Silver Lake Cozy Mystery Bundle

by Hugo James King

  “Nabbed this,” she said, placing the plate beside the two coffee cups. “It was probably going out for the morning.” She turned, startled in her steps back to see the boy almost a foot taller than her.

  “You want to know more about what happened?” he asked.

  “Thank you.” I nodded. “Please.”

  “I’ll leave you to it.” Sandra shuffled away.

  His name was Christopher Jackson, a university student from a nearby university. Apparently, most of them were, and this was a weekend job they all took up to earn a little extra cash.

  “It was Daniel’s idea,” he said, nodding to the boy with the scald on his hand. “We’ve done three of them, this is our fourth,” he continued. “None of us have ever been shouted at, everyone is usually really nice, friendly people. None of them want to talk with the police, but I want to clear my name, because I know he shouted at me, and the woman said, you were helping out.”

  “We are, we are,” I said, pulling my coffee cup to my lips.

  It was clear none of them had anything to do with this.

  “Do you have any idea who it was, or are you still talking to people?”

  Ruth nodded, humming through her nose. “We’re still talking to people,” she said. “There’s so many people here.”

  “I wasn’t the only person he shouted at,” he said, “one of the guys, they heard a conversation he had on the phone, he was outside, and he was shouting.”

  “What did he say?”

  Christopher quickly glanced behind, over a shoulder to look at the others. They were glaring his way, I hadn’t noticed. He was being watched, for fear he’d say something, perhaps.

  “They’re worried,” he said on his return. “They don’t want anyone to get in trouble.”

  “What did they hear?” Ruth pressed.

  “Something about, you can’t prove it, and I’ll have the last laugh.” His brow creased with concentration. “I mean, I don’t know, but something like that. Whatever it was, he seemed already angry before I smashed the bottle near him.”

  There was one thing the people inside this room didn’t know about yet, and that was the note found on the body, they didn’t know this had been planned, and clearly Finley was fighting it.

  Perhaps he knew just who it was, perhaps they were closer to him than we knew.

  “Eve? Ruth?” a familiar voice haunted me back from my thoughts.

  Paul stood across from us in the kitchen, biting his tongue and mouth shut.

  He had told me I could look into this; I hoped that wasn’t his problem.

  “Having a coffee, Paul, want one?” Ruth asked, holding her cup high.

  In his approach, he looked over the boy standing in front of us.

  “This man will take your statement,” I said with a nod from Paul to Christopher. “Tell him what you told us.”

  “Wait. What?” he mumbled, confused as he looked around.

  TWELVE

  Out in the ballroom, they’d cut lights to the stage, letting the overwhelming orange and purple from the lamplights and sconces do all the work.

  It was clear, the entire hall had been separated into two, those who had been talked to, and those still waiting to say their piece to an officer, and have their official statements written down, or perhaps just throw someone under the bus because nobody was safe around here while there was still an unsolved murder.

  Cradling my coffee cup in hand and Charlie hot stepping at my side, we walked through the ballroom to the front of the hall back to our table.

  “Wonder what happened to him?” Ruth mumbled, planting her cup on the table.

  I looked around, the men behind us were gone. They must’ve been in one of the two piles of people, left and right. “Who?”

  At the table beside us, Diane’s eyes were closed and her arms folded at her chest. Patrick tapped away heavily on his phone, the intense white glare reflected back on his face.

  “Spencer,” Ruth said.

  The stage was empty, even the jazz band had been removed, but their instruments remained.

  Charlie rubbed by my leg as he settled beneath the table once again.

  “Let me ask,” I said with a nod.

  Patrick was brought out of his daze, after staring at his phone, his body gave a shake at the sight of me.

  “What happened?” I asked, gesturing with a hand to the stage.

  “They took him to hydrate,” he said. “How come you’re not with everyone else?”

  “We were in the kitchen,” I said. “I needed a coffee.”

  He nodded to Diane. “Think I should get her one as well,” he said. “You know she didn’t want to let you go, she complained about how she’d have to hire some fresh-eyed university students who’d need to be cradled and handheld.” He scoffed through his nose.

  “She pushed me to leave,” I said.

  He laid his phone flat on the table. “I didn’t give her much choice,” he said. “You, being older, you’re like some investigative aunt.”

  It beat being an agony aunt, a job I’d loathed—and loved. “I noticed.” People were trusting of me because of my age, they warmed to me, unlike they would someone in a uniform who carried around a thick black notepad, and their nose scrunched and stuffed into the air—oh, now I was describing Paul.

  “Have you spoken with the police yet?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did.”

  He turned his head slightly. “Everyone to the right has spoken to them as well,” he said. “Everyone is out to write their piece on this night, and if you want your first article to come out with a bang, then you should think about what you’re going to say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These people are all involved in publishing, by tomorrow, or Monday, everyone is going to have their pieces lined up and ready to hit the shelves.”

  I nodded. “I don’t really want to be known as the woman who keeps finding dead bodies.”

  “You didn’t find this one,” he said with a wink. “Just so happens you were here when it was found.”

  He had a point. My ego wasn’t so far grown, I didn’t quite believe myself to be someone who was always finding dead bodies anyway. There’d only been two of them, and those were months ago.

  “So, I think you should go join everyone else and see what you can find out,” he said. “I’m sure Suzanne is all over this.”

  “Well—what?”

  He snickered. “Diane told me about how you two never got along.”

  A snoring snort came from Diane as her chin dipped to her neck.

  “Then I should go and see what everyone else is saying.”

  The fire was lit. It was on.

  Back at the table, I grabbed my cup of coffee and pulled the strap of my handbag onto my shoulder from the back of the chair, leaving my shawl on the seat. “We’re going over there,” I told Ruth.

  She smiled. “What did you find out?”

  “About?”

  “Spencer.”

  “He’s being treated for dehydration, and probably drinking too much.” I chuckled. “Some irony there.”

  Charlie’s head popped out from beneath the table; ready to chase after us wherever we went. It was probably safer for him if he wasn’t around so many unstable bodies or feet, but I couldn’t take him to the room upstairs—we weren’t allowed to leave.

  Clipped phrases came as we grew closer.

  “—he invested—”

  “—an actual plague—”

  “—wouldn’t kill him—”

  “—helped us out—”

  “—seed money—”

  Drunken people continued on their spates, talking to each other, laughing loudly. I stayed on the outsides of the people, with Ruth and Charlie, mainly for fear someone would bump into me and knock my coffee, or worse, stand on my poor beagle.

  “It’s you!” a brash voice chuckled.

  James, or Jim, one of the two brothers stood before me. His beer glass almost empty
. The other brother arrived seconds later.

  “You don’t know where the waiters are, do you?” Jim, the wobblier of the two brothers asked as he looked around.

  “Think they’re being questioned,” Ruth said.

  “Sure they’ll be out soon,” I replied.

  “Think we’re all the ones they talked to,” James said. “They should’ve done the waiters first, that way we could at least keep our glasses full.”

  Perhaps that was the problem.

  Charlie yapped at the men, their voices were louder with every passing word.

  “Aw, look!” Jim said. “He’s got a little bowtie.”

  I handed Ruth my cup and squatted to pick Charlie. “I’m surprised he’s not itched it off yet.”

  Both men clinked glasses. “Cheers to that,” they said. As if anything and everything was a cause for celebration, I wondered if they’d done the same after news of Finley’s death was revealed. I probably knew this already happened.

  “I’m surprised everyone is still drinking,” I said.

  They shrugged it off. It was a party after all.

  “From what we heard, Finley’s death means some of the companies he’d invested in are looking at a nice chunk of their business back,” James said. “He didn’t invest in us, but I know he loaned seed money out to a number of companies. I mean, people not here, but we advertised for them, they hired us through him.”

  “I can see why someone would do it,” Jim added, “but personality aside, he was a numbers man.”

  “So, why did you stop working with him?”

  James scoffed. “He stopped working with us.”

  Ruth tutted. “That must’ve really annoyed you.”

  I could see what she was getting at. “I know I’d be annoyed.”

  They clinked glasses once again, except, neither of them had anything left to drink.

  “Not at all,” James said. “It was a blessing. We worked for him under contract, he had our services, and his companies too, now we’re not being screwed out of money we could get from doing business our way.”

  Jim nodded along to what his brother was saying. “That’s why we’re working with Hastings Powell Publishing,” he said. “They run a better business.”

  “But, we’ve got to give him credit,” James added. “Finley put us in contact with Patrick.”

  Seemed he had a hand in everything and everyone’s business.

  In the darkness, from the stage, a thump came at the metal of the microphone.

  “I have a confession to make,” the low voice sobbed.

  Heads turned.

  In the pitches of darkness, there was only a moving shadow.

  “I—I—I killed him.”

  Dun.

  A white light flooded the stage from overhead.

  THIRTEEN

  Spencer Mortimer. Stood with his shirt dishevelled; half pulled from the waist of his trousers, and half tucked in. His tie swung loosely around his neck, as if replicating the noose he’d created from his words.

  Heavy footsteps of police officers drummed across the wooden ballroom floor, filling in the quiet of where people stood in shock from the news they’d heard.

  Spencer Mortimer had killed Finley.

  “I did it!” his voice shouted. “I was angry.” His fingers curled hard around the microphone. “I killed him. I—I—I—” he dropped to his knees, sobbing. “I killed him.” The microphone echoed in its beat against the stage, whacked once, twice, thud travelled through the speakers. “I did it.” His voice, barely audible from the tears.

  Three Hours Earlier

  Before Finley’s Murder

  I stretched my legs and walked around the hall with a glass of champagne in hand. It was the last work event I’d attend, or perhaps the last time I’d be working with Diane. I needed the moment to take everything in.

  Ruth walked at my side, and Charlie between us.

  “Eve, Eve,” a man called out.

  I turned to see a familiar face, but equally strange to see in the moment.

  I squinted. “Sorry.”

  “Spencer,” he said, holding out a hand. “I saw you earlier, you gave me a weird look.”

  Without accepting it, I nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Spencer Mortimer?” Ruth said, tapping my arm. “Haven’t seen you around here in what—” she chuckled, pretending to look at a watch on her wrist. “Several years.”

  “Moved up north,” he said. “The missus wanted us to be closer to her family in the Yorkshire Dales.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. “I remember you.” I also remembered he didn’t attend my Harry’s funeral.

  “Sorry about Harry,” he said. “I was—I—I—you know, it’s difficult.”

  I didn’t need his answers or anything else he was saying. It was five years ago, and I didn’t need reminding of everyone there, and everyone who decided not to turn up.

  “So, I heard about Gilbert,” he mentioned.

  Gilbert’s death had happened at the tail end of January.

  My brow winced together. “Were you part of that group?” I knew I’d seen the list of names, but I couldn’t recall of them in the moment.

  “No, no, no.”

  “Did you know Gilbert?” Ruth asked.

  He shook his head. “Never had business with him, never wanted to do business with him, not after everything I heard.”

  “Well, the man’s dead,” I said. “And it’s best not to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Even if they weren’t saints,” Ruth smirked.

  “I wasn’t close to many people, but I did help Harry when I lived locally,” he continued. “Setting up his charities, it was something we also used to help out with, you know, for taxes,” he chuckled.

  A fair assessment.

  “Do you have any children now?”

  He shook his head. “We tried. But we’re happy enough.” He turned slightly, locking eyes with a man at a table. Finley Carson, the man I’d been warned had to stay away from most everyone at the event. “Can’t believe they invited him.” He turned back and pressed the rim of the glass to his lips, chugging down the rest of the champagne.

  “Looks like he’s had enough to drink,” I mumbled back, closer to Ruth’s ear.

  “Maybe we can put him in a taxi and send him home,” Spencer chuckled.

  Perhaps they could, I thought.

  * * *

  Tugged at my arm, Ruth pulled me out of my thoughts. Pulled me out of replaying the moment we’d been speaking with Spencer and his reaction to seeing Finley. I didn’t want to believe it, I didn’t want to think any of it was true.

  “Think they’re going to arrest him,” she said.

  Of course, they were, the man had confessed.

  I watched as officers stormed the stage, handcuffs ready to grab at his wrists.

  Paul was quick to the scene, rushed through the crowd of people as a police officer read Spencer his Miranda rights.

  “I think that’s what he was going to do earlier,” I said, recalling when he’d taken to the stage before falling from dehydration.

  “I knew he was on the list,” Ruth said, “but now I’m interested to find out what poison he used. My bets are on thallium, which could make sense, if it was done before the event, that stuff takes a couple hours to kick in.”

  “Was that one of the poisons Frank said?”

  She nodded back.

  Spencer was hauled up to his feet with his hands cuffed behind his back, appearing like a marionette and the officers’ arms over his body were the strings. They tugged him in a singular direction, off the stage; down the steps, and most probably into the back of a police car.

  Paul approached me with a huge smile. “Done and dusted,” he said, smacking his hands together while he held his notepad. “If he’d have done that earlier, we could’ve all been on our way to having a nicer evening.”

  My eyes glanced to the side of Paul, watching Patrick as he nudged at Diane’s sleeping
body, still seated upright in her chair, unphased by the entire commotion.

  “Glad it’s over,” I said. “But—” I bit my tongue lightly. “What happens now?”

  “We get a confession written down.”

  “And ask him what poison was used,” Ruth added. “I’m sure you will, but if it is thallium, you should probably make sure it’s not lying around anywhere. That stuff is toxic.” Ruth shuddered.

  Paul nodded. “We will make sure to find out what it was he used, and whether or not he planned on using it on anyone else,” he said. “After he fainted earlier, I’m wondering if he dosed himself too.”

  “No,” I gasped.

  “It’s only a theory,” he said. “But, right now, we’ll be letting everyone free to enjoy the celebrations and once the body is taken, we can lift the lockdown as well.”

  I nodded along to what he was saying. “You should probably tell Diane and Patrick,” I said, nodding to them as Diane’s squinting eyes glared in my direction, watching me speaking with Paul as if I was privy to all the details of the investigation—which, I wasn’t.

  As Paul turned to inform Diane and Patrick, a huge sighing tut came from the back of Ruth’s mouth. She shook her head and butt her lips together.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I want to know why he did it,” she said.

  “I’m sure we’ll find out.”

  She shook her head again. “You don’t remember him, but Spencer and his wife were friends of Frank, and whenever I saw him, he didn’t seem like someone to get upset over business.”

  “Might not have been business.”

  “His wife?”

  “You heard what he said?” I asked. “He was angry.”

  She scoffed. “It’s been a long evening.”

  “They never had children, they moved away.”

  “So, she was having an affair?”

  If Finley had been the one she was having an affair with, it would’ve been much more plausible to believe this was the reason he killed him. Rather than bad business, unless their business went south when the news of an affair broke.

  FOURTEEN