A Matter of Wife and Death (A Sibyl Potts Cozy Mystery, Book 4)

by Morgana Best

  “Are you saying it’s not structurally safe?” Cressida asked.

  Franklin Greer sneered. “There’s been a death from a collapsed balcony. It’s plain to me that the boarding house is unsafe and violates several local building codes. I need to examine the entire building and grounds.”

  This man was getting on my last nerve. “The police just labeled the investigation as a homicide, so how can you even think to blame the fall on the building itself?” I snapped. “The police seem to think someone took the screws and bolts out of the balustrade.”

  Franklin Greer smiled, a thin-lipped, nasty smile, and waved a chubby hand at us. “Prepare for the boarding house to be condemned,” he said. “Good day.”

  Cressida shut the door with a little more force than necessary, and leaned against it. “What are we going to do?” Her voice came out as a wail, so much so, that Lord Farringdon appeared from nowhere and let out a mournful howl.

  “I’m not sure.” I sighed long and hard.

  Mr. Buttons took out a white, linen handkerchief and polished the brass door knob. “We have to solve the case,” he said. “They can’t shut you down and place the blame on the building if the police solve the case. We just have to make sure they find out what really happened. When the case is solved, the boarding house will be completely in the clear.”

  Chapter 4.

  The woman had the stereotypical, hard-as-nails secretary look down pat. Her hair was short and sleek. Her blouse was form fitting, perhaps a little too much so, and her sharp, black slacks showed off her long legs, and ended at the ankle. She stood as if she were in command of the world, not an assistant to a land developer.

  I smiled at the imposing woman. I figured she was the sort who didn’t know what the word no meant. It was difficult to envision her as an assistant to anyone.

  “Would you explain why you’re here again?” I asked in an apologetic tone, ignoring the impatient grumbling of the woman in front of me. I had a mental image of her with a drum and a whip, mercilessly keeping a score of office clerks working nonstop on their projects.

  “As I said, I am Greg’s personal assistant,” the woman said in a haughty tone.

  As opposed to a normal assistant, how? Thankfully, I managed to stop myself asking that aloud.

  “I just got into town, and I have an urgent document for Greg to sign. It can’t wait,” the woman said in an authoritative voice, as she fixed the front of the boarding house with a critical frown.

  Some personal assistant. She didn’t act as if she knew that Greg was on his honeymoon, much less that his wife had just died. She did not appear the least bit apologetic that she was about to disturb him at one of the most inappropriate times possible.

  I let out a long sigh of resignation. “Please come in, and I’ll see if Greg is taking visitors right now. He just lost his wife, so -”

  “Yes,” she snapped, cutting me off. “I’m well aware of that. And he is expecting me.” The woman brushed past me.

  I shrugged. At least I’d tried. If Greg wished to speak with a drill sergeant in secretary’s clothing, it wasn’t any of my business. People had their own ways of dealing with grief.

  By the time I caught up to the woman, I found Cressida blocking the stairway to the upper floor, demanding to know the woman’s identity.

  Cressida’s arms were waving in the air. “I don’t care if you’re a Nobel Prize winner with a cure for typhoid! You get your high heels and high horse into that living room and wait until I talk to Greg. Unless he tells me he is expecting company, I’m not going to have a guest bothered.”

  The woman could have killed with the glare she gave Cressida, but before she could speak, Greg appeared at the top of the stairs, looking tired and apologetic as he regarded his guest unhappily. “It’s all right. I was just coming down to tell you that I was expecting Julie to come by.”

  I had the distinct impression the woman had only been expected when she had pulled up in the driveway. Cressida moved to the side, scooting around Julie as she stomped up the stairs.

  “Let me know if you need anything, Greg,” Cressida called up. “Dinner will be in a couple hours. Did you want it delivered to your room?”

  “If you would, please, Cressida.”

  “Will you need a second plate for your guest?”

  “No, Julie will be leaving very shortly,” Greg said, as he nudged the woman out of his personal space.

  I did not blame him at all. I would hate to have work hunt me down at such a time. I did feel a slight pang of guilt for enjoying the look of shock and disappointment on Greg’s personal assistant’s face when he said she would be leaving shortly.

  I turned my attention to Cressida, as the pair disappeared around the corner of the stairway to make their way to Greg’s room. Cressida looked exhausted.

  “Is everything okay, Cressida?” I said, as I guided her toward the dining room. “Would you like me to make some coffee?”

  “Oh, if only coffee were the solution,” Cressida sighed, but she managed a weak, grateful smile and nodded. A pot was already brewed and looked fairly fresh. I added extra sugar to the two mugs, and then returned to the dining room.

  “So what happened?” I asked, as I took a sip of my drink.

  “Oh my, what’s happened!” Cressida exclaimed, as she rubbed her temples with the flat of her hand. “I’ve already blocked two reporters trying to get a look at Greg and the railing and stuff. And then before I finished breakfast, the horrible council man came back with an inspector, and threatened to shut the place down.”

  “But Blake thinks that the railing was tampered with,” I said. “They can’t blame you for that.”

  Cressida drained half her cup before speaking. “It’s not just that. He said they’ve had multiple reports of safety and sanitation violations. They’re going to do a major inspection in a few days. If we don’t pass, the boarding house is done. He’ll shut us down.”

  My hand flew to my mouth. “But who was complaining? All the online reviews have nothing but praise for the place.”

  “One person in particular. A Cynthia Devonshire.” Cressida grimaced and stared into her cup. “The inspector that the horrid, little man, Franklin Greer, brought with him knows Dorothy. They’re in the church choir together. He told Dorothy that Cynthia Devonshire was the one who’d made the complaints.”

  I dug through my memory, trying to remember anyone by the name of Cynthia, but try as I might, I could not remember the name at all. “Who is she?”

  Cressida finished off her coffee and tapped the bottom of the cup on the table. “Cynthia Devonshire is the owner of the new Bed and Breakfast on the other side of town.”

  I swatted myself on the forehead. Of course. Cynthia Devonshire was going after business aggressively, and had gone so far as to put a flyer advertising her B&B in my mailbox.

  Cressida was still talking. “Of course, it’s simply a matter of a business harassing a rival, but Franklin Greer doesn’t care. He didn’t even care when I said that she’s never even set foot in this place. He kept saying that all complaints have to be treated as valid, and so we’ll be inspected to see if we should be open at all.”

  “That’s awful!” I shook my head. I had never imagined that a B&B would be such a cut throat business. I would have thought there would be plenty of clients to go around. I was appalled that Cynthia Devonshire would use a tactic so ugly as sending inspectors to harass and shut down the competition.

  “There’s a lover’s quarrel raging upstairs!”

  I jumped. I’d been so lost in thought that I hadn’t noticed Mr. Buttons entering the dining room.

  “A lover’s quarrel?” Cressida asked, looking confused and at the end of her wits.

  “Yes. I imagine the man would have quite a lot of explaining to do, well, if his wife were around to explain things to, at least,” Mr. Buttons said, in an irritated tone. He gave us a pleading look. “Please don’t send me back up there, ladies. I’ve no stomach for a soap
opera through my bedroom wall.”

  “Wait. What is going on?” Cressida asked, as I waved Mr. Buttons to sit down and explain.

  “Whoever just came in to pay this Greg fellow a visit is quite a vocal woman. She’s going on and on about how they are meant to be. He’s yelling about her trying to crawl into his bed after his wife has just died. Both are yelling about how he did or did not play games with her.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  Mr. Buttons nodded, and then he mimicked a stern voice. “How dare you, woman! My wife is not even cold in the ground and you are trying to crawl into my bed?”

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Then she said she loved him. He called her a desperate, well, it’s not a word I would ever repeat. It’s one you have heard many a time, though, Sibyl.”

  My expression must have shown my confusion, as Mr. Buttons continued, “From your foul-mouthed cockatoo,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Anyway, at that point, I think she might have slapped him. I was heading out my door about then, so I couldn’t say for certain.”

  “My goodness!” Cressida pushed herself up from the table, and Mr. Buttons waved her to wait.

  “Just let them get it out of their system, Cressida. No good comes from getting into those spats, and no one else is around for them to bother.”

  At that moment, we heard the click-clack of heels on the polished, tallow wood floorboards, heading loudly in the direction of the front door. Moments later, the door slammed.

  Mr. Buttons winced at the sound. “Well now, at least if she damaged the hinges we know where to send the bill.” He rearranged the coffee cups on the table so that they all made a straight line. “I should have known it was her. That nagging, shrill voice is hard to forget.”

  “You’ve met her before?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. Well, not directly, but I did see her at the Bistro yesterday afternoon. She was doing her level best to reduce a poor waitress to tears over not refilling her glass fast enough, and then she said something about her food not being to her taste, too.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “She said she just got into town today.”

  Mr. Buttons shook his head. “There is no doubt it was her. I won’t forget the voice or face any time soon.”

  Cressida and I looked at each other, and then Cressida got back to her feet. “I better go check and make sure everything is all right. Mr. Buttons, I’m sorry they disturbed you.”

  “Think nothing of it. It’s not the first spat I’ve witnessed.” Mr. Buttons waved off the apology as he made his way toward the kitchen. “Would either of you care for English Breakfast, or maybe Earl Grey tea?”

  “No, thanks,” Cressida said, as she made her way upstairs.

  “Sibyl?” Mr. Buttons turned his attention to me. I lifted my half empty coffee cup and gave it a little shake. “It’s coffee.”

  “One of these days I’ll have to break that machine,” Mr. Buttons said, as he shook his head in disgust.

  Chapter 5.

  I strolled up to the boarding house, wondering why Mr. Buttons had not turned up to walk Sandy with me that morning. Our arrangement was that if he wasn’t there on time, I would proceed without him, but he was there most days.

  As soon as I walked through the front door, Cressida hurried over to me. “Greg woke up to find his car vandalized. I was just on the phone with Blake. He’s coming right over.”

  While I was pleased that I would see Blake again so soon, I wasn’t happy that Greg’s car had been vandalized. The poor man, after everything he’d been through.

  Cressida pointed out the front door and slightly to the right. “Go and take a look for yourself. He parks over in that corner. It’s the silver BMW.”

  I walked out the door with Cressida, and over to the parking area. “Wow,” I said. “Wow.” There was no other word for it, really.

  The front driver-side tire was flattened, and what appeared to be the handle of a switchblade jutted from the rubber. I walked around the car and saw that all four tires had been slashed.

  The most dramatic vandalism was in the form of large, red letters which were scrawled across the side of the car. The dark red, blood-like color filled me with a sense of dread. I squinted to try to understand the word. “What does that even mean?” I asked myself aloud. A single word filled the length of the sedan: HOOW.

  “What does HOOW mean?” I asked Cressida.

  Cressida shrugged. “I don’t have a clue. Mr. Buttons seems to think it’s some sort of acronym or abbreviation or something of the sort.”

  “He thinks each letter represents a separate word?” I thought about it. What could each of the letters mean? H. O. O. W. “Could it be it a typo?” I asked Cressida.

  Cressida chuckled. “People only make typos on computers,” she said.

  “Oh, yes.” I felt silly for saying it, but I was caffeine-deprived.

  I leaned over and peered at the letters, trying to think what the acronym could spell. There were so many possibilities for H alone: Hearts, Honor, Honesty, Hate, Hands.

  “Hands Off Our Wilderness,” a familiar voice said.

  I swung around to see Blake walking up to me. “That’s what HOOW means? So it’s the protesters Greg mentioned?”

  “That’s the likely conclusion, that it has something to do with that environmental protest against the wilderness area being developed. It’s probably their group name.”

  “Do you think this vandalism might be connected to Lisa’s, err, fall?”

  Blake looked grim. “Anything is possible, Sibyl. We’re going to take some photographs of the vehicle, and then have it towed to the impound lot for testing.”

  “Testing? What kind of testing?” I prodded.

  “Fingerprints mainly. If the knife doesn’t have any, the car itself might. We just need a name, anything to jumpstart this investigation.”

  Mr. Buttons walked up, with Greg following at a short distance. “Hello, Blake.”

  Blake greeted him with a nod. “Like I was just telling Sibyl, we’re going to see if we can find some leads, and then we’ll take it from there.”

  “Do you think the same person that did this could have tampered with that balcony railing?” Mr. Buttons asked.

  Blake nodded. “It’s definitely possible, but until we have a suspect in our sights, it’s impossible to know for sure either way. I’ll need to speak to Greg.”

  Blake took Greg aside and the two of them spoke. I stood with Cressida and Mr. Buttons as the three of us watched the conversation from afar. Their words were unintelligible at this distance, but I got the impression that it wasn’t a fun chat. Greg threw his arms around, and a deep frown was on his face. Every now and then, Greg yelled. Blake had his back to me, but I could tell that his shoulders were tense.

  “Look at him,” Cressida said. “I understand Greg’s having a very bad time, but he can’t just go around treating everyone like that, simply because he’s frustrated.” Cressida was clearly beyond annoyed at the situation.

  “I feel sorry for him,” I said. “He’s just trying to cope. Then, on top of everything else, his car gets damaged. I hope they catch whoever did it. This is really starting to make me believe that Lisa’s fall was deliberate.”

  Greg hurried to the house, half walking and half running, and Blake headed back to the three of us.

  “It took a bit, but he’s finally calm,” Blake said. “I explained to him what we’ll be testing the car and knife for, and that we’re trying to rule out any possibility that the property damage and death of his wife are related. I feel for the guy. It must be tough to deal with.”

  “I bet,” I added.

  “Well, I’m going to head back to the station and see what’s up. It should only be a few hours or so until we find out if there are any usable prints.”

  After Blake left, I returned to my cottage to fuel with caffeine. “You’re an ugly fool,” my sulfur-crested cockatoo squawked at me as
I walked in the door.

  I pulled a face at him and took him outside. “You’re depriving a village of an idiot,” he said, as I firmly shut the back door on him.

  I switched on my coffee machine, and leaned over it to inhale the heavenly scent of coffee. I had the beginnings of a headache, but nothing that two Nurofen, three cups of coffee, and six large spoons of sugar all up wouldn’t fix.

  I propped myself up on the cushions on my sofa and sipped my coffee. Aha. I sighed blissfully as my caffeine levels rose to the required minimum. My bliss turned to irritation as I thought about my rude, trash-talking cockatoo. He had been such a lovely cockatoo before my horrible ex-husband, Andrew, had taught him to say rude things. What’s more, Andrew had plotted to murder me, and was managing to delay my property settlement from his jail cell.

  My stomach clenched when my phone rang. I jumped and spilled some coffee on my jeans. “Is anyone else dead?” I blurted into the phone.

  “Hello,” a disembodied voice said. “Does your roof need cladding? We have a special on at the moment and can offer you a very good deal. Our product is visually attractive and has timeless appeal, and comes in a range of colors.”

  I groaned. Not another sales call. I tried to interrupt two or three times, but then hung up.

  The phone rang immediately, and this time, I checked the caller I.D. before answering. Cressida.

  “Hello,” I said politely. “I hope this isn’t bad news.”

  “No,” came Cressida’s voice. “Blake’s here, and he’s arrested someone for the vandalism. Do you want to come up?”

  I arrived in the sitting room at the boarding house at the same time as Mr. Buttons.

  “Who did it?” Mr. Buttons asked.

  “Quinten Masters,” Blake said. “He goes by the name, The Environmentalist, online. The guy runs a website that’s dedicated to this sort of thing.” Blake looked around before continuing. “He has a popular blog about the destruction of wilderness areas. The guy’s one of those protesters we keep hearing about, just like I suspected.”