrugged, although his face did turn pale. “I’m sorry, but I had to clean up. Lord Farringdon has been shedding cat hair all over the rug and, like I said, I couldn’t stand it. Anyway, the police would’ve already taken all the evidence by now.”

  The maid rolled her eyes and then shrugged. “Come on, I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”

  I follow
ed them both down the dark corridor, assuming I was included in the invitation. I could smell the musty, old scent which was emanating from the walls. We walked into the kitchen. It was no better than the rest of the house, although was sparkling clean. It was smaller than I expected. I guessed it had been updated in the 1950s. The floors were a horrible mixture of beige and mustard ties. The ceiling, which was high, was a weird shade of orange, as were the kitchen cupboards. There was a particularly hideous, orange, floral blind over the one window.

  Opposite the wall of built in cupboards was a combustion stove, clearly no longer in use. Shelving in dark wood lined the rest of the walls on that side.

  In the middle of the kitchen was an old iron and Formica table, and that is where Mr. Buttons sat. I followed his lead.

  Alison busied herself making a pot of tea. She deposited cups on the table and poured tea into them, and was on her way back to the bench with the teapot when she suddenly stopped and exclaimed, “The cereal bowl's missing!”

  I wondered what the problem was.

  Mr. Buttons appeared equally upset. “Oh no, are you sure?”

  Alison pointed to the table. “It was there, in a plastic bag.”