A Matter of Wife and Death (A Sibyl Potts Cozy Mystery, Book 4) Read online

  “Did Quinten confess or make any statements?” I asked.

  Blake shook his head. “None at all. He lawyered up right away, but that’s not all too surprising. He’s young and has a clean record. Hitting him with the vandalism charges won’t be tough, but trying to connect him to a murder is another matter entirely. At this stage in the game it is, at least.”

  “Are you sure his motive for the damage to Greg’s car involves the wilderness preservation and all that?” Mr. Buttons asked, producing a spray bottle and a cleaning rag from a plastic bag and scrubbing at a dirty mark on the window.

  “We’re not positive, but we can’t see any other possible motive. He has a popular blog with thousands of followers. My tech guy was telling me that Quinten Masters posted about the vandalism earlier today and said that Greg had gotten what he deserved, but deleted the post once a few people commented to complain about his attitude. Luckily, when someone deletes information in the digital age, there are always ways to retrieve it.”

  “So, if these people are trying to stop Greg’s destruction of the wilderness area, why would they be personally attacking him instead of tying themselves to trees or something more productive?” I asked. “He’s not the only one in the company.”

  “That’s a good question, Sibyl,” Blake said. “I wish I knew the answer. All I was told was that the blog has been mentioning Greg for the last couple months at least, saying he’s the one responsible for the company’s plans to destroy the wilderness area. If these crimes are related to this whole environmental issue, I have a feeling HOOW and this website have been playing a large role in what the perpetrator or perpetrators have been doing.”

  “It seems possible, but overly complicated,” Mr. Buttons added, “but would someone want to murder someone to protect a wilderness area?”

  “Welcome to law enforcement,” Blake said with a smile. “You never know what you’re going to have to deal with when you wake up and come into work.”

  “That sounds like my job,” Cressida said.

  Blake shrugged. “I’m going to head back and look at the evidence from both cases. I want to see if there aren’t some points of comparison or any clues that can link Lisa’s fall to Quinten’s wilderness movement.” He winked at me, and then made his way toward the exit.

  “I can kind of understand trashing someone’s car and painting your slogan on their window, but removing some bolts so someone gets killed? It just seems a bit on the extreme side of things, don’t you think?” I said.

  Mr. Buttons and Cressida both looked at me, but no one spoke for a while.

  The silence was finally broken by Mr. Buttons. “Maybe there’s more to it than just wilderness protection and preservation.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe the land is special to the person or something. I’m just saying that I think it’s possible that the perpetrator might hold a grudge of some sort. If there’s enough hatred toward something or someone, you’d be surprised at how far some people would go to eliminate it.”

  Cressida interrupted him. “That’s crazy talk. I don’t think Lord Farringdon would agree with you.”

  “I think we’re all just mentally exhausted,” I said, noticing an offended look on Mr. Buttons’ face. “I guess anything’s possible, Mr. Buttons, but until Blake catches a lead, we’re just barking up empty trees.”

  Mr. Buttons smiled wanly. “All right. I have some reading I need to get done tonight, but if I’m needed for anything, I’m just a call away.”

  “I might take you up on that, Mr. Buttons,” Cressida said.

  “If you have any more problems with Greg, just give Mr. Buttons or me a call,” I said. “If Greg starts yelling, don’t try to calm him down. Just call me.” I addressed that comment to Cressida.

  “Thank you. I don’t like trying to calm him down,” she said softly.

  “I know. It does him no good to be so loud and aggressive, especially toward you and any of the others who are trying to help.”

  “In all honesty, it’s not because I don’t want to listen to him rant and rave. It’s because he scares me at times.” Cressida leaned closer and her eyes widened. “And Lord Farringdon told me that Greg seemed more upset when he saw his car than when his wife fell from the balcony.”

  Chapter 6.

  I sighed as I checked my watch. I’ve been in some traffic jams in my day, but this is ridiculous!

  I leaned my head out the window and tried to see the road ahead. I didn’t see any signs of smoke or an accident, and there was no scream of emergency sirens. What else would bring the highway traffic to a complete standstill? This usually only happened once a year in Little Tatterford, at the Festival, but there were always detour signs then.

  I checked my watch again as I leaned back into the car. Those fifteen seconds since the last watch check felt like two minutes, at least. I suppressed a groan and looked at the stack of folders on the seat beside me. I supposed I could attempt to go over my paperwork. There was definitely no shortage. I had my grooming schedule to organize, and my finances, such as they were, to balance.

  The nearest coffee shop was only a car length away from me. Just a few feet separated me from the limbo of cars with their out of state license plates. If I could inch my way in, I could get coffee and wait for the traffic to start flowing again.

  Firstly, I needed to get off the road and park. At this rate, it would be an hour before traffic moved enough for me to inch that close. I looked forlornly at the entrance of the coffee shop taunting me. Would I get into trouble if I just edged up that nice, grassy incline into the driveway? Yes, most likely; Blake would give me an earful for certain.

  As I was contemplating my next move to escape traffic jam purgatory, the traffic started to move again, albeit ever so slowly.

  I had no idea if whatever was blocking the traffic was gone, but regardless, I was now looking forward to a coffee fix, and this coffee shop had wonderful caramel slices.

  No sooner had I gotten out of my car than I heard the sound of a ruckus. I was halfway across the parking lot when someone slammed into me, causing me to stumble several steps and drop my purse on the pavement. “Hey!” I exclaimed.

  I whirled around as two people made a mad dash across the road. I crouched down and started to collect my things. I picked up my purse and the change that had fallen out of it, and stuffed it back in. They could have at least tried to avoid crashing into people if they didn’t plan to help clean up the mess. A quick sorry would have been nice.

  I swung back around, when a uniformed police officer grabbed me by the arm. I hadn’t seen him before; he was from out of town. “You’re being taken in for disturbing the peace and blocking traffic,” he said.

  I tried to pull away, out of instinct, but his grip tightened. “But I’m a local,” I said. “I got caught in traffic, so I parked, and went to get coffee. And those people ran past me and knocked my stuff all over the ground.”

  The police officer’s expression was grim. “I’ve had enough of you protesters,” he said. “Your friends got away, but you won’t.” And with that, he firmly guided me down the road.

  “I’m just an innocent bystander,” I said. “Those people ran into me. I didn’t even know there was a protest.”

  The police officer stuffed me into his vehicle and drove me to the police station. It was all so surreal, and had happened so quickly. Next thing I knew, I was sitting opposite the man in an interview room, telling him yet again what had happened.

  “Do you have anyone who can corroborate your story?” he asked, making me want to bang my head on the desk between us.

  “How about half a town?” a familiar voice said with open irritation. “Sibyl Potts is a local resident.”

  “That fact doesn’t explain her being at the scene.”

  Blake pointed a finger under the man’s nose. “And so were fifty or so locals, and innocent people driving down the highway. You do realize that Little Tat
terford is half way between Sydney and Brisbane, don’t you? You arrested at least three locals.” Blake walked around the table and helped me up. “She’s being released, effective immediately.”

  “Now see here!”

  That was all the man had time to say, before Blake lowered his face to the man’s. “I haven’t seen such incompetence in a long time. Rest assured, I will report your behavior. I don’t know how you do things where you come from, but you’re in the wrong jurisdiction to be doing it.”

  I gawked as Blake escorted me toward the door. I had seen Blake upset before, when there had been a tough case, when I had poked my nose into police matters, even when umpires had unfairly awarded free kicks against his football team, but this made all those seem minor. I could not remember ever seeing him this angry. The out-of-town police officer did not seem ready to test his luck. He sat there mutely as Blake and I left.

  As soon as we were out of the room, Blake took a long breath. “Are you all right? Sibyl?” Blake asked again, tilting his head to the side. “I asked if you were okay?”

  “I just wanted a cup of coffee.” I felt tears well up the instant I spoke, making me turn red. I gave a short, nervous laugh, as I blotted my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m fine; I’m fine,” I muttered.

  Blake gave me a kind smile and put his arm around my shoulders. “Well, if you have a minute, I could treat you to some blacker-than-black coffee with extra sugar to hide the char. I’d take you to a café, but I’m too busy with the protest rally in town.”

  I thanked him and sat on a blue, plastic chair in the police station staff room. “The protest rally, it’s HOOW, isn’t it?”

  Blake nodded. “It’s them, all right. They started off peacefully enough, but then it quickly deteriorated into people sitting in the middle of the highway and choking traffic. The cops who were called in to help keep the peace weren’t organized for dealing with any real trouble.” Blake sighed. “They’ve made the situation worse by grabbing random people off the streets.”

  I didn’t have long to talk to Blake as he was called back to the rally, and I hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. Luckily, the traffic was now moving, so I was able to drive back to my cottage. I parked, but instead of going inside, I hurried back to the boarding house in search of some friend therapy, which sounded pretty good to me right then. I’d even let Mr. Buttons make me some Earl Grey tea if he offered. That would certainly make his day. And if anyone could make me laugh about getting arrested when trying to get coffee, Cressida could.

  As soon as I walked through the door, I heard the unhappy noise of Dorothy slamming cabinet doors and banging pots and pans. I knew that sound only too well; that was the sound of a special menu request. There must be a new guest tonight.

  “Oh Sibyl,” Cressida called cheerfully as she made her way to me. “We have six travelers who just checked in. They’re here for some sort of community outreach rally.”

  My face fell, and I let out a groan. “Oh, is that what they called it? No Cressida, they’re members of HOOW.”

  I explained the situation in detail. By the time I was finished, Cressida was open mouthed, Mr. Buttons had joined us and was shaking his head, and even Dorothy had stopped banging to gawk in shock around the door.

  “My goodness, you’d better get Blake something nice for coming to your rescue like that!” Cressida exclaimed. “So they were the ones who blocked up traffic today?”

  “Yes, and they’re the ones who are opposing Greg destroying the wilderness.”

  “Greg’s destruction of the wilderness area most certainly should be opposed,” Cressida said, and Mr. Buttons and I agreed. “Yet that’s no excuse for someone murdering Greg’s wife.”

  “There’s one thing that concerns me though, ladies,” Mr. Buttons said, as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “That HOOW vandalized Greg’s car and blocked traffic?” I asked.

  “Well, yes. That too.”

  “That Blake got away with chewing out another cop?” Cressida asked hesitantly.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t clock the man a good one, actually. But no.”

  “Well what?” Cressida asked impatiently.

  Mr. Buttons pointed up at the second floor. “We have the activists and the man they hate sleeping under the one roof.”

  Chapter 7.

  I was at one of the cafés in town, having coffee with Cressida. The café was a cute little place with an interior design scheme modeled after an old-fashioned breakfast spot. “Do you think this place has been around longer than the boarding house?” I asked Cressida.

  Cressida considered my question for a moment, and then shrugged. “Probably, though I can’t say for sure. It’s designed to look old, but it might’ve been here for a fraction of the time.”

  Cressida had suggested we have coffee in town as a respite from the recent days’ events, but I couldn’t help but feel sad. I twirled a thin, red straw around in my coffee and thought about Lisa. No matter how hard I tried, erasing the memory seemed to be impossible. The list of every possible suspect reeled through my mind like an old film being pulled through a projector. I was unable to pinpoint a most likely suspect.

  “So, Cressida,” I said, “do you have any idea as to who could be behind Lisa’s death?” I spoke in a soft tone, but loud enough for Cressida to hear. “Of course Mr. Buttons is sure it’s Dorothy, but he suspects her of every murder.” As soon as I said the words every murder, I felt sadder than ever. There had been several murders since I’d moved to Little Tatterford. I’d even forgotten the precise number.

  Cressida tapped her chin. “I was kind of starting to suspect Dorothy myself. She did have that awful fight with Lisa the night before she died.”

  I shot her a curious look. “Yes, I heard that, but with everything else going on, I forgot about it.”

  “Lisa asked Dorothy to cook the meat a little bit longer than she had. I get complaints about Dorothy from time to time, but most people don’t go to the lengths of coming into the kitchen to complain to Dorothy in person,” she said. “Oh, speaking of complaints, it’s Cynthia Devonshire. Don’t look now.”

  I looked up to see a young, attractive woman strolling into the café. She was overdressed for the local town, and flung her long, blonde hair extensions over her shoulder at least three times before she reached us.

  “Shush. I said, Don’t look now.” Cressida pressed her lips against her finger.

  Cynthia Devonshire approached our table. “Hello, Cressida. How have you been?” Her lips were tightly pursed, and she spoke in a posh, affected accent, drawing out her vowels.

  Cressida shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Fine, thanks, and you?”

  “I thought you would have been most upset after the dreadful accident at your establishment,” the pretentious woman continued.

  “It was no accident,” Cressida retorted. “It was murder!”

  The woman looked down her long, pointed nose at Cressida. “I do keep hearing that the police suspect foul play, but where is the proof of such a ridiculous claim?”

  “Excuse me?” Cressida said. “The proof is in the fact that my building is completely up to date, and there haven’t been any reported code violations or injuries on my property.”

  The woman smiled thinly, or sneered. I couldn’t tell which. “Oh come on. That’s preposterous. Who would know someone was going to be leaning against a specific railing on a specific balcony, and on a specific day? If this ends up being solved as a murder, we need to crown the suspect a genius. His planning abilities and level of strategic accuracy should be commended, if he managed to kill his target in such a clever way.”

  Cressida’s frustration seemed to be boiling over. I kept nudging her with my elbow, but to no avail.

  “When the police catch the guy and lock him away, I’ll be expecting an apology directly from you!” Cressida exclaimed. “You can applaud the murderer’s planning skills if you wish, but he or she’s a sick person and y
ou’re a sick woman. It’s terrible that you’re using a tragedy such as this to get a financial advantage for your business!”

  “Think what you wish,” Cynthia Devonshire barked. “I have taken no steps toward using that poor woman’s demise for my own benefit. If I’m guilty of anything at all, it’s of reporting a shoddy boarding house run by someone who doesn’t know how to keep her guests safe.”

  “Reporting?” I repeated. “What are you talking about?”

  The woman fixed her gaze upon me. “Well, I hear it’s been going around town that the boarding house will be inspected soon. After learning about that horrific accident, I felt it was my moral obligation to make sure the local council knew of the structural deficiencies of such an old, dirty facility.”

  Cressida shook. “So, you’re admitting that you falsely reported my B&B?”

  A smug look decorated the woman’s otherwise expressionless face. “I didn’t falsely report anything. You can tell from yards away that those balconies need to be renovated. I’ve spoken to former guests of yours who did nothing but complain about the lack of amenities and how things are always crazy over there.” The woman once again flipped her hair extensions from her face. “I don’t want there to be any animosity between us, Ms. Upthorpe, but I cannot approve of you cutting corners and endangering lives.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” Cressida said in a syrupy, false voice. “I’ll make sure I look into your concerns and resolve them by any means necessary.” Cressida smiled so widely that crevices formed in her thick makeup.

  Cynthia Devonshire stood silent for a moment, and then flipped her hair once more and stormed to the counter.

  “Nice one,” I said.

  Cressida smiled weakly. “I always hate it when people who should be mad at me are nice. I figured it might work on her, so I tested it out.”

  I smiled. “Looks like it worked like a charm. I know she’s purposely trying to provoke you, but with everything that’s going on, we need to be careful and worry about protecting ourselves.”