Cautiously she crept to the door and pulled it open. Andrew was nowhere in sight and his car was gone. She blew out another long breath, pushing the door shut as she did. She took a step backwards and screamed as she bumped into someone.
“Bessie?” Inspector Rockwell was clearly trying not to laugh. “Did you forget I was here?”
Bessie spun around and glared at him. “No, I didn’t forget you were here,” she said angrily. “I thought you said you were going to stay hidden until I told you the coast was clear.”
“I was watching the road out of the sitting room window,” the inspector explained. “I saw your friend drive away.”
“He’s not my friend,” Bessie replied tersely.
“I thought you two were getting along rather well,” Rockwell told her.
“Then I’m a better actress than I realised,” Bessie replied. “There’s something I don’t trust about him. I can’t quite figure out what it is, though.”
“I thought it was interesting that he told you all about Australia but said nothing about his time in the United States,” the inspector said.
“Why is that interesting?”
“I’m sure Doona has told him that you grew up in the US. Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t there, but maybe he didn’t want to talk about a subject that you actually know something about.”
“America is such a big place, and I left so long ago, he could tell me just about anything about his time there and I’d believe it.”
“The key there is ‘just about.’ Maybe he did live in the US for years, but maybe he didn’t.”
While they were speaking the inspector had slipped on a pair of surgical gloves. Now he opened a large bag and removed several smaller bags. He carefully emptied the two lemonade glasses, dumping their contents down the sink. Each glass went into its own evidence bag that the inspector carefully labelled.
The glasses were carefully packed into a large box that Rockwell had brought with him that afternoon. When he arrived it had contained of the bottle of lemonade, the two glasses and the pitcher. Once emptied of those items, Rockwell had taken the empty box into the sitting room with him. Now he emptied the lemonade bottle and the pitcher down the sink as well. After bagging and labelling each one, he added them to the box.
“Do you want the brownie plates and the teacups as well?” Bessie asked.
Rockwell frowned. “I hate to take away your plates and cups,” he told her. “The way the lab works, it could be years before you see them again.”
“But what if you need them?” Bessie asked. “What if you can’t get any good prints off the things you already have?”
“Do you have a cardboard box?” the inspector asked her.
“Sure,” Bessie grinned. “What sort of size?”
“About the same as this one,” he told her, gesturing to the box he had filled with the glassware.
Bessie popped up to her spare room and dug out an appropriate-sized box from a small selection she kept for no clear reason.
Back downstairs she watched as Inspector Rockwell carefully bagged and boxed the teacup and plate that Andrew Teare had used.
“I’ll take these, but I’ll keep them in my car. If we can’t get useable prints from the lemonade glasses and the like then we can try these, but hopefully, we won’t need them and I can return them to you soon,” the inspector told Bessie.
She held the door open for him as he loaded the boxes into his boot. “I’m going to try to get these rushed through,” he told Bessie. “I’ll call you when I hear anything.”
Bessie felt at loose ends once the inspector left. She wasn’t ready for dinner yet, and she didn’t really feel like cooking, anyway. Instead, she paced around her cottage, wondering exactly what she should do with herself. Usually a walk on the beach settled her brain, but tonight it didn’t appeal.
Finally, she decided to make herself a light dinner and then dig out something different to read. There was too much murder and mayhem in her life right now for a mystery to sound enjoyable. The courtly intrigues of a long-dead king and his succession of consorts didn’t tempt her either.
She was still trying to figure out what she wanted for dinner when a knock on the door startled her. She headed for the door, telling herself not to be silly as she felt a sudden flash of nerves. She snapped on the outdoor light and pulled the door open.
“Hugh? What brings you here?” she asked in surprise.
“I just wanted to check in with you,” Hugh said, flushing under Bessie’s scrutiny. “I brought pizza,” he added.
Bessie smiled. “Pizza sounds great,” she told him.
Hugh grabbed the pizza from his car and followed Bessie into the house.
“I hope this doesn’t mean that you and your new girlfriend are having problems?” Bessie asked, knowing it was nosy, but asking out of genuine concern for the young man.
“No,” Hugh answered slowly. “Not really, I mean, I guess not.” He sighed deeply. “She’s okay, but maybe I don’t like her as much as I thought. I mean, we have fun together, but I’m not sure it’s going anywhere. I figured we’ve been spending a lot of time together lately, so maybe we needed a break from each other.”
“Well, you’re always welcome to take a break here,” Bessie smiled at him as she passed him a plate. She handed him a fizzy drink and then sat down at the table with him. The pizza disappeared in short order.
“I have brownies for pudding,” Bessie offered. Hugh’s face lit up.
“That sounds wonderful,” he told her.
Bessie cut a huge piece of brownie from the last tray. They were certainly disappearing quickly.
“Aren’t you having any?” Hugh asked, his fork poised over his plate.
“I had a couple earlier,” Bessie explained. “I’ve sort of overdosed on them.”
Hugh nodded and then dug in, offering little more than a “yum” as conversation until the chocolatey square was gone.
“That was delicious,” he told Bessie as he carried his plate to the sink. He quickly washed it in the water that Bessie had left after washing the pizza plates. Leaving it dripping in the dish drainer, he returned to the table.
“So, what’s your theory on our latest murder?” he asked Bessie as he sank into his chair.
“I wish I had a theory,” Bessie sighed. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Means, motive, and opportunity,” Hugh told her. “Those are always the keys.”
“It seems like there were an awful lot of people with the means and the opportunity for Moirrey’s murder,” Bessie sighed. “Apparently the tablets that were substituted for her tablets were fairly common, at least a few years ago. And Moirrey was careless with her bag. Just about everyone had access to it.”
“Inspector Rockwell is convinced that the missing boyfriend is the key to solving the murder,” Hugh told her.
“I don’t know about that,” Bessie replied. “But I sure would love to meet the guy.”
Hugh laughed. “I would too,” he agreed. “I can’t imagine anyone being interested in Moirrey, only Moirrey’s money.”
“Sadly, I’m inclined to agree with you,” Bessie sighed.
“Inspector Rockwell is also pretty hung up on Andrew Teare,” Hugh told her. “The inspector doesn’t like him for some reason.”
“I don’t like him, either,” Bessie admitted. “But he didn’t kill Moirrey. He wasn’t even on the island until after she died.”
“So let’s focus on who might have killed her. If means and opportunity are fairly open, what about motive?” Hugh asked.
Bessie shrugged. “No one liked the woman, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting her dead.”
“She was fighting with several people just before her death,” Hugh suggested.
“She was fighting with Anne Caine, Janet Munroe and Matthew Barnes. Of the three, Mr. Barnes is the only one I can see as a murderer.”
“Anne Caine probably had the best motive,” Hugh argued.
“But she’s not a killer,” Bessie replied. “Besides, someone tried to kill her, remember?”
“Unless she cut her own brake lines to divert suspicion towards someone else,” Hugh suggested.
“And now she’s hiding out under police guard so that no one thinks she did it?” Bessie shook her head. “I’ve known the woman for too long to believe all of that.”
“What about her son?” Hugh asked.
“I can’t see him having anything to do with Moirrey’s death, and he certainly wouldn’t do anything to hurt his mother,” Bessie answered.
“So if you had to pick out the murderer tonight, who would you choose?” Hugh asked.
Bessie frowned. “I guess I’d pick Matthew Barnes, but I dislike him so much that I know I’m not being objective.”
“Somehow this isn’t the same without the inspector and Doona,” Hugh complained. “I miss our conversations about murder.”
Bessie shook her head. “I miss the little gatherings,” she told Hugh. “But I’d be perfectly happy if the four of us just got together and discussed the weather and the football results.”
Hugh laughed. “You don’t follow the football,” he said.
“I know,” Bessie grinned. “But I’d much rather talk about that than murder.”
Hugh nodded. “But since we’re stuck in the middle of another murder investigation. I wish we were all together to discuss it.”
“With Doona suspended, I can’t see that happening,” Bessie sighed.
“No, I guess not,” Hugh shrugged. “I suppose I should be going. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“Now you know there’s no chance of that,” Bessie told him, lying only a little bit. “But it is getting late and you do need your rest.”
Hugh helped Bessie clear up the last of the cups and plates and tidy the kitchen. He gave her an affectionate hug before he headed out into the night.
Bessie locked the cottage door behind him and took herself up to bed. She still wasn’t in the mood to read, so she decided to just go to sleep, hoping she’d feel less out of sorts in the morning.
Chapter Fourteen
Bessie wasn’t sure she was in a better mood the next morning, but she got up at six anyway. Toast and an apple made for a quick breakfast and she followed that up with a longer than normal walk along the beach.
Back at home, she checked her answering machine as she turned the phone’s ringer back on. A single message was waiting for her.
“Bessie, it’s John Rockwell. I’ve had the fingerprint results and they’re, um, interesting. I’ll tell you more when I see you. I’ll drop by tonight around six. In the meantime, if you bump into our mutual friend, just act natural.”
Bessie stared at her answering machine, wondering exactly what the message meant. What was so interesting about the fingerprints? She replayed the message, but it didn’t give her any more information the second time around. She sighed deeply. The message had done nothing to improve her mood.
When in doubt, shop, a little voice in her head suggested. Bessie decided it was as good advice as she was likely to get. Normally when she was in a foul mood she would call Doona and her friend would find a way to cheer her up. That clearly wasn’t an option at the moment.
Bessie called her usual car service and ordered a taxi. She was frustrated but unsurprised to be told that none were immediately available. She agreed that she could wait an hour, since she had little choice.
She spent the hour she was forced to wait seriously considering learning how to drive. Many years earlier she had purchased a copy of the Highway Code and now she flipped through the pages, learning about road signs and stopping distances. If she’d had to wait even a few minutes longer she might just have signed herself up for some lessons.
Instead, she discovered that the taxi was at her door when she heard the loud blast of a horn. She hurried to the door and looked out at Mark, her least favourite taxi driver.
“Come on, Bessie,” he shouted. “The metre’s running.”
Bessie frowned as she gathered up her handbag and rushed out the door. She locked up behind herself, feeling flustered. In the taxi she checked her handbag. At least she had her wallet.
Finally dropped off in Ramsey around half-ten, Bessie was so annoyed with Mark that she didn’t make arrangements with him to be picked back up. She’d grab a taxi at one of the taxi ranks instead, she decided.
Bessie spent a fruitless hour in her favourite bookstore. She failed to find a single book that captured her interest, which was hardly surprising as she had just shopped there a few days earlier. It was Sunday and the charity shops weren’t open, which meant she could do no more than press her nose to their windows, convinced that they had undiscovered treasure inside. Turning away from the large window that showcased the biggest charity shop in town, Bessie frowned as it suddenly began to rain heavily.
Bessie dug into her bag. She’d forgotten to grab an umbrella. Cursing Mark Stone, she headed towards the taxi rank. She’d be better off being grumpy and miserable at home than out in public. As she stepped off the curb, a car horn startled her.
“Aunt Bessie,” a voice called. “Let me give you a ride.”
Bessie forced herself to smile as she met Andrew Teare’s friendly grin. Inspector Rockwell’s words rang in her ears and she struggled to “act natural” as she replied.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she lied anxiously. “I need to hit a few more shops before I head home.”
“At least let me give you a ride to your next stop then,” Andrew insisted. “I wanted a word anyway, about Doona.”
Those last two words were enough to overcome Bessie’s reluctance to get into the car with the man. Act natural, she told herself as she buckled herself in.
“All set?” Andrew asked. When she nodded, he put the car into gear and pulled back into traffic.
“I was just heading to ShopFast,” Bessie said, making things up as she went along. “You can drop me off there.”
“Sorry, Bessie,” Andrew gave her an apologetic grin as he tripped the automatic locks. “We need to talk and I have somewhere to get to as well. I’m afraid you’ll just have to come along for the ride.”
For a brief moment Bessie felt complete panic, then she inhaled deeply. She forced herself to calm down and focus. Inspector Rockwell hadn’t suggested that the man was dangerous, after all.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked in a voice that quavered only slightly.
“I need to go,” Andrew told her. “I’m leaving the island, I mean. My ferry leaves in less than an hour.”
“Doona must have been sad when you told her you were going,” Bessie suggested.
“That’s just it, I didn’t tell her. I couldn’t tell her. It’s all too complicated to try to explain it to her.”
“I see,” Bessie said, even though she didn’t.
Andrew laughed. “I’m sure you don’t,” he said. “But that’s okay. I just want you to try to explain to Doona how sorry I am. I didn’t plan on falling for her, you know? But she’s a really amazing person and I’d like to think we might have had a future together if things had gone differently.”
“Does that mean you’re not planning on coming back?” Bessie asked.
“I can’t,” Andrew shrugged. “Things have just gone all wrong. I need to disappear.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bessie said, immediately feeling stupid. She simply couldn’t think what to say.
“Thanks,” Andrew grinned at her. “I was going to try to tough it out, but every day feels more dangerous. I kept hoping, after all of my time and effort that I could make it work, but I know it’s just a matter of time. I’m getting out before it’s too late.”
“You know I have no idea what you’re talking about, don’t you?” Bessie asked him.
“I figured Anne Caine must have told you something,” Andrew replied. “I thought that was why you had me over to talk. I thought you were trying to war
n me or something.”
Bessie shook her head. “What would Anne Caine have told me?”
Andrew sighed. “So many years of hard work,” he said. “Ruined by a woman I never even knew existed.”
“That’s too bad,” Bessie murmured, wondering what he was talking about. They were heading up the mountain road, on their way out of Ramsey, and Bessie shut her eyes tightly every time the man sped up and raced to overtake a slower vehicle in front of them. She shuddered; maybe she didn’t want to learn to drive.
“Aunt Bessie, I’m going to tell you a story,” Andrew told her after speeding past a white van and narrowly missing an oncoming car. “Hopefully, you can help Doona understand if you know everything.”
Bessie nodded uncertainly. “Go ahead,” she muttered, hoping he was focussed on the road and had missed the nod.
“My story starts, oh, nearly twenty-five years ago. I was only twenty-one or twenty-two years old and I was making my way around England trying to figure out my place in the world. Me dad took off when I were six or seven and mum didn’t have much time for us kids. I’ve two brothers and three sisters and none of us stayed in school long enough to get any qualifications. Me mum didn’t care as long as we moved out.” He sighed deeply and paused.
Bessie was surprised at the changes in his accent and speech patterns as he talked about his childhood. Andrew Teare’s apparently artificial sophistication had vanished.
The man shook his head. “Anyway,” he grinned at Bessie, “that’s enough sob story. I was in London, hanging out in this pub by the docks, when I made meself a new best friend.”
“Oh?” Bessie said, suspicious of where things were heading.
“I’m sure you’ve guessed,” Andrew laughed. “I met a lad called Andrew Teare, born and raised on the Isle of Man, he’d been. He was a great kid. He was meant to be on his gap year, like, but he’d had a huge falling-out with his dad and he’d been thrown out of the family. His dad gave him a small amount of cash and kicked him across the water, like.”
“What did they fight about?” Bessie asked.
“You know, that was the one thing the kid never told me,” the man driving told her. “When we first met, I was trying to find a way to get my hands on his money and I wasn’t that interested in his background. Later, when I found out that he’d pretty much spent it all and we became friends anyway, it was too late to go back over ancient history.”
Aunt Bessie Believes Page 20