Death at the Cafe

by Alison Golden

  Mary allowed herself a brief sigh of relief. “Let’s just go somewhere safe.”

  “I’ll take you to my church. We’ll call DI Cutcliffe on the way.”

  Shaking with nerves but somewhat eased by Annabelle’s firm presence, Mary allowed herself to be taken all the way to Old Street Station, where they left the train and made their way up the escalators to the many exits.

  As soon as they emerged into the bright daylight, Annabelle pulled out her phone and foraged in her pockets for the card that DI Cutcliffe had given her.

  “Blast! I’ve lost the Inspector’s number!” she said.

  “No need,” uttered a rough voice behind her.

  Annabelle and Mary spun around and saw DI Cutcliffe standing feet away, two of his officers standing behind him as if flying in perfect formation.

  “Detective!” Mary explained, with relieved surprise.

  “We have to tell you something, Inspector.”

  Cutcliffe raised a broad hand to stop them. “There will be plenty of time for that,” he said, in an even firmer, more authoritative, and antagonistic tone than the one he usually used. Annabelle and Mary looked at each other curiously.

  “Mary Willis. Annabelle Dixon,” he continued, as his officers stepped forward. “I am arresting you on suspicion of murder and burglary. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you fail to mention when questioned anything which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ANNABELLE STARED IN disbelief as one of the officers stepped forward, gently pulled Mary’s hands away from her face, and placed her in handcuffs. The other officer placed his hand around Annabelle’s wrist, but instead of complying absently as her friend had done, Annabelle furiously shook away his grip.

  “This is utterly, astoundingly, unbelievably preposterous!” she shouted incredulously. “What on earth are you thinking, Inspector?!”

  DI Cutcliffe snorted derisively.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking earlier, allowing both of you to walk away from two separate crime scenes. My instincts were wrong on this one.”

  Once again, Annabelle shook away the young officer’s attempt to place her in cuffs and shot him a glare so defiant that he looked to the detective for advice. Cutcliffe merely scowled and nodded for him to try again with more force.

  “And what, may I ask, has caused this sudden turnabout? This incredible bout of folly, Inspector?”

  Cutcliffe didn’t balk from the indignation in Annabelle’s tone.

  “The right information, at the right time, from the right person,” he said, cryptically.

  Annabelle stared back in disbelief. The young officer moved forward, hoping to catch Annabelle in this stunned moment. Instead, Annabelle’s eyes squinted, and her almost perpetually gentle, caring face stiffened into a look of determination.

  And then she ran.

  The Inspector had seen many strange things in his decades of service, from an elderly lady who suffered from dementia eventually turning out to be the head of a crime syndicate, to a man who stole shop mannequins by carrying them outside as if they were his girlfriend. The sight of a five foot eleven, sturdily-built, and typically bashful vicar, sprinting out into the street, cassock flying behind her, was an entirely new occurrence, however. She had all the ferocious acceleration and natural grace of a gazelle. He watched for a few seconds, frozen by the complete strangeness of seeing Annabelle weave between moving traffic, before setting off himself.

  “Take her to the station!” he commanded the officer next to Mary, before turning to the other. “You come with me!”

  By the time DI Cutcliffe and his fellow officer had set off, Annabelle had already made it to the other side of the street. She bombed forward with long, powerful strides and a stiff back, screaming polite requests as she ducked and dived through the dumbfounded crowds.

  “Excuse me!”

  “Sorry!”

  “Move, please!”

  “Vicar coming through!”

  Cutcliffe and his companion did their best to keep up with Annabelle, but after a minute of full-on sprinting, Cutcliffe doubled over to catch his breath.

  “You okay, Chief?” his officer asked.

  “Has she been drinking holy water or something?! How the hell is she so fast? Get after her!”

  The officer immediately broke into a sprint, with Cutcliffe huffing and puffing behind him.

  “Stop that woman in the dog collar!” he screamed.

  Annabelle reached a corner that led into a marketplace, swung her head from side to side with all the perspicacity of a guard dog, then burst forward once more between the market stalls of fruit and vegetables. Shoppers and stall owners, their heads snapping from side to side as if watching race cars at a race track, looked on in awe as the galloping vicar, followed by the policemen, raced past them.

  Though the detective, and indeed, the onlookers themselves were surprised by the Reverend’s extraordinary pace, Annabelle herself was not. As the tallest girl in her year for most of her school life, Annabelle had developed a slight self-consciousness about standing out. She stood with a slight hunch or a bended knee to lower herself and always preferred sitting rather than standing when around her group of friends. When it came time to do sports, however, Annabelle relished her large physique. Field hockey, long-distance running, netball, or volleyball – Annabelle took to them all like a duck to water and gained plenty of self-confidence in the process. Though it wasn’t long before her love of cakes outweighed her love of winning matches, the endeavors of her youth had left their mark, and she retained a natural athleticism she could call upon when the situation demanded it.

  As the chase continued, the young officer cleverly cut a corner by sidling between two market stalls and gained some ground on the runaway Reverend. After a few more yards of sprinting, he had her in his sights and was ready to catch her as soon as the opportunity presented itself. His plan became unnecessary, however, as suddenly, Annabelle flew through the air as if she were an angel spreading her wings about to rise toward the heavens, her arms outstretched in front of her.

  “Geronimo!” she screamed, as she clattered into the mass of shoppers like a bowling ball into skittles.

  The officer quickly darted back into the street and ran through the crowd toward the fallen vicar, followed seconds later by DI Cutcliffe.

  Annabelle was sprawled on her stomach on the pavement, surrounded by shocked observers with barely a closed mouth among them.

  “What the hell are you playing at!?” cried the Inspector once he had caught up. He leaned over the cassocked figure.

  Annabelle rolled over onto her back, revealing the person she had crashed into and had been lying on top of – the dark-skinned man in the tweed suit.

  “This is the man you want, Inspector!” she gasped between heavy pants. “The ‘doctor’ from the first murder!”

  * * *

  Roughly an hour later, DI Cutcliffe and his fellow officers marched Annabelle, Mary, and the mysterious tweed-suited man toward the reception desk of the nearest police station.

  Mary walked soberly, her head down, mouthing a silent prayer, while the strange doctor walked gracefully, with his head high and an indiscernible expression on his face. Annabelle, in contrast, had not stopped pleading her cause from the back seat of the police car and was still vocalizing her astonishment at the situation.

  “…terrible lack of judgment on your behalf, Inspector. Utterly baffling. I had you down as a good egg, someone with some common sense and decency. But this is just… well, it’s simply… I’m just completely speechless! I cannot find the words to describe the sheer absurdity of this far-fetched attempt to frame us. It’s inconceivable, and yet here I am – in handcuffs! Crikey! Of all the—”

  “Fill in the forms, please,” the desk sergeant said sternly, making her voice loud and forceful enough to break Annabelle’s rhythm of speech. Mary promptly picked
up a pen and began diligently giving her information. Annabelle, after a few more haughty sighs, did the same. The doctor, however, stared blankly ahead.

  “Please fill in the forms, sir,” repeated the desk sergeant. Then, when the doctor showed no sign of responding, the sergeant turned to the Inspector. “Does he speak English?”

  Cutcliffe shook his head in confusion. “I have no idea.”

  The desk sergeant turned back toward the man. “Empty your pockets,” she said, slowly and loudly, in the manner frequently adopted by the British when talking to those who don’t speak English. She made a gesture to indicate the action, at which the man raised his eyebrow slightly.

  “Your pocket,” the Inspector said, pointing toward the man’s pockets.

  The man gave a look that could have meant understanding but could have just as easily been defeat before reaching into his pockets and putting items on the table.

  “That goes for all of you,” the desk sergeant said toward Annabelle and Mary.

  The Inspector watched closely as all three began to pat and pull objects from their clothes. The doctor was quickest, simply placing a wallet, a watch, a basic phone, and an incredibly detailed silver box about the size and shape of a cigarette case neatly on the desk in front of him.

  The desk sergeant eyed the case suspiciously before picking it up and opening it.

  “Nice cigarette case,” she said, bringing it to her nose and sniffing it. Her expression twisted into one of confusion when she could find no smell – of drugs nor tobacco – and she brushed a finger along the velvet insides of the case. “It’s wet. Why is the inside of this cigarette case wet?”

  The doctor retained his blank stare.

  A moment after she had asked the question, Annabelle’s eyebrows rose so high and so suddenly that they almost flew off. “The ice dart!” she exclaimed. “That must be where he kept the ice darts!” she repeated, toward the Inspector this time.

  Cutcliffe nodded dismissively. “Sure. Empty your pockets.”

  The desk sergeant, DI Cutcliffe, and possibly the doctor, found themselves watching with strange fascination the number of objects Annabelle and Mary had managed to secrete upon themselves despite their religious attire. Mary’s barely noticeable leather handbag seemed to hold enough for her to travel for days. Passport, paperwork, two purses (one for pocket change, one for notes), a card holder, a disposable camera, rosary beads, postcards, fridge magnets she had picked up for her friends in Africa, a Bible, some hard-boiled sweets, and finally, the clear bag which contained the foil-wrapped cake given to her by Teresa.

  Annabelle’s treasure trove was no less impressive. After pulling out her own Bible and taking off her watch, she proceeded to place upon the table her cell phone, bus pass, notebook, pencil, a pocket bag of wet wipes, mints, an empty bag of fudge, lip balm, purse, keys, various crumpled receipts and sweet wrappers, then finally, her own see-through bag of cake.

  “Are we done?” the desk sergeant asked, with more than a little sassiness. “We’ll have to dispose of the foodstuffs, I’m afraid.”

  After putting most of the items in boxes, she gestured to Annabelle and Mary’s similarly-wrapped bags of cake. “Mind telling me what those are?”

  “They’re cakes,” Annabelle retorted, picking hers up from the desk and tearing through the clear bag. “And if you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t dispose of them. They were gifts from a very kind old lady.”

  As Annabelle unfolded the foil, revealing the remarkably well-preserved cake, the desk sergeant shot DI Cutcliffe an alarmed look, as if to ask whether it was really acceptable for Annabelle to eat cake under such circumstances. Cutcliffe replied with a shrug and a defeated shake of his head.

  “Let them eat cake,” he said, with dry, rough humor.

  The desk sergeant, who by this point had indulged the arrestees far more than was typical for her, pursed her lips and continued to pack and mark the boxes. While she did so, DI Cutcliffe persevered with completing the doctor’s forms. For his part, the doctor was still staring at some distant spot on the opposite wall. With this backdrop, her frustration over the turn the day’s events had taken showing clearly on her face, Annabelle defiantly and slowly brought the succulent cake to her mouth and took a large, haughty bite.

  “Ow!” she cried, suddenly, spraying cake all over the desk and clutching the side of her jaw.

  Everyone’s heads turned to see crumbs clatter everywhere with a loud tinkling sound. Their eyes shot from Annabelle’s pained expression to the scraps that had scattered across the desk – among which were two marble-sized gems that caught the light brightly despite the sugary remnants that still clung to them.

  Annabelle slowly lowered the rest of the cake from her mouth, placed it upon the table, and broke it apart, revealing another four gems.

  “The Cats-Eye Emeralds!” she said, mumbling through the tooth pain she was now experiencing. “Teresa baked them into the cakes!”

  Promptly, the desk sergeant brought Mary’s cake from its box and tore the wrapping. After pulling it apart on the desk as Annabelle had, sure enough, she found another six of the brilliant jewels.

  Cutcliffe snorted. “I have to say, Reverend. This is one hell of an act you’ve put up here, but you’re only confirming what we already know. You’d have been better off letting those cakes go into the rubbish.”

  “But I had no ide—”

  “Put her in a cell and the doctor in another,” the Inspector commanded the young officer who stood to the side. “Mary, come with me. It’s time you told me the truth.”

  * * *

  DI Cutcliffe was a formidable interviewer. He was not the most adaptable nor even the most perceptive. Some said his technique was even rather old-fashioned. But he was by far the most detailed, and by an even further stretch, the most determined inquisitor any unfortunate reprobate was likely to meet. After ten minutes of questioning Mary, without any further information gained, he began to get tough. When that didn’t work, he began to pace furiously up and down in the interview room, searching for the key that would cause Mary to tell the truth. When that only seemed to make her cry, the Inspector began to worry.

  Cutcliffe hated two things more than anything in the world – criminals and the sound of women crying. When the two things came in one package, DI Cutcliffe grew extremely exasperated.

  “Look, Mary,” he said, after giving her enough time to stifle the sobs and wipe her face, “you’ve told me the same story about a dozen times over. You can cry all you want, but I know it isn’t the truth.”

  “It is!” Mary said, the shake in her voice indicating that she was close to breaking down once again.

  The Inspector sat at the table, leaned forward, and struggled to contort his face into the nicest, warmest, and friendliest expression he could muster.

  “Look at it from my perspective, Mary. You’re asking me to believe in an almost insane number of coincidences, flukes, and mishaps. First you’re claiming that Lauren Trujillo died right in front of you, having gone to meet you, but that you have no knowledge of who killed her or how. You claim you ‘forgot’ to hand me a crucial bit of evidence, and then when you realized, you instead acted upon it yourself because it seemed the smartest thing to do. Then, Teresa dies in a room with only you and the Reverend with her, but you again claim you have no idea how or why. Her apartment is found trashed immediately afterward – but you say this was done after you left. You then take her emeralds away, hidden in a cake, and you still say you had no idea they were there. Now, just think about how that sounds. That’s a hell of a lot of convenient accidents.”

  Mary looked up, her eyes red and her nose runny from crying. She laughed despairingly and mumbled softly: “That’s my nickname.”

  “What is?”

  “The Accidental Nun.”

  The Inspector processed this comment, sighed deeply, then stood up to leave the interview room, still shaking his head.

  “Sir?” the young officer who h
ad been waiting outside said. “Did you find out anything?”

  “She’s either the greatest liar I’ve ever encountered,” DI Cutcliffe replied, “or she’s telling the truth.”

  “But she can’t be telling the truth, sir. If she didn’t do it, who did?”

  Cutcliffe looked into his young officer’s eyes.

  “It’s a good thing we brought in two suspects. Though I was rather hoping I wouldn’t have to question Reverend Annabelle.”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “She can talk even faster than she runs.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, DI Cutcliffe and his fellow officer entered the interview room which held an Annabelle deep in thought.

  “Inspector!” she said after a pause, almost failing to notice him in her state of contemplation. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you for ages now!”

  Cutcliffe exchanged an ‘I told you so’ look with his accompanying officer.

  “This is PC Montgomery. He’ll be sitting in on the interview.”

  “Of course,” Annabelle said graciously, as if allowing permission.

  The policemen took their chairs, and Cutcliffe proceeded to start the tape machine and give the formal details of the interview. When he was done, he turned his attention to Annabelle and spoke in a voice filled with authority.

  “So, Reverend Annabelle, we’ve placed you at both crime scenes, we’ve discovered that you concealed evidence, and we’ve caught you with the emeralds. This is an open-and-shut case, frankly. All you have to decide now is how easy you want this to go for you.”

  “I’m beginning to form a theory,” Annabelle replied, completely oblivious to the Inspector’s accusatory tone. “The pieces don’t make much sense on their own, but when you put them all together, they fit as perfectly as, well, a jigsaw.”

  “You have a theory, do you?” the Inspector sighed.

  “Oh yes.”

  “Does this theory still involve ice darts and emeralds used as cake ingredients? Or is it something more plausible, such as mind control? Invisibility cloaks, perhaps? Transfiguration, even?”