It was well into the afternoon by the time she came to the edge of Seth MacGowan’s fields, and another half an hour before she made it to the farmhouse to knock on the door.
“Who is it?” called a rough voice. It came from around the side of the farmhouse, not from within. Pattie walked around and met Seth in the yard, where he was using a pitchfork to hoist wet grain stalks out the front of his harvester.
Seth MacGowan was a rugged man in his early fifties, tanned and lined from years in the sun, stooped and lean from years of hard labour, and evidently in a bad mood. He narrowed his blue eyes at Pattie as she approached, then continued attacking his combine with the fork.
“I hope you’re not here to try an’ sell me somethin’,” he said gruffly.
“My name is Patricia Lansbury. We’ve met before.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m here to ask about something that might have happened two days ago – a disagreement you had with some of our visitors for the festival.”
Seth drove his fork into the ground and put one muddy boot on it. “Oh yeah?”
Pattie smiled patiently. “Did you happen to argue with someone driving into the parking area?”
“I might have done. Some idiot in a four-by-four nearly ran down on of my heifers. Yeah, I gave him an earful. Why do you care?”
“Because he wound up dead, Mister MacGowan,” Pattie explained.
A family of ducks made their noisy way through the yard. Seth watched them momentarily. Pattie could almost see the news sinking in. The mother duck, a mallard, waddled to the nearby fence in the hedgerow and waited patiently for her six yellow ducklings to catch up.
“Well, that’s bad news,” Seth said at last, looking up. “I suppose because I made them threats, that’s why you’re here to see me? You with the police or somethin’?”
“I’m helping them with the investigation,” she replied.
“You a detective or somethin’?”
“My son was a policeman,” Pattie explained simply. “I offered to make a few enquiries on their behalf. I’d like to try to keep things simple without resorting to arrests and things of that nature.”
Carefully watching his reaction, Pattie reached into her handbag to take out her small notepad. Seth had paid attention to her words and tone. Like any sensible person, she knew that he would be co-operative to avoid an arrest.
“Now, could you help me, Mister MacGowan? I was wondering where you might have been between midnight last night and about ten o’clock this morning.”
“I can tell you exactly where I was. Midnight I was gettin’ chucked out of the Skinny Fox for bein’ a bit too loud – at least, that’s what Don told my wife this morning. I can’t say I remember it.”
“You’d had a bad day?”
“I’ll say. The farmhouse got broken into and the wife was giving me grief about it. And the cat’s gone missing, probably scared out of its wits.”
“Your cat?”
“My mouser, O’Malley,” said Seth.
“And what were you doing this morning?”
“I woke up on the settee downstairs about eleven. She wouldn’t let me in bed, apparently. My wife will back me up, she said she was cleaning the lounge around me and that I slept right through it. I only just got around to getting my boots on, so you’ll forgive me if I’m in a bad mood, alright? I’ve still got a sore head.”
Pattie sighed inwardly. So both the landlord at the pub and Seth’s wife could vouch for Seth’s whereabouts during the period that the murder could have taken place. Assuming they checked out, then Seth’s alibi was airtight. Pattie had to admit that Seth had a pub smell about him this morning.
She asked a few perfunctory questions and jotted down some more notes, then called in on Elaine, Seth’s wife, at the farmhouse.
“Oh, I can tell you exactly where that useless husband of mine was!” she said, hands on hips.
Pattie could already tell that she was going to have to find another avenue of enquiry for this case.
Chapter 5
An hour later Pattie sat in front of Blossom in the interview room. The woman looked haggard and tired. Pattie knew from experience that the cells weren’t all that comfy, and with nothing to entertain oneself the temptation was to just sleep. The situation and the uncomfortable cot meant that it was difficult to get any rest at all. The police officers didn’t mind; they found that it was easier to get answers out of suspects that way. Constable Juliette Palmer sat in the corner of the room with a strong coffee.
“Can you elucidate on your relationship with Mister Hardy,” Pattie told Blossom. “I’d like you to tell me more about the argument you had with him the night before his death.”
“There was nothing to it,” said Blossom tiredly. “I don’t even remember.”
Pattie put on her serious face. “Ms Carter, have you ever owned a cat?”
“…No.”
“There’s something that cat-owners can tell you. Whenever a cat has done something it knows it shouldn’t have, it will always give you a certain look. Whether it’s been jumping onto the kitchen counter, eaten something it shouldn’t have, or had an accident behind the sofa, one can always tell from that look on its face. Young children do the same thing. Some adults never grow out of it. I can tell, Ms Carter, that there’s more to this story than you’re letting on. Now if you’re really innocent, you have nothing to fear. Just help me to prove your innocence by telling me the truth.”
Blossom was clearly thinking about it. Pattie gave her a firm look as a reminder of the situation that she was in. Then Blossom sighed and put her hands on the table. “Alright. We were arguing because Daryl accused me of flirting with a guy we met in another tent. We’d all been hanging out and Daryl didn’t like it.”
“Did he have good reason to be suspicious?” asked Pattie.
“Is that relevant?”
“It may be.”
Blossom rubbed her face with her hands. “Okay. This guy, Harry. We were attracted to each other. Daryl noticed. That was it. There wasn’t time for anything to happen.”
Constable Palmer put down her coffee and took out her notepad. “This guy, Harry. What’s his full name, and what’s the plot number of his tent?”
Chapter 6
“This isn’t how I pictured my Friday afternoon,” said Constable Palmer, as she hiked through thick mud that clung to her boots and uniform. “How are you so sure that Blossom is innocent? All the evidence is against her. The farmer has a solid alibi. Why haven’t we put this to rest yet?”
“Because I don’t close a case based on convenience, Constable,” Pattie replied sternly. She was also having a hard time getting her Wellington boots high enough out of the mud to walk across the field at any decent pace.
“But what was it Sherlock Holmes said, about the simplest explanation usually being the right one?”
“I believe you’re thinking of Occam’s Razor. The hypothesis with the fewest assumptions is most likely to prove correct. Sherlock Holmes said the other thing.”
“Well, the simplest solution is that the woman who was in the tent with the body, and who owned the knife that killed him, is the murderer. Right?”
Pattie stopped trudging and faced the officer. A warm breeze blew over them from the side, bringing with it the sounds of the festival. Juliette Palmer was young and attractive, intelligent enough to pass all the police examinations with flying colours, and usually had a very good instinct. Her opinion on this case was enough to make Pattie doubt her own judgement.
“Constable, I’m sure that Ms Carter is innocent based on the same instinct that told me she was hiding something about that argument,” said Pattie. “As long as there is a lead to check up on, we shouldn’t make any assumptions about any of our suspects.”
The Constable nodded. She knew that Pattie was right, of course. They continued across the field, catching snatches of songs on the wind and hearing the occasional roar of crowds.
After a short t
rek they arrived at the edge of the camping grounds and took out a map that the organisers of the event had given them. The map showed the numbered plots that campers were allowed to set up their tents in. Number 342 had been the Carter/Hardy plot. Number 369 was registered to Harry Widmore and three others.
They came across the crime scene where Daryl Hardy’s body had been found. A cordon had been set up around the plot, which included Hardy’s 4x4 and their two-person tent. Two security guards from the private firm had been assigned to make sure nobody crossed the tape. They sat in deck chairs reading newspapers and saluted as Pattie and the Constable walked past.
Plot 369 was a large-sized plot. The tent was huge. A white van with the back doors open was parked beside it. A young man sat on the step drinking a beer. Behind him were piles of supplies, mainly coolers and crates of beer. The tent itself was a four person setup, tall enough to walk right into, with a central space and four adjoining rooms with zip-up doors.
Three men in their thirties sat on patio furniture in the central space, surrounded by heaps of junk that included coolers, a paraffin grill, a mini fridge, a guitar, a small table and portable TV, laptops and other assorted gadgets. It was not, as far as Pattie was concerned, real camping, but then she hadn’t owned a tent for decades. She tried to make a habit of not judging.
One of the men was asleep. Someone had drawn a cartoon moustache on his face with black marker pen. He was wearing Mickey Mouse ears. A ginger cat fussed around their legs.
“My name is Patricia Lansbury,” said Pattie, “and this is Constable Palmer. We’d like to talk to Harry Widmore.”
“That’s me,” said one of the men. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and had a beer in his hand. “What’s this about?”
“We’re investigating the murder of a man in a nearby plot, just down there – Daryl Hardy.”
Harry shrugged.
“He was the partner of a lady named Blossom Carter, who I believe you’ve met.”
“Blossom?” said Harry, putting his beer on the floor. “Yeah, I know her. Oh yeah, Daryl. I know who you mean now. We were hanging out here yesterday.”
Constable Palmer raised her eyebrows. “You were hanging out all day but you didn’t know his name?”
Harry shrugged. “We had the barbeque going, they looked in, we offered them a beer. We just talked a bit and had a few beers. Nothing more to it, right guys?”
The sleeping fellow had woken up. He and his friend nodded. One of them took a Polaroid photo of his friend with the moustache and laughed. They introduced themselves as James Farrell and Toby Draper.
“Sorry about the Hardy guy, though?” said one, with all due sincerity.
The cat jumped up onto his lap and curled up to sleep. The man, Toby, petted it absently.
“Whose is the cat?” asked Pattie.
“Dunno, she just wandered in here the other day. We let her eat some bacon bits and she hasn’t left yet.”
“Actually, it’s a tom – a male,” said Pattie. “Almost all ginger cats are. The ginger colour is carried on the male’s X chromosome, so unless both parents are ginger, the offspring won’t be.”
“Huh.”
“Mister Widmore, could we please have a word outside?”
“Sure.”
As he gathered himself, Pattie and Constable Palmer stood outside the tent and talked discreetly.
“They act like they’re half their ages,” said the Constable, rolling her eyes. “Are all people who go to festivals like this?”
“I doubt it, but then, I don’t have much evidence to go on…” Pattie replied tentatively.
Harry joined them outside, wiping his hands on his shorts. He was very rumpled and distracted. “So, what’s the situation? Why are you talking to us about this thing?”
Constable Palmer took over the questioning. “Mister Widmore, what was your association with Blossom Carter? How did you know her?”
“We just met,” Harry replied, rubbing his eyes.
“So you didn’t have any kind of relationship with her?”
“How could I?” he said bluntly. “I’ve not left the tent the last three days.”
“He’s right.” The speaker was the fourth young man, who had been sitting in the van. He was a little younger than the others, barely thirty, but he looked just as scruffy as the others. “We’ve been here together the whole time since we got here. Unless they’ve been getting each other’s life stories when he takes a pee around the back of the tent.”
“And you are?”
“Tim Jeffreys.” He crossed his arms and waited by the tent entrance. “Do you want a statement, or…?”
Pattie looked to Constable Palmer, who shook her head. Pattie looked into the tent and said, “How about a Polaroid of that cat?”
“Sure,” said one of them, took the snapshot, and passed it to Pattie. He smelled of cigarettes and beer. The photograph developed in front of her eyes and then she slipped it into her pocket.
It was beginning to get dark. Pattie took Constable Palmer to one side and said, “Perhaps you were right, my dear. I’m at a loss. But something about these lads doesn’t sit right with me…”
“Do you think they’re covering for each other?”
“I’m not sure,” Pattie replied, frowning through her spectacles. “I’m going to say something that I haven’t needed to say for years: I think that I’m going to have to sleep on it.”
Chapter 7
Back at the Pat’s Whiskers Feline Retirement Home, also known as Pattie’s house, she fed her baker’s dozen cats and sat for a while as they ate. There was always a comfortable silence after dinner time, when they all sat around and licked their chops, then padded off for somewhere warm and quiet to curl up and sleep.
Pattie decided to do the same. After a meagre dinner of toast and jam – she hadn’t been into cooking since her husband passed away years ago – she put on her nightgown and climbed into bed. Two of the cats jumped up with her: she must have forgotten to close the door to the main room. She didn’t usually allow the cats into the bedrooms.
“Once in a while doesn’t hurt,” she said softly in the darkness, and petted the nearest. She couldn’t see, but she had a sense that this one was Mia, her long-haired Birman. Mia had a soft spot for Pattie, and the feeling was mutual. Mia would quite happily give up her own bed if it meant snuggling up with Pattie. The cat kneaded the bed sheets for a little while, as Pattie considered the details of the case.
If those young men in the tent had murdered Daryl Hardy, then how had they managed to commit the crime with Blossom sleeping right there beside him? Surely she would have woken up to the sound of a man being stabbed in the back. Not to mention that they might have had to root around for that knife beforehand…
A reasonable explanation would be that Blossom wasn’t actually in the tent at the time of the murder. The men snuck in after they saw her leave and then did the deed. But that didn’t explain how she could have returned to sleep beside her lover and not notice that he had a four inch kitchen knife protruding from between his shoulders. Nor did it explain the motive of the murderers. Could Harry Widmore have been jealous of Blossom’s lover? There was an age difference between Harry and Blossom, and frankly Blossom was getting the better deal out of the arrangement. Was it enough for a laid back young man like Harry to commit murder?
This was all assuming that Blossom wasn’t actually involved in the crime herself. But Pattie was so sure of her judgement that it was hard to admit that Blossom might not be innocent after all. Was she just being stubborn? Or was there more to it…?
And what was it about the cat in their tent that troubled her so much…?
Mia and the other cat settled down to sleep. Pattie listened to their gentle purring for a while, until she drifted off herself into an uneasy slumber.
Chapter 8
“Yes? What is it?”
Pattie was back at the farmhouse of Seth MacGowan. His wife Elaine had answered Pattie’s knoc
k, and she looked positively exhausted. She was still in her morning gown and her hair was tousled and greasy. Seth had heard his name mentioned and was calling from another room.
“My dear!” said Pattie, alarmed at Elaine’s appearance. “Whatever is the matter?”
“Pattie, it’s been a terrible week! First we got burglarized, and the police say they haven’t got the manpower to investigate because of this damned festival. We have our own CCTV and caught a couple of teenaged hoodlums on tape, but there’s no-one to follow it up!”
“Did they get away with anything valuable?”
“I haven’t noticed anything missing other than the TV and my purse. We don’t have much. But they must have scared O’Malley senseless: he’s nowhere to be found and he never strays past the farm. And to make it worse, we don’t get a minute’s peace from all that noise across the road, it seems like it goes on all day and night! I haven’t had more than a few hours’ sleep each night.”
Pattie had noticed the boarded up front window of the farmhouse, and the damage to the doorframe. At least Seth hadn’t been fibbing about the break-in.
In any case, Pattie had believed Seth’s story about getting kicked out of the pub and sleeping through until morning. She didn’t believe that he was a suspect in the murder. “In fact,” she said to Elaine, “the only reason I’m here is about your missing cat … Is this O’Malley?”
Elaine took the Polaroid photo of the cat from the tent. “Oh, yes, this is him! That’s his green flea collar. Is he okay? Do you know where we can find him?”
“What’s that? The cat!?”
Seth came to the door and snatched the Polaroid out of Elaine’s hand. “That’s him! Who took him? If it was those little brats who robbed us, I’ll tear them limb from limb! Where did you take this photo?”
Murder and a Song (A Pattie Lansbury Cat Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) Page 2