Grave in the Garage (A Reverend Annabelle Dixon Cozy Mystery Book 4)

by Golden,Alison

“Pleased to meet you,” Jeremy said, offering his long fingers.

  Ted took his hand and shook it with a sudden look of curiosity on his face.

  “Likewise… Have we met before?”

  Jeremy’s smile straightened into a thin line.

  “I don’t think so,” Jeremy said.

  Ted replied, “I could swear I’ve seen you recently.”

  “Ted is one of the mechanic’s over at Mildred’s,” Philippa chipped in helpfully.

  “Ah,” Jeremy said suddenly, “I brought my car in for servicing a while back. That must be it.”

  “Yeah,” Ted replied, unsure. “Maybe.”

  “Anyway,” Philippa said, flapping the introductions away and pulling out a seat at the table, “sit yourself down and have a cup of tea, Jeremy. You must be freezing.”

  “Actually,” Jeremy said, his eyes darting between the three of them, “I really should get going. I don’t feel too well. My grandmother will be waiting.”

  “Oh poppycock!” Annabelle said. “I’m sure you can spare a few minutes for a cup of tea!”

  Jeremy was already halfway to the door when he called back.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Vicar. Bye, Philippa.”

  “Jeremy!” Philippa called hopelessly before she heard the front door close. She turned to Annabelle with a bemused look.

  “He’s certainly a strange one, isn’t he?” Annabelle said.

  “But lovably so,” Philippa smiled as she sat down at the table once again.

  They chattered on for a few more minutes as they finished their teas. Graciously, Annabelle tried to steer the talk away from the bizarre and macabre events of the weekend, but Ted’s morose state cast a dark cloud over the conversation.

  Once he was done with his tea, Annabelle offered to drive Ted home. He accepted gratefully. It was a short trip, and one that the mechanic could easily have walked, yet Annabelle understood his reasons for wishing to spend a few more minutes in her company. Anything to stave off the desolate, fearful loneliness that awaited him at home.

  “Do you have any plans now, Ted?” Annabelle said, as she revved her car around a corner. “Perhaps it would be nice to get away for a little while. Do you have any family outside the village?”

  She kept her eyes on the road, but when Ted failed to respond she glanced over and noticed him looking down at the floor.

  “Ted?”

  “Yes?” he said, startled.

  Annabelle frowned at him.

  “Is everything alright?”

  Ted opened his mouth, closed it again, gazed forward, then back to his lap. He was indecisive, she’d give him that.

  “Ted…” Annabelle repeated, insistently. She could see something was very much on his mind, and that he was wrestling over whether to reveal it.

  “I… I shouldn’t really say this,” Ted began, slowly, “but I suppose I owe you.”

  He paused for a long time. Annabelle parked the car easily in front of his house, stopped the engine and turned to him.

  “I promise I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you want.”

  Ted smiled shyly. “I know you won’t. I don’t even know if this is important. But I just thought you might want to know. You seem quite close…”

  “Close? What are you talking about, Ted?”

  “That man back at your cottage.”

  Annabelle took a second to think. “Jeremy?”

  “Yes. I know exactly where I’ve seen him before. And I’m fairly certain he remembers where he’s seen me, judging by the way he left in such a hurry.”

  “Surely not,” Annabelle said, as the realization dawned on her. “You must be mistaken. Jeremy would never engage in those gambling games!”

  Ted snorted and shook his head.

  “He’s pretty recognizable. Not the kind of man you can really mistake. He was a regular, I never went to a game where he wasn’t there.”

  Annabelle sat back in the driver’s seat, as if pinned to it.

  “I don’t believe it…”

  “I told you. The ring is much bigger than it looks.”

  Annabelle turned to Ted defiantly. “He must have been one of those men trapped in the ring, as you said. Perhaps he went once, out of curiosity, and kept going because of fear.”

  Ted shook his head again.

  “No. It wasn’t that,” Ted said, regretfully. “That’s why I wanted to tell you. That guy – Jeremy – he was one of the biggest gamblers at the games. Loved it, he did. But he’s in trouble, now. I owe them a lot, that’s why I’m afraid to go home,” Ted said, glancing sadly at his front door, “but him, he owes them even more.”

  Annabelle put her hands on the wheel and clenched it tightly, as if steadying herself against a hurricane.

  “Be careful, Reverend,” Ted said, finally. He opened the door and got out. Before shutting it, he leaned at the window to add, “And thank you again.”

  Annabelle felt a pang of sadness as Ted returned to his unlit, empty home, the street seeming even darker than usual for this time of night. She made a silent promise to check up on him first thing the next morning, and sped off, still digesting the utterly fantastical idea that Jeremy was a gambler.

  Upon returning to the church and parking her car, Annabelle heard the loud, throbbing notes of the church organ. The churchyard was lit only by the two lamp posts that stood at its gate, the gentle glow of the church’s stained-glass windows, and the warm orange light that emerged from behind the curtains of her cottage. She locked the car and looked over to her home, where Philippa was closing the door behind her, still fiddling with her coat buttons.

  “Are you going home, Philippa?” Annabelle asked as they met on the short path to the cottage.

  “Yes,” Philippa answered, reaching around the back of her neck to find the end of her scarf. “The puppy’s just fallen asleep, so I’m taking my chance while I can! He tends to follow me otherwise, and I have a terrible time getting him back in the house!”

  Annabelle smiled and helped Philippa find the end of her scarf, bringing it around the front so that she could tie it.

  “That’s because you’re just as attached to him as he is to you.”

  Philippa chuckled.

  “Who wouldn’t be? And how is the other little one? Has the Inspector fallen for her charms yet?”

  “I believe so,” Annabelle said. “She’s terribly inquisitive. The perfect companion for a detective.”

  The two women turned toward the church as a loud swell of chords began.

  “I see Jeremy’s at it again. That boy has such dedication.” Philippa shook her head in amazement.

  “Indeed,” Annabelle murmured.”

  “Well, I’ll be off then, Vicar.”

  “Good night, Philippa.”

  Annabelle pottered over to her cottage and went inside. The moment she shut the door behind her, she felt a wave of exhaustion come over her. She had been buzzing around on her feet all day, performing the service in the morning, enduring the ordeal of discovering Aziz, and piecing together the story of the gambling ring. The emotional toll had been even greater. Although Mildred’s murder had occurred only a day ago, it felt like a lifetime since she last experienced an innocent thought about something trivial. She had dedicated almost every ounce of her energy to discovering the truth, and as she stepped into her kitchen, she realized her reserves were in short supply.

  She went straight for the box of meringues that Philippa had baked for her. Her church secretary usually made her something sweet on Sunday’s, a sort of post-service treat. It was essential for Annabelle to always have a supply of sweet goods on hand. She needed an emergency stash to give her fortitude during those times she desperately needed it. This was one of those times.

  It was only now, in the dying embers of the day, however, that Annabelle had both the time and freedom to indulge her passion. The very sight of the meringues perked her up no end, sandwiched as they were with thick, whipped, fresh Cornish cream, quite possibly f
rom the milk of one of those cows belonging to Leo Tremethick that had held her up the day before. She took a plate, settled some of the meringues upon it, and made her way to the living room couch. She flopped down and smiled at the sweet-smelling treats. As if by magic, Biscuit appeared around the door.

  “Hello, Biscuit. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Annabelle scoffed one of the meringues in seconds, then slowed down to savor the taste of the second more fully. A few deliberate chews into the third and she found her sweet tooth finally satisfied. Biscuit, who had been circling her ankles, deftly jumped on to the arm of her chair and went to sniff the meringue plate, no doubt planning to finish off what Annabelle had left behind. Annabelle quickly whisked the plate out of her reach and gathered her up, placating her with vigorous strokes that the ginger tabby tolerated resignedly and with dignity.

  In her sugary haze, Annabelle’s thoughts slowly turned to the conundrums that had bothered her since showing up at Mildred’s workshop and finding her body.

  “I need to go to bed, Biscuit. Time for me to rest my weary head. Whittling and worrying away won’t help anyone.” She started to rise from her chair before immediately falling back into it. “But this news about Jeremy being a gambler is shocking! What would his grandmother say? I’m sure she would be horrified.”

  Biscuit indicated her disinterest in Jeremy’s money and Nana problems by yawning and wriggling out of Annabelle’s arms. Instead, the cat settled on the cushion beside her owner as a few short, sharp, stabbing, high notes drew Annabelle’s attention to the window.

  “There he is again. Playing as though nothing has happened. What do you think goes through his mind, eh, Biscuit?”

  She could hear Jeremy playing the organ only faintly on most occasions, but this time the silence of her empty cottage, the lateness of the hour, and the sharpness of her thoughts served to make the sound pierce the air loudly. Annabelle felt she had a front row seat at a performance as he proceeded into a fast, manic, complex Bach concerto.

  Annabelle felt a shiver run down her spine. The combination of the darkly powerful music, the blackness of the night, and her many unanswered questions were bothering her deeply.

  “Jeremy?” she said to herself, finding the name almost too implausible to even set upon her lips.

  Annabelle stared fixedly out of the window into a scene that now seemed entirely frightening. The tall, twisted, leafless branches of the churchyard trees cast imposing, stark outlines against the night sky. A round moon hid behind black clouds, as if afraid itself. Leaves swirled in the church courtyard.

  To the strains of Bach’s genius, Annabelle’s thoughts raced so far ahead that she could barely catch them. She shook her head, continuing to talk to Biscuit as she ran her hands one after another from the baby-soft fur between the ginger tabby’s ears to her tail in an attempt to calm her nerves.

  “It’s one thing for Ted to be involved, Biscuit. It seems perfectly natural for a man with such an addictive personality. It’s even reasonable to think that many of the men in the village would indulge themselves in a spot of gambling now and again. Upton St. Mary is a wonderful, interesting, and accommodating place, but it does lack an element of danger and excitement. A clandestine game of cards would seem rather appealing to many men, I imagine.

  “But Jeremy is different. He is not like many men. He is pure and good. He tells me so.”

  Annabelle rubbed the underside of Biscuit’s chin. Now, not even Biscuit could hide her pleasure. The cat stretched her neck upward and closed her eyes in ecstasy.

  “So what else might he be hiding?”

  Annabelle began recalling all of the conversations she could between herself and Jeremy, searching them mentally for clues and indications about his secret life as a gambler. Nowhere, not even in his regularly odd or awkward behavior could she find any evidence of his subterfuge – and this worried her more than anything.

  Still watching the church through the kitchen window, she noticed Jeremy’s car. It was an old Toyota that he always parked snugly in the shadow of the trees.

  “You know, Biscuit, I wonder if Jeremy was telling the truth when he gave me the message about my car and said that he’d met Ian Crawford in the village. While I have a hard time believing it of Jeremy, and far be it for me to cast aspersions, of course, he that is without sin and all that, I have no such struggle when it comes to Ian Crawford. Perhaps they are fellow gamblers!”

  Annabelle went to her desk phone and began scanning her bulging phonebook for a number, before furiously dialing.

  “Hello?” came a subdued and tremulous voice on the other end.

  “Ted! It’s Reverend Annabelle.”

  “Oh. I’m alright, Reverend,” he said, his voice loosening into a gentle chuckle. “You don’t have to check up on me every five minutes, though the thought is much appreciated.”

  “Oh, that’s not why I’m calling,” she said. “But I’m glad you’re okay. Actually I wanted to ask you something… About what we talked about earlier.”

  “Yes?” Ted said, his voice tightening again.

  “When you were here, Jeremy said that he’d brought his car in for servicing. Was that true? Or were you just covering up for each other?”

  There was a slight pause.

  “Oh,” Ted exclaimed suddenly, as he remembered. “Yeah, he actually did bring it by. A nineties Toyota Corolla.”

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  “I didn’t work on it though, Mildred did. She and his grandmother go way back, or something like that. So I can’t tell you what was wrong with it. Sorry.”

  “That’s all I wanted to know, thanks, Ted.”

  “Anytime,” he replied, as they both hung up.

  Annabelle returned to the window, the sound of the music seeming to swell even louder now.

  Something was very wrong with all of this, she thought. She could see how these things were easily explainable coincidences – Jeremy’s visit to Mildred, his bumping into Ian Crawford, his appearance at the gambling games – but Annabelle’s instincts were fired-up now, and they were telling her that there was something going on. Jeremy had been very much a blind spot for her, as church organist, a close friend, and valued member of her parish. He had reason to be excused of suspicion, but the moment she focused on him, her doubts surfaced.

  “Come now, Annabelle,” she told herself as she turned away from the window, “you’re just getting paranoid and impatient. A good night’s rest is what you need.”

  Just as she was about to walk upstairs, the phone startled her by ringing loudly. She jumped, then laughed away her surprise as she placed a palm over the quickened beat of her heart. Still smiling, she picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello Reverend.”

  “Inspector! How are you?”

  “Confused but persistent, as always, Reverend.”

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “There always is,” Nicholls sighed. “We just heard from Harper. Her report on the murder weapon. A wrench. No clear fingerprints, but she did suggest that the hand that wielded it to strike Mildred was unusually large. The thing is, they don’t tend to ask for hand sizes in any public records. I was wondering if you could help me.”

  Annabelle laughed. “I suppose we should start measuring hands then! We could start with the musicians. Our church organist has—” she stopped suddenly, her smile turning into an expression that was a mixture of terror, confusion, and shock.

  “Reverend?” the Inspector asked, after moments of silence.

  “Yes,” Annabelle replied slowly.

  “You were saying something?”

  Annabelle’s mouth suddenly felt impossibly dry, and she realized that her heart was racing. She held her breath unconsciously and raised her eyes over to the church. Usually, she had plenty of time to think things through, and she enjoyed reaching decisions carefully and deliberately. At this moment, however, she realized that she had mere sec
onds to decide whether to reveal what she knew to the Inspector, incriminating a man she would not have suspected of even the smallest crime just minutes ago.

  “Reverend?” the Inspector repeated, quicker this time. “Is everything alright?” he inquired anxiously.

  “Inspector,” she said, focusing upon the matter at hand, “would you mind dropping by so that we could go over something?”

  “Now?” he replied. “I could come by after I’ve gone through some reports. Say about half an hour? Unless it’s urgent?”

  “No, it’s not,” Annabelle replied, narrowing her eyes in the direction of the church once more. “I can use that time to check things over myself, in fact.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JEREMY WAS STILL playing furiously when Annabelle stepped out of her cottage. The powerful, vibrating notes of the organ intermingled with the wind that whistled through the empty branches and rustled the dry leaves on the ground, creating a wall of bone-shudderingly eerie sounds.

  The temperature had dropped, and the night sky had reached a shade of deep, velvety black. Her beloved church had never seemed so ominous and imposing to her as it did now. The elegant gothic structure reached up into the darkness, its stained glass windows glowing with shadowy, opaque light. Suddenly, she understood why the children of the village had concocted stories about the cemetery at night.

  “Come now, Annabelle,” she told herself. “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just Jeremy, and it’s just a particularly dark and chilly night.”

  It was with a sense of purpose only slightly stronger than the fear she was feeling that she walked toward the church. The sounds of her tentative feet upon the gravel were barely audible above the increasing volume of the church organ. She reached the big double doors and pushed through them into the church.

  Once again, Annabelle was struck by just how different the church seemed at night. As usual, the low-wattage bulbs situated on the pillars around the pews as well as on the walls gave off a dim, flickering, yellow light. They allowed plenty of shadows to play around the church’s nooks, corners, and crannies. Perhaps it was the music, she thought, so somber, dark, and dramatic. The sounds vibrated around the high walls of the centuries-old church, the hard, cold stone refusing to absorb the tones, the air pulsating slightly in her ears. Her stomach turned over. She felt like she was in a scene from an old black and white horror movie. She shivered as she made her way up the aisle.