Any Given Sundae (Australian Amateur Sleuth Book 5)

by Morgana Best

  “That’s great news, Cressida,” I said between mouthfuls of some strange food I hoped was a kind of cheese. “I’m really happy for you.”

  Cressida gave me an unexpected hug that was far too tight, but thankfully released me before I passed out from lack of oxygen. “Thanks, Sibyl! Anyway, I had better go find Mortimer and talk to snooty art people.” She seized a new glass of wine and hurried off into the crowd.

  I looked up at a nearby artwork and nearly lost my recently devoured cheese. The painting was uncomfortably gory, and displayed several heads on pikes in front of a terrifying Gothic castle. It was titled, ‘Vlad the Impaler.’ I overheard a woman behind me remark that this piece was “a little toned down compared to the others,” and that it “lacked the forcefulness that carried her other works to such great heights.” If I were to critique it, my thoughts would be more along the lines of, “Why would any sane person want to look at this?”

  To be fair to Cressida, she was in fact skilled as a painter. Actually, that was mostly my problem, as the mortifying scenes she depicted were much too lifelike and detailed, which is why I was so uncomfortable. I considered suggesting that she try something more abstract for her next series. A lot more abstract.

  Looking around the room, I wasn’t able to spot anybody I recognized. I was still astounded at the sheer number of people who had decided to attend the exhibition. I wasn’t even aware that the Pharmidale district had such a large population of those who enjoyed art, much less those who enjoyed this kind of art. Still, I was happy for Cressida, especially since it all seemed to be going so well.

  Despite all that, I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed that Blake hadn’t been able to make it tonight. He was busy working. I sighed and scanned the room again. I hadn’t just come to the exhibition to support Cressida, or to support the wine, for that matter. A huge number of people from around town were at the event, and I was hoping to gather as much information as I possibly could about Sally and that man. They say that it’s always the spouse, so I thought that it was as good a place as any to begin investigating.

  Here I was again, investigating a murder. Still, if the police were going to suspect me, then I couldn’t risk leaving it alone, so long as I didn’t do anything to incriminate myself in the process. The police really should start paying me at this point, I thought grimly, sipping another tall glass of expensive wine.

  Before I could drink too much more, I spotted Sally Cavendish talking to a stranger across the room. I gulped and thought about what to say. Could I even talk to her? What if she’d heard that I was a suspect in Roland’s murder? After the way Roland had been treating her, would she even care? I sighed, and walked over to her. I waited just out of sight until she broke off her conversation with the person to whom she was speaking, and took my chance to get some information out of her. Carefully.

  “Hi, Sally,” I said, mustering the most earnest smile I could manage.

  “Oh, hello,” she said, smiling back. She seemed calm enough, I thought. Maybe even too calm, considering what had happened to Roland.

  “Are you enjoying the exhibition?” I asked, suddenly unsure of how I was going to swing the conversation back to Roland. Talking about somebody’s dead husband was harder than I’d realized, which seemed silly in hindsight.

  “Yes, though the artwork is a bit... different,” Sally replied, glancing nervously at a painting of the Normandy beach landings. “Cressida is a very gifted artist, though,” she continued politely.

  “It’s okay,” I laughed. “The art scares everybody. Well, I thought it did, but here we are.” I motioned to the crowd of reverent art critics. I realized then that I wasn’t going to be able to talk about Roland to her. If she were somehow involved, she’d be very much on guard, and if she weren’t involved, I was likely to upset her and cause a scene rather than gather any meaningful information. I decided to try a different, more honest route.

  “I was getting an afternoon coffee at a café on the edge of Pharmidale yesterday and saw a man I didn’t recognize get into a car with you.” Nerves caused me to speak quickly, and I wondered if Sally had managed to catch everything I’d said. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay after everything that’s happened with Roland,” I continued lamely, hoping she didn’t think I was accusing her of anything. Not yet, anyway.

  “Oh,” she stammered, looking down at her feet. “I...”

  “Thanks for coming, everybody,” Cressida said through a microphone as the lights dimmed. Sally and I turned to see Cressida standing on a small stage, addressing the crowd. “I’m not one for public speaking, so I’ll try to keep it brief.” Cressida cleared her throat. I looked over to see that Sally had gone. A quick scan through the crowd didn’t reveal her whereabouts. Had she left to avoid answering my question?

  “I’m excited to be able to display my artworks in public like this,” Cressida continued, motioning vaguely to the entire room, where each wall was covered in something she had painted. “But I’m more excited to have people talk to me about them, so please don’t be afraid to approach me and ask questions about the pieces at any point tonight.”

  I considered that people would have many questions, and maybe I myself could even ask some, but most of the questions I had stored away would probably offend her. The paintings still scared and baffled me, so the less I had to talk about them, the better.

  “Before I step off the stage, I’m often asked why I paint the subjects that I do,” Cressida said. I stopped thinking and looked at her intently, hoping for an answer, though I was a little worried about what her explanation might be. “It’s very simple, of course. Lord Farringdon, my cat, tells me what to paint,” she said, beaming. The crowd laughed, which confused Cressida, judging by the look on her face. She stepped off the stage and was immediately swamped by people wanting to ask her questions. I considered rescuing her from the adoring legion, but decided she was probably enjoying the attention.

  “Oh, Sibyl!”

  I spun around to see Prudence Paget standing behind me, a wide smile on her face. She had a nearly-finished glass of wine, and had clearly been here for a while.

  “Oh, hello, Prudence,” I said, returning the smile. “Enjoying the exhibition?”

  “Yes, very much. I had no idea that Cressida did so much painting,” Prudence said, momentarily looking at a nearby artwork before averting her gaze and looking ill, if only for a brief second.

  I sighed, deciding that the direct approach was all that was available to me. “Do you know if Sally has a boyfriend?” I asked.

  Prudence’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh, well, no,” she said, taken aback by my question. “I mean, Roland just died, so...”

  “It’s just, I saw her in a car with a man, and they seemed awfully friendly,” I continued. “I don’t mean to be suggesting anything unsavory. I’m just worried about her. Plus I don’t know her so well, so maybe she has a relative or friend in town, or something.” I shrugged.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know, Sibyl,” Prudence said flatly. “Are you sure it was her?”

  I shrugged. I supposed I wasn’t sure, really, though the resemblance was uncanny. I downed the last of my wine and decided that the night had been a bust, at least for information gathering. I heard a laugh erupt from the crowd and consoled myself with the fact that at least Cressida’s night had gone well.

  Chapter 9

  “Come in, come in!” Cressida smiled broadly as the boarding house filled with guests. She had decided to invite several people from the exhibition back to the boarding house to continue the event and to have a look at the art work that she had not yet displayed. The boarding house was packed to capacity, and it struck me as odd that so many people were willing to come back to the boarding house for Cressida’s art.

  Not that I didn’t appreciate that her art was skillful, and I certainly knew that she had a paying audience. I had just assumed that a lot of the people at the gallery were there for an initial look, so it
took me by surprise when they happily followed Cressida back home.

  Shortly after her speech, she had gotten back on stage and announced that the boarding house was open for those who wanted to ‘keep the party going,’ as she put it. She had nearly fallen off the stage afterward, so I assumed some expensive gallery wine also had a say in the idea, but either way, she’d won over the crowd. Almost everybody had agreed to come back, and we’d walked the entire way in one massive group. A select few had decided to drive, though the majority weren’t quite sober enough.

  I had decided to walk alongside Mr. Buttons, whom I hadn’t seen at all during the gallery showing itself, but had spotted while I was following Cressida outside—or, more accurately, followed the mob that had surrounded her. It was a bit surreal to see Cressida being treated as some kind of celebrity all of a sudden, but I was happy for her. I was less happy for the boarding house, which didn’t seem to be built for this kind of enormous crowd. The dining room was packed to capacity, and I very much doubted that most of the people here would be able to so much as glimpse any of Cressida’s work.

  Still, the atmosphere was pleasant and excited, yet I suspected it would start to falter fairly quickly since the boarding house didn’t provide any kind of alcohol.

  “Well, I’m glad she’s doing so well,” Mr. Buttons said, smiling broadly. “I’m not as happy about having such a large crowd in our humble abode, but it’s for a good cause.”

  “I’d hardly call the boarding house a humble abode,” I said with a laugh. Looking around, though, the huge crowd certainly made everything look a lot smaller. “I see your point, though,” I admitted.

  “Hello, Sibyl, Mr. Buttons,” Sally said from behind, causing me to jump.

  “Oh, hello, Sally,” Mr. Buttons said with a warm smile. “Were you at the show, too?”

  “I was,” she said with a nod. “Cressida certainly is popular. Or rather, her art is, I suppose.”

  “Yes, she’s doing really well,” I agreed. “It’s good to see her being happy and successful. There was a point where...”

  “What is all this?” A shout sounded out from the kitchen, a shout so loud that the windows shook violently. It was Dorothy, her face redder than a human face had any business turning. She was shaking with rage and just about frothing at the mouth. “Who are you people?” she screamed, throwing a spoon at an unfortunate witness.

  “Who’s she?” Sally whispered to me. “I’ve seen her before. Is she the cook?”

  “Yes, she’s the boarding house cook,” I replied, refraining from explaining that she was also quite possibly some kind of deep-sea monster given human form in an ungodly bargain. “You’ve probably seen her around the boarding house, especially during meal times.”

  Sally nodded.

  “If you’ve seen Free Willy, you might have her mistaken for the whale,” Mr. Buttons said scathingly.

  “Mr. Buttons!” I scolded him. “You can’t say things like that,” I said as Sally managed to suppress a giggle.

  There was more yelling from Dorothy’s general direction, and it was clear that whoever was talking to her had come to an impasse. Dorothy pushed through the crowd and stormed out of the boarding house, leaving a large confused crowd in her wake.

  “I should be going to bed, anyway,” Sally said with a yawn. “I hope that lady’s okay.”

  “She’ll be fine.” I smiled reassuringly. “This isn’t the first time she’s done this kind of thing. I think she might just be nervous around crowds, or just... well, just angry.” I shrugged. “We’re not really sure what the story is. Anyway, goodnight, Sally.”

  Sally nodded to us as she walked away in the direction of the stairs to her room.

  “She did it,” Mr. Buttons said with a stern nod.

  “What, Sally?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “You think she murdered Roland?” I tried to lower my voice as I asked, though the bustling crowd made it hard to be quiet. Mr. Buttons beckoned me to follow him out into the front yard where the noise was considerably less intrusive.

  “No, no, Dorothy,” he said in a harsh whisper. “She’s the guilty one, Sibyl, mark my words.”

  “What makes you say that now?” I asked. “Have you uncovered some evidence?”

  “Because it seems like something she’d do,” he said calmly, as if it were the most logical explanation in the world.

  I sighed loudly and pointedly. “That’s hardly reason to suspect her, Mr. Buttons.”

  “All the same, it’s true,” he said, literally turning his nose up at me.

  I playfully punched him in the arm and laughed. “She’s guilty of all sorts of things, I’m sure, but I think we should look elsewhere in this case. Speaking of which, the police told me that they don’t have enough evidence of my alibi,” I explained, not wanting to drag the mood down, but needing to get it off my chest.

  “But that’s absurd.” Mr. Buttons gave me his full attention again. “I was right there with you, Sibyl. You couldn’t possibly be involved, and neither could I.”

  “I know,” I said with a nod. “But the police have no proof of that. It’s just our word they’re relying on, after all.”

  Mr. Buttons considered the situation for a moment and sighed. “I suppose that’s true. Cressida really ought to have some security cameras installed by now,” he said with a small laugh, though he looked more worried than anything else.

  “I’m sure the police will clear this up. After all, you and I both know that we’re innocent, because we weren’t anywhere near Roland when he died. All the same, it’s probably best if we don’t do anything that looks suspicious,” I said, hoping Mr. Buttons would take my words to heart. It didn’t seem right that we had to avoid suspicion when we were innocent, but I’d much rather do so than be arrested for a crime, especially one that I didn’t commit.

  The other guests slowly departed, leaving the boarding house feeling both emptier and larger than it ever had before. I was amazed at how polite and clean everybody had been. As far as I could tell, not a single piece of furniture was out of place.

  Mr. Buttons was fetching us all tea. Mortimer had stayed behind, and was busily chatting to Cressida at the dinner table.

  “So, how did the exhibition go?” I asked. It seemed like it had been a resounding success, but then it occurred to me that I didn’t really know what kind of reception they were expecting. Besides that, I wasn’t actually sure how to start a conversation with Mortimer, a man about whom I knew so little.

  “It was fantastic, Sibyl.” Cressida beamed as she spoke.

  “A much better reception than I’d expected,” Mortimer admitted in his usual monotone voice. “I was expecting great things, of course, but it was still an exceptional turn out. And the sales.” His eyebrows shot up as he said it, though the tone of his voice didn’t change despite the elevation in volume. If I hadn’t seen him excited in the past, I’d have wondered if he had some kind of condition where he had to speak as monotonously as possible.

  Chapter 10

  “Come on, Sandy.” I tried to put a dog coat on the reluctant Labrador. She wanted to stay in her dog bed. It was so cold that I almost thought about crawling in there with her. I checked the time, and saw to my dismay that Mr. Buttons was late for our morning walk. Perhaps he shared the same view of the dismal weather as Sandy.

  I was throwing more wood on the fire when I heard Mr. Buttons arrive. I opened the door to see him holding a delicate porcelain plate filled with cucumber sandwiches with, of course, the crusts removed, as well as a plate of pastries. “Are we having breakfast before we walk?” I asked him.

  His face fell. “Sibyl, it’s far too cold to walk.” He placed the plates on the coffee table, and then hurried over to warm himself at the fire. “I don’t think we should walk today. The forecast is for heavy snow. That’s why it was warmer last night. It always warms up a little in these parts before it snows or rains.”

  I shivered at the thought. “You’re right. Shall we have coffee, cucu
mber sandwiches, and pastries instead?”

  Mr. Buttons turned around, beaming. “Yes, what a good idea. You make the tea and I’ll dust.”

  I shook my head and went to do as I was told, while Mr. Buttons eagerly dusted the floor around the fire.

  I soon returned with two steaming mugs—tea for Mr. Buttons and coffee for me—and placed them on the coffee table next to the cucumber sandwiches and pastries.

  Mr. Buttons abandoned his dusting to take a seat opposite me. “Let’s investigate Dorothy’s connection with the vic.”

  I was momentarily puzzled. “Who’s Vic?”

  Mr. Buttons sighed deeply. “Not Vic, the vic. The victim, Roland. They must be connected in some way.”

  I never was a morning person, and this wasn’t making much sense to me. I took a large gulp of coffee in an attempt to get the caffeine into me as quickly as possible. “Why would Dorothy be connected with the vic?”

  Mr. Buttons sighed again. “Quite obviously, Sibyl,” he said in a patronizing tone, “there must be a connection between them, or why would she murder him?”

  “She didn’t murder him,” I said, exasperated. “We’re wasting time. We should be focusing on the real killer, or better still, leaving that to the detectives.”

  Mr. Buttons pointed to his mouth to indicate that he was still eating. When he had finished, he said, “I insist upon investigating Dorothy for a connection with the vic.”

  I shrugged. I knew when I was beaten. After all, he had brought food. “Okay then, you win,” I said over my shoulder as I went to fetch my laptop.

  “I think the saying, my screen is frozen, has taken on a whole new meaning,” I said as I brought out my laptop. I was glad I was wearing fingerless gloves because the metal was almost too cold to touch.