by Morgana Best
My plans were thwarted by the arrival of a waitress, who, much to my annoyance, batted her eyelids at Borage. She could barely take here eyes off him. She lingered over his order and scribbled mine down in a rush.
Once the waitress had departed, I launched into my plan. “So, how’s the house selling business going?”
Borage shrugged. “Pretty much the same as usual.”
I nodded, and wondered what to say next.
“Have the police told you anything about Peter Prentiss’s murder?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “No, but they’re not likely to tell me just because it happened in my shop—or rather, next to my shop.”
“Poor Peter,” Borage said sadly.
“Did you know him?”
Borage nodded. “I didn’t know him too well, but now his wife, Paula, has just listed her their farm for sale with me.”
“She’s selling the farm?”
“Yes, I expect she wants to leave town after what’s happened.”
I tapped my chin. “So she’s not looking for a new house in town?”
Borage shook his head. “No, so I think that means she wants to leave town. It’s not surprising, given what happened to Peter.”
“The farm must be worth quite a bit of money.” I said it as a statement, but I was fishing for information. Paula Prentiss was still high on my limited suspect list.
“Yes, but she listed it at the lower end of the value, because she wants to sell it in a hurry, and she said she’ll be quite negotiable about it. She clearly just wants out. I tried to advise her to put a more realistic price on it, but it’s really a fire sale. She just wants to get out of there.”
“I suppose you can’t blame her,” I said.
“That’s for sure!” Borage said fervently. “But the man in the neighboring farm will be mighty pleased when she leaves town.”
That got my interest. “Why?”
“He and Peter didn’t get on at all. They were enemies. They even had a brawl one night down at the pub.”
I moved my spoon to right angles with my fork, and studied it for a while. “Do you think that’s why Paula wants to leave town, because of the neighbor?”
Borage shrugged. “I don’t think so. Come to think of it, it was only Peter who the neighbor didn’t get on with. He might be fine with Paula.”
I stared at my reflection in the spoon. “Do you think he could possibly have murdered Peter?”
Borage at first look startled, but then appeared to consider my question. “My first reaction was no, but then I can’t think of anyone who would want to kill Peter. I suppose the neighbor is as good as any suspect out there. After all, everyone knew that he and Peter hated each other.”
The waiter returned with our plates, and I sighed. Thank goodness I was about to get a sugar hit. Eating chocolate always put my life into perspective. I reached my spoon for the decadent layers of chocolate, when Borage looked over my shoulder, startled.
My first thought was that he was staring at the mystery woman, and was in fact two-timing her, given the alarmed expression on his face. My mother had taught me not to turn around and stare, so I jumped when a firm hand landed on my shoulder. “Miss Myers, we’re taking you in for questioning.”
I turned around to see Detectives Rieker and Clyde looming over me. “But I’m in the middle of dinner!” I protested. “Can’t it wait?”
I had never seen the detectives look so stern. “No, you must accompany us to the station at once,” Rieker said in a stern voice.
“Can’t I just eat my chocolate hazelnut pot first?” I asked him.
By way of answer, Clyde put his hand under my elbow and lifted me to a standing position. “Am I under arrest?” I asked him in alarm.
“Not yet.” Rieker’s voice was stern.
Borage jumped to his feet. “Narel, do you have a lawyer?”
I clutched my stomach. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“Don’t say anything to the police until you have a lawyer,” Borage insisted.
“But I haven’t done anything wrong,” I said again.
Borage shot me a warning look. “You still need proper legal representation. Many an innocent person has gone to jail.”
This was all turning into a nightmare.
“Miss Myers is certainly entitled to a lawyer,” Detective Clyde said to Borage, and then turned to address me. “We have new evidence against you.”
“Against me?” I squeaked.
Both detectives nodded solemnly.
“I’ll have to call my lawyer, but he’s in Sydney. I used him for my settlement.”
“No, you’ll need a criminal lawyer,” Borage said. I noticed that his face was white and drawn and that scared me even more.
“Criminal?” I heard my voice as if it came from miles away.
“Come with us now,” Rieker said, half directing me, half pushing me away from the table. I was mortified. Everyone in the restaurant stopped eating to stare at me.
Borage hurried after us. “Narel, I’ll get you a lawyer.”
All I could do was thank him and let myself be escorted to the waiting police vehicle.
Chapter 10
The first words out of Detective Clyde’s mouth were, “These are serious charges.”
I shook even harder than I was already shaking. “But you said you weren’t arresting me?”
“Not yet,” Rieker said grimly.
Borage said he would get me a lawyer, but the lawyer hadn’t yet arrived. Perhaps Borage hadn’t been able to get one so late at night. I didn’t know what to do. Could I legally refuse to answer the questions? I had thought so, but the police certainly weren’t giving me that impression. I was just so confused and it had happened so unexpectedly that I was in a complete headspin over the whole matter. Besides, how could I say anything incriminating when I hadn’t done anything wrong?”
“What am I supposed to have done?” I asked them. “I didn’t murder Peter Prentiss, so I don’t know how you could say that you have evidence against me.”
Both detectives looked down and thumbed through the stack of papers in front of them. Rieker was the first to look up. “You spent many months in the Cedar Ridge Hospital on the north shore of Sydney. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I said. I wondered where he was going with this. How could that possibly have any connection with Peter Prentiss’s murder?
“Does the name Clint Stockland mean anything to you?”
“No,” I said without thinking, and then I thought it over. No, the name was not familiar to me, not at all. “I’ve never heard that name before,” I added.
“I’m going to ask you again,” Rieker said. “Did you know a man by the name of Clint Stockland?”
Detective Clyde sorted through his folder of papers, selected a piece of paper, and slid it across the desk to me. It was the photo of a man. Clyde jabbed his finger on the man’s face. “Do you recognize this man?”
I hesitated. “He does look a bit familiar,” I said.
Before I could answer, a young man walked through the door carefully balancing two take-out cups of coffee and one glass of water. He set a steaming cup of coffee in front of each detective, and deposited the glass in front of me. I noticed that both detectives looked annoyed by the intrusion, but neither commented.
When the man left the room, Rieker jabbed his finger on the photo once more. “I’ll ask you again, do you recognize this man?” He slid the photo closer to me.
I picked up the photo and stared at it. It certainly did look familiar, but I just couldn’t place the man. “I do think I’ve seen him before, but I don’t remember where.”
“Is that your last answer? Are you sure?” Rieker asked.
“Yes,” I said. I thought I had seen the man before but I had no idea where.
“That man was in an adjoining room to yours when you were at the Cedar Ridge Hospital.”
I looked at Rieker as he said it. So that’s where I’d se
en him before! Aloud I said, “But we never spoke to each other.”
“So you claim that you and this man never spoke?”
“No, I never spoke to him,” I said. “He often walked past me and he always had a police officer with him. What exactly are you accusing me of doing?”
Neither detective answered me, but Rieker countered with the question of his own. “Did you ever speak to Clint Stockland? Was he ever in your room? Were you ever in his room?”
I was now more than a little irritated. “No, I’ve already told you that. I don’t even know him. He once walked past and asked me if I had any cigarettes, and I said that I didn’t smoke, and then the police officer made him move on. That was the only time I ever spoke to him, I’m sure of it. Absolutely positive. So I don’t know what you think I’ve done, but isn’t this what you call circumstantial evidence? Just because I was next to him in a hospital room doesn’t mean I knew him.”
The detectives exchanged glances and I hope they were convinced by my words. However, apparently they were not.
Rieker continued. “And the name Clint Stockland means nothing to you at all?”
I hesitated before answering, because the name did ring a bell. “The name does sound a little familiar,” I said. “I’ll have you know that the doctor said that my memory has been affected by my accident.”
“Save that defense for your trial,” Rieker said, shooting a look at Clyde.
I crossed my arms. “Would you please tell me what you’re accusing me of doing, because I don’t have a clue! I don’t know Clint Stockland and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rieker nodded to Clyde, who spoke. “Clint Stockland is a well known crime boss. He was shot, and that’s why he was in the hospital next to your room. He was in the hospital for a month—a full four weeks. He was not granted bail, and is now in jail.”
“But what does that have to do with me?” I realized I was all but yelling, but I was scared and also irritated by the injustice of it all.
Rieker did not respond.
“But I haven’t done anything wrong,” I said for the umpteenth time. “What is it exactly that you think I’ve done?”
Rieker tapped his pen. “Did Clint Stockland ever speak to you or hand you an envelope?”
I shook my head. “No, I’ve already told you that I don’t know the man. He only ever spoke to me that one time and he never even came into my hospital room. We never had any contact. Why don’t you ask the police officers that were guarding him?”
“He was allowed visitors on occasion,” Rieker said.
“I can assure you that I didn’t ever visit him!”
“The question is, whether one of his visitors visited you,” Rieker said stonily.
I held up my hands in exasperation. “Seriously, I don’t have a clue what this is all about. Would you please tell me what you think I’ve done? I keep asking you, but you won’t tell me. I really don’t have a clue.”
Rieker shot me a look. “We believe that one of Stockland’s visitors slipped you a large sum of money. We have had an anonymous tip to that effect.”
“But that’s nonsense!” I exclaimed. “Nothing like that ever happened! Why would they pay me?”
“Please calm yourself, Miss Myers,” Detective Clyde said.
Rieker continued. “Miss Meyers, see it from our point of view. The only logical conclusion is that Clint Stockland paid you to kill Detective Prentiss. Clint Stockland, a well known crime boss, was ensconced in the room adjoining yours at the hospital for four weeks. Peter Prentiss was the detective leading the case against Clint Stockland. Peter Prentiss was murdered in your store. Are you trying to tell us that was all one big happy coincidence?”
“Not a happy one by any means,” I said, when I had recovered from the shock, “but it is most certainly a coincidence.”
Rieker made a sound between a choke and a rude grunt of laughter. “Oh, come on, Miss Meyers! It will be better for you to come clean now. You’re only making it harder on yourself.”
This was all a nightmare. “Now you two listen to me,” I said angrily. I was completely fed up with the whole situation. “No one ever gave me any money. You don’t have any evidence against me, and I know this for a fact, because I know that I didn’t do it.” I stopped to draw breath, and wondered whether my words had made any sense at all.
Rieker opened his mouth to speak, but just then, an elderly man in a suit hurried into the room. “I’m taking my client with me now,” he said to Rieker and Clyde, “and you had no right to question her in my absence when you knew she was retaining my services.”
Rieker and Clyde were visibly annoyed, but remained silent. I myself didn’t know I was retaining the lawyer’s services, so wondered how the detectives would respond, but they did not say a word.
I stood up, and followed the lawyer out of the room. “Don’t say anything until we’re out of the police station,” he said in a low tone.
I held my breath until I was in the lawyer’s car. He handed me his card. “Here’s my card,” he said, stating the obvious. “If you could come to my office at eight tomorrow morning, I’ll fit you in.”
I nodded. “Thanks so much for getting me out of there.”
He turned to me and smiled. “Borage Fletcher is an old friend of mine. Now what’s your address?”
I told him my address, and thanked him for the ride home. He waved my thanks away. I expected he would add it to the bill, and then some. “They think a crime boss by the name of Clint Stockland paid me to kill Peter Prentiss,” I told him. “It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know if Borage told you, but after my serious car accident, I was in the hospital for months, and for one of those months, Clint Stockland was in the adjoining room. That’s the only evidence they have against me.”
The lawyer nodded. “Yes, it’s circumstantial at best. We’ll discuss it all tomorrow.” He stopped his car in at the front of my house and I thanked him again. I shot a look at his car and realized it was a new BMW Sports. I hated to think what his fees would be.
When I unlocked my door and hurried inside, I was surprised to see Mongrel sitting on the floor, waiting for me. “Oh, so now you have decided to wait for me, have you?” He walked over to me and looked up at me expectantly. I gingerly reached down to stroke him, and he purred. “You’ve come a long way!” I said. “Let’s get you some cat food.”
With that, Mongrel sprinted into the kitchen. He was picking up human language quite well. I walked into the kitchen and got his favorite food and then tipped it into a bowl. I would swear he ate some of it mid air.
I worried what would happen if I was sent to jail. What would become of Mongrel? I could hardly see him going to live with Carl and Carl’s posh, spoiled retired Persian show cat, Louis the Fourteenth. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.
Chapter 11
“What, now?” Carl asked, still groggy. He’d probably fallen asleep, I reasoned, but that wasn’t going to change my mind.
“Yes please, Carl. I’m sorry if I woke you up, but a lot’s happened. I’ve just been at the police station,” I explained. “Can you come over, please?”
“The police station? Oh, no, Narel. What’s happened?” I could hear the concern in Carl’s voice. He suddenly sounded a lot more alert.
“I’ll explain it all when you get here. Thanks, Carl.” I hung up before he could respond. I took a second to control my breathing and sat down, trying not to cry. So much had happened, but being suspected of murder was definitely the worst. A few hours ago I thought that at least nothing else could go wrong, but the universe had sure proved me wrong.
After five or so minutes, Carl suddenly burst through the door, and looked around the room. As soon as he spotted me, he ran over and hugged me, picking me out of the chair to do so. “Ouch, Carl!” I complained.
“Are you okay? Tell me what’s going on!” He put me back on my feet and stepped back, looking me in the eye as he waited for an answer.
&
nbsp; I looked out my window sadly and sighed. “I’m a suspect now, Carl,” I said, fighting back tears.
“I figured as much when you told me you’d been at the station,” Carl admitted. “But why? What made them think that?”
“When I was in the hospital for my surgeries, my room was directly next to a crime boss with plenty of his own motive. That, combined with the murder happening in my store, I guess they just think it’s enough. Enough to suspect me, that is, not arrest me outright,” I said, as the tears formed. “Plus they said they’d had an anonymous tip that Clint Stockland and I were in Peter Prentiss’s murder together.”
“But that’s insane!” Carl snapped. “Did you even talk to that guy, or so much as know he was there?”
“I knew he was there, sort of,” I admitted. “His room was guarded at all times by a police officer, so I figured he was either a criminal or somebody in witness protection, something like that. But no, I never even spoke to him, but they don’t care!” The tears were now flowing freely.
“We’ll figure this out, Narel,” Carl said in a reassuring tone. “I mean, we both know you didn’t actually do it. Wait, you didn’t do it, did you?” he asked, shooting me a concerned glance.
“No!” I said in disbelief. “Of course not! It’s ridiculous. You know I’d never hurt somebody, much less kill them. And if I was going to murder somebody, why on earth would I do it in my own store during a highly public event?”
“Yeah, good point.” Carl sighed. “Just checking. I guess it’s even more pressing that we figure this out ourselves. Even if we can’t catch the real killer, we might be able to find something that points toward another suspect, you know? Something that makes them stop suspecting you.” He shot me an encouraging smile.