by Mona Marple
“It’s just unlucky.” I say, clumsily. “I’ve been here for years and there was never any trouble. I’m sure things will settle down now.”
“I have the babies to think about.” She muses. “It’s not just me any more.”
“You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?” I ask, in horror.
She shrugs, rolling her shoulders as she does, and her thoughts transport her, making her unreachable. I sit and drink my coffee in silence, then make an excuse and see myself out. She barely says goodbye.
When I get home, the hard pit still sits in my stomach. A feeling of foreboding.
I’m about to lose the only friend I really have, because some moron killed Emelza Shabley. All over some stupid diary. Who cares whether Mystic Springs was set up by women or a man? Does it really matter?
But it does, I know.
The people of Mystic Springs cling to their heritage, their recent founding, the myth of that band of independent women who set out across the country to find the right place to call home. It’s a yearning we can all understand, I think. That desire to set off and leave, walk away from everything we know and start again.
A clean slate.
We cling to the tale of Lavinia Blackbottom the first and her group, not because they’re women. That’s not it really. They were spunky, strong, fierce. Everything that media is trying to tell our daughters to be now, these women already were a hundred years ago.
And we can’t let go of their epic journey being the truth, without giving up on ourselves.
When I realise all this, I think it’s a wonder that only one person killed Emelza Shabley for uncovering that journal. I’m surprised there weren’t a hundred local people, all taking it in turns to stick the knife in… literally.
7
Sage
The front room hosts a single cracked leather chair, a dark wood bureau, and a pile of antique pricing guides that stands nearly as tall as me.
“Let’s check the bureau,” I suggest.
Patton inspects it then nods and pulls open the doors. The bureau is piled high with papers. Receipts, invoices, pages torn from history books, and stacks of lined paper with hand-scrawled notes.
Edwardian? Circa? one sheet says. That and nothing else.
Another says, Oct 5, ‘98 - Gerald rang. Nincumpoop!
“It’s like his whole life is in here.” I say, noticing how yellowed some of the papers are. Newspaper clippings almost fall apart at the touch.
“It’s all junk.” Patton says. “Personal papers, nothing of value. He wouldn’t hide the journal here.”
“Well, there’s nowhere else.” I say. We’ve already searched the modest upstairs; a single bedroom with sparse furniture, a tidy bathroom, and a locked spare room filled with cash registers.
“He might not have hidden it here.” Patton says.
“He wouldn’t put it anywhere else, surely? That would be risking someone else finding it.”
“But leaving it here proves his guilt if the police turn up and search the place.”
“It’s hopeless, then.” I say. “Are you sure it’s not in there? Why don’t you just pull the whole thing out.”
“And get him to report a robbery? Atticus would know it was us. He’d go mad.”
“Maybe it’s in his car.”
“That’s a shout. Maybe we should search there next.”
“Shh!” I call, at the sound of an engine outside. I peer through the nets. “Lovey’s home.”
“Crap. He shouldn’t be back yet. Maybe he sent all the audience to sleep this time.” Patton says. He grabs a bunch of papers from the bureau in one hand, and grabs my arm with the other. “Come on.”
We race down the passage and force ourselves through the back door, then float across his garden and through the fence.
By the time Lovey enters the house, we’re long gone, but my heart is pounding so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if he can hear it from indoors. I hold on to Patton’s arm to steady myself.
“That was close.” I whisper.
“Not really.” Patton says with a grin. “I’ve had closer.”
“You mean you’ve done that before? Gone in someone’s house without permission?”
He taps his nose, won’t say another word.
“What papers have you got?”
“I just grabbed what I could. He won’t miss a few and who knows, they might be useful. To identify handwriting or something. Come on, let’s go and see Morton now.”
Sheriff Morton sits back in his swivel chair, legs raised up on his desk, as he chews the end of a biro.
He doesn’t look at all surprised to see us.
“I wondered when you’d come.” He says, tone neutral.
“You looked miles away.” I say. “Busy?”
His phone vibrates on the desk, the screen lit up to announce an incoming message from Wife, and he flips it over, gives us his attention. “Pondering.”
“Well, we’ve been gathering evidence while you’ve been daydreaming.” Patton says, and hands the papers over.
“Geraldine, 21k? What evidence is this?” Taylor asks, reading one of the scraps of paper.
“We did an informal search of Lovey Lovegoode’s house.”
Taylor, new in town, looks blank at the name.
“The local historian. He was desperate to get his hands on the journal that Emelza Shabley found. Made plans to go and see her the evening she was killed.”
“Okay, well that’s not a crime in itself. Potentially the last person to see her alive? Apart from the killer.”
“Maybe.” I say. “But that’s not all. He went back, the next day, wiped his fingerprints off her waggon.”
“You hadn’t had the area taped off.” Patton says.
Taylor blushes. “My mind’s been elsewhere.”
“I know. I know about your baby, that’s why I didn’t report it. But you need to make sure your head is right or hand the case over.” Patton says, and I gaze up at him.
Taylor nods slowly.
“It’s still not enough.” Taylor says. “Let’s say he did go over, saw her alive, chatted with her. Then someone else kills her. He could have panicked about seeing her so close to her dying, and that’s why he went over to remove his prints.”
“It’s a possibility.” Patton admits. “But he was wiping everywhere. It looks like he’d gone through every cupboard in the waggon. He wouldn’t do that as a visitor.”
Taylor frowns. “I’ll look into it.”
“That’s it?”
“You’ve got to leave it alone, you two. It’s my job.”
“And you’re in here, feet up. There’s a murderer out there!”
“Fine. I’ll question him. But I’ll do it in my time, okay. I can’t just take your word for everything.” Taylor says, and he throws himself up from the chair, grabs his cell phone and car keys. “Is that it?”
“For now.” Patton says. “Come on, Sage.”
I follow him out, aware that Sheriff Morton is just a few steps behind us, taking the stairs three at a time. He dashes across the parking lot into his car and fires the engine.
“He’s in a rush.”
“And I don’t think he’s off to arrest Lovey Lovegoode.” Patton says with a grim smile.
“Shame we haven’t got a car. I’d be interested in following him.” I say.
“He’s not worth it.” Patton says.
“What shall we do now?” I ask, fluttering spider lashes at him. I’d like to take his mind off the murder case for an afternoon, if he’d let me.
“I need to get some rest.” He says. “You should too. Walking through those doors will exhaust us if we don’t rest. Let’s meet up later?”
“Sure.” I say, syrupy sweet smile hiding my disappointment.
Sometimes, life just isn't fair.
Connie’s at the kitchen table when I get home, tapping furiously on the laptop keyboard.
“You’re home, then.” She says, without taking he
r eyes off the screen.
“And the winner of Stating The Obvious…”
“Not in the mood.” She snaps.
I float over to the laptop to see that she’s searching for information about Mystic Springs.
“What are you up to?” I ask.
“I realised, I don’t even know the story that well, about how the town was founded. And that’s not okay, is it? I should know the roots of the place I call home. Don’t you think?”
She’s spooking me with this sudden interest in town history, so I just nod.
“Found anything interesting?”
“There’s a rumour that the women were gypsies.”
“Gypsies?” I say with a gasp. I can imagine Lavinia Blackbottom the fourth’s reaction to the suggestion that her great-grandmother was a gypsy.
“It makes sense. A band of women moving around from place to place, I can’t believe I haven’t thought of it before.”
“But where were their husbands? Or was it some female-only gypsy gang?”
“Well, I don’t know that. Maybe the husbands stayed behind to work? Or maybe there were no husbands. Maybe it really was a group of independent women.”
“I want to believe the last option.” I say.
“Do you? You’re man mad.” Connie scoffs, but there’s a lightness in her tone, a softness returning.
“I am, that’s true. But in another world, I can imagine it would be nice to be more like you.”
“And the punch line?”
“There isn’t one.” I say. “I’m not joking. You’re like those women, aren’t you? Strong and independent. I’ve never even changed a lightbulb without a man helping.”
Connie sighs. “It’s not all fun my way, you know.”
“Well, life never promised anyone to be all fun. But you have a lot to be proud of, moving across here and making a fresh start. You’re like the modern day Lavinia Blackbottom the first!”
Connie laughs. “Do you think she was as annoying as her great-granddaughter is?”
“I barely know the woman.” I admit. “Is she awful?”
“There’s just something about her.”
I nearly choke laughing when Connie describes the money coat. “Is she for real?”
“Sadly, I think so.”
“Did you find out yet how she’s got her money?” I ask.
“I have no idea. She’s always campaigning for women’s rights but I can’t imagine that pays her much, if anything. And she swears she’s not living off an inheritance.”
“Lottery win?” I joke.
“It could be for all we know.” Connie says. “Not that it’s anyone’s business, but if you walk around in a coat like that, people are going to talk.”
The doorbell rings then and Connie stands to her feet, wearily.
“You’ve had a headache?” I ask, noticing the way she walks slower than normal.
“You noticed.” She turns to me and smiles, a smile that shows just how beautiful she is. Her skin is so darn good. She never had acne as a teenager like I did. And then she didn’t spend years covering her acne scars with layer on top of layer of foundation, to make it worse.
I cringe when I think back to the days when I’d go to sleep with a thick coating of cheap foundation on my face, wake up, and apply a second coat on top of the layer from the day before. And my foundation ended, very obviously, with the line of my chin. Teenage girls nowadays are so picture perfect with their contouring and blending compared to the mess I used to apply.
“For you.” Connie says, returning to the kitchen and jolting me from my thoughts. In her arms, she holds a huge bouquet of flowers. Roses, stargazer lilies, tulips and lily of the valley in a glass vase. The smell is heavenly.
“Oh wow, who from?!” I ask, giddy with excitement.
“Girl, it’s bad enough to always be the deliverer of flowers, I’m not reading the card for you too.” Connie says, but she’s smiling. “Anyway, three guesses. Who do you think they’re from?”
“Patton.” I breathe. “They’re so beautiful.”
I find the card and tear open the envelope.
From your admirer.
“Ooh, the intrigue!” Connie laughs. “That spirit’s got it bad.”
“You think?” I ask. “I don’t think he likes that I’m married.”
She rolls her eyes. “Clearly.”
I take a deep sniff of the flowers and think back to the way he was so keen for me to return home. He must have been scared I’d miss the delivery. I really do need to learn to stop sulking.
When the doorbell rings out an hour later, I jump up to answer it, expecting Patton.
Sheriff Morton stands on the veranda, freshly shaved, hands in the pockets of his navy slacks. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” I say.
“Is Patton here?”
“No, but I think he’s coming soon.”
“I’m here.” Patton calls, appearing behind Taylor.
“Excuse us for a moment?” I ask, and close Taylor into the house so I can chat to Patton privately.
“Everything okay?” He asks, wide eyed.
“Better than okay!” I gush, and I kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you so much!”
He blinks at me.
“For the flowers! They’re beautiful!”
“Oh.” He says with a nervous smile. “You like them?”
“They’re perfect. I couldn’t believe it when they turned up, I was like, I mean, I knew they were for me not Connie of course, but wow… flowers!” I say.
“You deserve them, Sage.” He says. His cheeks are flushed and I realise I’m embarrassing him, so I open the door and lead him into the kitchen, where Taylor and Connie stand in silence, both looking at the impressive bouquet.
“You bought these, huh?” Taylor asks Patton. “They look expensive.”
“Don’t they just.” Patton murmurs.
“Erm, we don’t need to talk about the price.” I say. “Are you here for a social visit?”
“No.” Taylor says. “Since you guys are investigating, I thought I’d let you know some news. We might as well work together, you know?”
“Absolutely.” I say.
“Fine with me.” Patton says.
“Connie?” Taylor asks.
“I just want the murderer caught.” Connie says, which is news to me, because last time I checked, she was staying well clear from any investigation. My sister is impossible to understand sometimes.
“Okay, good. I got the lab results back, from the dagger. But also, it’s a pretty rare piece, so I was able to trace it. Find out who bought it.”
“And?” I ask, eagerly.
“Whoever killer Emelza Shabley wiped their fingerprints afterwards, but the dagger belongs to Lovey Lovegoode.”
“I knew it.” I say. “That man’s house is full of old stuff!”
Connie eyes me.
“We got a special pass to go through his house, for the journal.”
“And did you find it?”
“No, but -”
“… he could have hidden it anywhere.” Connie finishes my sentence. “Are you going to arrest him, Sheriff?”
“I’m going to call him in for questioning.” Taylor says, and I groan.
“Just questioning?”
“The dagger could have been stolen.” He says.
“And he didn’t report it?” Patton asks.
“Would you? If your dagger was used to kill someone, would you own up to it being yours?” I ask.
“Of course I would.” Taylor snaps. “I’m law enforcement, I do the right thing.”
“Okay!” I exclaim. “Nobody was questioning your morals!”
“Let’s take a minute.” Connie says. “We’re all on the same side, remember.”
“I’m going.” Taylor says and stalks out of the house, slamming the front door behind him.
“I said we could work together. I’ll never be on the same side as him.” Patton says, watching the door
.
“What is your issue with him?” I ask.
“He’s a womaniser.” Patton says, as the oven beeps to signal that Connie’s dinner is ready. She puts on an oven glove and opens the door, moving back so the steam can’t burn her. She slides an unappetising looking ready meal on to a plate and takes a seat.
“You shouldn’t gossip.” She chides. “He has a wife.”
“I hate gossip.” Patton says. “But, I know him of old. I’ve seen what he’s like. He can’t run a case when his head’s been turned.”
“He has been distracted lately.” I say.
“His son was ill!” Connie exclaims as she chews a mouthful of the slop.
“Hmm.” Patton says, unconvinced. ‘I’m going to keep an eye on him.”
The police station is in darkness apart from one light in one room, just as it always is after 5pm. As if crime ends after office hours.
Patton and I crouch low in the parking lot, our gaze fixed on the one window that is lit. The only car in the lot belongs to Taylor, so although we didn't see him arrive, we know he’s here.
“He could just be working the case.” I say, getting restless. We’ve been watching the window for only fifteen minutes, but it’s already lost any novelty the idea of a stake-out might have had. “It’s hardly groundbreaking news, is it? Sheriff works late on murder case!”
“Look, go if you want, but I’m staying.” Patton says.
I move in closer to him and begin to pick at the grass that erupts from the parking lot in random places.
“Sage, honestly, I’m fine if you want to go home.”
“I’ll stay, I just don’t know what you’re hoping to see.”
“How about that?” Patton asks.
A car creeps into the parking lot. A green Thunderbird.
“Is that Lovey?” I ask, going by the car’s age.
Patton shakes his head, as Lavinia Blackbottom the fourth steps out from the driver’s side door. She trots across the parking lot in five-inch heels, a leather mini skirt, and her money coat. The bundles of money dance in the night air as she darts under the cover of the building and pulls out her cell phone.