by Mona Marple
“There’s been a development.” I say when I open the door for him. He instinctively glances in every room as we walk through the hall way, then relaxes as we reach the kitchen at the back of the house. The holy trinity of investigative spirits, as I’ve come to think of them, stand by the counter, but he can’t see them.
I switch on the kettle and open the cupboard that houses all of my drinks. I’m a specialty drink devotee, and I can right now offer Taylor any one of at least twelve flavored teas or, if he wants coffee, add a splash of almond, cinnamon or hazelnut syrup.
“Drink?” I offer.
To my eternal disappointment, he shakes his head. “I’m trying to quit caffeine.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Why would you want to go and do that?”
He laughs. “I don’t want to, trust me. I’m not getting any younger though… need to start looking after myself.”
“Those twins must be keeping you up all night. Surely now’s the time you need more caffeine.”
“What is this, peer pressure to drink coffee?” He asks with a smile. “Damn it, I’ll have a strong black. Don’t tell my wife.”
“It can be our secret.” I say, grabbing my biggest mug and spooning four teaspoons of instant into it. That should give him a buzz to get through the day. “So… Nettie Frasier. You releasing her yet?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.” Taylor says, accepting the steaming cup of java.
“Well, we have some news for you.” I say.
“We?” He asks.
“Patton’s here, and Sage, and Atticus.”
Taylor looks at me quizzically.
“Oops, you need introducing. Okay, so these are the spirits who started investigating things before you arrived in town. There’s Patton, who you know, I believe?” I say. Taylor nods. “My sister, Sage, and Atticus is the former mayor of Mystic Springs.”
“Is he the dude who invented the mystical healing properties of the springs?” Taylor asks as he takes a hungry sip of the black liquid. “Mm, this stuff’s amazing. Adele will kill me.”
“You sound like a junkie getting a hit.” I tease.
“I feel like one!” He says. “The problem is, she’s got too much space in her head now she’s not working, and she’s turning far too much of it onto how to improve me. No caffeine, daily runs, she’s a demon.”
“Anyway… Nettie?”
“Oh come on, Connie. You’re killing me. Her house is still empty, isn’t it? You can draw whatever you want from that. I can’t discuss it.”
“Okay.” I say, making myself a hazelnut cappuccino. I’m aware the damn drink probably has more calories in than Taylor’s allowed to eat in a day, and I plan on enjoying every single one.
“You said you have news?”
“Well, they do.” I say, gesturing towards Sage and Patton. “Patton?”
Patton clears his throat. “There was a witness to Lola’s murder, I can’t see that he was ever spoken to.”
“Wow. They’re saying that there was a witness to Lola’s murder.”
“Who?” Taylor asks.
Patton tells me and I feel my insides churn.
“It’s Troy. Troy Montag.”
Taylor looks at me blankly.
“He’s just a kid. He’s the principal’s son.” I explain. I don’t understand why but my stomach sinks at the thought of that sweet boy being involved in this horrid business. “Can I… would you let me speak to him first? Please, Sheriff? He’s just a kid.”
Taylor purses his lips. “Connie, I have to take order in this town. That means interviewing my witnesses and running my cases without people interfering.”
I blink at him.
He takes a breath and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like being the bad guy, trust me. I like you, and I think it’s really sweet how you’re making friends with Adele. But when I wear this uniform, I’m in charge. Geeze, that makes me sound like a horse sucking burger camper.”
“Huh?” I ask.
He laughs. “I’ve got to give up cussing too. Makes for some pretty, erm, creative moments. Anyway, I just need you to let me do my job now.”
I nod slowly. “Is the station all set for you, Sheriff?”
The local police station has been on lock down ever since Patton Davey died and left the position vacant. I’ll drive by occasionally and see teenagers sitting in the parking lot eating burgers out of brown paper bags, listening to country music on their phones with the volume as high as it’ll go. That’s about as wild as life in Mystic Springs gets for a teen on a Friday night.
“Should all be sorted in a few days.” He says. “There’s been some issue with the keys.”
“I bet he’s lost them. Moron.” Patton mutters. I glare at him.
“So, maybe I could help in the meantime? I mean, a young kid like Troy, he’ll open up more to someone he knows than a brand new Sheriff he’s never met before.” I say.
Taylor looks at me over his coffee mug as he takes another sip. “You’re good. You should try working on hostage negotiation or something. But the answer’s still no. And, I’ll be honest Connie, I don’t really appreciate being put in this position. I’ll let it slide this time, but don’t ask me again, okay? Thanks for the drink.”
He sets his mug on the granite counter and gives me a nod, then stomps his way back through the house, seeing himself out.
“That man is so arrogant.” Patton seethes.
Sage is predictably quick to agree with him. “He likes throwing his weight around, huh!”
“He’s doing what any new Sheriff would do, guys, come on.” Atticus says, the voice of reason as usual. “I seem to remember you having a similar conversation with Violet when you were new in town, Sheriff Davey.”
“It’s fine.” I say, although my appetite for my cappuccino has gone. “It’s not personal, I know he has to get the town to respect him.”
“Yeah, and having an ego the size of Louisiana won’t help.” Patton mutters.
“Guys, I don’t think making him the enemy is the best way forward.” I say. “We need to work with him. Poor Nettie’s in jail right now, and God knows where if our own station isn’t open. He must have sent her across to Jefferson.”
“So are you suggesting we sit back and wait until the keys to the damn station are found, and then wait for him to get around to speaking to Troy?”
“Of course not.” I say. I might look jolly, in that way that overweight people are required to by society - don’t get me started on that. But I’m a tough old broad, and I don’t go down without a fight. “I said I’d help with this investigation, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Ooh, fighting talk.” Sage squeals. “See, Sheriff, I told you my sister had a bit of fire in her belly.”
“I never doubted it.” Patton says, and it’s right. Despite his belief that I was a charlatan, we actually got on well when he was alive. He even gave me the odd speeding ticket here and there, and it seemed to me like he respected the kind of woman who knew when to keep her foot on the gas.
“So, what are you going to do?” Atticus asks, gazing at me over his glasses.
I glance at the faces watching me expectantly, needing me to move this forward for them. Atticus, still hoping that the trail leads back to Desiree Montag for some reason. Patton, needing to solve the case before Taylor. And Sage, my darling Sage, along for the ride. As she has been all her life.
“I’m going to see Troy.” I say, with a decisive nod.
24
Sage
Desiree opens the door, still dressed in an oversized tee and flannel pyjama bottoms, her feet bare and revealing hot pink toenails.
“Connie?” She asks, stifling a yawn. It’s nearly 10am, and the discovery that Desiree enjoys a lie-in feels scandalous.
“Sorry to disturb you.” My sister says, cheeks flushed. “Is Troy in? It can’t wait, I’m afraid.”
Desiree holds the door open without another word, her body jumping to att
ention, recognising the alarm in our words. “What’s wrong?”
“I just need to talk to him.” Connie says as she enters. I float in behind her, feeling the chill of the idle radiators as I pass.
“Let me get him.” Desiree says, heading for the staircase. She turns back to Connie. “Sorry, I’ve never been a shout-up-the-stairs kind of mom. Give me a minute.”
“Sure.” Connie says.
“See yourself into the snug.” Desiree says with a cursory point towards the first room off the hall. We follow her command and find ourselves in a room outfitted in dark mahogany furniture, every wall aligned with books. A small TV sits in the corner of the room, the screen covered with a child’s poster declaring - BORED? DO SOMETHING! - with bright felt tip drawings of the ‘something’ that could be done instead of watching TV; there’s a child colouring, another riding a bike, another going for a walk, one at the park, and another carrying grocery bags for an old woman with white hair that barely shows up on the paper.
“Ugh, what a drag.” I say as I take a close up look at the art work. It’s signed as Troy, age 5. I wonder if he regrets that picture now, how he’s created his own lack of TV watching.
“I think it’s a good idea.” Connie says. “We’re too dependent on the TV nowadays. People don’t read any more.”
I screw my nose up. “Of course they do. You can do both, you know.”
“But people don’t.” Connie says. “That’s the problem. If I ask someone now whether they like Agatha Christie, they’ll think I mean one of the dreadful Poirot adaptations that are nothing like the original stories.”
I roll my eyes.
She sighs. “I just think it does no harm to turn off the TV a bit.”
“Okay.” I say, and I think back to the days when my daughters were young, the way that children’s TV programming was only on for around an hour a day and how they made their own fun without it occurring to them to spend all day in front of the screen. There’s so much choice now, a hundred channels, a hundred more on TiVo, there’s no need to leave the room never mind the house. “Ya know, you’re probably right.”
Connie laughs. “You must have it bad, even agreeing with me about something.”
“Have what bad?” I ask, turning to my sister. She raises an eyebrow and purses her lips. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes Sheriff, no Sheriff.” She says as she bats her eyelashes.
I shake my head. “Don’t be silly.”
“Sage, I know what you’re like when you have a crush.”
“Oh, yeah, a crush.” I say with a light flick of my ponytail. “He’s a fine looking man.”
We silence at the sound of footsteps lightly coming downstairs. Desiree appears in the doorway a moment later, changed into beige slacks and a t shirt. She looks no more presentable than she did in her nightwear, really.
“He’s just getting ready.” She says. “Can I get you a drink?”
“I’m fine.” Connie says with a smile. She’s still standing up and she sinks down into the dark leather seat now, an action that Desiree mirrors. “But thanks.”
“He doesn’t seem to know why you’d be here.” Desiree says.
“Oh, no. He wouldn’t.” Connie says. She smiles, ignoring the subtle request for more invitation, forcing herself to stay quiet. She isn’t great with authority, always feels guilty around people with power even though she’s never had anything to hide in her life, and she has to avoid eye contact to hold her tongue.
Desiree sits on her hands, her foot taps lightly on the wooden floor, until echoing footsteps boom on the staircase, and the door bursts open. Troy is wild-eyed, face still wet from a splash of water, dressed in a tracksuit, a slug of a moustache atop his lip.
“Yo, Connie.” He says with a lazy smile. His eyes scan the room, pass me, check for anyone else present disturbing his weekend rest.
“Hey Troy.” My sister says. She’s got a soft spot for this kid, that’s obvious to see. She loves kids, full stop, which makes it all the more irritating that she was never around for mine, but this man-child in his leggy body, he’s special to her. I can’t figure it out.
“What’s this about?” Desiree asks, no time for pleasantries. A woman whose career depends on her advocacy skills. Always advocating, that’s what she says if you ever hang around in the staff room at the high school. I feel like I’m advocating more than I’m teaching.
Not that I would know about that, of course. Although the school isn’t a private dwelling, so I’ve got more permission to be there than I have to be here right now.
“Ok, so I’m here to warn you really.” Connie says, addressing Troy, not Desiree. He nods in a way that suggests he has no idea what she means. “There’s a new sheriff in town.”
“Finally.” Desiree says with a nervous smile. “But Troy isn’t in any trouble. You’re not in trouble, are you?”
“Of course not, mamma.” He says, and he reaches across and holds her hand. I mean, the boy is a heart breaker.
“He’s going to investigate Lola’s murder, Troy. He’s already started, and it turns out that Rydell Grove have a file on it. Do you know what their file says?”
Troy shakes his head but his face pales.
“It’s got a call from an eye witness. You know what that is? Because my understanding, and maybe this is a British thing, it could be something else here. But my understanding is that that’s someone who saw what happened.”
“That’s what it means here.” Desiree says, her voice barely a whisper.
“There’s a call from you, and it says you’re an eye witness.” Connie says.
Troy raises his head, pauses, then lowers it again. It’s so slow, so thoughtful, you can’t call it a nod. “I did call them. They never rang me back.”
“I didn’t think they had.” Connie says with a sad smile. “But now we have a Sheriff again, he’s going to come and speak to you. And I didn’t want him to just turn up and worry you guys, I wanted to tell you first.”
“I appreciate that.” Desiree says and she lets out a long breath, stands and begins to pace the room.
“It’s ok, mamma.” Troy says. “I didn’t kill Lola.”
Desiree lets out a laugh. “Oh my goodness, my sweet boy, I know you didn’t. But why didn’t you tell me you’d seen something? You’ve been so quiet. I knew something was wrong.”
He shrugs. “When they didn’t call me back, I thought they’d decided I didn’t know anything. It didn’t seem worth talking about.”
“They’re just busy.” Connie says.
“It didn’t happen in their town.” Desiree says. “I see it all the time. Not their territory.”
“So what happens now?” Troy asks, his dark eyes focused on my sister.
“You don’t need to do anything. In fact, I’ve been a bit naughty coming across here. I told the Sheriff I wouldn’t, but I had to warn you.” Connie says.
“We won’t lie for you.” Desiree says, sternly. “I won’t let Troy lie for you. I appreciate the warning, Connie, but my boy can’t cover for you.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.” Connie says. “I’m just letting you know when he comes, he’ll think you haven’t been spoken to already. Okay?”
Desiree nods then returns her focus to her son.
“So what did you see?” Desiree asks. “You need to tell me everything.”
Troy takes a deep breath. “I didn’t see anything.”
“What?” She asks. “But you rang the police and told them you did? You know how serious it is to waste police time, boy.”
“I wasn’t wasting police time. That’s my whole point, I was right there by the kitchen door the whole time, I was watching her, hoping she’d notice me but she never did. And then there was a bit of a scene, the spirits were floating through people, remember? So I glanced away, and when I looked back, she was dead.”
“So someone went in while you were distracted?” Desiree asks. “I don’t understand w
hat you’re saying.”
“There wasn’t time for anyone to go in, and all I did was look into the lounge instead of the kitchen. I was still right by the doorway. Nobody passed me.”
“I don’t get it.”
But I do, and a chill runs through my body. I watch Troy, consider the way he checked the whole of the room when he entered, how his gaze is fixed on Connie and his mum. And I know.
Troy sighs. “You won’t believe me.”
“I will.” Connie says, and she locks eyes on me as she speaks. I nod.
Troy coughs, stands and leaves the room. His footsteps are audible stomping up the stairs.
Desiree goes to follow him, but Connie reaches for her hand.
“Give him a minute.” She urges.
Desiree throws her head back and runs her fingers through her dreads. “He’s such a good kid. I don’t want him messed up in this.”
“He’s a witness.” Connie says. “Not a suspect. All he did is see something. Or not see something.”
The stomping returns and Troy appears in the room, carrying a large pad of flip board paper. He hands it to his mum, open on a page heavy with charcoal.
“I thought you’d stopped drawing.” She says, and her voice is the sting of every mother who feels their child slipping away from them.
He shrugs. “Not the point, mamma. Look.”
And she does.
Connie stands and gathers in, and I follow, hanging back slightly so I don’t crowd them.
The drawing is beautiful, but dark. It’s the kitchen of the Baker house, and the detail is staggering. The window fittings look so authentic I’m almost tempted to close the shutters to keep the heat in. Sprawled on the floor is Lola Anti, and it’s clear that her face is etched in Troy’s mind, memorised over months of nursing a crush on her.
“What’s this?” Desiree asks, pointing with a talon to a cloud of smoke in the corner of the kitchen. “Is this, like, her soul leaving her body or something like that?”
“No.” Troy says.
That’s not something you can see, I almost say, but now isn’t the time to distract Connie. It does happen. But it isn’t visible. Even to Connie. Even to spirits.