by Morgana Best
Mr. Buttons beamed.
“Who’s with you?” Cressida asked.
“Mr. Buttons.”
“Well I’m coming home, and I wanted to know if you could come get me.”
“Of course,” I said. “Let me take the dogs to my place, then we’ll be right there. Sorry I didn’t answer first off. We’re at dog training.”
“All right, but hurry up, will you? I need a cheeseburger. This hospital food is awful.”
“Sure,” I said. I hung up and slid the phone into my pocket. “Cressida is being released. Do want to come and collect her with me?”
“Yes, and I need a stiff drink after that,” Mr. Buttons said.
“What, a scotch or something?”
Mr. Buttons shook his head. “A Diet Coke,” he said in all seriousness.
I laughed as I climbed behind the wheel. I drove to my cottage, and Mr. Buttons stayed in the van while I put the dogs in the yard. Then I jogged back to the vehicle and climbed in, a smile on my face the whole time. I was eager to get Cressida back home.
As soon as we walked into the hospital lobby, we saw Cressida and a nurse. Cressida was sitting in a wheelchair, and I figured she wasn’t too pleased about that.
“There they are! Can I stand up now?” Cressida asked.
The nurse smiled, a strained smile that told me she was tired of dealing with Cressida, and shook her head. “Not yet, let’s get you out through the doors.”
“Hurry up then, please,” Cressida said through clenched teeth, folding her arms over her chest and leaning back in the chair. The nurse pushed Cressida forward and I held the door open for them. When they were on the sidewalk, Cressida stood and the nurse turned and pushed the wheelchair back inside.
“Good riddance to this place,” Cressida said. She then held her arms open and I hugged her, and to my surprise, so did Mr. Buttons. Cressida then hurried to the van. “Let’s go get that burger; I’m starving.”
Cressida sat in the passenger seat while I drove, leaving Mr. Buttons to sit in the back of the van. We went through McDonalds drive through, and I ordered a cheeseburger and fries for everyone, with Cressida and me ordering a chocolate milkshake, and Mr. Buttons ordering a Diet Coke. As we waited for the food, Cressida leaned toward us. “I remembered something about that day, when someone tried to kill me,” she said.
“What?” I asked, while accepting the food through the window of my van.
“I saw that ghost boy, Frank?”
“James,” Mr. Buttons said. “Frank is Dorothy’s son.”
“Right. I saw James and Dorothy arguing.”
“About what?” Mr. Buttons asked as I handed him his Diet Coke, and then drove off.
Cressida took a long drink of her milkshake before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t think Dorothy much cares for talk of ghosts; she seemed mad that James was there. She told him something. I think I’m remembering it right, but she told him there were real things to fear in life, and not to waste his time looking for fake things.”
I shook my head. “Real things to fear? That sounds ominous.”
“I know,” Cressida said, nodding. “It does, don’t it?”
Mr. Buttons stuck his head into the front seat. “Anything else?”
“It’s hazy, to be honest.” Cressida shook her head, clearly trying to remember. “Anyway, tell me what’s been going on without me.”
Mr. Buttons and I had visited Cressida in the hospital only the day before, and had told her about the nicotine. Of course, Blake had already informed the doctors. “There’s not much to tell,” I said. “We brought you up to speed yesterday.”
“Wait a minute,” Cressida said. “I remember something I thought was very peculiar. Lord Farringdon told me that Dorothy and James seemed comfortable with one another when they spoke. He said it seemed as if they knew each other. I remember thinking it was strange.”
“Maybe they do know each other,” Mr. Buttons said, and I shot him a look. We usually humored Cressida when she said that her cat provided her with information, but on this occasion, Mr. Buttons appeared to be taking her seriously.
“Dorothy’s son is the one who contacted James and his group, telling them about the boarding house. Maybe he didn’t just find them online,” I said.
“Or maybe he did, but Dorothy knows James as well,” Mr. Buttons added, “and was upset to see him there.”
“I think we need to find out more about your new cook,” I said to Cressida, and she nodded.
When we reached the boarding house, I pulled up as close as I could to the steps of the front porch. I helped Cressida up the stairs, even though she kept pulling her arm away and, at the same time, gripping my arm. Mr. Buttons followed along with the small bag Cressida had at the hospital, and we took her to her room.
“I don’t want to lie in bed,” Cressida said, but she lay down anyway, and she quickly fell asleep after I gave her a prescribed pill. Mr. Buttons and I left the room, shutting the door.
“Is it safe for her here?” I asked him.
“I can keep an eye on her,” Mr. Buttons said. “This house has seen some strange things lately, though. I don’t know how safe any of us are.”
It wasn’t a comforting thought. We walked downstairs and sat in the front hall. There were two overstuffed chairs in the rear corner, with a small table between them.
“I wonder if Dorothy is around,” I said in lowered tones.
“I think I can hear her banging around in the kitchen.”
I nodded and fell silent for a moment. Sure enough, there was someone in the kitchen making noises. Pans banged together, and the water turned on and off. I leaned toward Mr. Buttons.
“Let’s go check out her room,” I said.
“Would that be proper?” Mr. Buttons asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “No.”
“All right, you sold me on it,” Mr. Buttons said, slapping his knees and standing up. We crept up the stairs and went down to the end of the hall. Dorothy had the last room on the left, and I felt a wave of relief when I tried the door and it swung open freely.
“Trusting sort of woman,” Mr. Buttons remarked.
I nodded to him. “Stay by the stairs. If you see her coming up, cough. Loudly.”
“Very well.” He turned and marched down the hall back to the staircase. I watched him and then went into the room.
Dorothy’s room was larger than most of the other bedrooms in the place, save Cressida’s. There was a twin sized bed pushed into the corner, and beyond that nothing in the room beside a dresser and a reclining chair. I went to the dresser first, and had just pulled open the top drawer, when I heard Mr. Buttons coughing. Surely the woman wasn’t coming upstairs, was she? What terrible timing.
I shut the dresser drawer and turned, hurrying for the door. Mr. Buttons coughed again just before I exited, and when he saw me, his face relaxed. I pulled the door shut and hurried down the hall. Dorothy and I reached the top of the staircase at the same time.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi,” Dorothy replied, in none too friendly a tone.
“Cressida is home.”
Dorothy just grunted and brushed past me. Mr. Buttons and I watched her walk down to her room and disappear inside it.
Chapter 12
Mr. Buttons and I were in his car, intent upon investigating Dorothy. It was a quiet car ride, as Mr. Buttons did not have his radio on, and the Bentley hummed along peacefully.
I looked at the scenery, all bushland until we reached the mountain, then twists and turns to the bottom of the mountain, after which were green fields and houses dotted here and there, signaling that we were approaching civilization.
“We’ll figure it out,” Mr. Buttons said, as he turned off onto the exit that led to her first glimpse of civilization in almost an hour. “I’ve got your back, Nancy Drew.”
I laughed at the nickname. I wasn’t planning on being the local gumshoe who went running down every mystery that crossed my path.
I was instead looking forward to a nice, quiet life where the words, I’m bored, might cross my mind more than once a day. “Please no. I loved the series, but trouble always found that girl.”
Mr. Buttons turned his head to glance at me with raised eyebrows. “You’re saying it doesn’t follow you?”
I had to laugh. “I’m hoping that’s a coincidence. I’m serious! No more detective work for me after this one is solved.”
Mr. Buttons smiled. “Sure, no more detective work, not until the next mystery pops up.”
“Stop it, or I’ll start calling you my sidekick, George.”
Mr. Buttons wrinkled up his nose at the idea. “George was a girl.”
“It’s either that or Bess—and anyway, how did you know that her sidekicks were girls?”
Mr. Buttons shot me a look. “I read some crossover stories with the Hardy Boys. Look them up—super mystery series. Mom was convinced that television was out to rot our brains. We spent a lot of time reading and outdoors.”
“Did you ever try to solve a neighborhood mystery?”
“What fan hasn’t?” He laughed. “The old man at the corner of the street was very generous about not pressing trespassing charges. It took me a while to learn that not every cranky man who lives alone at the end of the street is hiding a sinister mystery. He was just a hoarder who had a thing for taxidermy.”
I laughed, trying to imagine Mr. Buttons as a child, sneaking around and peeking in people’s windows, looking for adventure. “Now, back to business. Do you really think we’ll find out anything from Dorothy’s last employer?”
Mr. Buttons stroked his chin with one hand. “I honestly don’t know, but it’s certainly worth a try. It’s difficult given that her last place of employment was as a cook in a private hospital; we might’ve gotten more out of a private employer.”
I nodded. I had been thinking the same thing. “Still, as you say, it’s worth a try.”
“It’s our only lead,” Mr. Buttons said. “I’m glad Cressida is staying in your cottage today with instructions not to open the door to anyone. I’d be dreadfully worried if she was alone in the house with that, with that, that woman!” he spat.
The small, private hospital appeared nice enough once we managed to find it after navigating a maze of small streets. The whole hospital was pristine, as I suppose, would be expected. The office windows sparkled. The floors were immaculate, and the décor looked as if it were straight out of a box. Nothing was out of place. The woman at the reception desk directed us to the Human Resources office.
There, at an oversized desk, sat a woman reading a stack of papers from over her glasses. We exchanged handshakes and pleasantries.
“I suppose it’s not a surprise that Dorothy took to a boarding house. She was a dedicated cook.” The woman wiped her glasses clean as she studied us with a well practiced, friendly smile. Something about the smile felt to me insincere.
I likewise plastered a friendly smile on my face. “Did Dorothy have a lot of contact with the patients?” I glanced down at the copy of the resume I had brought, tilting it so the woman could see it. Mr. Buttons had proclaimed that it would make our mission there appear more authentic, and I could see that he was right.
“No, she was a cook. She remained in the kitchens.”
I widened my smile and tapped the file. “Is it okay to ask why she resigned her position here two months ago?”
“I’m afraid she didn’t disclose that information.”
“That’s a shame,” Mr. Buttons said in a pleasant tone with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Now, as we said on the phone, we happened to be in the area today, so we thought we’d call here in person rather than speak on the phone. We have several applications for the position of cook, but have narrowed it down to Dorothy and one other candidate.”
The woman nodded.
I pressed on. “And the reason why we wanted to ask you face to face, is that written references are often glowing, but we need to know the facts. You see, although the position is for a cook, as it is a boarding house, the cook will come into regular contact with guests, so we need a cook who will be pleasant to the guests.”
The woman looked down at her desk, and then up at me. “Do you mean you want a people-person?”
I nodded. “Exactly. Is Dorothy a people-person?”
The woman hesitated for a moment before answering. “No. Not at all, actually. In fact, she had a terrible temper.” The woman faltered again.
“Do go on, please,” Mr. Buttons said. “I can assure you; this conversation will go no further.”
His words appeared to have the desired effect, as the woman then launched into a tirade against Dorothy. “She was the most obnoxious, ill-tempered woman. She screamed at all the staff. Why, one day, in a fit of temper, she threw glasses at another cook and smashed them against the wall. It’s a wonder she didn’t cause serious injury to the other cook. That’s why we had to let her go.”
Mr. Buttons and I exchanged glances. “Oh, so she didn’t leave employment here of her own accord, then?” he asked.
The woman shook her head. “No, not at all. But please keep that just between us.”
We assured her that we would, thanked her, and left.
On the way back to the car, Mr. Buttons said to me in lowered tones, “So she lied on her résumé, but that doesn’t mean she’s a murderer.”
I agreed. “We do know that she had a bad temper, though, and she might have murdered Sue in a fit of temper.”
“What about Cressida?”
I scratched my head. “Perhaps Cressida was an accident—she was using Sue’s hair dye, after all.”
Mr. Buttons agreed. “That does make sense.”
The car ride home was consumed with us comparing notes and discussing the fact that Dorothy had a temper, and what this meant for our investigation. By the end of the car ride, we had gotten no further.
“So what’s the plan?” Mr. Buttons asked as he turned his car into the boarding house driveway and headed further along to my cottage.
“All I can do is call Blake and tell him, but he’ll be angry with us for looking into it,” I said, my stomach muscles clenching at the thought of Blake’s reaction.
“It’s obviously that dreadful, uncouth woman, Dorothy,” Mr. Buttons said. “We should ask Cressida to sack her.”
I shook my head. “We have no idea, really. We could be wrong about her.”
Mr. Buttons got out and hurried around the car to open my door. “How could we possibly be wrong? If it were any more obvious, there would be a neon sign over the dreadful woman’s head saying, Here I am; arrest me!” Mr. Buttons gestured dramatically as he said the last part. “Besides, every time I pull a tarot card about her, it’s always The Moon, and that means deception.”
“Mr. Buttons, what if we ask Cressida to sack her and it turns out that she’s innocent? What if people ask us where she is? Having to say, We falsely accused her of murder and sacked her, wouldn’t go over too well at all.”
“Is that you, Sibyl?” Cressida’s voice called from inside.
“Yes, it’s only us,” I called out, as I unlocked the door. As we made our way inside, two dogs made a mad dash to the door to give us their energetic greeting. I was glad I was taking care of Tiny for Blake while he was out of town. Sandy and Tiny had become firm friends, to the point where they were now inseparable.
Cressida high stepped and stumbled over the two dogs that were doing their best to stay underfoot. They whined impatiently with their tails wagging in expectation. I leaned over and gave each one an affectionate scratch behind their ears.
“Certainly lively here,” Mr. Buttons said, as he closed the door behind him. “Good day, Cressida. How are you feeling?”
I looked up to see Cressida shuffling slowly, wrapped tightly in a bright orange robe which was enlivened by purple, sequined flowers. Tiny and Sandy scampered off to chase each other around the room.
My brow creased with concern. “
Cressida, you should still be in bed.”
Cressida smiled, still as pale as a sheet despite the heavy layers of bright makeup. “I can’t stand lying around in bed. You’ll be pleased to know I was lying on the sofa, watching TV. Anyway, how did it go—did you find out anything?”
“Do you mind if I use the kitchen, Sibyl?” Mr. Buttons said, as he made his way there, already knowing the answer. “Can I make you ladies some tea?”
“I need coffee,” Cressida moaned.
“Tea is better for the body and soul.”
“Coffee is better for my brain and sanity.” Cressida gave a small pout and batted her eyes. One eyelash half fell off and dangled at the corner. Cressida did not seem to notice and I thought it best not to point it out.
Mr. Buttons smiled. “All right then. Sibyl?” Mr. Buttons turned to me.
“Coffee for me too, please.” I smiled at his expression. He shook his head in resignation and muttered about uncouth and unseemly Australians preferring burnt coffee beans to an afternoon cup of Earl Grey or Yorkshire. It had been a regular discussion off and on through the past few months. He was doing his best to convert me, and it was working, at least to some degree.
“Okay, so spill. What did you find out? Anything useful?” Cressida asked as she leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement.
I told Cressida everything, and in the retelling, it seemed not as exciting or useful.
“Ken from the ghost group showed up a little while ago,” Cressida commented as she reclined somewhat on the sofa, propped up by numerous cushions.
I was horrified. “But Cressida, we said not to let anyone in! We don’t know who the murderer is.”
“Calm your farm, Sibyl. I didn’t open the door to him—we spoke through the closed door.”
Calm your farm? Where had Cressida picked up that expression? Aloud I said, “What did he want?”
“He was just checking to see if you were here. He wanted to tell us that James had an altercation with Dorothy, and considerable yelling was involved.” Her eyebrows rose. “If Dorothy cannot keep her attitude to herself, then she needs to consider a change in career. I didn’t mind her attitude so much when I thought she would avoid the guests.”