by Sonia Parin
Looking at her phone, Abby smiled. “I’m sorry, I need to take this.”
“I didn’t hear the phone ring,” the woman said, her voice filled with accusation.
“No, neither did I,” another one said.
“Oh, it’s on vibrate.” Pretending to take the call, Abby hurried away and returned to the bar where she found Joyce standing on the top rung of a ladder.
“Oh, good. You’re back. Could you please hand me those red ornaments?”
This time, Abby’s phone rang for real. Handing Joyce the Christmas decorations, she answered without checking the caller ID first.
“It’s Joshua. I’m outside. Could you come out, please?”
“Do you have air-conditioning?”
“Full blast.”
“Hand me the blue balls now, please,” Joyce said.
As Abby handed the blue balls to Joyce, she stretched and nudged Markus with her foot.
When he looked up, she made a few hand gestures which he tried to ignore so she nudged him with her foot again.
Despite grumbling, he took over the Christmas decoration duties, and Abby slipped out of the pub.
Outside, she looked up and down the street but didn’t see the detective’s car. “Where are you?”
“Outside the pub.”
“I can’t see you.”
“Look across the street. I’m waving.”
She looked across the street at the Gazette office.
“Now look down the street toward the corner next to the book store.”
“That’s not across the street.”
“Diagonally across, in the shade. Is that precise enough for you?”
She crossed over and hurried toward his car. “This had better be good. I’m already sweating.”
Joshua leaned over and pushed the passenger door open for her.
“What’s wrong? Why didn’t you come into the pub?”
“Too many ears and Joyce. I called Mitch to get the lay of the land. He told me Joyce is on the warpath and cranky because you haven’t found the killer yet. You should be thanking me. I rescued you.”
“I didn’t realize I needed rescuing. And… And I’m a reporter not a detective. What do they want from me?” She slumped back.
He nudged his head toward the pub. “I see George Mercer’s Range Rover is still here. Did he return to the pub?”
“No, not yet. He sure must have a lot to talk about with the accountant. What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been busy canvasing the area and following another lead.”
“That sounds promising.” When he raked his fingers through his hair, Abby thought he looked worn out. “I guess I’m not the only one succumbing to the heat.”
“It’s not that. It turns out Harold Moorhead would not have won any prizes for popularity. Not with the men. It took an entire day to establish it.”
A car pulled up outside the bookstore. Abby watched a woman taking her time to lock it. She then stood outside the store looking at the window display. Abby found herself mentally urging her to go inside.
Joshua pushed out a breath. “What made him a recluse? That’s what I don’t get.”
“His trains and model village,” Abby suggested.
“No, there has to be something else. He even ordered his groceries over the phone.”
“Not everyone likes to shop,” Abby observed. “In fact, it’s become trendy to buy exclusively on-line.” Leaning forward, she adjusted the air-vent so it would hit her in the face. “I guess you spoke with Martin Smith. Did you ask who else had been in the store when he spoke with Harold?”
His jaw muscles clenched and unclenched. “He said there’d been a couple of people but he couldn’t be sure which ones. No one is sticking to their routine because of the heatwave.”
Abby had never seen the detective looking so frustrated. She had met him the first day she’d arrived in town and every time they crossed paths, he’d always been optimistic, processing information and sifting through it until he found a key lead to follow. Even when there appeared to be nothing, Joshua always assumed something would turn up.
Growling, he wrenched his tie off. “I think someone is going to get away with murder.” He fell silent for a few minutes and then looked at Abby. “Are you thinking someone overheard Harold’s conversation with Martin Smith?”
“They would only have heard half the conversation, but maybe Harold mentioned dropping into town and then… Martin Smith mentioned it to his assistant and… someone heard him.” Abby tried to picture the scene. “Either someone who turned out to be the killer or someone who then mentioned it to someone else…” When she saw Joshua close his eyes, she added, “I guess that doesn’t help.”
“Actually, it does. I just need to give Martin Smith more time to see if he remembers anyone being present at the store while he had the conversation with Harold.”
“Are you okay?” Joshua had never sounded so despondent. “I’d hate to say it, but you sound as though you’re about to throw in the towel.”
“It doesn’t look good, Abby. No weapon. No witnesses. It’s down to who hated him the most and that’s just about everyone.”
Chapter 11
“Please tell me you’re not having a meltdown. If you are… Well, you can’t.”
Joshua brushed both hands across his face and gave a reluctant shrug. “Honestly, I’ve got nothing.”
Abby opened her mouth to speak and closed it.
The admission shook her. Since their first meeting, she had thought of Detective Inspector Joshua Ryan as confident and competent in his job. He had a tough job to perform and he did it with stalwart relentlessness. He could have dismissed Abby’s persistent meddling but, instead, he’d always welcomed her input.
Abby lightened her tone. “What do you mean you’ve got nothing? You always have something.”
“Not this time.”
“Pull yourself together, detective. The entire town is counting on you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. They’re depending on you. They want you to solve the case.”
“Yes, well… what they want and what they get are… Oh, whatever.”
“Did you just lose the thread?” he asked.
Abby shrieked, “It’s this heat. How can it be so persistent?” She clutched her throat. “It’s grabbed hold of me and won’t let go… And, when is the sun going to set?”
“It’s summer time, remember? The sun doesn’t go down until 9pm. Look on the bright side.”
“You’re telling me to look on the bright side?” She pushed out a weary breath. “I suppose you’re right but there’s just way too much brightness.” She clicked her fingers. “That’s it. It’s the light. I’ve never seen light so bright. It feels… It feels unfiltered.”
“Think of everyone living in Alaska. They have continuous darkness now and in summer the sun barely sets.”
“That’s right, but they don’t have to contend with the heat.” She grumbled. “At this rate, we could set ourselves up as a grumbling duet.” It was Abby’s turn to brush her hands across her face. “Let’s put our thinking caps on. We have a default to truth. Our operating assumption is that the people we are dealing with are honest.” Sighing, she added, “I read that somewhere. So, I’m going to assume everyone is lying. You want suspects? There’s a pub full of them. I just spent several hours sitting at the bar and just about everyone had an opinion about Harold Moorhead. There were also varying versions of his role in the Christmas of ’09 power outage.” Looking toward the pub, she gave Joshua a list of names of everyone who’d expressed their opinions.
“You’ve had a busy afternoon,” he said as he noted down the names in his notebook.
Abby gave a small nod. “For all we know, the killer could actually be sitting in there.”
Joshua put his notebook away and drew out his phone.
She listened as he placed a call and organized for one of his detectives to keep an eye on everyone at the pub.
Disconnecting the call, he said, “Thanks. You’ve just widened the net for me. I might have to give serious thought to handing in my badge.”
It had to be the heat, Abby thought. No one could function at full capacity when the air felt too hot to inhale. “It’s the end of the day. That’s something.” She hoped Joshua would perk up, but it didn’t work.
“This has never happened to me before. I can’t shake off the feeling this case might go unsolved.”
Abby cleared her throat and tried to insert some enthusiasm into her voice. “We’ve been tossing around a few ideas and trying to come up with motives for murder. What if it’s just a random act? Heat does strange things to people. On the one hand, the fact Harold was killed on the day he emerged from his little haven makes me think of opportunity. But on the other hand, he could have been in the wrong place at the wrong time and encountered someone who just couldn’t take another day of extreme heat. For all we know, Harold might have been whistling a happy tune that made someone snap.”
Joshua straightened. “His landline phone records show him sticking to a routine. Once a week, he placed a call to the grocery store. Twice a week, he spoke with his ex-wives.”
“He kept in touch, not once but twice a week?” What did that say about the man? Abby had noticed his house had been neat and tidy. Inside, everything had been kept in order. Meticulously so. Nothing out of place. A place for everything.
They both sighed and, in the next moment, they both leaned forward slightly.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Abby asked.
“I think so. Although, a second ago, I thought I was imagining a troop of gnomes crossing the street. The hats… Yes, I mistook the Santa hats for gnome hats.”
Abby tilted her head. “Yeah, they sort of look similar. I guess that’s the carolers and they’re headed to the pub.”
Joshua laughed. “You’re really good at piecing information together.”
“It wasn’t easy to hear the singing over the cicadas. Where do they get their enthusiasm and energy from? If I could hide under a rock, I would.”
She held her hand out and measured the distance between the rooftop and the sun. Two fingers. “I’d like to go back to his house.”
“We went through it with a fine-tooth comb,” Joshua said. “What do you hope to find?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I feel I didn’t look hard enough.”
He didn’t wait to be asked twice and didn’t even ask for more explanations. “Buckle up.” As he headed out of town, he said, “I assume there’s an idea taking shape in your mind.”
“I’d like to look at the model village again. The house is all that’s left of Harold. It might tell us something we didn’t notice the first time… Anyway, did you have any luck at all today?”
“Yes, I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I followed up on the accountant, Joe Adams. Once we got past the confidentiality hurdle, Joe Adams told me George Mercer is indeed keen to get his hands on Harold’s land and he’s willing to pay above the asking price. Can you guess where I went next?”
“The lawyer’s office?”
He nodded. “That’s one hurdle I didn’t think I’d be able to jump until the official reading of the will.”
“But you did?”
Again, he nodded. “His brother gets the bulk of the estate.”
“Really? But I thought they were estranged.”
“I guess blood is thicker than water. Anyhow, Harold made provisions for his ex-wives, so they should be happy. He’d been quite generous with them, paying them a weekly allowance and that’s going to continue.”
“You spoke with his ex-wives today. Do you think they’re capable of murder?” Abby couldn’t help asking.
“No. In fact, I doubt they’d be capable of delivering the blow. The killer used something heavy. They’re both quite slim. In any case, they have alibis. One spent the morning watering her garden before the heat set in. She had an argument with her neighbor for using too much water and several neighbors overheard the altercation. The other Mrs. Moorhead spent most of the early morning on the phone to her family in England.” Joshua drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “This is going to be a tough one. It seems everyone got a late start today so the town was practically deserted.”
No witnesses. Or rather, no witnesses who were prepared to come forward. Someone must have seen something or heard something. “The men in this town didn’t really care for Harold. We’ve established that, but that’s not to say any of them would be capable of murder. Who told you everyone hated him?”
Joshua tapped the steering wheel. “I might have chosen the wrong word.”
They exchanged a knowing look and both said, “It’s the heat.”
“Although,” Abby went on to say, “now that I think about it, no one at the pub expressed any real sympathy for him. I guess you have your work cut out for you.”
Had Harold’s lack of presence in the town made him a target for apathy? The less one knew about someone, the less they cared about them. Although, before his retirement, Harold had been a prominent figure in the community. In fact, he’d been the hero of the Christmas of ’09 power outage…
With no one out and about on the roads, they reached the homestead in record time. “I see the sprinklers are still working. They must be set on some sort of automatic timer.”
Joshua disconnected the alarm and waved her in. Before he could close the door, his phone rang. He had a brief conversation and then turned to her. “I’m afraid I need to chase something up.”
“How about I wait for you here?”
He looked around and nodded. “Keep the door locked and don’t let anyone in.”
She was about to say she had Doyle to keep watch for her when she realized Doyle had stayed behind at the pub. “Hurry back.”
Left alone in the house, she moved from room to room, familiarizing herself with all the nooks and crannies, and exploring rooms she hadn’t looked at before. She poked her head inside a room and found an ironing board with a pile of clothes, neatly ironed and waiting to be put away. A large screen TV had been positioned in front of the ironing board suggesting Harold had enjoyed watching TV while ironing.
Walking back toward the sitting room, she marveled at the amount of work that must have gone into setting up the railway tracks. She found the control switches next to an easy chair. Giving in to temptation, Abby pressed a button labeled #1 and watched one of the trains begin its journey around the small town.
Mesmerized by the gentle hum of the train, she put another one into motion and followed it as it chugged along the track, over bridges, under bridges, and past the town. As it reached a train crossing, the lights started flashing and a little bell rang. “Well, well, Harold,” Abby whispered. She could see why he’d devoted so much time to his hobby but what did it reveal about him? A simple fascination or a sign that he’d been deprived as a child? Or maybe he’d owned one small train set as a child. Then as a grown up, he’d wanted to relive the memory.
She didn’t have any burning passions so she couldn’t really comment on why people became so involved and obsessed with their hobbies.
She stopped in front of the little building with tiny tables and umbrellas set up outside. Leaning in, she had a closer look and was astonished to see the umbrellas has tiny icicles hanging off the edges.
How had Harold known about the icicles?
Walking around the house, she found a room next to the main bedroom he’d clearly used as his workroom.
There were a couple of workbenches with shelves above them full of small boxes, each one clearly labeled. She looked inside one and found tiny trees and bushes. In another one, there were stacks of windows and panels that must have been used to build the little houses. He had boxes for every season, including Christmas. Harold must have been up half the night changing the sceneries.
As she stepped back, she saw the waste basket under the bench. Compelled by curiosity, she had
a closer look and found bits and pieces of candy stripped fabric and an empty bottle of glue. He’d made the umbrellas, using the glue to fashion the icicles! “Impressive.”
Next to the workbench there was a large bookcase. Not surprisingly, there were books and magazines about trains, as well as catalogues from hobby stores.
Returning to the sitting room, she focused her attention on appreciating all the changes Harold had made in a single night. Seeing a little figure with elf ears, she smiled.
“How did you know, Harold?” Joshua had said Harold had called his ex-wives a couple of times a week. Maybe they’d fed him information about the town and everything going on.
Stepping back, she tried to take in the whole scenery. Not exactly easy, she thought, since it all expanded throughout the house.
“What am I missing? What am I not seeing?” Her gaze skated along the main street and reached the Gazette office. Leaning in, she could see a little figure sitting behind a desk. That had to be Faith. The other figure sitting by the desk closer to the window had to be her.
Harold had a box full of those tiny figures. They had enough details to define them as male or female but they were all plain. The ones he’d used in the model town had been painted. Taking a closer look, she thought she could make out the outline of flip flops on the figure’s feet. “That’s definitely me.”
She walked back along the main street and turned the corner. “Bradford’s old Range Rover?” He’d even painted the rust on the doors.
There were a few figures standing outside the stores but she couldn’t identify them. The accountant’s first floor office had a figure standing by the window.
Thinking Faith or Joyce might be able to help identify some of the figures she drew out her phone and started taking photos. Abby was in the middle of taking a close-up shot of the café when her phone rang.
“Where are you?” Joyce demanded.
“Has something happened?” Abby asked. “You sound flustered.”