by Morgana Best
Any Given Sundae
(Australian Amateur Sleuth Book 5)
Copyright © 2016 by Morgana Best
All Rights Reserved
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The personal names have been invented by the author, and any likeness to the name of any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book might contain references to specific commercial products, process or service by trade name, trademark, manufacturer, or otherwise, specific brand-name products and/or trade names of products, which are trademarks or registered trademarks and/or trade names, and these are property of their respective owners. Morgana Best or her associates have no association with any specific commercial products, process, or service by trade name, trademark, manufacturer, or otherwise, specific brand-name products and / or trade names of products.
By this act
And words of rhyme
Trouble not
These books of mine
With these words I now thee render
Candle burn and bad return
3 times stronger to its sender.
(Ancient Celtic)
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Connect with Morgana
Other books by Morgana Best
About Morgana Best
A Note from the Author
Chapter 1
I shuddered against the icy wind and closed the window as quickly as I could, sighing with relief as it slammed shut. It was the middle of winter here in Little Tatterford, a place where it got cold enough for water pipes to freeze solid. In other words, it was the sort of town in which going outside was entirely too much trouble for a full quarter of each year. Sure, it got colder in other parts of the world, but for some reason, Australian houses were not built for this climate. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the rest of Australia was either desert or nice, warm, and coastal.
I looked out of the window, struggling to see much through the fog that was rapidly building against the glass. All the trees had long since shed their leaves, leaving nothing but depressing gray-brown skeletons jutting out of the ground at strange angles, making the entire horizon infinitely more ominous. The sky was similarly devoid of color as clouds gathered, and although the chance of actual snow was currently next to zero, there was always the possibility of a hailstorm. The last one had been some time ago, but had been serious enough to litter the ground in hail and cause considerable damage to houses and cars. Nobody was happy to take a day off work because it was hailing so heavily.
I sighed again and turned away from the window, narrowly dodging an antique chair nearby. The boarding house was filled to the brim with antiques of every sort, but furniture was the worst offender. There were more chairs than there had ever been guests, and not nearly enough tables to seat them all. Each chair was drastically different from the others, a bizarre ensemble of antiques that looked as though it was specifically a collection from different periods of history.
Happily, each was clean, practically shining in the electric light cast down from the high ceilings. That was due to one Mr. Buttons, the only permanent boarder and a man who spent far too much time cleaning. He had been a good friend of mine since I’d moved to Little Tatterford after a nasty divorce, and was best described as a typical English butler, though he never did any actual butlering. He spent his free time cleaning things, whether or not it was socially acceptable to do so, and making cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, though he’d recently tried branching out into more exciting recipes, such as watercress sandwiches—with the crusts cut off.
I looked around the boarding house, taking in the bizarre sights. I’d gotten so used to being here that I sometimes forgot what a strange place it really was. Other than the scattering of antiques, the house was a grand Victorian affair with high ceilings, striking arches, and a grand staircase. It was a beautiful building, though it did feel somewhat out of place in a small Australian country town. I considered that it wasn’t built for such cold weather, as I pulled my jacket tightly around myself and shivered.
I grimaced as I noticed several large hairs on my jacket. I quickly brushed them off. Since moving to Little Tatterford, I’d started my own dog and cat grooming business and had struggled to get it up and running. More recently, though, I’d become quite successful with it, though it did mean occasionally finding about four pets’ worth of hair on my person. I knew if I myself didn’t brush it off, then Mr. Buttons wouldn’t be able to help himself. He was very nice and a good friend, but his obsession with cleanliness extended far beyond social normality.
“Sibyl!” A familiar voice called out my name. I turned to see Mr. Buttons walking briskly toward me, Cressida in tow. Cressida was the owner of the boarding house and also a good friend of mine, yet it was hard to talk about her without mentioning how, well, unique she was. She wore altogether too much make-up, as though she were trying to blend into the background of a clown painting.
Speaking of painting, that was her hobby of choice. Unfortunately, her subject of choice was disturbingly gory settings, making her nevertheless skilled artworks somewhat hard to look at.
“Hello, Mr. Buttons. Hi, Cressida,” I said with a smile.
“I didn’t think you’d be here so early,” Cressida said, dusting herself off. Mr. Buttons raised an eyebrow and looked at her, clearly sizing her up for a cleaning. Cressida seemed to notice and took a step away from him.
“Sorry, it’s just so hard to sit still in the cold like this, so I decided to get here a bit earlier than we’d agreed,” I explained. I lived in a cottage not too far from the boarding house, and while it was better insulated than the boarding house itself, it was still impossible to stay warm in this weather. I’d figured that a walk would do me some good, but had underestimated just how cold it was outside.
We all walked to the dining room together where Mr. Buttons made us some tea. I thanked him and took a slow sip, enjoying the heat as much as possible. The tea was good, but I was more interested in garnering every bit of warmth that I could.
“So I hear your business is taking off,” Mr. Buttons said with a smile.
“You could say that,” I said. “I’ve been doing very well lately, yes. It seems that a lot of people have been moving here from Sydney, probably looking for a more rural lifestyle. My client base has increased recently, and while the work has been nothing short of exhausting, I’m glad for it,” I admitted. It had been hard trying to make a living when my business was struggling so much previously, so it was a relief to have such a reliable income.
“Wo
uld you like some lunch?” Cressida suddenly interjected. “Dorothy is in, so she should...”
“No!” a voice yelled from the kitchen nearby. “I’m not in the mood,” the voice continued. I sighed, recognizing Dorothy’s voice at once. She was a large unpleasant woman, the relatively recent cook of the boarding house. Ever since she had taken the job, the quality of food had decreased dramatically, and she was nothing short of rude to everybody in conversation. Mr. Buttons especially held disdain for her, though he expressed it in his own strange way.
“Cease and desist, madam!” Mr. Buttons yelled back. “We are your guests, and you should feel honor-bound to meet our needs!” He said it with so much confidence that I was sure he himself believed it. Dorothy responded with a noise somewhere between a furious “Humph!” and the sound of a pig being squeezed. Mr. Buttons took what could only be explained as an angry sip of tea and set his cup back down delicately on the saucer, looking perturbed. I held in a laugh. While I wasn’t exactly the biggest fan of Dorothy, it was always fun to watch how Mr. Buttons struggled against her tyranny.
“And what else is new, Sibyl?” Cressida asked, obviously hoping to change the topic of conversation.
“Well, the property settlement with my ex-husband has been awarded,” I announced cheerfully. “I’m just waiting for the money to come through.”
“And how is all that... unpleasantness affecting you?” Mr. Buttons asked.
I at once knew what he meant. “As you know, they’ve both been convicted of murder.” I let out a long sigh of relief. My ex-husband and his mistress had tried to murder me some time ago. They had received a long term prison sentence both for my attempted murder and for the murder of someone else, so it was unlikely that I’d have to worry about them for a long time.
“That’s excellent!” Cressida exclaimed. “Well, not excellent as such, I suppose. But it’s good for you,” she added with a weak smile.
I laughed before replying. “It’s fine, Cressida. We weren’t exactly friends before he tried to murder me, so there’s no love lost, so to speak.” I looked at Mr. Buttons, who was apparently still concentrating on his distaste for Dorothy. Talking to Cressida seemed like the best option when Mr. Buttons was in this kind of mood. “And how are things with you, Cressida?” I asked.
“Great!” she announced excitedly. “Five of my paintings have sold from Mortimer’s gallery already.”
I gasped, although managed to hide my shock by pretending it was a delighted sort of noise. I was happy for her, but it amazed me that people were willing to buy her art when everything she depicted was so gruesome and graphic. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw one of her paintings without immediately feeling the kind of existential dread typically reserved by the highest order of horror fiction.
She’d recently sold some pieces to an art dealer by the name of Mortimer Fyfe-Waring, who was every bit as strange as his name suggested. He was an older man, about her age, who ran a gallery in a nearby town. He had become inconsolably excited when he had seen her artworks and had commissioned them on the spot. At first, I thought he was just crazy, but then I figured he was probably good at his job—and crazy. The fact that the paintings were selling so quickly told me that I probably didn’t have an eye for art, and that I certainly didn’t want one.
“He’s also asked me to paint some more, since the last ones sold so quickly,” Cressida said happily. Before I could escape, she pulled a canvas from seemingly nowhere and showed me. I resisted the urge to scream, though barely, and managed to nod approvingly, making the most positive noise I could through gritted teeth. “This is part of a new collection I call The Obliteration of Newbury,” Cressida explained kindly. I didn’t think to ask what she had against Newbury or happiness, instead focusing on changing the topic immediately. Unfortunately, she maintained a level stare as if waiting for some kind of response.
“It sure is something,” I said, trying to smile.
“Oh, I can’t wait to show Mortimer,” Cressida said with a genuine smile.
“I’m not sure what you see in him,” Mr. Buttons butted in, apparently part of the conversation again. “I find him rather off-putting,” he continued, clearing his throat.
“Oh, pish posh,” Cressida said. “He’s a nice man. It’s good to meet someone normal,” she continued, apparently completely oblivious to the notion of irony.
“He is gay, you know,” Mr. Buttons said, sipping his tea.
“He is not always!” Cressida exclaimed. “Sometimes he’s quite sad.”
“What about that Vlad he’s always talking about?” Mr. Buttons asked.
“They’re just friends who sometimes massage each other in the sauna,” Cressida explained as though it were normal. “He told me all this when we met for lunch,” she said smugly.
“Anyway,” I interjected, hoping to change the topic before it got even stranger and more awkward. “What else is new, Cressida? How has business at the boarding house been?”
“Oh, not bad, not bad. Lord Farringdon has warned me that there’s an enemy closer to us than we realize, though,” she said casually, taking another sip of tea. Lord Farringdon was her cat, and of course Cressida thought she could communicate with him. It was easy to dismiss her as a crazy cat lady, but Lord Farringdon had made an alarming number of accurate predictions. I took a moment to consider that a single accurate prediction from an allegedly talking cat was an alarming number, but decided to focus on the topic at hand.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“He said that something horrible will happen soon,” she said, setting down her tea cup. “Something bad and something near.” Cressida leaned in close to me and lowered her voice to a whisper. “But the most important thing to remember is that he’s a bit paranoid, you know, that one. He’s getting on in years.” She leaned back and nodded at me knowingly.
I sighed, feeling altogether less calm than I had been before. We’d had our share of problems here in Little Tatterford, and I hoped that the prophetic cat was just a product of Cressida’s imagination.
Chapter 2
I immediately regretted not choosing a warmer jacket. The air was bitterly cold, and I hugged myself tightly to try to garner some warmth. I considered running back to the cottage to get something more appropriate for the temperature, but figured it would probably be quicker to get inside the boarding house. I was more than halfway there and decided to run the rest of the way, awkwardly trying to keep my footing on the frosty ground as my crossed arms provided nothing in the way of balance.
I finally arrived at the front door, having nearly fallen over several times. It was raining lightly, and the little bits of sleet caused me to shiver with every drop that hit me. I looked up at the sky. It was already pitch black, despite the sun not having set quite yet. I knew it was close to setting, but the pitch-black clouds stopped me telling exactly what time it was. It looked like a huge storm was coming and I knew I’d want to be back in my cottage before it hit. I considered leaving immediately, but thought the better of it.
I had agreed to come around for dinner when Cressida had asked me. There were new boarders she wanted me to meet, though I wasn’t thrilled about the idea. It seemed like every time I met boarders it ended in disaster, and what Lord Farringdon, or rather, what Cressida had said earlier, had put me on edge ever since. Something bad is coming. I looked up at the storm, shivered, swallowed hard, and pushed my way through the front door and into the boarding house.
“Sibyl!” Cressida called out immediately. I barely had a chance to acknowledge her before she hugged me tightly. “Thanks for coming. Everybody’s already sitting around for dinner, so let’s go.” She led me into the dining room before I could so much as speak.
The dining room was well-lit and much warmer than I had anticipated, making me happy about my choice of apparel for the first time this winter. Mr. Buttons was sitting at the table next to a man I didn’t recognize, who in turn was sitting next to another woman who likew
ise was a stranger to me. Opposite him sat another woman who seemed to be slightly younger than either of the others. Cressida sat at the head of the table and I took a seat opposite Mr. Buttons, next to the youngest of the new trio.
“Ah, hello, Sibyl,” Mr. Buttons said with a smile. “These are the new boarders.” He motioned to the three who all smiled at me.
The woman who was sitting beside me spoke. “I’m Prudence Paget.” She extended a hand. I took it and shook it, smiling back.
“I’m Sally,” said the woman who was furthest away in a meek tone. She didn’t make eye contact, and I considered that maybe she was just shy.
“I’m Dr. Roland Cavendish,” the last stranger, the man, said. “You may call me Roland.” He took my hand and kissed the back of it. I withdrew my hand quickly, looking to Mr. Buttons for an explanation. He simply shrugged slightly, looking nearly as confused as I felt. I considered that maybe Roland was just being polite in his own creepy way, but there was undoubtedly something unsettling about him. I thought back to Lord Farringdon’s warning and shuddered.
“Uh, nice to meet you all,” I stammered. “I’m Sibyl. I live in the cottage down the road. You might have noticed it.”
“Oh, yes, it looks cute!” Prudence exclaimed. “I mean, from the outside. I didn’t get a very good look either, if I’m honest, but from what I could tell it seems like a nice place. Do you mind if I ask what it is you do? As a job, I mean.”
“Oh,” I cleared my throat. “I’m a pet groomer. Dogs and cats, specifically. Business has been good here in Little Tatterford, despite what some people assume,” I said with a chuckle. “Small town and all that. What about you?” I asked Prudence, noticing that the others had started their own conversations.
“Academia. I’m actually here to give a public paper on the Spotted Quoll at the university. The quoll is a little carnivorous marsupial, in case you were wondering.” She laughed. “The number two question I’m asked is, ‘What exactly is a quoll?’”