by Gwen Gardner
Everyone else snickered, but I failed to find the humor.
Chapter Eighteen
Rematch Demand
Deliveries were slow on Sunday morning, so Cappy was able to cover them alone. I had gone online and enrolled Simon and me as members of the Shakespeare Running Club. Eight o’clock Sunday morning found us at Sabrina Park among one hundred other runners belonging to the Shakespeare Running Club. We signed in, received our bibs and pinned them to our shirts, before searching for Felicia and warming up for the run.
Two weeks before Christmas, this run was a fundraiser to provide food for the needy and presents for the children. The gray morning, thankfully, didn’t hold any rain. The grass was damp and fog rolled off the River Sabrina. It invaded the park and enshrouded the trees and bushes.
Runners were bundled up in sweat suits against the cold. They jogged back and forth, knees high, to warm up, and then stretched out. The smart ones, like me, had on ear muffs, scarves and gloves.
The plan was to chat up Felicia and find out any information we could about Bart. We jogged slowly next to her during warm up.
Simon kept up a constant stream of complaint. “Bloody ungodly hour to be up and about on a Sunday morning. Seriously, why couldn’t they have made it at ten o’clock or noon? It would have warmed up by then.” His uncombed blond hair peeked out from his black beanie, and with his black sweat suit and black scarf and gloves, he looked like a grumpy burglar.
“Your boyfriend doesn’t appear to be an early riser,” Felicia commented.
“My cousin.” I smiled. “And no, he’s not. But we have a bet on,” I added. “Whoever loses has to cook dinner for two weeks. Isn’t that right, Simon?”
Simon grinned and rose to the challenge. I didn’t want his grumbling to scare off Felicia before we had a chance to talk to her. “That’s right. And for my first meal, I want a nice roast beef, with potatoes and veg. I’ll decide on pudding later.”
“We shall see.” I grinned evilly at him. Simon rarely ever exercised and he believed he could beat me? After last night I was ready to burn off stress. And I would do it without knocking anyone over or dumping coffee on them.
Felicia laughed. “That’s what I like, friendly competition.”
We stopped jogging and began stretching out.
“I don’t recall seeing you two here before. Are you new members?” asked Felicia, bending sideways with her hand over her head. She wore a pink track suit with white scarf, earmuffs and gloves. It looked designer-made. It put my gray sweat-suit to shame.
“This is our first time,” I answered. I stretched my thigh by bringing my foot back and up to touch my rear end.
Simon tried to copy me, and not very successfully, I might add. He fell over and jumped back up like an inflatable punching bag, the rain-soaked grass having already soaked his pants. “Bloody hell!”
Felicia and I laughed and earned a disgruntled look from Simon.
Felicia continued our conversation. “I did detect an American accent, then. How long are you here for?”
“Oh, I live here now. My father died and I came to live with my uncle and Simon.”
“I’m sorry,” said Felicia, a bit awkwardly. “Are you going to attend the local college then?”
I had already begun classes, but didn’t know yet what field I wanted to focus on. In the States, I didn’t have to decide until I was eighteen, but here, they started early. At least I could answer that part truthfully. “Yes, but I haven’t quite decided what I want to do.” But here comes the lie. I am so going to hell. “I’m thinking about architecture, perhaps something in the planning department or market research, that sort of thing.”
“I’m an architect!” exclaimed Felicia, unwittingly falling right into our trap.
Simon joined in. “Oh, did you know Bart Bagley, then? He was a friend of the family.”
“Yes. It’s a shame what happened to him,” replied Felicia. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to do him any harm. He was such a nice man.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Yet someone did. He had at least one enemy.”
Felicia stiffened. “You should know,” she said to me, “that this can be a pretty cut-throat business we’re in. The competition is fierce.” She walked toward the start line, Simon and me quick to follow. “I know Bart made a few people mad, especially if the project was going to impact the environment negatively and he wouldn’t sign off on project approval. Builders don’t like their project messed with. Not his fault, obviously. But people think they can wine and dine you to get what they want.” She shook her head. “Bart didn’t fall for that kind of thing. He went strictly by the book.”
Felicia bent to tighten her shoelaces. “Still, he could be...” she searched for the word, “unbendable. Do you know Stephen Clarke?” she asked Simon. At his nod, she continued. “He ranted to anyone who would listen about Bart getting that Environmental Hero Award last year. It started with the rejection of his tire factory project. Bart reported that the negative effect on the environment was too high. Stephen was sure Bart targeted him in particular.”
Simon and I looked at each other. Badger and I already made a plan to hunt Stephen down to ask a few questions.
Felicia urged us toward the front of the line – this was a race after all. The fake gun went off and Simon sprinted over the start line, hell-bent on being the first to cross the finish line. He had bragged that 10K was no problem. We’ll see about that!
I began at a medium pace, biding my time and conserving energy before I stepped up the speed. Around mile three I picked up speed, and caught Simon around mile four, Felicia not far behind me. He was walking and breathing pretty heavily.
I slowed slightly to speak to him. “Everything all right, Simon?” I tried not to smirk. Really I did.
“Just taking a breather.” He puffed rather hard and loud.
I sped off, Simon behind me. But he couldn’t catch me and he couldn’t keep up. This was where I typically excelled. Tiredness was no longer a factor because I was in the zone, numb to the pain. A running-induced high.
I was the first woman to cross the finish line, third overall. I set an unofficial course record. But best of all? Two weeks of dinner, cooked by Simon! My stomach rumbled in hunger already.
Simon finished a good fifteen minutes later, collapsing on the wet grass, his chest heaving. “I demand a rematch,” he gasped, before closing his eyes.
Chapter Nineteen
Sloshed Again
I finished my deliveries for Butch early and met Badger on High Street.
We walked up and down the street, peering in shop windows and glancing up and down looking out for Dexter Najeem. I sincerely hoped the shopkeepers weren’t getting suspicious, as we had been at it for over an hour.
Thirteen days until Christmas and the street teemed with shoppers and tourists, including the spirit kind, all jolly and laughing, wrapped up in coats, hats and scarves, their cheeks rosy. I wished we could be like them, normal teenagers, doing normal things. Like kissing and holding hands.
The gray midday Monday made the Christmas lights shine brightly against the wattle and daub striped buildings. Merchants piped Christmas music out onto the street in front of their shops, adding to the gaiety of the season. It only made me wretched, and Badger looked more miserable than me. Most people enjoyed the season, shopping for presents, planning trips to see family, attending parties. But not us. No, we were investigating murder. And grieving for our fathers.
We stopped at the Charlie’s Sporting Goods window to look at the display. A five foot reindeer with a shiny red nose, wearing a red life vest and water shoes on all four hooves had the place of honor.
“It’s here every year.” Badger managed to bring a weak grin to his face. I grinned feebly back.
We were about to give up when Dexter turned the corner and went into the Curry Castle. We hurried along after him. As soon as the door opened, the warmth and smell of curry assailed me. I scanned the big menu on the
wall behind the counter, praying my grumbling tummy didn’t make a scene. We purposely didn’t look around because we wanted to approach Dexter’s table, hopefully prompting an invitation to sit with him.
Ordering chicken curry, naan and bottles of water, we loaded our items on a tray. Badger spotted Dexter and headed up the aisle, glancing back and forth, as if looking for an open table in the crowded restaurant.
Dexter caught sight of us coming down the aisle. “Hello, Badger! It’s good to see you – please, you and your friend can sit with me.” He indicated the empty seats at his table. He had a bright smile and seemed genuinely happy to see Badger, which made me feel better about the whole “fancy meeting you here” ruse.
“This is my friend Indigo,” Badger said. “Indigo, this is Dexter, a colleague of my dad’s.” We said our hello’s and sat down.
“How are you, Badger?” said Dexter. “I was so sorry to hear about your father. He was a great man.” Dexter Najeem was of Indian descent but had an English accent. He was 40ish, thin and dark, dressed in beige slacks and polo shirt.
“I’m okay.” Badger shrugged. “Hanging in there.” He took a bite of curried chicken followed by naan.
I followed suit and dug in. I could already feel the beads of sweat developing on my forehead, a combination of the spice and heat of the restaurant.
Dexter also had the curried chicken and naan, but he followed it with a Cobra Beer to counter the heat.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but is there a date for the funeral yet?” asked Dexter.
“Not yet. The forensic team still has his body and we have no idea when it will be released. He’s been missing for three months and I guess the body is in pretty bad shape...sorry – I don’t mean to get morbid over lunch.”
“No, don’t worry about it.”
A few minutes of silence passed while we ate our lunches. The restaurant was crowded and noisy, so we could speak without being overheard.
“There’s something on your mind,” said Dexter, glancing up from his meal, sopping up the remaining curry sauce with his naan. He brushed the crumbs from his fingers and sipped his beer, waiting for Badger to say something. He glanced briefly at me. I shrugged.
“Go ahead,” urged Dexter. “I’ll help if I can.”
Badger took a last bite and sat back in his chair, nervously rolling the edge of his napkin between the fingers of one hand. He looked around to make sure we weren’t overheard.
“You knew my father pretty well,” he began.
Dexter nodded.
“I’ll ask it then. Was my father having an affair with Shelly?”
By the look on Dexter’s face, this wasn’t the first time he heard this particular rumor. “I see you’ve been listening to gossip.” He rubbed his brow and shook his head. “I don’t know how it started, but it’s absolute bollocks! Absolutely untrue. I’d swear to it. Who’s spreading this garbage?”
“I don’t know,” whispered Badger, leaning toward Dexter across the table. “So far, nobody can substantiate it. But Nat believes it.”
“Nat – bah!” said Dexter in dismissal. “He’s always too drunk to know which end is up or down. His jealousy precedes him, anyway. His last girlfriend got beat up more than once for even looking at another man.” He looked at Badger uncertainly, then over at me.
“What?” said Badger, sensing something more on the other man’s mind. “You can speak in front of Indigo.”
“With Nat’s past history of violence on a girlfriend, and Shelly’s and Bart’s disappearance, you know.” He shrugged. “He must be a suspect in your father’s death. Jealousy can be a powerful motive for murder. Do the police have any leads yet?”
“Everyone’s a suspect,” answered Badger, “even me and my mum.”
“Even me, I think,” Dexter replied. “I’ve already spoken to them. I didn’t have much to tell, except about Nat’s jealousy. And I only know that because our families are long-time friends. Oh, it’s probably not much, but I also told them Stephen Clarke was obsessively jealous of your dad’s success,” he added as an afterthought. “Your dad always seemed to be in the way of Steve’s projects. He’s a nasty piece of work, Steve is.”
I sighed in relief as we left the Curry Castle. I got through it without knocking anyone over or showering anyone with any kind of liquid beverage. And we had learned a couple of things from Dexter. Nat’s jealousy and the physical abuse, of course. That put Nat higher on the suspect list. But Dexter also said that Stephen Clarke was jealous of Bart. We had already learned that from Felicia Bartlett, so now we had confirmation from a second source. But was professional jealousy a motive for murder?
Our next step was to find Stephen Clarke, who apparently hung out at a pub called Dickey Dan’s. I put on my helmet while Badger kick-started the motorcycle. I was starting to get used to riding on two wheels.
Dickey Dan’s was on the other side of town. As we made our way through the busy streets I wondered about the man we were going to see. A business rivalry didn’t seem like a good motive for murder. But people could become unhinged, lose control. Look what alcohol did to Nat; the man was delusional, like he thought everyone was out to get him.
Badger parked the motorbike in the alley and we went inside. The place was small, dark, and overly warm, making it too claustrophobic for my liking. Not at all cozy like the Blind Badger. At mid-afternoon, few customers were about, but Stephen sat on the end barstool near the television, swaying slightly.
He scowled when he spied Badger, helmet in hand, making his way over. We decided the direct approach was best, so we put our helmets on the floor next to our stools and sat next to Stephen. Nobody said anything while Badger and I ordered soda.
“What do you want?” Stephen’s snarl dripped with belligerence. He turned and glared at Badger from drunk, bloodshot eyes. So the battle lines had already been drawn. Stephen had no intention of being civil even though a man was dead.
Badger didn’t pull any punches either. “I want to know what you had against my dad.” He sipped his soda and glanced over at Stephen.
Stephen swirled to face us on his barstool. His wispy red hair lay flat against his skull, a greasy part down the middle. His casual business attire was wrinkled and stained, and looked as if they had been slept in. “The real question is; what did he have against me?” countered Stephen. “He made it a point to block my new projects at every turn with those damn reports of his. What did I ever do to him, I ask you?”
“I don’t know. What did you do?” Badger countered with a hard stare of his own. The question seemed to have sunk in and the implication was clear. Stephen was a murder suspect in Badger’s book.
“I never did nothing to him. An’ don’t you lot go around spreading rumors that I did.” He included me in his gaze. “I have a hard enough time getting work in this blasted town because of your dad. He got to where he wouldn’t even talk to me. That secretary of his blocked me every time I tried.”
Stephen’s slur indicated he must have been there since lunchtime. “The last time, well, never you mind.” He changed his mind about completing the sentence.
“The last time, what?” Badger refused to let it drop. “What happened the last time?”
“He threatened to call the coppers, that’s what!” Stephen yelled. “Even gave me a shove. And all I wanted to do was talk.” He downed the remainder of his pint glass and slammed it on the bar, then staggered past us and out of the pub.
Badger and I looked at each other. “So,” he said. “Stephen Clarke has a temper.” I nodded. “How are we supposed to sort all this out, when all our suspects have a bloody wicked temper?” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.
I looked down the bar at Stephen’s pint glass still sitting where he left it, calling to me. I would regret it, but I had to see. The bartender slipped away with a pack of cigarettes a few minutes before, so the coast was clear. I left my barstool and walked toward the glass, stopping in front of it. Badger l
ooked at me questioningly and then in concern, when I reached my hand out hesitantly.
“Indigo, I don’t think...” he began.
Too late.
I took a deep breath, ignoring the increased sense of foreboding that crept up my spine. I shot Badger an apologetic look. “This one’s for the team – I’m going in. Cover me.” I grinned fearfully as I wrapped my hand around the glass and instantly the film began to roll. I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe slowly...slowly...
“Shelly, I only want to talk to him.”
“He’s busy, Stephen. If you’ll call and make an appointment...”
Stephen slammed his fist on the desk. Shelly jumped back, eyes wide, visibly scared.
“Get him for me. Now!”
Bart burst from an inner door, immediately taking in the situation. Enraged, he rushed toward Stephen, screaming in his face. “Stephen, if you come here again, I will report you. Now get out!” Bart shoved him roughly, causing Stephen to stumble back, slightly off balance.
Stephen yelled angrily back. “You think you’re so mighty, Bart Bagley. Just you wait. Nobody messes with Stephen Clarke and gets away with it. I’ll kill you first!”
Stephen shook a threatening finger at Bart...
“Indigo!”
I opened my eyes. My head pounded as I lay sprawled amidst broken glass on the sticky floor of Dickey Dan’s. The rank odor of stale beer assaulted my senses and I quickly rolled over and upchucked right there. All over Badger’s boots. All four of them. Looking up, I tried to focus. Badger stood there. Both of him. “Double the pleasure.” I giggled, and lay back. The room spun. “Whoa, someone stop this thing and let me off.”
Arms pulled me up, and a distant voice said, “Here now, we don’t allow public drunkenness in ‘ere. You’ve got to get her out!”
Badger’s voice swam to me through a sea of booze. “Come on, Indigo, you’ve got to stand up. Stand up, okay?” He propped me against the bar as he dug in his pocket, throwing a handful of pound notes on the bar.