by Kris Pearson
So there was Wi-Fi and I wouldn’t need to leave the old cottage to do my work. John had been convinced there wasn’t, and I hadn’t even thought to try turning my laptop on after his assertion. He’d said Isobel told him she had no computer. Which made me extremely curious about why she did. And why it was hidden like this.
I reached in and tapped a tentative finger on the Enter key. The screen immediately lit up.
WHAT? She’d gone out and left it turned on, presuming she’d be back soon, and it had simply gone to sleep in her absence? My lucky day – because if she’d hidden the computer like this it was a good bet her passwords would be well concealed, too.
Mindful I was really snooping now, I pressed the button on the fob. The garage door rolled down again, leaving me in humming silence and total privacy.
There was a desk lamp. I turned it on, knowing the light associated with the door would switch off in thirty seconds or so. And sure enough…
I checked out the swiveling shelves first. They swung easily on a solid-looking pivot I could just glimpse at the top and bottom now I knew something like that must exist. There was a push-in latch that hadn’t been engaged. It was hidden behind a small cardboard box which held a few heavy old plumbing parts to anchor it in place, and there was just room for a little old lady’s hand to slide behind to reach it. Isobel must have dashed out in a real hurry if she hadn’t checked it was properly secured.
Once I could see there was no way I could trap myself, I pulled the swiveling shelves closed behind me so anyone trying to peer through the cobwebby side window would see nothing. Unlikely anyone was going to, but I was in full stealth mode now.
I sat. Expensive and comfortable chair. Maybe she’d spent a lot of time here? I didn’t much like the feeling of being cut off from everything except the sky, but I guessed the place had been built for invisibility and it certainly worked on that level.
There were lots of ring-binders, meticulously labelled with the expected things like Accounts, House, Insurance, and Car. And unexpected things like Alsop A-One Autos, and Burkeville Bar. And totally unheard of things like Normie Hamilton and Soapworks. Soapworks? What?
There were several Smiggle notebooks with bright covers and designs of hearts and cats and flowers. The spines had a different year written on each.
I tapped on her email icon. Three unread messages – one from someone called Mario G, with ‘New York accom’ in the subject line. One from a realtor, presumably with house listings. And one with no subject from Nam Cheng. A person or a company?
Would people know if I’d opened them? Plainly someone would eventually find the secret little den and could tell from the date that it hadn’t been Isobel.
New York accom? I stared at that for a while because it made no sense. Finally my curiosity got the better of me.
Hi Isobel, I’m getting a list together for you and should be finished by tomorrow. Short term central city apartments with a separate bedroom are in short supply right now. Sure you wouldn’t rather have a hotel for the duration?
Mario G, NYapartmentfinders.
The duration of what? My toes twitched, and my fingers fizzed, and my brain filled with fireworks. Surely she wasn’t planning to leave the teddies behind?
I opened the realtor’s next.
Good evening Ms Crombie. I’ve attached links to upmarket retirement facilities in Florida as you requested. Please let me know when you require further information about any of these.
Hannah Hertzog, Hertzog-Griffin Realtors Inc.
Upmarket retirement facilities? I doubted Isobel could afford anything upmarket in Drizzle Bay, let alone Florida. Who was she kidding? And why didn’t she just do a search herself instead of asking someone else to? I clicked the first link. Marble columns – possibly faux. Fountains, gardens, card games, huge sociable lounges filled with wealthy-looking American people. Women with gnarled hands but curiously unlined faces below puffy blonde hairdos. Men with bristly moustaches and plaid sport jackets. The other links showed facilities just as extravagant, with palm trees, ocean views, golf courses. Isobel would have needed to upgrade her wardrobe if she had designs on places like these. And her face!
By now I had nothing to lose by opening Nam Cheng’s as well.
Yes, ideal vehicles. Let me have address.
I planted both elbows on the desk and stared at the screen, willing the message to translate itself into something that made sense. Vehicles could be some sort of tie-up with Tom Alsop? I opened the doc folders and found Alsop A-One. Photographs. Nothing but a lot of very bad photographs. Maybe taken in a hurry so the subject wouldn’t know? Each one was of an Asian person and most of them had a slice of Alsop A-One Autos showing in the background. The file names were car registration plates. The slinky Indian gentleman with the gold chain at the open neck of his shirt… the chubby little chap who looked curiously like Kim Jong-un… the beautifully groomed Madam Butterfly type… all had been labelled something like ABC 246. There were dozens of them. Next door to each was a photo of a luxurious car with an identical file name apart from one extra digit.
Before I knew it I’d gnawed the pink gel enamel off the end of my thumbnail. Isobel had been matching up wealthy people with expensive cars but there were no names or addresses. Nam Cheng wanted addresses. They had to be hidden here somewhere but I couldn’t tell where without opening every file and folder.
I ground my teeth and chose the Burkeville Bar next. Would there be menus? Drinks lists? Was she a secret restaurant critic?
Soon the gel enamel was further off my thumbnail.
John Bonnington’s ‘father’ was called Erik Jacobsen, so he must be a stepfather, and that’d be why he sounded different and looked nothing like John. And was probably younger than I’d assumed. It all made better sense now. But why on earth was Isobel keeping notes on them? Hopefully because they were one of the ‘smaller businesses’ she did the tax accounts for. Maybe she’d given the actual accounts a different file name?
For all I knew she was cooking up a plot for a thriller – one that no-one would ever read now. That had possibilities…
Perhaps she’d decided her ‘characters’ wanted to lie low for some reason. Well, they’d come to the ideal place. New Zealand is at the end of the world. It’s so isolated that half the birds can’t fly. And Drizzle Bay is small, with Burkeville only a little larger. Blips on the map. Somewhere to stop for a few minutes on the way north. A coffee and a slice of cheesecake, a grin and a wave from the charming (and possibly gay) fellows who’d bought the place to escape the rat-race back in the States. Someone was chasing them. That’s why they had those big German Shepherds. Yes, I could see a plot was possible there. A better one than the girl/boy/housekeeper manuscript I’d spent half the day wading through and correcting. And if John and Erik were gay I’d eat my hat. Or I’d eat Isobel’s hat anyway, seeing I hadn’t brought one with me. Those two men had testosterone squirting out of every pore.
I was so excited about my strange find that I really, really wanted someone to talk to. My skin felt tight and crawly. Shivers danced up and down my spine. This was the most fun I’d had in ages, and I didn’t want my toys taken away.
I glanced at my watch. How would the time work? Not good. It was afternoon for my all-time best friend Steff because she now lives half the world away in Montreal. We’d met on our first day at school, and even with all those thousands of miles separating us these days we trust each other implicitly. If I sent Isobel’s stuff into the cloud I’d still have access to it. For sure the Police would find it sooner or later but I wanted it as well. I could have a good look first, plead surprise and curiosity, and then tell Bruce Carver. I’m sure he’d be livid I’d found it first, though.
I decided to let Steff know about it, just as insurance. She wouldn’t be implicated in the least if she didn’t retrieve it. I hoped. But she’d be at work so I’d have to wait until morning, add six hours, and remember it was yesterday for her. I was too tired to calculate
that. I’d try asking Graham about Isobel’s house ownership instead. Surely he’d be back from Rotary by now?
I pushed the expensive chair away from the desk, and stood. Goodness, I was really achy after sitting for so long. I did a couple of shoulder rolls, pushed the hinged shelving aside, and peered out into the dark garage. The dim beam from the desk lamp showed nothing amiss but I tiptoed to the window all the same. It was eerily still outside after the earlier lashing rain and wind but really I could see diddly. I pushed the button on the door fob and the main light flashed on as the garage’s metal door rolled up. I snapped off the desk lamp, secured the pivoting shelves, and ran for it, reversing the door so it closed once I was clear. It felt good to be safely inside the cottage again and even better to be climbing into bed with a cup of tea a few minutes later.
Time to see if brother dear was willing to talk. The phone rang and rang and I was about to hang up when he suddenly answered it, sounding harassed, and accompanied by a lot of barking.
“Merry? Can I call you back? I’ve just got in and the boys need feeding.”
Sure Graham, dogs before sister…
“Fine,” I said, rather abruptly. And cut him off.
But true to his word (he always is) he returned my call as I was setting my empty cup on the top of the bedside chest, so good timing, bro.
“Graham,” I began. “Are you eating okay on your own?” I thought it best to show some sisterly concern before bombarding him with the questions I really wanted answers to. “I can make you a curry or something tomorrow? I’ll be calling in to collect a few more clothes.”
“No Sis, all good,” he said. “Can I put your name down for the December beach clean-up?”
“Ummm…?”
“Rotary’s next project. If we get twenty or more people each willing to spare an hour or two we can comb through the main beach for litter and have it nicely cleaned up for Christmas visitors. With any luck, if they find the place clean, they’ll leave it clean. And we’re sponsoring two new garbage bins, too.”
“Good for you,” I said. “Yes, of course I’ll help.” After all, any excuse for a prowl on the beach on a nice day, and I could trade that for the info I was after. “Look, this cottage I’m minding. I’m wondering one little thing. Pure curiosity on my part. The old girl who owned it – Isobel Crombie – is she the sole owner or does she only have a life interest in it? I mean, might her sister automatically get it now? If the parents left it to them jointly?”
“Hmm…” he said.
To my secret pleasure I heard the clink of ice against the side of a crystal tumbler so he’d settled down with a drink which would probably help to loosen his tongue.
“As I recall….” he began. “Good boy, Manny – bring it here.”
Even better! If he had the spaniels distracting him he might let more slip.
“Yes, as I recall, a life interest. The other sister got them organized.”
“Margaret Alsop?”
“That’s her. The parents, who’d had a will prepared by the firm when they’d been married only a year or so, had left everything to each other and then to their only daughter after they passed on. They’d let it slide for the ensuing sixty years and forgotten they’d never included the second girl.” He clicked his tongue and I wondered if it was with disapproval for the lack of legal follow-up or to attract the spaniels.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s pretty bad. Good that Margaret realized it and got things organized because now her sister’s dead I suppose it would have left a real legal tangle?”
“Well, not good, not good,” Graham conceded.
“You don’t think it’s suspicious she got things in order and then Isobel died?” I asked in my best casual voice.
“Merry! Good heavens!” Yes, Graham was as shocked as I expected.
“It’s only,” I added quickly, “that someone I know is interested in buying the place and is wondering who will own it now.”
Graham coughed, possibly still considering my thinly veiled suggestion that Margaret might have anything to do with her sister’s death. “It’ll take a while for probate to be confirmed,” he said. “A few weeks for sure.”
“She hardly needs the money,” I murmured. “They have a lovely house, and they’re currently away on a cruise. Anyway, thanks for that. It was all I wanted to know.”
Sisterly cunning is a wonderful thing. If Graham doesn’t think I want anything else then he prolongs the conversation with things he finds interesting. And this evening it was the possibility of Margaret killing Isobel. Yes!
“Sororicide,” Graham said. “That’s the legal term for killing a sister.”
I looked sideways at my empty cup, annoyed I’d finished the tea. If Graham was in the mood to talk then I was in the mood to listen. “I’m sure she didn’t. It’ll just be a coincidence.” And then I couldn’t resist. “How long ago did the parents change the will?”
“Not long before they died. The two Alsops came in, each holding the elbow of one of the parents. I had to get Jenny to wheel in some extra chairs. They didn’t look as though they’d make it as far as the boardroom.”
Bingo! “Tom was there too? What business was it of his?” I demanded. “And you weren’t suspicious? You didn’t think to ask Isobel if it was okay with her?”
Graham cleared his throat – always his default when he’s playing for time. “It was no business of hers. It was the parents who’d made the original will, and they wanted to correct an oversight – a situation caused by the passage of time.”
“And the main new beneficiary made sure they got it done.” Now it was my turn to clear my throat. “Did they seem of sound mind? That seems fishy to me, Graham. In fact lots of things are sounding fishy to me.” He tried interrupting but I barreled ahead. “The moment people knew I’d been with the vicar when Isobel was found dead they started asking things and coming up with theories as to why she was killed. For instance, did she learn secrets from the tax returns she prepared for the local businesses?”
“Well… er…”
“Because someone bothered to track her down at the church and do the dirty. She knew a lot about what went on in Drizzle Bay, even though she looked so meek and mild.”
I heard the slight rattle of the tags on one of the spaniels’ collars. Maybe Graham was patting either Manny or Dan while he thought about that.
“She’d have known the state of their finances,” he conceded. “Their taxable assets. Exemptions. How to minimize the amount they’d owe. But not much more.”
“What about money laundering? Foreign currency transfers? Hiding money overseas?”
“You’re into the realms of fantasy now, Merry,” he snapped. “You’ve been editing too many thrillers.”
“It’s not me coming up with these theories,” I pointed out. “I’ll be really interested to hear what the Police discover eventually. I guess they’ll find her files (I crossed my fingers) and have a good look at them. Maybe they’ll find ‘irregularities’. Just saying…”
“And hell might freeze over first,” Graham shot back. “I think you’re hoping for scandal where none exists. She was an unremarkable and law-abiding woman who lived a normal, straightforward life.”
“And yet,” I said, with more glee that I should have. “Someone killed her. They didn’t do that for no reason at all. You don’t creep up behind an old lady arranging the church flowers and mistake her for a master criminal. There must have been something going on below the surface.”
“Good chap, good chap,” I heard Graham mutter as the collar tags rattled again. Then he took an audible breath. “I’ll keep my ears open, but don’t expect anything at all. I think you’re imagining problems and creating drama with no foundation. What time are you calling by tomorrow? The boys will be pleased to see you.”
“I might bring the teddies again,” I said, recognizing my cue to change the subject. “They’ll all enjoy another run around together.” I wriggled my shoulders deeper into
the pillows. “I’ll probably be there early afternoon. Sure you don’t want that curry? I thought I’d make a double dose and bring some back here. This kitchen’s nowhere near as nice as ours.”
“Ah. Well, if it’s not too much trouble,” he agreed. “Sleep well, Merry.”
“You too, Graham.”
I was restless. My brain didn’t want to turn off. Should I get up and make another cup of tea? Or get a glass of water? I lay there listening to the steady wash of the waves and surprised myself by missing Graham’s quiet but steady presence. It wasn’t long before I heard the patter of little doggie paws and a pair of enquiring white faces with black eyes peeked around the door. Company! I snapped my fingers and they scrambled up, settling either side of my feet. That felt a whole lot better. I switched off the bedside lamp and kept thinking.
Chapter 7 – Lord Drizzle of Drizzle Bay
The following morning I locked the old cottage up securely, made sure I had the blue lead on Fluffy and the pink one on Itsy, and set off for a good walk to kill some time. We progressed up Drizzle Bay Road as far as Drizzle Farm and found Lord Drizzle himself inspecting the pile of logs left over from the tree shredding I’d heard and seen yesterday. The same lanky boy in the precariously suspended jeans was mooching around, retrieving occasional lengths of timber and stacking them on one side.
“Morning Uncle Jim!” I called as I drew closer. I wouldn’t call him that in public, but my father and Jim Drizzle had been good friends and he’d liked me calling him ‘uncle’ when I’d been younger.
“Little Merry,” he said warmly. “What are you doing passing by on this lovely day? Been to see Lisa?” He eyed the teddies as though that proved the point.
I stopped, pleased he seemed in the mood to chat. “No, not taking these two to the vet. I’m house-and-pet sitting at poor Isobel Crombie’s place. Arranged in rather a hurry by her sister.”