by Emily Selby
Did he understand?
"Has she been all right?" Now James was speaking. "Other people have told me your wife has been behaving out of character lately."
"She's been stressed with this company business. Worried because Frida wasn’t not running it properly. And that's obviously intensified since her arrival here."
"Didn't she like coming here?"
"Ah no, on the contrary," Mr. Waters replied. "She loved Dolphin Cove and she loved painting. It's just unfortunate that she was such a sensitive person. I told her several times, 'you've done your job, woman. You've reported. Now, let the court do its job.' But she was stressing and fussing. Worrying about the relationship. And then, she started receiving some rather unpleasant comments from Frida ... I mean, Mrs. Doyle."
That was a lot of information. Heather was breathing heavily. It was hard to keep up with two men.
"How long has this been going on for?" James asked.
"Probably since last year. I think it was when she discovered some financial inconsistency in the company's books. She used to help me with accounting, so she knew her stuff, you know?"
James nodded and made some confirming noises.
"It went quiet during the summer but surfaced again probably in September. This was when she decided she wanted to spend some time up north again. The winters down south where we live can be quite harsh."
So, the Waters where from down south.
I wonder where from?
Maybe this was where Josephine knew Mr. Waters from?
"Did your wife make any other complaints? Was anybody else threatening her, wishing her ill?"
"Not that I know of," the man replied smoothly.
Axel barked. James turned around. He smiled seeing her, but the smile disappeared quickly.
He probably realized Heather might have overheard their conversation.
"Just wanted to return Axel,” Heather said brightly, adding some panting. "I've run all the way here." She wiped non-existing sweat from her forehead.
James's smile returned.
"Thank you, Heather." He beckoned Axel, tapping on his thighs. The German shepherd barked again and wagged his tail.
Heather took the cue.
"Glad you two are reunited," she said, adding a smile. "I'd better rush back, I'm supposed to prepare the table for dinner."
She marched back towards the café.
She had a feeling something was wrong with Rose Waters' story.
Josephine was waiting for her in the doorway.
"What did he say?" she asked.
"Who?"
"Jon Waters."
Heather itched to ask a few questions, but her journalist brain sent a warning that this was one of those rare opportunities where Josephine would open up, if she managed the situation correctly.
Heather gave her a brief summary of the conversation she’d overheard on the beach.
Josephine listened, looking over Heather's shoulder toward the sea.
"He's a liar."
"How do you know?" Heather asked.
Josephine glared at her, her face pale and tense. "Just a gut feeling," she said after a long pause. "Come on then, the dinner's getting cold."
This seafood chowder was delicious. Heather cleaned her plate and had a second helping. It was nearly perfect.
It could have only been better, if Josephine was in a more of a chatty mood.
Josephine ate very little and excused herself after a few spoonfuls.
"I'm not very hungry," she said, standing up. "I'll put it in the fridge. If you don't mind, I'd like to use the computer."
The café had a PC in the corner of the main room, between the serving counter and the wall. When Heather first saw it, she thought it might have been borrowed from a museum, or bought at a garage sale. The bulky screen took up most of the space on the small desk.
"Are you sure it's still working?"
"It was when I last checked. It's even connected to the Internet. How else would I have been able to answer your emails?"
"Fair enough," Heather replied. She had brought her laptop, tablet, and obviously her cell phone, which she used to access the Internet. Josephine was still using a feature phone, which, to Heather's biggest annoyance, she refused to carry everywhere with her. Heather hadn't seen any electronic devices in her sleep-out either.
"Go ahead, use it. I'll clean up after dinner," Heather offered.
Heather did as she said and headed for the staircase. She grabbed the banister and glanced over her shoulder. Josephine was still hunched over the keyboard, staring at the tiny screen.
Heather would love to have crept up and taken a look at what Josephine was reading, but it didn't seem right. She climbed the stairs.
Back in her bedroom she tried ringing James, but he didn't answer.
She texted him: "I think you've arrested the wrong person. Frida is not murdering type."
She pressed 'Send', and grabbed The Name of the Rose from the bedside table but put it straight back down again.
Life was stranger than fiction today.
9
Heather awoke the following morning with a deep sense of unease. Things were not going right. Rose was dead, poisoned in a hut not even a hundred yards away from the café. Frida - her future business partner in a new venture meant to revitalize not only her dying café, but also the rest of the town, had been arrested.
But as far as Heather could tell, Frida was not guilty. The real killer was still free.
She checked her phone but there was no message from James. She'd have to ring him. But first, she needed to find a way to present her opinion to him. The last time she tried to convince James to change his mind about a suspect, it had all fallen flat. She needed to be better prepared this time.
Coffee was a must.
With the coffee maker babbling away on the counter, Heather sat at the table. The little black cat brushed against her calf. She picked up the animal and stroked the soft, silky fur. The cat purred.
"Josephine needs to give you a name," she whispered.
The cat meowed and wriggled from her grip.
"I'm glad we're in agreement," Heather added, setting the animal down. "Hungry?"
The cat trotted towards his bowl. Heather followed. She went through the motions of rinsing and refilling the bowl with fresh cat food on automatic. By the time, she finished, the coffee maker spat out the last drop of its life-restoring brew.
Heather poured herself a mug and took a sip. A few more and her brain should return to its normal, sharpish form. Usually, it needed a second cup.
Then, and only then, could she face her first intellectual task of the day: the argument against arresting Frida Doyle.
But somewhere halfway through the first top-off, her phone bleeped with a message from James.
"Strangely enough, you're right. If you're up... for it and fancy a walk on the beach, join us."
Heather jumped to her feet.
What was she 'strangely enough' correct about? On top of that, James was inviting her to join him for a walk, which should have been good news, but a mixture of confusion and ... worry filled her chest.
She topped off her mug and slipped on her sandals. Drinking coffee on the beach during a morning walk had become, completely unintentionally, her favorite form of morning exercise.
Heather headed outside.
The sky was already bright, with the sun above the horizon. The clouds suggested the morning would be chilly. The palm trees in the distance were still - at least no wind.
She jumped off the terrace onto the cool, rough sand - the remains of yesterday's activity around the house.
I wonder how Josephine slept with the new windows in place.
Heather waded through the sand, heading towards the shoreline. She looked around, trying to guess in which direction James might have traveled.
To her right, the bay shimmered in the distance. On the left, the row of pastel huts was broken with the slashes of yellow "Crime
Scene" tape.
At least, she knew that the police were treating Rose's death as a murder now. She pulled her phone and pressed James' number, which was probably the easiest way to find him.
"Morning, Heather, where are you?"
"By the crime scene. And you?"
"A minute away. See you soon," he replied and disconnected.
Axel jumped out from behind the little wooden structures and ran up to her. Heather raised her arms. Axel was about half her size and with so much bouncy energy he could easily knock her off her feet.
"Axel, stop!" James' voice cut through the sound of the wave crashing into the beach.
Fortunately, the German shepherd obeyed.
"How old is he?" Heather asked, when the owner of the dog and the lovely, deep baritone appeared from behind the nearest hut.
"He's only three. Still practically a puppy. He's got so much energy. That's why I'm forced to take such long walks on the beach at various times of the day and night," James replied. He smiled after he finished, but his face had a greyish tone. The wrinkles around his eyes were more pronounced than she’d ever seen them, and his cheeks looked hollow.
"Did you sleep well?" Heather asked.
"Nope. Had a bit of a work night, to be honest."
"What's happened?"
"Had to go back to the office. The autopsy results were in."
"And?" Heather asked, watching him closely.
He looked away, his shoulders hunched.
"She wasn't poisoned."
Heather blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"She died unexpectedly, but it wasn't poison that killed her," James said, still looking away.
"And definitely not laxatives?" Heather asked.
She had to have it cleared once and for all, so that she could finish with her bathroom jokes.
Cleared! What were you thinking, Heather?
James gave her a strange look.
"Definitely not. Why did you even think that?" he asked.
Heather bit her lip. Bathroom humor aside, she had a feeling that her doubts had something to do with it.
"I'm not sure. Still trying to figure it out," she said slowly. "But what killed her then? Was she sick?"
"Not really. She was a fairly healthy person. A yoga fanatic, maybe a little stressed lately."
"I knew tha-, I mean!" Heather stopped wheezing in a breath. She failed at finding an alternative phrase to cover her blunder.
James raised his eyebrows.
"What were you trying to say?"
"The stress... I've heard she's been increasingly argumentative and not sleeping very well," Heather added.
Thank goodness, she remembered the chat with Frida!
On the other hand, she might need to admit she'd overheard the conversation with Jon Waters...
But maybe not now.
"Yes, apparently, the husband worried a little about it, but she reassured him it was all to do with the ongoing stress related to the company issues."
"Ah, okay," Heather said, completely unconvinced. This didn't add anything new to her puzzle. "So, what did kill her?"
"That's part of the problem. The ME, medical examiner, can't find anything specific. There might have been some heart fibrillation, a disturbance of heart rhythm, but she can't find a cause."
"No previous history?"
"Not really, although, having heard about the results, the husband remembered that Rose had complained of palpitations. He dismissed it as stress-related."
"Could they have been...?"
James shrugged. "Could have or not. The forensic team are running more tests but, so far, definitely not poison, or at least nothing of the type we found in her paints."
Heather sipped on her coffee. It was growing colder by the second, but she needed more clarity, because all this was making as much sense as Josephine's behavior yesterday.
"Why would anyone put poison, let alone the ... other thing into the paints and then, what? Dipped her finger in it and pressed against her lips?"
James arched an eyebrow.
"That's exactly what the ME suspects. How did you come up with that? Did Frida tell you?"
"No, she didn't. Was it her who mixed the paints?"
Heather didn't like that thought.
"She only admits to adding the laxatives, which was meant to be a joke. It was her a little revenge, she was hoping to send Rose back home and never wanting to return."
"Clever plan," Heather gasped. "Food poisoning. That might have put Rose off coming back again any time soon."
James nodded. A sparkle of appreciation glowed in his eyes, but the overall expression on his handsome face was still one of worry.
"Okay, so Frida did something silly and stupid, but did she add the poison to the paints?"
"She denies it. We only found Frida and Rose's fingerprints on the pots and all the other painting gear in the hut. We've excluded yours, but nothing else."
"What do you think happened."
"Stress, poor sleep, excitement, her heart stopped beating. Probably just accidental death," James explained, his voice sounding flat.
"What's going to happen now?"
"We released Frida last night. I think I may need to rethink my position."
"On the crime?"
"On my involvement," he said quietly.
Heather's heart flipped.
"What are you talking about?" she said, her voice sounding sharp.
"I might have jumped to far too many conclusions far too early. I've arrested an innocent person without sufficient evidence of the cause of death. I need to take a step back."
Heather shook her head long and hard. Her curls spilled on her face.
"No, no, no, sir! You are so not stepping back," she raised her voice. "Who else is going to find out what happened if not you? You've got enough experience to know that sometimes appearances can be deceptive. You're also aware that at a certain level of expertise we know things without being able to put our finger on what it is that makes us believe it is the right thing to do. It's called unconscious competence. It means you're using your gut feeling – your intuition – rather than just cold analysis to approach this case."
James folded his arms across his broad chest.
"And how exactly does that work in this scenario? I've screwed up. I arrested an innocent person, suspecting murder, but a murder method cannot be found. Huh?"
Heather clasped her hands. If she could only explain what she meant by unconscious competence, she'd know how to resolve the silly doubt tugging in her gut right at that moment.
"I'm struggling with it as well. I think this is murder. Someone wanted Rose Waters out of the way badly enough to stage this very cleaver murder to appear as accidental death."
"You seem more convinced than me, let alone my ME. Why?"
Heather drained the rest of the coffee. It was already cold and tasted salty. Some of the seawater must have sprayed into it.
Heather looked at the sky above the vast swathe of the Pacific Ocean to her right. It was darkening again. She needed to run back to the café before it started pouring again.
She had a hunch that she ought to talk to Josephine. About her strange trip to the beach in the night, and her ongoing strange behavior. And particularly her comment about Rose's husband.
"Josephine insists that Rose's husband is a liar and she hinted at the fact he might be dishonest," Heather said hesitantly.
Yeah ... it might have been something around that, as the tugging sensation in her gut intensified.
"His alibi has been confirmed. He definitely out night fishing with his friends. They all confirm it. His car was parked in front of their lodge all night. We have the CCTV recording."
Heather shook her head again.
"Then, I don't know. But I will figure it out. I'll let you know"
She turned and walked back toward the café, just in time to avoid Axel jumping into the sea, making a big splash.
She had to tal
k to Josephine, and immediately.
10
Heather rushed back to the café. To her relief, Josephine was already up milling around in the kitchen looking as if she was getting ready to leave.
"Morning Josephine," Heather greeted her. "Are you off out for a morning walk?"
"Hi, Heather. Actually, I was thinking of doing just that. Is it cold outside?"
"You've been doing a lot of morning walks lately," Heather ventured. She stood in the doorway in case Josephine tried to sneak past without answering some of the questions she had in mind.
"Have I?" Josephine replied.
Although her voice sounded carefree, Josephine's jaw was set – a sure sign she had become cautious.
"And you went out that night, when Rose was killed." Heather said, carefully studying Josephine’s reactions.
The older lady crossed her arms. "I was on a walk. I couldn't sleep."
"Before dawn?"
"Yes, is that a crime?"
"No, but not disclosing all information to the police is. Particularly if they’re investigating a murder."
Josephine stood with her hands on her hips.
"It is not a murder. They're releasing Frida. Didn't your fancy man tell you?"
Heather's face burned. She squeezed the mug she was holding, but she forced herself to stay on topic and not let Josephine distract her from her goal.
"He's not my 'fancy man,'" she fired back. "But let's not muddle things. What's going on, Josephine?"
"What you mean?"
Heather pressed her back against the door and steadied her breath. She needed all the clarity she could muster so early in the day.
"I know the police think it was just an accidental death. They can't identify what killed Rose, but I think she was murdered. Someone wanted Rose Waters out of the way. In my opinion, there are a few pieces of information missing and, somehow, you’ve given me the impression you know something that can help."
Josephine's nostrils flared. She folded her arms.
"All right, Mrs. Nosey," she said slowly. "I'll tell you, but you may need to grab yourself another drink. I'll definitely need one."
Heather pushed herself away from the door. She didn't need another invitation to pour herself more freshly-brewed coffee. While Josephine prepared herself a cup of tea, Heather added fresh coffee and some water to the machine. A couple of minutes later, both women, holding steaming mugs, sat at the table.