by Adele Abbott
He snorted something under his breath as I began to walk up and down the rows of shelves. They were full of trophies—most of them covered in dust. I was on the point of calling it a day when I spotted it.
“I bought it fair and square,” he insisted.
“Do you know where this came from?” I held up the trophy.
“What do I care?”
“You should care. It came from the human world. I doubt the police would take kindly to you fencing goods from the other world.”
“That’s rubbish. How do you know where it came from?”
“I know because the last time I saw this trophy, it was on top of a filing cabinet in my office in Washbridge. Heard of Washbridge?”
“Nah.” Much of his confidence seemed to have drained away.
“Well, I’ll give you a clue. It isn’t in Candlefield.”
“It’s not my fault. I bought it in good faith.”
“We’ll see if the police agree.”
“Wait! There’s no need to involve the police. Take it! Take it and go.”
“Oh, I’m going to take it all right, but first you’re going to tell me who sold it to you.”
Mrs V almost squeezed the life out of me when I placed the trophy on her desk.
“Where did you find it? Thank you! Thank you so much!”
“One of my contacts tracked it down. I’m afraid the thieves removed the plaque from the base, so you’ll have to get a new one fitted and have the winner’s names engraved again.”
“That’s not a problem. As long as I have the trophy. It’s one-of-a-kind.”
That was true. The trophy had been commissioned specially for the knitting competition. Its unusual shape had made it easy to identify.
“Any news on Blinky?” Mrs V asked.
There was plenty of news on that little monster—none of which I intended to share with Mrs V.
“I’m afraid not. I think he must have run away when the burglars stole the trophy.”
“I hope the little darling is all right.”
“Me too.” The ‘little darling’ wouldn’t be all right when I got my hands on him.
“Don’t be mad at me,” Kathy said.
Her kids were at school and she’d begged me to meet her for coffee. I should have known she’d have some ulterior motive.
“What have you done now?” I said.
“It’s for a good cause.”
“What have you done?”
“You probably won’t win anyway.”
“Kathy! Tell me what you’ve done.” Was there some kind of legal immunity for murdering a sibling? “If you don’t tell me right now, I promise I will kill you.”
“Well.” She took a long drink of coffee. I swear she was doing it on purpose to build the tension. “You know how WAD has been having a hard time of it lately?”
“Who’s Wad?”
“Washbridge Amateur Dramatics of course. Things have been difficult for them—what with the murder.”
“Yeah, I can see how that might have been bad for business, but you still haven’t told me what this has to do with me.”
“Well.” She took another drink of coffee. Surely no court in the land would convict me. “They’ve decided to run a raffle to raise funds for new seating.”
They certainly needed it. “You want me to buy a raffle ticket?”
“I’ve already bought one for you.”
“Fair enough. How much do I owe you?”
“Five pounds, but that’s not what I wanted to tell you.”
“Kathy, you’re doing my head in. What are you going on about?”
“The raffle prize. And, before you go off on one, just remember that your chances of actually winning are remarkably low.”
“It’s not sky-diving is it? I’m not jumping out of a plane for anyone.”
“No, it’s not sky-diving.”
“Or scuba diving?”
“Nothing like that. It’s a date.”
“With who?”
“He didn’t want to do it either, but they bullied him into it.”
“Who didn’t want to do it?”
That’s when the light bulb went on. “No, not—”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You probably won’t win. The odds are astronomical.”
“It’s Maxwell, isn’t it?”
“Do you want a top-up?”
I told Kathy that I didn’t want the raffle ticket, but she’d already bought it in my name. How many tickets were they likely to have sold? Surely the odds of my name coming out of the hat were very slim. There was nothing for me to worry about. Kathy was the one who should have been worried because if mine was the winning ticket, she’d be a dead woman.
I was still seething when I got back to my flat. As I walked from the car, Mr Ivers tried to waylay me. I didn’t bother resorting to magic; I just told him to sling his hook.
Mrs V hadn’t let the grass grow under her feet. By the time I arrived at the office the next morning, a new plaque, engraved with all the previous winners, had been fixed onto the base of the trophy. As I walked through the door, she was busy polishing it.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” She smiled.
“Good as new. Are you sure you still want to keep it in the office?”
“Definitely, and I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve arranged for a man to come in later to fit CCTV in here.”
“I’m not sure I can run to that kind of expense at the moment. Cash flow isn’t great.”
“I’m paying,” she said. “It’s to protect my trophy after all.”
“If you’re sure. I can give you half?”
“I wouldn’t hear of it, and besides I’ve got something to tell you. I hope you won’t be mad.”
“Does it involve raffle tickets?”
“Raffle tickets? No. I’ve asked a few of my friends from the local knitting group to come around later.”
“Here? To the office?”
“Yes. I wanted them to see the trophy. Is that okay?”
“Yes. I guess so. Why not? Are you going to introduce them to Winky?”
She shot me a look.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.”
Chapter 13
As far as the police were concerned, the Digby case was closed. The murderer, Harrison Scott, had conveniently killed himself, saving the tax payer the expense of a trial. So how come I was still working the case? A little voice was niggling at me, that’s why. While I was prepared to accept that Scott might have had a hand in the murder, I simply couldn’t bring myself to believe he’d committed suicide only twenty four hours after I’d seen him.
I had other cases that needed my attention, but I decided to devote one more day to the Digby case. The prop shop owner would probably be back from his holiday, and I had a meeting arranged with Fiona Digby.
‘Mastermind’ was behind the counter at the prop shop again.
“Hello there,” I said.
He clearly didn’t remember me, but then he probably struggled to remember his own name most days.
“I called in the other day.”
“Right.”
“Do you remember you told me you didn’t know nowt about owt?”
“Yeah. I just sell stuff.”
“So I recall. Is the proprietor—err—owner in today?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you get him?”
“Okay.”
It could have been worse. He could have been working with dangerous chemicals.
“I’m Robert Culthorpe.” The owner was all tan, teeth and cheap aftershave, but at least he appeared to have a brain. “How can I help?”
“My name is Jill Gooder. I’m a private investigator. I’m working on the Bruce Digby murder case.”
“I read they’d arrested someone for that. Didn’t the murderer commit suicide or something?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
�
��Sure.” He led me to a small office at the back of the shop.
“I hear you lost your manager,” I said.
“Yeah. Stupid lottery. It’s left me right in the lurch.”
“You still have—” I almost called him ‘mastermind.’
“Norman? Like I said, right in the lurch. Norman’s my sister’s lad.”
That explained a lot.
“His heart is in the right place,” Culthorpe said. “Just a pity his brain isn’t.”
I declined the offer of tea—the mugs looked like they hadn’t seen a sink this side of the millennium.
“I have biscuits.” He offered me the tin—a mix of custard creams and digestives. Tragic.
“No thanks. Have the police been to see you?”
“No, but while I was on holiday, I got a call from them to say they wanted to talk to me when I got back. Then I got another call from them to cancel. I assumed that was because they had their man.”
“Can you take a look at this, please?” I showed him the photo on my phone. Kathy had emailed it to me shortly after the murder. It had been taken during rehearsals and showed Milly holding the knife aloft. “Does that look familiar?”
“Yeah. We supplied two of those knives.”
“Two?”
“They were identical to look at. One fake and one real.”
“Didn’t ordering two knives seem suspicious?”
“Not in the least. It’s common to use a fake and a real dagger in a production. Often the real one will be used in a separate scene—perhaps to stab a table or a door. It adds to the realism.”
“It sounds dangerous to me. Surely there must be accidents?”
“In all my years in the business, I’ve never heard of one. And if the papers are to be believed, this was no accident.”
“Do you remember who bought them?”
“It was a man. Pretty nondescript.”
“Tall? Short? Young? Old? Anything you can give me to go on at all?”
“I do remember one thing about him.”
“What’s that?”
“He was wearing flip flops and had this horrible, gammy toe. I was eating a pot noodle at the time—it fair turned my stomach.”
Despite my initial doubts, everything now pointed towards Harrison Scott. Maybe he’d put on an act when I’d seen him. He was an actor, after all. Perhaps he’d realised it was only a matter of time before the police put two and two together and arrested him.
After what I’d just learned, was there any point in seeing Fiona Digby? What harm could it do? I had a couple of hours to kill first, so I headed back to the office. I could hear the music as soon as I entered the building—Engelbert Humperdinck, if I wasn’t mistaken. As I climbed the stairs, I could hear laughter and raised voices.
‘A few friends from the knitting club’, Mrs V had said. The outer office was standing room only.
“Jill!” Mrs V shouted, as she fought her way across the room. “Come and join us!”
Frank Sinatra began to do it ‘his way’.
“We have sandwiches and nibbles.” Mrs V beamed.
“Where?”
“Next door, in your office. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Where’s Winky?”
“He’s perfectly safe.”
“Mrs V, what have you done with him?”
“I had to. He would have eaten all the food.”
“Where is he?”
“Bottom drawer of your filing cabinet.”
I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of her friends.
As I pulled open the drawer, I braced myself for the inevitable attack.
“Hey! I was sleeping.” Winky was curled into a ball.
“I thought you might want to get out.”
“Why? I like it in here. It’s cosy. Now shut the drawer.”
“Can you breathe?”
“Of course I can breathe. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Sorry.” I slid the drawer closed again.
I grabbed a couple of sandwiches, a sausage roll and a handful of crisps. Back in the outer office, some of the women were dancing to ‘The Twist’. Mrs V was showing off her trophy while giving them a blow by blow account of her victory.
I managed to snatch a quick word with her before I left. I wanted to remind her to let Winky out before she went home. She promised she would, but for peace of mind I decided I’d better double check on my way home.
The Digby house wasn’t huge, but stood it its own grounds surrounded by a high wall.
“Yes?” A female voice came over the gate intercom.
“Jill Gooder, here to see Fiona Digby.”
“This is Fiona Digby. Are you the private investigator?”
“That’s right.”
“I didn’t think you’d bother coming. Didn’t you hear about Harrison?”
“Yes, but I’d still like a word, if I may.”
“Seems like a waste of time.”
“It won’t take long.”
“I suppose you’d better come up then.” She sighed.
The buzzer sounded, and the gate began to open slowly. The driveway led to a small courtyard in front of the house. I parked next to a white van with the words ‘Gemini Carpet Cleaners’ on the side.
Fiona Digby would have been attractive if it wasn’t for her jaw line.
“We’ll have to use the study. I have tradesmen in the living room.” She made the word ‘tradesmen’ sound like an insult.
She didn’t offer me a drink or even ask me to sit down. Her impatience was only too apparent.
“Did you know Harrison Scott well?” I asked.
“Not particularly. I’d met him a few times at the theatre.”
“Are you a member of WADS?”
“Me? No. Bruce was the actor in the family.”
“How did you and Bruce meet?”
She sighed, obviously irritated by my questions. “At university. We both rowed and were involved with Ents.”
“I thought you didn’t act.”
“There’s more to Ents than the thesps you know. Although they wouldn’t agree.”
I glanced at the line of photographs on the desk. “Is that you?”
She picked it up. “Yes, that’s Bruce and I at a rowing competition. He came second in the men’s; I came first in the women’s.”
There was a third person in the photograph.
“Isn’t that Brian Hargreaves?”
“Yes. Dear old Brian.”
“I met him the other day. He said he thought Harrison had killed your husband.”
“He was right then, wasn’t he? Now, if there’s nothing else.”
“Brian told me he was the understudy’s understudy.”
She smiled for the first time. “Yes, poor old Brian. Nice guy, but a bit of a loser. Bruce didn’t have the heart to kick him out of WADS, but he made sure he’d never set foot on stage.”
“Do you have any idea why Harrison Scott killed your husband?”
“You’re the private investigator. Isn’t it obvious? He was jealous. He thought because he’d written the script, that he should take the star role. Jealousy, plain and simple.”
“Would someone really kill for a role in a play?”
“It appears so. The male ego is a terrible thing. Now, I really must get on.”
Chapter 14
I was en-route to Candlefield. When I’d left Washbridge, the sky had been grey and it had been pouring with rain. As soon as I was within sight of Candlefield, the rain stopped, the clouds cleared, and the sun began to shine. If ever there was an argument for moving there permanently, this was it. I had to focus hard on my destination so that the car would know to deliver me straight to Cuppy C where I’d arranged to meet the twins.
Amber was behind the counter when I walked into the tea room. She saw me, and her face lit up.
“Jill! How are you?”
“Ticking along. I see you’ve dyed your hair again.” It was black�
�the last time I’d seen her, she’d been blonde.
“We aren’t talking about that.” She scowled.
“We aren’t? Don’t you like it?”
“I liked it perfectly fine until—.” Her gaze shifted to the table in the far corner of the tea room. “Until she did that.”
I’d assumed Pearl must be in the cake shop. I hadn’t noticed her in the corner, sitting with another woman. And the reason I hadn’t noticed her? Because she too had dyed her hair—black.
“She did it on purpose.” Amber’s voice was much louder now.
Pearl heard her sister, looked up, and saw me. She said a few words to her companion, and then skipped across to join us at the counter.
“Hi, Jill.” Pearl gave me a hug. “What lies is she telling you?”
“I’m only telling the truth.” Amber huffed. “You copied me again.”
“Don’t listen to a word she says. She copied me.”
“That’s rubbish!”
“It so isn’t!”
Oh how I’d missed this. I’d only been in the shop for two minutes, and already the twins were at each other’s throats. Their argument bounced back and forth while I tried to remain neutral.
“I thought of it first!” Amber insisted.
“That’s rubbish. I had mine done first!” Pearl countered.
I was tempted to turn and run for the hills, but I hadn’t come all this way to leave now. I took a deep breath and stepped in between them. “Girls! Please!”
The twins fell silent.
“Thank you.”
“Sorry, Jill,” Pearl said. “It’s her fault.”
“Yours more like.”
“Enough!” I raised my hands. “Can we call a truce at least until I’ve gone? Okay?”
Amber nodded.
“Okay?”
Pearl nodded.
I sighed with relief. “Okay. That’s better. I hope I didn’t drag you away from your friend.” I gestured to the woman who Pearl had been sitting with. The woman, who seemed oblivious to the twins' altercation, was making notes in a small notepad. Even though she was seated, I could see she was incredibly tall. The faux leather cat-suit she was wearing showed off her toned body. She had the look of an Amazon.
“Daze won’t mind.”