Merrily Murdered

by Sonia Parin

  “I would if I had remembered to charge it,” Abby said. She took care of that and then walked to the small kitchen in the back to fill a bowl with water for Doyle. “That’s you sorted out.”

  Doyle looked down at the bowl and then up at Abby.

  “That’s it? No treats? Where are my treats? Would it kill you to give me a little doggy biscuit or two…” Smiling, Abby went back to the kitchen, all the while saying, “You’ve had breakfast. You can’t possibly be hungry.”

  Back at her desk, she picked up the phone and called Joyce. When she didn’t answer, Abby said, “She must be run off her feet. How am I supposed to get my breakfast if she doesn’t pick up?”

  Doyle looked askance.

  “Not your problem?” Abby’s stomach grumbled. “I guess I’ll have to get myself there before I get to the running on empty stage. Is there any point in asking if you want to come along?”

  Doyle sighed and, to Abby’s surprise, he got up and walked to the door.

  “Oh. Let me guess. You’re concerned you’ll lose your loyal companion status. You don’t have to come, not if you don’t really want to.”

  He hung his head as if resigned to the task of accompanying Abby.

  “Just as well. You really should get some exercise before it gets too hot.”

  When they stepped out of the office, Abby heard her name called out. Looking across the street toward the pub she saw Joyce.

  Joyce Breeland crossed the street and walked toward her. Dressed in her summer elf outfit which consisted of a green T-shirt, shorts and elf ears, she gave her a cheerful smile. “I hope you’re not headed to the café.”

  “Yes. Is there a reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “I’m not there,” Joyce said. “I’ve just had breakfast at the pub. Harold is making quite a racket so I decided to keep the doors closed to the public this morning.”

  “Then, I guess it’s back to the pub for breakfast.”

  “Oh, I could make an exception for you. French toast?”

  “With walnuts and a dusting of powdered sugar?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll even throw in some bacon for Doyle.”

  Doyle made a slurping sound.

  “He’s happy, I’m happy. What are we waiting for?”

  “By the way,” Joyce said, “thank you for doing such a fine job convincing Harold Moorhead to come into town. I know what it cost you and I appreciate it.”

  Abby grinned. “Just how grateful are you?”

  “I suppose you want coffee on tap.”

  “That would be too easy.” Abby hummed.

  “I see. You’ve been taking lessons from Mitch.”

  “Let’s just say I am now aware of the benefits that come with having you owe me a favor.”

  Walking into the café, Joyce said, “I’ll just go see how Harold is getting on. I don’t hear him so he must have finished. Come and say hello.”

  “Must I?” Abby whispered even as she followed Joyce.

  They walked through to a gleaming kitchen with a massive refrigerator.

  “He must have finished.” Joyce looked around the kitchen. “You’d think he’d at least leave a note.”

  Abby pointed toward the back where a door stood open. “Or maybe he’s packing up.” She followed Joyce who came to an abrupt stop at the threshold.

  “Well, if that isn’t the messiest… Oh. Oh, no.” Joyce rushed out into the alley.

  Reaching the doorway, Abby heard Joyce yelling at Harold to wake up.

  Abby smiled down at Doyle. “I guess Harold fell asleep on the job.” With a sigh of resignation, she stepped out into the alley.

  At first, Abby thought she would have to act as referee. Then she stood motionless and watched Joyce shaking Harold by the shoulders.

  That’s when she knew.

  She didn’t suspect. She simply knew what to expect and seeing Harold slumped over the back of his truck, she knew it would take more than yelling to revive the man.

  Chapter 4

  Abby watched as Joyce came to her senses and jumped into action. She dug inside her pocket, produced a phone and called for an ambulance. When she spoke, her calm tone surprised Abby. However, when she finished giving the details, including Harold’s age, she snapped.

  “How long will it take for the ambulance to get here?”

  Abby felt for a pulse and didn’t find one. In the process, she saw the cause of death.

  A dark red stain had formed around the collar of his shirt. His hair stuck out in clumps. Someone had hit Harold on the back of the head.

  Taking the phone from Joyce, Abby said, “You should send the police too.” Disconnecting the call, she took hold of Joyce’s hand and guided her back inside.

  “We can’t just leave him there,” Joyce complained.

  “At the risk of sounding like a cliché, Harold is not going anywhere.”

  Joyce looked confused.

  Giving her an encouraging tug, Abby softened her voice and said, “He’s gone, Joyce.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  Looking over her shoulder, Abby saw Doyle had remained by the door. She walked up to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. “Have some water.”

  “Why? I’m not thirsty.”

  Abby pressed the bottle of water into Joyce’s hands. “It’ll give you something to do.”

  Shaking her head, Joyce said, “I spoke with him only half an hour or so ago.” She gave a firm nod. “I can’t believe this. How could it have happened? Yes, yes. I know. I’m in shock.”

  And denial, Abby thought.

  “How could he? How could he die right outside my café?”

  Abby couldn’t tell if Joyce felt incensed or puzzled. She’d seen Joyce shaking Harold. Abby assumed Joyce must have seen the blood.

  Glancing at Doyle, she saw him looking down one end of the alley and then the other, performing his guard dog duties.

  “We can’t just leave him out there,” Joyce murmured again.

  Abby took the bottle of water from her hands and twisted the cap off. “Someone actually came up with this idea. I wonder how long it took them?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The cap. See how it twists off. And, look… It twists right back into place. There are so many things we take for granted.”

  “Abby, it’s not working. I know you want to distract me, but…” Joyce’s voice hitched. “There’s a dead man in my alley.”

  And someone killed him. Abby waited for Joyce to say it, but she didn’t.

  Joyce growled. “For heaven’s sake. Where is the ambulance?”

  “They’ll be here soon.” The feeble assurance appeared to satisfy Joyce who turned her attention to wiping the kitchen counter.

  They stood in the kitchen, almost as if they’d unanimously chosen the area as the most sensible place to be, within sight of the back door and the front entrance.

  Abby glanced from one door to the other, the soft hum of the refrigerator the only sound she heard. She knew they could not have done anything for Harold Moorhead. At least, they’d remained relatively calm and Joyce had been quick to act.

  No, she couldn’t think of anything else they might have done for Harold.

  Abby cleared her throat. “Joyce? Do you remember what time you left for the pub?”

  “I went there for a quick bite but then Mitch sat down and teased me about the favor I owe him. Let me think… Harold arrived promptly at seven saying he would have everything fixed in under an hour but as long as he was here, he offered to look at my wiring. I showed him through the upstairs. That must have taken ten minutes. I remember thinking it would take longer because I expected him to launch into one of his tales but it turns out Harold is… was not a morning person.” Joyce gave a firm nod. “I left for the pub at twenty past. I ended up having a leisurely breakfast. Then Mitch engaged me in conversation and I came out at…”

  “Nine,” Abby said. “That’s when I left the Gazette.” An hour
and a half. He’d clearly finished the job and had been packing up, she thought.

  She imagined someone had accosted him in the alley. Abby puzzled over this and wondered if someone had been waiting for him. Then, it occurred to wonder if someone else have been the target. No. Definitely not, she thought. It could not have been a case of mistaken identity. Not if the killer had been after Joyce. She had a slim build while Harold had been stocky. Also, he’d worn a Moorhead Electrical T-shirt. Not even a careless killer could have mistaken Harold for Joyce.

  She hadn’t seen any signs of a struggle. Harold had clearly been caught by surprise.

  Abby brushed her hands across her face.

  Her mind flooded with an avalanche of questions.

  Had it been premeditated or had it been a random act of violence?

  She knew the police would be looking at opportunity.

  Who had known Harold Moorhead would be there? His visit to Joyce’s Café had been organized the previous day. She tried to remember who else had known about it. She’d told Faith. Bradford had been there, so he’d known.

  “Joyce, did you tell anyone about Harold’s visit today?”

  “No, but someone might have overheard you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, when you came back, you chased me around the café and forced me to listen to the story about the Christmas of ’09 power outage. Maybe someone put two and two together. Everyone knows the story.” Joyce studied her for a moment. “Are you thinking about opportunity?”

  “I guess you’ve been watching police procedural shows too.”

  “I prefer not to comment.”

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  Joyce lifted her chin and shrugged. “I like my air of enigma. So… you were thinking about opportunity.”

  “Yes… I’m thinking someone found out about Harold’s visit to town and decided to make the best of it.”

  Had someone seen him arriving at Joyce’s? She turned her thoughts to the neighboring businesses. The hardware store, the post office. The bakery. Dry cleaners. Anyone from a dozen stores could have noticed him arriving.

  Using her imagination, she had no trouble picturing Ellen Dalgety peering out from her bakery and thinking what a wonderful opportunity she’s just been handed.

  Abby mentally drummed her fingers. What possible reason would Ellen have for bludgeoning Harold Moorhead?

  “Who else lives above their store?” she asked.

  Joyce studied the bottle of water. “On and off, quite a few people. Bradford and I are the only regulars. What’s on your mind?”

  “I just wonder if someone else saw Harold arrive.”

  Joyce’s eyebrows drew down. “Are you talking about witnesses? Surely if someone saw him being attacked, they would have come forward by now.”

  Not necessarily, Abby thought. “Fear can paralyze people. Also… You might look at something and not really believe what you’re seeing.”

  Now Joyce looked confused.

  “Don’t worry. I’m just rambling.”

  Ten minutes later, they heard the distant sound of sirens.

  “They’re coming.” Out of the corner of her eye, Abby caught a movement. She turned and saw someone pressing their face to the café window. “It’s Bradford. I’ll go let him in.” When she took a step, her legs felt stiff and reluctant to move. It had to be the shock of finding Harold dead.

  She opened the door and waved Bradford in.

  “I came to rescue Joyce,” Bradford said.

  Quick thinking Joyce had sent Bradford a text message before she left the pub saying she would need him to drop by the café in fifteen minutes to rescue her from Harold’s verbal clutches.

  “You’re late,” Joyce said.

  Bradford sighed. “Only because I spent the last twenty minutes trying to talk myself out of coming here at all.” He looked toward the back door and lowered his voice, “Is he still here?”

  “Oh, yes,” Joyce nodded. “Harold Moorhead is not going anywhere.”

  “What does that mean?” Bradford asked, his tone wary. “Did you find something else for him to fix?”

  “No, he did the job just fine.”

  Abby nudged her head toward the back door. “You should go see for yourself.”

  Bradford looked from Abby to Joyce but neither one said anything to warn him.

  “Am I going to like what I see?”

  Joyce shrugged. “We didn’t get a warning. Why should you?”

  “That’s a warning in itself.”

  “Go on,” Joyce encouraged.

  Bradford sighed and walked toward the back door. Sensing his approach, Doyle looked up and shifted to one side.

  Bradford stood at the door for a moment, then he stepped outside. A moment later, he reappeared, his mouth set into a grim line. “Well. That’s that. I take it we’re waiting for the police?”

  “Yes,” Joyce said. “The ambulance should have arrived here long ago.”

  Abby didn’t want to mention the fact they’d only been waiting for ten minutes.

  Bradford raked his fingers through his hair. Any other person might have launched into a barrage of questions. Not Bradford. Abby knew he had seen worse. Yes, indeed. In his previous job as war correspondent, he would have witnessed far worse.

  The café door opened. They all turned to see Detective Inspector Joshua Ryan walking in.

  Dressed in a light gray suit with a blue tie and white shirt he could not have looked more out of place. Abby tried to remember how many times she’d met the detective under similar circumstances. Five? Six times?

  “He’s in the alley,” Abby said.

  With a nod, he instructed the ambulance officers to drive up the alley. Walking back into the café, he headed straight for the back door.

  “Would anyone like some coffee?” Joyce offered.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Bradford took a step only to stop when Joyce grabbed his arm.

  “That’s fine. I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll help,” he insisted.

  That left Abby with no choice. Her reporter’s instinct compelled her to join Joshua outside and find out all she could but common sense told her to give him room to work the scene.

  She compromised by joining Doyle by the door.

  Detective Inspector Joshua Ryan had been joined by several other policemen in uniform and someone else wearing a suit. Another detective, Abby assumed. Police highway patrol cars blocked both entrances to the alley. A police photographer was busy taking photographs while the ambulance officers stood nearby.

  Joshua had a word with his colleague and then walked toward Abby. “What can you tell me?”

  Drawing in a deep breath, she tried to get her thoughts into order. As a reporter she knew how to deliver the facts, but despite having the experience of encountering several bodies, the facts didn’t immediately come to her.

  Shock, she thought.

  Death always demanded some sort of explanation.

  It happened to someone else, but those left to witness the aftermath needed to understand it, to put it into some sort of perspective.

  “Joyce and I arrived just after nine. Harold Moorhead had been left alone in the café since just after seven in the morning… Close to half past.” She related the rest of the information in a calm voice that sounded hollow even to her own ears.

  Looking up at the sky, she wondered how it could be so bright when it was still so early in the morning.

  She shook her head and before Joshua could ask, she said, “I didn’t see anyone suspicious.” Brushing a hand across her face, she wished she could wipe away the last few minutes and start over. Instead, she added, “It must have happened at about eight thirty. He’d told Joyce the job would take an hour. We’re thinking he had been packing up…”

  Where had she been at that time?

  Looking down at the ground, Abby went through her morning routine. Had she heard anything unusual? The alley had two exit points and one of them was n
ear the newspaper office and just opposite the pub. She still lived at the pub and after all these months she had become accustomed to the early morning sounds.

  The usual cacophony, Abby thought.

  She’d heard a delivery truck. That had been soon after waking up. Mitch had called out a greeting and had chatted with the delivery man. She remembered plumping up her pillow and thinking it couldn’t be so bad outside because he’d sounded cheerful. Then again, Mitch Faydon always sounded cheerful. More so now that Joyce owed him a favor…

  “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything that might help you.”

  Joshua gave her a brisk smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You did great.”

  Bending down, he gave Doyle a scratch behind the ear. Abby watched him lapping up the attention.

  “Is Joyce still inside?” Joshua asked.

  Abby nodded and looked toward Harold’s truck. The police photographer had finished his job and now the ambulance officers were moving in to do their job.

  “Come on inside,” Joshua suggested.

  His tone seemed to imply she didn’t want to see the body being removed.

  “I think Joyce is taking it hard.” Abby decided that had to be the case because she’d been talking with Harold only a short while before finding him dead. “She’s calm but you and I both know that’s not Joyce’s resting heartbeat. She runs on rocket fuel.”

  They walked through the kitchen and into the café where they found Joyce and Bradford drinking coffee.

  Belatedly, Abby realized she should have warned Joshua about Joyce’s festive clothing. However, she then thought he would have already seen her dressed in her costumes.

  Joshua acknowledged Bradford and smiled at Joyce. “Joyce.”

  “Coffee?” she offered. “Bradford will make it. He’s revealed a hidden talent.”

  Bradford warned, “That’s not to say you’re going to exploit it and ask me to work as a barista for you.”

  Joshua took a chair opposite Joyce. Standing back, Abby saw him staring blankly at Joyce’s elf ears. She had to give him credit for keeping a straight face.

  “I only want to know if you noticed anyone this morning. It might not come to you now, but if you remember something, please let me know.”