by Nic Saint
He quickly tracked other footage of cameras around the auspicious area, and to his surprise saw that a motorcycle arrived around the same time McCabre did and left again when she did. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
She’d gone there to meet this mysterious motorcycle man.
He peered at the screen and started. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
He quickly tapped a key and printed the image of Motorcycle Man. It wouldn’t surprise him if he were implicated in the Buckley murder as well.
Of course, this presented him with a dilemma. Both McCabre and Motorcycle Man had an obvious alibi for the murder. And the most baffling thing of all: even though Buckley Antiques was covered by a camera from across the street, no one had entered or left the building around the time of the murder. He’d scrolled through the footage up until the time the police arrived, and the murderer was never seen leaving the premises.
Furthermore, there was no back entrance, nor a window through which the killer could have escaped. They’d checked with the inhabitants of the house sharing the back wall: there was no way to go from one to the other. They’d also checked the apartment above the store, but even there they hadn’t found any manner of egress, not even along the roof of the building. It was, in other words, a real mystery how the killer had left.
He went over the footage captured around the time of the murder again. The only customer who’d been in the store was a young doctor, but she’d left at three forty-five. They’d interviewed her, and she hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. And as Watley scrolled through the footage, he saw Buckley appearing at the door, bidding his final customer goodbye and even helping her carry her packages to her car, which was parked out in front. Then Buckley had retreated into the store, closed the door, and that had been the last time anyone had seen him alive. So whoever the murderer was, he or she had to have been inside, perhaps hiding? But they’d gone over the footage of the past twenty-four hours and everyone who’d entered the store had been seen leaving it at some point. No exception.
The only lead he had was the suspicious behavior of Henrietta McCabre and her meeting with Motorcycle Man. Those two could perhaps shed some light on the murder, as he was willing to bet they were both involved, as well as a third person, the one who’d actually perpetrated the murder.
All he had to do was find out why McCabre had gone to that meet.
And since he didn’t like wasting time, he decided to pay her a visit right now. Rattle the cage a bit. And just when he was shrugging into his overcoat, his phone went, and he picked it up, barking, “Watley.”
“Inspector Darian Watley?” a gruff voice sounded at the other end.
“Yes.”
“I understand you’re in charge of the Buckley murder investigation?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Chief Whitehouse. Happy Bays Police Department.”
Watley frowned. “Who? What?”
“Whitehouse. I’m chief of police in Happy Bays.” There was a slight pause, then the man went on, “A small town on Long Island. The States.”
Reluctantly he sat down again. “What can I do for you, Chief Whitehouse?” he asked, wondering what this was all about.
“I used to work for you guys at Scotland Yard about, oh, ten years ago? I worked under Thaddeus Yaffle at the time. Specialist Operations.”
“Yaffle retired three years ago.”
“I know. Good man, Thaddeus. You could always count on him to help you out in a pickle. My wife and I used to join him and his wife at your mother’s dinner parties back in the day. And great parties they were.”
Watley was starting to wonder if this Whitehouse would ever get to the point. “I wouldn’t know. I never went to my mother’s dinner parties.”
“Met your dad once or twice. Great man, your dad. Great commissioner.”
“Dad retired five years ago.”
“Pity. He was always ready to help out a man in a pickle.”
This obsession with pickles was starting to irk Darian. “And do you? Find yourself in a pickle, Chief Whitehouse?”
“Not me personally, but my niece does.”
“And who is your niece?”
“Henrietta McCabre. My daughter tells me she’s a suspect.”
Watley raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Henrietta McCabre is your niece?”
“That’s right. A very sweet-natured young woman. Absolutely incapable of murder. Or any other mischief for that matter. Which is why I’m calling.”
If there was one thing Watley hated, it was outsiders butting into his investigation, and that included chiefs of police of small American towns. “Look here, Chief…” he began therefore, his tone not too friendly.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Whitehouse grumbled. “Butt out. I’d say exactly the same thing if I were in your position, Watley. But the fact of the matter is that I promised Harry I’d look after her. My sister and her husband died a couple of years ago, and her only other relatives are in Scotland and the States. And I hate to see Harry in a pickle like this.”
“Well, that’s entirely up to her now, isn’t it? Nothing I can do about it,” Watley returned. He was getting more and more annoyed. This Little Orphan Annie story might work on other people, but to him it reeked of manipulation.
“I’m going to ask you straight out, Watley. Is my niece a suspect?”
“I’m sorry, but as the investigation is still ongoing, I really don’t see how I can disclose anything at this point, not even to a friend of my father.”
“I see,” said the man thoughtfully. “Then let me put it this way, Inspector. If anything were to happen to my niece, anything at all, I will personally come over there to make sure that the ones responsible will see justice served.”
Watley gawked at the phone for a moment. Was this guy for real? “Are you threatening me?” he asked, his voice taking on a steely tone.
“Well, if the shoe fits…” riposted Whitehouse gruffly.
“If your niece finds herself in a pickle, I’d say she’s the one responsible. Not me—not anyone else in the Yard—she and she alone!”
“So she is a suspect?”
“Of course she’s a suspect!” he yelled. “She was meeting some guy at the time of the murder and refuses to tell me who he is and why they were meeting. Innocent people don’t refuse to share this kind of information!”
Even before he’d finished talking, he knew he’d said too much. He was giving this man critical information from his investigation. This odd American who proclaimed to come after anyone who harmed his niece.
“I see,” grunted Chief Whitehouse. “In that case, I’ll have a word with my niece. I’m going to extract this piece of information from her, Watley, and then I’m going to share it with you. Together we’re going to crack this case!”
Watley massaged his temple. “Please don’t interfere with my investigation.”
“Don’t worry, buddy, I won’t. I’m just going to talk to Harry, that’s all. Get her to spill the beans.” He barked a curt laugh. “I like this, Watley. I like this intercontinental cooperation we’ve got going here. Just like old times.”
“Please. Sir. I really don’t need your help,” he said curtly.
“You don’t have to thank me, Watley. Just doing what needs to be done!”
“I’m not thanking you, and nothing needs to be done!” he cried.
“How would you feel,” the other man rumbled, “if you had an orphaned niece, living all alone in a big city, her boss murdered, and no one around to help her? No family, no job, no future prospects, hounded by the cops…”
“Hey! I’m not hounding your niece!”
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this and then I’ll get back to you, Watley. Can I call you Darian?”
“No, you may not!”
“Great. Just call me Curtis. Much appreciated, Darian. And say hi to your mom and dad, will you? My wife still raves about those dinner parties.”
/> “Wait—you can’t do this!”
“Good day to you, too,” the chief growled, and promptly disconnected.
Watley stared at his phone. What the hell had just happened? But then he knew exactly what had happened. For some nebulous reason, he’d just been coerced into an intercontinental investigation into the Buckley murder.
“God,” he groaned as he raked a hand through his dark mane. Just what he needed right now. Some gung-ho small-town cop to add to his problems.
He quickly rose again and swept from his office. Before her uncle started throwing his weight about, he was going to make Henrietta McCabre talk, and he was going to do it now. He didn’t care that she was an orphan, she was going to tell him exactly what had happened under that underpass.
Chapter Five
Ten minutes later, he was chauffeuring his car through London morning traffic, en route to Valentine Street, where Henrietta McCabre was apparently housed. When he arrived, and finally managed to find a parking space, he strode up to the house and pressed his finger on the bell. He hadn’t told her he was coming, lest she made up some excuse. When he heard her melodious voice inquire about his identity, he barked, “Inspector Watley, Miss McCabre. I have a few more questions for you if you don’t mind.”
Whitehouse might call this hounding. He called it proper police work.
After a brief pause, she buzzed him in, and he found himself in the narrow hallway of a clean-looking house. She called from upstairs, “Second floor, Inspector!” and he grunted and started to make his way up the stairs.
When he arrived on the landing, he saw that she’d changed into something less sodding wet than the day before. A pair of pink linen pants and bright yellow linen shirt. It became her. She was an attractive young woman, he had to admit, but then he’d noticed that already when he’d interviewed her before.
With her short bob of blond hair, fair complexion and lithe frame she looked anywhere between eighteen and twenty-five, though he knew from her file she was, in fact, twenty-three. Her nose tilted up at the tip, and her eyes were large and of a remarkable golden hue. All in all, she looked entirely too pretty to be a suspect, and he really couldn’t imagine she was involved in anything as nasty as murder. But then if his years in the Yard had taught him anything it was that looks could be deceiving. For all he knew here stood a cold-blooded accomplice to murder.
“Pancake, Mr. Watley?”
“Inspector Watley. No, thank you, Miss McCabre. I never eat when I’m on duty.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, inviting him in. “I just baked up an entire batch. Didn’t know what else to do, to be honest. Being out of a job and all.”
The smell of freshly baked pancakes did indeed waft invitingly from the small space. Small but cozy, he thought as he briefly inspected the living room with TV nook and kitchen nook. It was airy and light, and the color scheme was the same as her clothes: lots of bright pinks and yellows.
“I just got a call from your uncle,” he said, opening the proceedings.
She halted in her tracks. “My uncle?”
“Chief Whitehouse of the Happy Bays Police Department. He seems to be under the impression you need protecting from the big bad policeman.” He grimaced and pointed at himself. “From me, in fact.”
Her face reddened slightly. It became her well, he thought, before instantly stomping on this thought. She was a suspect. Nothing more.
“Oh, I’m so sorry about that,” she murmured, looking mortified.
“I can’t imagine that you are. I mean, you must have told him, right? You must have called him last night and asked him to put in a word on your behalf.”
She frowned. “No, I didn’t. Well, not directly. I mean, I called my cousin. But all I asked her was if her dad knew someone at Scotland Yard.”
“And now he does know someone at Scotland Yard. And you do, too.”
“I meant someone I could talk to about…” she gestured ineffectually. “…stuff.”
He pulled out a chair in the kitchen nook and took a seat. “Let’s cut to the chase, Miss McCabre.”
“Harry, please.”
“Where are you on your alibi, Miss McCabre?”
She gulped slightly. “My… alibi?”
“Yes. Remember I asked you where you were yesterday between three and four and you failed to inform me? Now perhaps, after mulling it over, you might be able to elucidate me? Or did your uncle advise you not to disclose this information?”
A blush mantled her cheeks. “My uncle said no such thing. I haven’t spoken to him in ages.”
“Oh, that’s right. You spoke to your cousin,” he said skeptically.
“Look, I could tell you where I was,” she said with a shake of the head as she flipped another pancake onto a plate, “but I’d rather not, you see?”
“No, I don’t see. This is very serious matter, Miss McCabre.”
She smiled. “Why don’t you just call me Harry? All my friends do.”
“I’m not your friend, Miss McCabre. I’m a Scotland Yard inspector investigating a murder,” he insisted. “And what I’m most interested in right now is ascertaining where you were yesterday between three and four. In other words, around the time your employer was brutally murdered.”
She sighed. “Look, you’ll probably think this is all very silly, but if I tell you where I was… There’re other people involved, see? I mean, if it were just me, I’d tell you where I was in a heartbeat, but it’s not just me, is it?”
“Who else is involved?” he asked, following her movements with an interested eye. Those pancakes really did smell quite delicious.
“I can’t tell you! That’s just the point! Look,” she said, taking a seat at the table across from him, “Mr. Buckley did some of his deals, erm, well, under the table. I mean, they weren’t exactly shady deals or anything like that, it’s just that his clients preferred… discretion, I guess you could say.”
“I’m well aware that Buckley was one of the more prominent fences in the world of antiques, Miss McCabre,” he said, eliciting a gasp of surprise from her. “Which is probably the reason he was murdered. In those circles, a life is often worth a great deal less than some nice painting or fancy old cupboard.”
She deftly picked up a pancake and started slathering it with butter and jam. “Well, if you know about Buckley’s business, then you must know that he used me to, well, deliver some of his packages to some of his clients.”
“So what package were you delivering to which client yesterday?”
She threw up her hands, then licked some jam from her wrist. “I can’t tell you, can I? Otherwise I’d be implicating my client, see?”
He gave her a slight smile, like a cat about to devour a mouse. “If you don’t tell me it implicates you. It turns you into one of our prime suspects in this murder, and I may very well have to take you in for further questioning.”
Her eyes went wide, and he was surprised to find how expressive they were. Her every emotion was very clearly reflected in those golden orbs.
“You mean arrest me? What would you go and do a silly thing like that for?!”
“Because you’re refusing to tell me what I need to know!” he shot back, his smile gone. “Look, I don’t know what your uncle advised you, but—”
“My uncle didn’t advise me anything! Like I said, I talked to my cousin.”
“Is she also a cop? Is she the one who told you to keep secrets from the police? Is that how they do things in the States?”
She eyed him huffily. “My cousin, if you must know, works as a mortician’s assistant, gun store clerk and tea room waitress. Though at one time she did want to become a cop and even went to police academy. But that’s neither here nor there. What matters is—”
“What matters is that you tell me what I want to know,” he cut in, “or I’m going to have to arrest you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder.”
There was a momentary silence as they gazed at each other, the tension palp
able. Then she simply said, “Very well. I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much, mind you.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Miss McCabre.”
“Harry,” she corrected him.
“Just tell me already, will you?!” he yelled.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right! But if he’s cross with me I’ll tell him you made me tell on him! And if he tells me I’m a tattletale I’ll tell him it’s all your fault!”
“Miss McCabre!”
“Harry!”
“Talk!”
She stared at him, biting her lip. “Actually… I don’t know his name.”
Start Reading Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place Now
About Nic
Nic Saint is the pen name for writing couple Nick and Nicole Saint. They’ve penned 40+ novels in the romance, cat sleuth, middle grade, suspense, comedy and cozy mystery genres. Nicole has a background in accounting and Nick in political science and before being struck by the writing bug the Saints worked odd jobs around the world (including massage therapist in Mexico, gardener in Italy, restaurant manager in India, and Berlitz teacher in Belgium).
When they’re not writing they enjoy Christmas-themed Hallmark movies (whether it’s Christmas or not), all manner of pastry, comic books, a daily dose of yoga (to limber up those limbs), and spoiling their big red tomcat Tommy.
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Also by Nic Saint
The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse
One Spoonful of Trouble
Two Scoops of Murder
Three Shots of Disaster
Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)
A Twist of Wraith
A Touch of Ghost
A Clash of Spooks