by Morgana Best
Aunt Agnes drove us to the police station. She had a tiny blue Mazda. I was sitting in the back seat with the ample figure of Aunt Maude. That, coupled with the fact that Aunt Agnes drove like a racing car driver, made the journey somewhat uncomfortable. The road dropped away sharply at some parts. Sure, this was on the coast, but it was headland country, so it rose and fell. I had spent the entire, mercifully short, journey with my eyes firmly shut and clutching my seatbelt with both hands.
As soon as we arrived at the police station, I looked around for O’Callaghan and was relieved that there was no sign of him. Sergeant Carteron was at the front desk, and he smiled broadly when he saw me. “Well hello, Miss Jasper,” he said, ignoring the aunts. “I’ll just see if the detectives are ready to take your statement now.”
I was first in, and it was over more quickly than I thought, nothing like I had seen on TV. I supposed that’s because I wasn’t a suspect. I figured the detectives had checked with the cab driver and found I had truly arrived in town just prior to the man’s murder, and it would also help that I had been standing with the aunts and Mr O’Callaghan when the body fell through the roof. That meant none of us could be the culprit, although there was always the possibility that one of us was in it with someone else, an accomplice.
I shook myself. That had actually not occurred to me before. What if Mr O’Callaghan had an accomplice? Being downstairs in the lobby when the man fell through the roof would have given him an alibi.
When I returned to the waiting room, Aunt Dorothy was on the edge of her seat. “Agnes is giving her statement now,” she called across the room, seemingly uncaring that every pair of eyes swivelled to her, “and the police found out who the victim was. That nice sergeant just told us.”
I waited, but she didn’t volunteer the information. “Who was it?” I asked her.
“It was the wine scientist at the winery,” she said. “He worked for Henry Ichor.”
“Henry Ichor, the same Henry Ichor who died overseas recently and left his winery to Mr O’Callaghan?”
Both of them nodded solemnly. “The one and the same,” Aunt Maude said.
I tapped my chin. The surname sounded familiar. “Henry Ichor died overseas, and now his wine scientist has been murdered. Do you find that a bit suspicious?”
They looked at each other, and it was obvious to me they were wondering how much they should tell me. That meant that they knew something, and I said so. “Please don’t keep anything from me. I can tell that you both know something.”
“Nonsense, dear,” Aunt Maude said. “If we did, we’d tell you.”
We stared each other down, but she didn’t blink or look away. Finally, I sighed. “Okay, then. I’ve been thinking it over, and I’m wondering if Lucas O’Callaghan had something to do with it.”
Maude’s pencilled eyebrows shot skyward. “How could he? He was with us when it all happened.”
“Exactly!” I said triumphantly. “That gave him an alibi, while his accomplice was up on the roof murdering that poor man.”
Dorothy and Maude exchanged glances once more. “I know you find him irritating, Valkyrie,” Dorothy said in a soothing tone, “but he didn’t murder that man.”
“But you don’t know that,” I said.
“Agnes thinks he might be useful to us,” Maude said.
I was perplexed. “How? How could he possibly be useful to us? Do you mean giving you a discount on the wine?” Before they could answer, I pushed on. “It’s quite suspicious, if you ask me. First of all, that Henry guy is killed overseas, and then Lucas O’Callaghan inherits everything. Then the wine scientist was murdered, right when Lucas was at your house. That can’t be a coincidence. Maybe the wine scientist knew that Lucas killed Henry.”
“Mr O’Callaghan didn’t kill anyone,” Agnes said.
I started, because I hadn’t seen her come into the room, so lost had I been in thought. “Dorothy, it’s your turn to go in now,” she continued.
Agnes took a seat next to me. “I’m not fond of men, but I do think that Mr O’Callaghan can be useful to us.”
“Yes, Aunt Dorothy said you’d said that. Useful in what way?”
Her eyes flickered, and then she said, “Time will tell. Anyway, I invited him for dinner tonight.”
My heart sank.
“You know, I had never met Talos Sparkes,” Aunt Agnes said. “Still, customers wouldn’t normally meet the scientific staff.”
I sat upright. “Was that his name? Talos?”
Aunt Agnes’s brow creased. “Why yes. Did you know him?”
I shook my head. “I’ve just remembered where I’d heard the name Ichor before. Now I see why Henry Ichor named it Ambrosia Winery. I wonder if he was related to Talos? That’s surely too much of a coincidence.”
Agnes and Maude exchanged glances. “I’m at a loss, Valkyrie,” Agnes said. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Ambrosia, of course!” I said triumphantly. Looking at their blank expressions, I pushed on. “Ambrosia was the food of the mythical Greek gods. You know, the legendary food that made them immortal. That’s why Henry Ichor called his winery Ambrosia.”
“I’m still at a loss,” Agnes said. “I thought ichor was a horrible discharge from a wound.”
I shook my head. “In mythology, ichor was the blood of the Greek gods, or immortals in general. It was said to contain ambrosia. Only immortals consumed ambrosia.”
“Oh that makes sense, dear,” Aunt Maude said, although her expression said otherwise.
“And Talos—that name can’t be a coincidence,” I said. “In mythology, he had a single vein filled with ichor.”
Aunt Agnes waved her hand. “I think Henry Ichor was Greek,” she said. “That explains it. He probably employed a Greek wine scientist.”
I shook my head. “I’m sure they were related. Perhaps Talos’s mother was an Ichor.”
“And to think some people said your degree in Classical Literature was useless, Valkyrie,” Aunt Maude said, shooting a look at Agnes.
Chapter 7
I sat in my aunts’ dimly lit office, tapping away at their ancient desktop computer. Thank goodness their internet was fast. Thank goodness they had internet at all! My laptop was still packed, and I wondered whether I should go fetch it. Still, this computer had their passwords stored, and I hoped like hell their passwords were written down somewhere.
Their website simply referred to Mugwort Manor, and did not allude to the fact that they were a Bed and Breakfast establishment. The banner up the top showed the lighthouse, but the lighthouse could not be seen from the property.
As I already knew, there was nowhere to book on the website, and that was something I would have to address in a hurry. I was surprised that anyone had ever discovered the website, but discovered it they had, as demonstrated by the huge amount of reviews, none of them favourable.
The first review had the word ‘avoid’ in capitals three times in a row: AVOID AVOID AVOID. The second review was entitled, A Journey to Hell.
I spent several minutes reading the reviews, cringing as I did so. At least every review admitted that the rooms were clean. Most complained about the eccentricity of the aunts, giving lengthy, and I hoped, exaggerated examples, and most complained that the lighthouse was depicted on the website, but they had to walk for five minutes to see it in person.
Several complained that there was no actual breakfast served, but rather baskets of bread, breakfast cereals, coffee, tea, milk, sugar, cookies, and condiments left for them to prepare their own breakfasts. Several also mentioned that they were not told until after their arrival that breakfast would not be served. More than one reviewer said they had brought up this fact to the aunts, but that they had simply responded that they didn’t do breakfast any more.
I rubbed my temples furiously and then wondered where I had left my Advil. I stood up and stretched, and then made yet another attempt to pull the massive curtains aside. These were heavy burgundy velvet, an
d when I moved them, I was surprised that no dust billowed out. Still, not one review said that the place was dirty.
I had no idea where to make a start in improving the business itself, other than to do a decent website. The other pressing matter was to change the themed cottages. I didn’t know how far I would get with that, given that my aunts were attached to and delighted with the themes. And then there were the finances to address—I shuddered when I thought of going through the accounts.
I sat down and turned my attention back to the website. It was clearly a free one, and displayed copious advertising matter, most of it appearing as pop-ups. To the left of the screen was a big square announcing the day’s weather and date, and then some allegedly newsworthy items from the district. Some of the photos had not loaded and just appeared as squares on the left-hand side of the page and across the bottom.
Mercifully, the address was there, as was the aunts’ telephone number. The bottom of the website was filled with photographs of the area, or so I assumed, given that only the top five had managed to load so far.
I put my head in my hands and groaned. This was an absolute nightmare. I had not been the slightest bit optimistic about what I would find, but this far surpassed my dismal expectations—in a bad way. It was a sad state of affairs, to be sure, and then there was the added problem of a possible murderer about to kill us all in our beds. And as if that wasn’t enough, there was Lucas O’Callaghan who was bizarrely convinced that every woman wanted him.
I stood up and stretched once more, thinking I should go and get ready for dinner. I didn’t want to dress up too much, as I knew what that awful Lucas would think. I giggled as I fancied I should black out my two front teeth just to irritate him.
I went to my bedroom, happy that it was unlocked—though I intended to take my keys everywhere with me for the foreseeable future to be on the safe side—and changed into a long beach skirt and a brief tank top. I decided not to wear any make-up, but after I cleansed my face, I slathered on some tinted sunscreen. It was oil-based and gave me a glow. I wasn’t going to bother with mascara or lip gloss. I’d get a tan soon enough. I tanned easily, but had not spent much of my time in Sydney outdoors. Come to think of it, I had planned to walk along the beach this evening. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. I was instead going to have to spend the evening in the company of the dreadful Lucas O’Callaghan.
I walked down to the dining room, but no one was there. I could hear the aunts chattering away in the kitchen. I crossed to the curtains and drew them open. I didn’t think they had been opened in years, because they were quite resistant to being moved. I decided not to open the sash windows to let in some fresh air, partly because I knew the aunts would only shut them at once, and also because I didn’t know if the murderer was in the vicinity.
The aunts had laid the table beautifully, with a heavy lace tablecloth that looked antique, and fine antique china in a pretty pattern of yellow buttercups. I peeked over the top of the heavy tapestry fire screen to see logs in the fireplace, I supposed simply for decoration as it was the middle of summer. Three yellowing candles sat in each of the two square heavy brass sconces either side of the ornate fireplace, which was white marble with a pair of female marble figures flanking the grate.
A large porcelain vase of fresh flowers sat on a side table, and scented candles sat at intervals down the centre of the dining table. They radiated a strong scent of sweet orange blossom, which all but overpowered the lingering scent of mould that hung unmistakably in the stale air.
I looked down at the ancient antique Persian carpet under my sandaled feet. It had seen better days, as had the rest of the house. Paint was peeling off the walls in several places, creating a kind of eerie silhouette in the dim light. The heavy plaster ceiling was supporting several crystal chandeliers that managed to glimmer beautifully despite the relative darkness.
Several sash windows adorned the walls, each set with solid colour stained glass panels. There were several colours, but they managed to come together in a surprisingly tasteful way, each colour and window complementing the next. It was a nice break from the dreariness of the room.
The chandelier above me tinkled. I spun around. There could be no breeze; the windows were shut. Perhaps it had been a draft down the chimney. There was that fluttering feeling in my stomach again, my right eye twitched, and then the doorbell chimed.
This time, I had no intention of answering it. Let the aunts usher in the insufferable man.
Aunt Agnes and Aunt Maude soon appeared with said insufferable man, along with three other people I hadn’t met, or had even known existed.
“Valkyrie, I’d like you and Mr O’Callaghan to meet our other guests, Paul and Linda Williams, and Marius Jones.”
Linda Williams walked to me slowly and shook my hand. As I was trying to extract it, I looked over and saw that her husband was doing the same to Lucas. Marius Jones stood off in the background, looking sullen. I judged him to be about thirty years of age, and he was muscle bound. My first thought was that he would be able to drag the body onto the roof, if anyone could.
“I didn’t know you had other guests, Aunt Agnes,” I said. “I thought your only guest was Mr O’Callaghan.” As soon as I said it, I remembered that one of the police officers had mentioned guests in passing.
Aunt Agnes did not look the least put out. “Oh, we haven’t had time to tell you, what with everything going on. The three other guests are here for the week, so I thought we should have them all to dinner, to make up for, well you know...” Her voice trailed away.
I didn’t know how any dinner, no matter how sumptuous, would make up for the fact that a murder had been committed where one was staying.
Aunt Maude bustled around, showing everyone to their seats. To my dismay, I was seated opposite Lucas. I regretted not having the presence of mind to discuss the seating arrangements with my aunts first. I looked around wildly for the vase of flowers I had spotted earlier, wondering if I should place it directly between us.
“Mr O’Callaghan has brought us several bottles of his marvellous wine,” Agnes announced to a murmur of approval from all gathered. “Would everyone like some wine?” She whisked the bottle past everyone’s eyes. No one declined, not even the grumpy muscular guy. Agnes duly filled our glasses. There was still no expression on Lucas’s face.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Dorothy said to him.
He looked up from his wine glass, startled.
“I mean the victim, of course. The police told us that he was the wine scientist working for your company, the one you just inherited.”
“Yes. I had never met him,” Lucas said.
“It’s still a terrible thing that happened to him, whether you’d met him or not,” Agnes pointed out waspishly.
The mask was back. “Quite so.”
“Will he be hard to replace? Wine scientists can’t be common.”
“Yes, he will be very hard to replace,” Lucas said in a heartfelt manner. It was the first overt emotion I had heard from him. “He was in fact a distant cousin, but he’d been out of the country for years.”
“Aha!” I said.
“Excuse me?”
I didn’t think the guests wanted to be subjected to a lesson in Greek mythology, so I said, “I’m sorry about your cousin.”
Everyone else murmured their sympathies.
I tried to change the subject from the gloom and doom that had descended over the table. “I’m Pepper Jasper,” I said to the three guests. “I’ll be staying here for some time to help my aunts.”
Linda Williams fixed her gaze on me. I don’t think she liked what she saw. She was short, slender, and pale, and while her features were pleasant, her expression was not. There was something about her that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, neither overtly predatory nor passive aggressive, but perhaps somewhere in between. After staring at me for a moment, she finally spoke. “So you’ll be helping your aunts? You’re not working?”
&
nbsp; I didn’t know if the implication was that I was sponging off my aunts, but I was determined not to take offence. “I’ll be working here,” I said. “I’m going to help my aunts with this business.”
Her husband spoke. “What are your qualifications?” His manner was as unpleasant as his wife’s, if not more so.
I hesitated. “Um, I have an Arts degree,” I said somewhat defensively, “majoring in Classical Literature, and I’ve watched every season of The Hotel Inspector. Every episode.”
A strange sound came from Lucas’s throat. I glared at him, and then turned my attention to the unpleasant couple. “What do you do, Mr Williams?” He wasn’t the only one who could play twenty questions.
“I’m a taxidermist,” he announced proudly.
“Oh.” I could think of nothing else to say. “And you, Mrs Williams?”
“I support my husband,” she said primly.
“Um, that’s nice,” I muttered after an interval.
Aunt Dorothy leaned forward. “A taxi driver, did you say, Mr Williams?”
He straightened in his chair. “No, a taxidermist. I stuff animals.”
No one responded. A heavy silence descended over the table, a silence so thick I could almost reach out and touch it. I fervently hoped someone else would make conversation.
Thankfully, Aunt Agnes did. “What is your line of work, Mr. Jones?”
I expected he would simply grunt, so I was surprised when he said more than five words. “I’m a body builder. My anger management therapist sent me here to the sea, to get away from the whole bodybuilding scene. I mean, it’s a good scene, don’t get me wrong, but I got hooked on steroids. I got so hooked on them that I started dealing in them.” He paused to draw breath, and tapped one of his bulging biceps. “This isn’t natural, trust me. Most of my muscle gain is from steroids.”
“But you’ve given them up now?” I asked, curious in spite of myself, and then regretted speaking when I saw Lucas’s eyes on me. I supposed he thought I would throw myself at Marius.