by Morgana Best
“You all set?” he asked, and we nodded. “Great, we’re recording everything, and I can edit it later, so don’t worry, be natural.”
There was a moment of silence and then James started. “Sibyl, how long have you lived here?”
“Well I don’t live here; I live in the cottage on the property, a quarter mile away.”
“Right,” James said, and I could see he was already flustered. I wondered why he didn’t have the other members of his crew there. He didn’t appear to be too comfortable with interviewing. “I meant that. How long have you lived in the cottage?”
“A few months,” I said.
“Mr. Buttons, how long have you lived here?”
Mr. Buttons smiled. “Please, call me Thaddeus,” he said in an exaggerated English accent.
I had to bite my lip and stare at the floor to keep from laughing. I knew that Mr. Buttons’ first name was not Thaddeus.
“Thaddeus, how long have you lived in the boarding house?”
“Three years last month,” he said, and this, at least, was true.
“Have you ever seen anything strange in this house?”
“I’ve seen a number of people murdered,” Mr. Buttons said.
“But have you seen anything supernatural?”
“No.”
“Surely, in a place like this, you’ve heard strange noises.”
“No,” Mr. Buttons said firmly.
Once again, I hid my smile. I shot a glance at James and couldn’t help feeling a little bad for him. I had been prepared to give him a hard time as well, but our walk over to the boarding house had changed my opinion of him, if only a little. I still thought that someone who dedicated their life so relentlessly to trying to get a ghost on a recording must be a bit daft, but he seemed like a nice guy.
James turned slightly on his fold out chair to look at me.
“What about you, have you seen anything supernatural? Or heard anything?”
“I haven’t,” I said softly, wishing I could spare his feelings, but unwilling to lie.
“Can I tell you about what brought me here?” James asked, and Mr. Buttons and I nodded. “I heard a story about this place,” James continued, “and tell me if this brings back any memories of something you might have forgotten, but I heard the tale of a man who died in the attic. I don’t know how he died, or why he was in the attic, but he passed away up there sometime in the thirties, and since then people have heard footsteps. A lot of people claim this; I read it all on the internet. You’ve never heard footsteps?”
“I’m not upstairs enough to hear them,” I said. I didn’t have the heart to say on camera that the boarding house had no attic.
“I’ve never heard them, but I am quite old, of course,” Mr. Buttons said, winking at me. “I might be missing it. Perhaps it’s time for a hearing aid.”
“Maybe,” James said. He turned off the cameras and then shook our hands. “Sibyl, thanks so much, and Thaddeus, thank you for the interview.”
“Of course. Good luck with everything,” Mr. Buttons said, and then he and I went out of the dining room.
“Sibyl,” Mr. Buttons said, “let’s take a stroll around the grounds.”
“Sure, Thaddeus,” I said, and Mr. Buttons chuckled. We went out the front door and walked slowly down the steps of the porch. We walked along the front of the boarding house and then turned to walk down the side. The back yard was massive and sprawling, and when the manicured lawn stopped, a stretch of bushland began.
We walked in comfortable silence until we were in the trees, and then Mr. Buttons broke the silence.
“What about James? Do you think he’s the murderer?” Mr. Buttons asked.
I took a moment to reflect on it. Finally, I shook my head. “He doesn’t quite seem the type to me.”
“Is there a type?”
“For murderers? Probably.”
Mr. Buttons nodded. “You might be right.”
“What about Dorothy?” I asked, and then I slapped my forehead. “Oh, I completely forgot. I was walking down here yesterday, and I saw Dorothy throw something into the creek.”
Mr. Buttons’ eyes widened. “What was it?”
I shrugged. “No idea, I was too far away. But why would she throw something into the creek?”
Mr. Buttons rubbed his chin. “It would be easy for her to inject poison into hair dye. She had opportunity.”
“But what about motive?”
“You’ve been watching too many crime shows again, Sibyl.”
I laughed, but then sobered. “You know, my whole life feels like a crime show these days.”
“I don’t know what her motive could be,” Mr. Buttons said, “but clearly, whoever did it had a motive.”
Mr. Buttons and I walked to the ridge above the creek. The water was murky and green, and small birds darted in and out of the reeds. The sound of the Pobblebonk frogs was ever present.
“I don’t know who else it could be,” I said, after a few moments. “It can really only be Dorothy, James, or one of the other ghost hunters for that matter. They knew Sue, but then again, it sounds as if Dorothy and her son, Frank, knew her too.”
Mr. Buttons nodded, and then we were silent again, both of us working on the same problem. We finally gave up and walked back toward the boarding house. I stopped at the front porch and watched Mr. Buttons climb the steps and disappear inside, before I went down the path to my cabin. I pushed the door open and was greeted by the bird.
“Feed me, %$&,” he said. I went to his cage and opened a small hatch near the bottom. I pulled out his food bowl and filled it with seed, and then put it back. His water was good, but I topped it up, hoping this would redeem me in the bird’s eyes.
“Thanks for nothing, you ^%$#@ &##,” the cockatoo squawked, and I knew I hadn’t redeemed anything. I turned and went to the living room, sitting on the couch and pulling an afghan blanket over my legs. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, planning on putting some more thought to the task of solving the murder, but instead I fell asleep.
“I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than of cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their songs.”
(Joseph Addison, The Spectator.)
Chapter Seven .
“Are you sure the lettuce was washed thoroughly?” Mr. Buttons called from the dining room.
“Everything's good.” I smiled and shook my head as I tossed the salad. Mr. Buttons had been agonizing over the details of the dinner for most of an hour. I had tried to assure him multiple times that the guests were bound to be glad simply for a nice hot meal. Despite my best efforts, I eventually had to send him to set the table so I could move in the kitchen without tripping over him.
“How about the sauce?”
I sighed. “Just stirred it.”
“The pasta?”
“It's all under control.” I had grown accustomed to Mr. Buttons’ need to micromanage things. I could imagine him in a chef’s hat barking instructions at staff.
“I'm sorry if I’m being a bother, Sibyl,” Mr. Buttons said, as he hurried through the door to check the sauce, wiping the oven surface with a washcloth to clean away any tiny drops of sauce, whether real or imagined. “That confounded woman doesn't let anyone near the kitchen. Thank goodness it’s her day off. This is a novelty, albeit a messy one.”
“Not at all. It's nice to cook under instruction. Who knows, I might pick up a thing or two.”
“We can only hope,” Mr. Buttons muttered under his breath. “Should we use the linen napkins?” he asked in a louder voice.
“Paper would be better, I think.” I knew Mr. Buttons normally would not consider paper napkins, but in this case, we were dealing with the ghost hunters and had no idea of their table manners. Further, we were serving spaghetti and garlic bread.
Before Mr. Buttons could argue the case for a nicer table setting, the sound of a small crowd echoed down the hall. I pulled out a package of napkins and placed them on top of
the plates as Mr. Buttons rushed past me.
We exchanged a round of greetings as I set the salad, and Mr. Buttons hurried to finish his place settings. It was not long before we had the group settled in and eating.
“I can't remember the last time we had a real meal,” Michael, one of the ghost hunters, said. He leaned over and jabbed their leader with a finger. “Hey, James. I promise no one is going to steal your plate. Slow it down before we get traumatized by Alex doing the Heimlich maneuver on you.”
“Why would Alex be the one?” James asked, wiping a mess of spaghetti sauce off his face, while at the same time fighting a losing battle to get a mass of noodles the size of a baseball in his mouth.
Michael simply rolled his eyes. Typically, Alex remained silent.
“Let me get some more of these for you,” Mr. Buttons said as he collected the discarded paper napkins, and wiped down of a pasta blob that had escaped onto the table. I refilled two wine glasses, while James, Michael, and Ken ribbed each other over dinner.
“My goodness, Sibyl, I've seen better table manners from wild hyenas,” Mr. Buttons whispered as he threw the napkins in the trash. “Don’t they teach basic etiquette anymore?”
“Obviously not,” I said, trying not to smile at Mr. Buttons’ expression of shock and horror.
Mr. Buttons washed his hands and gave me a long suffering look.
“Look on the bright side,” I said. “The tablecloth is vinyl.”
“I don't know if I should be celebrating your foresight, or lamenting it.” Mr. Buttons armed himself with a washrag, and stuffed a second in his back pocket for reinforcements.
“Well, we won’t be washing pasta sauce out of Cressida’s starched linen tablecloths,” I whispered as we walked back into the dining room.
The group seemed to have settled into eating now that their initial excitement had calmed somewhat. I looked around the group of four men. They seemed nice enough, normal even. It was hard to see one of them as a murderer. Yet, my only suspects were the four men before me, as well as Dorothy and her son, Frank.
“How are you guys doing?” I asked as I set down the drinks, watching as Mr. Buttons flitted around the table cleaning up napkins, and then adjusted the symmetry of the tableware.
“I'm perfect, thanks,” Ken said between mouthfuls of garlic bread. “My compliments to the chef.”
“Well thank you very much.” Mr. Buttons stood up straight and smiled. “Sibyl and I make a pretty good team in the kitchen, I dare say.”
“You guys made dinner?” James asked as he scooped up a small mountain of spaghetti noodles and transferred it to his plate.
“That we did,” Mr. Buttons said proudly, seeming to have forgotten his aggravation as he basked in the praises. “Oh, it was no trouble, really. I certainly enjoyed it.”
“That explains why it tastes so good,” James said. “I was sure when we came down and saw spaghetti that we were going to be choked on garlic and pepper.”
Michael nodded. “And semi-raw meatballs.”
“Begone, foul beasts! Back to the shadows of fast food and delivery pizza from whence you came,” Ken said dramatically, brandishing his fork at James like a cross in a bad horror movie. James hissed and pretended to shrink away.
“You've been harassed by the cook?” Mr. Buttons asked. “You should have said something. It would have been dealt with.”
James waved one hand in the air. “We're used to it. You have to roll with it in our line of work. We aren't popular with some religious circles, despite being faith-based paranormal researchers.”
“Most of them are nice enough,” Ken said. “There are just some extra hardcore nuts out there who think it's their mission to harass people different from themselves.”
“That woman is as nuts as they come,” James said with open distaste, getting surprised glances from his more laid back crew.
“I'll have Cressida talk to her,” Mr. Buttons said.
I was horrified that Dorothy was causing them so much trouble. I knew the woman had disliked the fact that the ghost hunters were staying, and she disliked the fact that they were investigating. Still, I had no idea Dorothy would be so unprofessional.
James gave him a thin smile and shook his head. “Trust me. I've dealt with her brand of crazy all my life. It would just be kicking a hornet’s nest. No telling what kind of drama you'd get mixed up with.”
Michael agreed. “Bad vibes. We've seen worse anyway. In one town we had this one person try to sabotage our equipment.”
“My poor monitors,” Ken said. “They poured soda on two thousand dollars worth of thermal imagers and HD motion cameras. Like those can be replaced at Target or something.”
“Yes, Sue had a fit over that one,” Michael said, before his face fell. The four hunters gazed back down at their food, their good humor clearly drenched by the memory of recent events.
“I'm sorry, we should have asked before.” Ken looked over at me with a saddened expression. “How is Mrs. Upthorpe?”
“They say Cressida will be fine soon.” I smiled at him. “I'm sorry. I wish it was the same for Sue.”
James reached across and patted Ken’s arm. “Sue wouldn't want us crying over her.”
Ken stabbed a tomato and studied it on the end of his fork. “It doesn’t make what happened to her right, though.”
“Was she with your group long?” I asked.
“She and James actually started our team,” Ken said.
James nodded and then sighed deeply. “We've known each other since grade school. She and I started the group right after high school, though we didn't get serious about it until about half way through college. We had dated off and on all through then.”
“They were better off than on, though,” Michael said, earning himself an annoyed look from James. “Well, you were. Every time you two got together, it was constant fighting. You guys were awesome together as boss and manager. Not so much as a couple.”
A forced smile crossed James’s face. “Fair enough. We made better friends than we did a couple. It was us against the world, or so it felt. It was a complicated relationship.”
“Do your folks still blame her for turning you to the Dark Side?” Ken asked as he dabbed the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin.
“I don't want to talk about them.” James rose from the table. “I’d better go over the readings. See you guys in a while. Thanks, Sibyl, Mr. Buttons. Thanks for the meal. It was awesome.”
I watched James make his way toward the stairs. Mr. Buttons almost pounced on the sauce covered plate and half empty glass to clear them away, and then scooted toward the kitchen.
“Now you did it, Ken,” Michael said, his voice filled with concern, as he watched their leader retreat. “Now he's going to be broody the rest of the night.”
“I'm sorry. I wish I could do something to help,” I said, earning some fleeting smiles from the remaining trio.
“It's all right. We're all on edge because of what happened to Sue,” Michael assured me.
I looked at the three of them. “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt Sue?”
Michael shrugged. “No, not Sue of all people. Most people who don’t like our job at least liked her. She could make friends with almost everyone. She usually did damage control when we met up with groups who don’t like what we do.”
“Other than that horrible Dorothy,” Ken said. “Sue tried really hard to be nice to her, too. I don't know why she was so nasty. But she really is a hateful old bat.”
“Ken!” Michael poked him in the ribs. “Shush!”
“Well, she is,” Ken said. “She said we do the devil's work.”
Michael shook his head. “She’s harmless enough. Not much different from others we've met along the way, right? No need to call anyone names.” Michael turned to me. “Sorry. Ken doesn't mean to badmouth the staff. It’s just been a hard week for all of us, losing Sue. She was as close to an angel as they come. No one would have wanted to
hurt her. There's probably another explanation. Who knows?”
The three thanked me for the meal and went to hunt down their companion.
“Well now,” Mr. Buttons said from the doorway, looking no less troubled. “What are you thinking about this?”
I shrugged. “We’re no closer to finding the suspect, and until we do, Cressida could still be in danger.”
“You cannot fly like an eagle with the wings of a wren.”
(William Henry Hudson, Afoot in England.)
Chapter Eight .
Mr. Buttons and I were sitting in my cottage, waiting for the test results. The lab had told Mr. Buttons they would phone through the results that morning. We had been waiting for ages, but as yet, there was no word. Mr. Buttons decided to do a tarot reading.
“I have a new set of cards,” he announced, pulling a blue velvet package from his coat pocket. “It’s the Thoth deck.”
“Mmm,” I said.
Mr. Buttons shuffled the cards, a look of concentration on his face. He pulled cards, one by one, and set them on the table until fifteen cards were facing up. “On no, the seven of cups,” he said. “That means deception, lying, promises unfulfilled.”
I was about to point out that any murder would be surrounded by deception, when Mr. Buttons’ phone rang. “Don’t forget to put it on loud,” I said.
Mr. Buttons answered the phone and set it to loud, and put it on the coffee table between us. We both bent over it. “Hello,” a disembodied voice said. “This is Malcolm Briggs with FDIS. We ran the tests you sent and found a foreign chemical was indeed present in the hair dye sample.”
Mr. Buttons and I exchanged glances. The voice continued, “We found a potent parasympathomimetic alkaloid, specifically, nicotine, in the sample.”