by Emily Selby
Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe she hadn't made her bed as neatly as she'd thought.
Maybe the drawer had been slightly open and stuck after all. As for the book, she could easily have nudged it out of place when making the bed this morning.
She was probably making more of it than was actually the case.
But she had to call James anyway.
Heather fished the cell phone from her handbag and found James' number in the recent calls folder. He answered her call immediately.
"You've arrested the wrong person," she said.
"How do you know? And by the way, hello Heather," James replied. A note of irritation colored his voice.
"I don't," she said, softly. "And I don't want to attack you. I just feel guilty. Are you sure you have checked for all the evidence?"
"Are you questioning my work ethic?" The irritation in his voice increased.
Heather didn't like conflict, and she could sense it crawling towards her through the cell network.
"I'm not. As I said, I feel guilty about sending Gordon to jail."
"Heather, listen, I know it might feel wrong, but you've done the right thing telling me about the conversation you overheard. And it's not up to you to send anyone to jail. That is the job of a judge and jury." His tone sounded reassuring and a little softer.
"I'm still not convinced."
"Why not? Have you heard anything to make you doubt the evidence?"
No, still haven't. Flickering jetlag!
"Let me think," she said and looked through the window towards the bay. She ran through the events of the past forty-eight hours, trying to think which comment or action might make her doubt the evidence. Because, she did indeed doubt the evidence.
But the more she stared at the landscape ahead of her, the more she felt something wasn't right.
"Are you there, Heather?"
"Yes, why?" she asked automatically. She drew closer to the window and, following an impulse, she grabbed the binoculars.
"Because you've been quiet," he said.
"Sorry, I've been thinking," she said, scanning the horizon through the binoculars. Unless she was imagining it again, something was missing.
"That's strange," she said quietly.
"What’s strange?" A note of urgency crept into James' voice.
"Nothing, I've probably just imagined it."
"Heather," he barked. His voice was tense and sharp, but it did its of job cutting through the mud in her head. "Tell me what's strange?"
"A pile of rubble disappeared from the beach."
"How do you know?"
"Because I looked at the very same spot the other night," she explained. "In fact, it was shortly after midnight."
"Can you tell me exactly where the spot is?" He asked still very serious.
She described the position of the missing pile of rocks as much as she could.
"That's not far from where I take Axel for his walks. I'll have a look at it today. By the way, will you be home tonight?"
She hesitated long enough to mentally check her plans. "I'm not intending to go out, if that’s what you're asking about. I was hoping for some shuteye, but I'm too awake to have a nap now. I think I'll deal with the paperwork for the alcohol license."
"Good idea," he said. "But going back to the original goal of your phone call, have you come up with anything to support your hypothesis that we've arrested the wrong man?"
"Have you checked her?"
"I've checked Helen Archer, if that's who you mean. Her alibi is as flimsy as his, but her fingerprints weren't on Josephine's glass."
"She might have been smart enough to wipe them."
"If she'd done that, she'd have wiped away yours, too. Unless you touched the glass afterwards.”
“Yes, I carried the glasses into the kitchen before going to bed.”
“Of course, you did. Good point. But the positioning of your prints in relation to the others, especially Josephine’s, suggests no one other than you, Josephine and Gordon handled the glass. At least according to our fingerprint technician, and she's a real expert. Been in post for over eight years. And anyway, why would Helen want to set up her husband?"
Heather told James about the affair.
"Uhm," he said. "That does rather change things a little."
"You didn't know about the affair?"
"No," he said slowly.
"Maybe you've been interviewing the wrong people?"
"I see you're back to questioning my work," he said, his voice chilling to just above freezing point.
"I see you’re very sensitive around your professionalism. No, I’m not criticizing you. I am just suggesting that –"
"That I should do my job differently?"
Heather let out a sigh. He was being a little oversensitive, wasn't he?
"Let me put it this way," she said calmly. "This is only a suggestion and you can take it or leave it. You're the policeman here, I'm just a foreigner but I've been interviewing people for a living for a long time. And that included interviewing people who didn't want to talk to me about things that they didn't want to tell me. So maybe I know a thing or two about interviewing techniques."
"I'm sorry, if I came across as a bit arrogant, Heather," he said after a pause. "I havn’t been particularly successful at interviewing the locals."
"Why so? I thought you're a local and they would open up and talk to you."
"Apparently, I need to earn my local badge back." He gave a short laugh. "But since we're making suggestions to each other, do you have any tips on whom I should interview next?"
Heather opened her mouth and froze. Chrissy had told her about the affair in confidence, but this was another enquiry. Did the change in circumstance justify the means?
"I do have someone in mind. I'll ask ... the individual concerned to call you," she said.
Her stomach clenched. How on earth was she going do that? Poor Chrissy had been uncomfortable talking to her about it, Lord above knew how she’d react to talking to the cops.
"You must have been pretty good at your old job, since you've managed to get so much information in such a short time," he said lightly.
"Thank you. That's the way I'd like to think of myself. My boss, however, might have had a different opinion."
"I thought you resigned."
Was there a hint of reproach in his voice?
"I did. But, in a way, I didn't have a choice. I'd been sidelined for a while. I overheard a conversation he had with another journalist, suggesting I was too old and too unfashionable for the job."
"Too old to do your job? I can relate to that. It seems like we have a few things in common despite coming from different countries with different back stories."
"Being connected by a murder mystery," she said. "By the way, have you heard from the hospital?"
"No news yet," he replied. "I said I’d keep you informed. Maybe I'll have some news tonight."
"I'm looking forward to it," she said.
After convincing Chrissy to call James and tell him about Helen's affair, Heather set up a couple of little traps around her flat to see if the person who might have searched her place would do it again. A scrap of paper place on top of the inside corner of a drawer, a piece of thread placed across the two-wing wardrobe door. She took photos of each, so she didn't have to rely on her memory. Because, if all the mystery and thriller books she had read were correct, if someone came looking for something secretly, but nothing went missing, it meant they didn't find what they'd been looking for. As a result, the person might return. Maybe to search another room.
But which room would they search?
There were no valuables in the café. Any equipment of value had been locked away or was too large to simply carry it out of the building without making too much noise.
Her potential night visitor must have been searching for something else. Something small enough to fit into a drawer.
And if her, or rather Maree's bedroom had
been searched, maybe Josephine's apartment was a target too? Assuming it hadn't yet been rifled.
Heather descended the stairs and peeked into Josephine's sleep-out. It looked exactly the same as it had on the morning when Heather discovered Josephine’s comatose form on the bed.
The place was small and basic, but functional: a little hallway opened into a living room to her left and a bedroom to her right.
A quick look around the living area left her with the sense the place had been abandoned. It was cold and smelled of damp. Nothing seemed particularly out of place. Definitely not the hundreds of doilies draped over most of the surfaces. Heather lifted a couple to check whether the patterns in the dust were untouched.
They were.
Josephine's bedroom wasn't much different. Same love of doilies and high-gloss, dark wood furniture serving as palaces for the dust-gathering fairies.
But the air in the bedroom didn't smell as musty.
Maybe it was the result of the window being open that night.
Heather crossed the room to the window. It looked closed, but when she grabbed the handle and pulled it slightly, the wing slid out of the lock and opened.
There was a window stopper at the side of the frame, but it was loose.
"Josephine was right," Heather mumbled. The windows needed urgent attention.
Heather closed the window and searched the bedroom for something to secure it with. She could put something heavy against the pane, but would that put off potential burglars?
Or, could the window be opened from outside?
She went out, found the bedroom window and pushed on the middle of the frame.
Nothing happened. No movement.
She lifted the casement and pushed again.
The casement opened, quietly.
Okay, so Josephine's window was not secure, and it had been open on the night she was poisoned.
But was this of any relevance, given that she was very sleepy that evening and that the poison was delivered in her drink?
No, unless, there was something of value in her bedroom the attacker needed to find after he or she got rid of Josephine.
Heather shivered. What an awful thing to think, "get rid of someone." But that's exactly what it was - an attempt to murder Josephine Barry.
But why?
Because she'd had a longstanding strained relationship with the couple next door?
Because she had something valuable?
Because she sold the café to a stranger?
Well, the last question didn't make sense. Maree's son, Ricky, sold the café to a stranger, not Josephine. The only thing Josephine had done was sell her shares to Ricky.
An idea struck.
If Josephine sold her share of the café, she should have some money, shouldn't she? What had she done with it? Was it enough to kill for? And who inherited from Josephine?
Heather chewed on her cheek. In all the mystery books she'd read—and she'd read loads—the person inheriting money or other valuables from the victim tended to be one of the prime suspects, if not the perpetrator themselves.
Had James checked the heirs? Josephine's will? Her estate?
She could ask him, but he would probably just get in another argument with her.
Heather heaved a sigh. She might need to use her journalistic skills to obtain this information.
In the meantime, she needed to do some grocery shopping to replenish the pantry and ensure she had enough supplies for the coming weekend. And if she was lucky, she could also do some information gathering while in town.
Weren't small towns famous for their gossip since people lived in each other's pockets?
If that cliché held true, Dolphin Cove wouldn't be that different.
Heather buttoned her cardigan and climbed the steps to the café to grab her handbag and a shopping basket. She was crossing the doorway when a heavy sigh reached her from across the fence.
She turned to find Helen Archer standing on the porch of her house, holding a cup. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain, grey pullover. Her face was red and puffy. Her hair hadn't been washed for a couple of days
"Hi, Helen, are you all right?"
"Good day, Heather. Didn't see you. Yes, no problem, thank you," Helen replied and arched her lips into a smile.
Heather's heart clenched.
Poor Helen. She should have checked in on her at least. After all, it was the neighborly thing to do.
"I'm about to go to town for some groceries. Do you need anything?"
"No, I'm fine, thanks. I've got everything I need," Helen replied quickly.
"I'm sorry if this appears a little intrusive, but I can see you're not fine. And I know you have a lot on your plate. I may be a stranger, a foreigner, but I'm your neighbor. Whatever wars have been fought over that fence may or may not be over, but I certainly don't want to get dragged into them. I'm here to help," Heather said firmly. "I want to help. If there is anything, no matter how small and insignificant I can do for you, please let me know. I'll be happy to do it for you."
Helen's lips trembled. She covered her face with her hands for a few seconds and then looked at Heather.
"Thank you, Heather. I don't think you can help. This is something that's been years in the making. I should have sorted it ages ago, but I've never had the courage. I'm facing the consequences of my actions. It's scary, but I need to go through it."
"Is it to do with Gordon?"
"Yes and no. I've got my own stuff I need to sort out in my head. There is a conversation Gordon and I should have had years ago, but he has been refusing to accept the only possible solution. Now, he's been accused of attempting to murder Josephine, it's all even worse," She looked away and stood in silence, the corners of her mouth trembling.
"I don't know what this is all about, but I sense a long-term tension and hostility between the café owners and you guys," Heather said slowly. "Does this have anything to do with that?"
"It’s really silly. I've been telling Gordon it's so silly, it's embarrassing, but he's stubborn. The business has not been doing well for years. He tried buying the café and expanding the business. Been obsessed with it actually. He believes he can breathe new life into both businesses. A few years ago, he was accused of sending threatening letters to Maree and Josephine. And yes, he did it. He wanted to scare them away, force them to sell the café, so he could buy them out." Helen turned away. Her shoulders shook.
"I'm so sorry about that," Heather said quietly. If she could have reached over the fence, she would have rested her hand on Helen's arm.
"That was a silly behavior, but it doesn't sound like he truly wished them harm," Heather said.
"No, he's not a bad person," Helen replied and blew her nose with a tissue pulled from the pocket of her dark slacks. "He gets angry and can be caustic in his comments, but so am I. We've been arguing a lot recently. Far too much. Life hasn't been easy with him lately, but I don't think he tried to poison Josephine."
Yet, you told the police you'd seen him at the table, holding Josephine's glass...
Heather opened her mouth and quickly closed it again. She wasn't going to make such an inflammatory comment.
"I know there is plenty of evidence against him, but I don’t think he poisoned Josephine's drink."
Helen's swiveled to face Heather.
"How come? What do you know?" she asked sharply.
"Sadly, I've got nothing to prove it, just my gut instinct."
"That doesn't help much," Helen replied, hunching.
"I know. But maybe together we can come up with something solid?" she said, looking at Helen.
Was she able to trust this woman enough to share her suspicions with her?
What was there to lose if she misjudged Helen?
Heather bit her lip. There was less to lose proceeding with further sharing, than not.
"I've been wondering about Josephine's will. Do you know if she's made one and who will inherit from her?"
&
nbsp; Helen's pale face furrowed.
"Actually, I do. Josephine talked about it during one of the unpleasant exchanges with Gordon. It was one of those stupid arguments," she paused and sighed.
"Who's the beneficiary?" Heather urged.
"Josephine never married and has no children of her own. She has one brother, who has two kids. You met Liam, the local police officer? The other one is Anna - and as far as I understand, Josephine wanted to leave the café to Anna. I'm not sure if she's made a will though. But that would be easy enough to check."
Internally, Heather smiled. She’d just received valuable information.
"But she's sold the café." Heather was confused.
"Yes. I think this might have been because Anna finally managed to get the message across. She had no intention of moving up here to run an unprofitable business with three little kids in tow."
That made sense.
"So, who inherits the money from the café?"
Helen raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows.
"No idea. I've heard Josephine talk about travelling after the one-year grace period was over."
"Why did she insist on doing a one-year contract?"
"No idea, I’m afraid. You need to ask her or the person who sold you the café."
Yeah, she should have asked Ricky. And she still could, if that would help anything.
And she was adding Anna to Heather's list of people to-be-checked-and-discussed with James.
"I'm sorry, I'm all over the place," Helen said. "So embarrassing. Can you please, keep this information to yourself?"
"That's okay, Helen. As for keeping it to myself..." Heather twisted her mouth. That wasn't going to work. "What about the police? This information may be relevant to the case. It might help prove your husband's innocence."
"I don't think it'll help him. But if you think it will, go ahead, tell the police. Just don't walk around the town with a loudspeaker... I mean, just don't tell anyone in town. Most of them probably know about it anyway, but..." Helen's voice trailed off.
"Let sleeping dogs lie?" Heather offered.
Helen nodded.
"I wish I could do something to help you. Are you sure you don't need anything from town? Maybe your favorite drink? Chocolate?"