Live and Let Diet (Australian Amateur Sleuth Book 1)

by Morgana Best

  The man muttered to himself as one of the items wouldn’t scan. He punched some keys on his screen before answering. “I have one old dog, and my wife always complains about washing him. I might take you up on it.”

  I loaded my groceries and then looked the bags over. I had forgotten to buy eggs and butter, and goodness knows what else, but I could do that tomorrow. Right now, I just wanted to check out the cottage, pack the food away, bring my clothes in, get warm, eat something, and then lie down.

  When I finally reached my new home, I gasped in horror. I had seen photos of the cottage, inside and out, in the emails that my ex-husband, Andrew, had sent me, but it was altogether different in real life. I muttered some very rude things about that man under my breath. He had sent me photos of a different cottage.

  For one, this cottage was much smaller. It wasn’t that I minded small as such—it would be easier to clean. The problem was that this cottage was no chocolate-box Victorian miner’s cottage, but rather, something altogether more derelict. There was an old railed fence at the front of the house, but not in front of the carport that was near, but not attached to, the house. At first glance, I realized that the carport roof was too low for my van, so I’d have to park it outside at the front of the cottage.

  An old iron water tank towered precariously above the cottage. It looked as though a strong gust of wind would blow it over. Against it lay an old wooden ladder with most of its rungs missing. A magpie was perched on top of the ladder, cawing rudely at me.

  I could see that the back fence was high, and pale green Colorbond, a brand of modular steel fence that I assumed was inspired by the Aussie corrugated iron industry. That was a plus. I was looking forward to getting a dog once I’d settled in. First, though, I had to get my cockatoo from my ex-husband.

  Andrew had refused to let me take our shared sulfur-crested cockatoo, Max. I knew Andrew would take good care of Max, but I knew equally well that he was keeping him just to spite me. I had raised Max from a baby bird after he had fallen out of his nest and broken his wing. Max could speak over two hundred words and I was careful only to say polite words around him. I wasn’t so sure what words he would now be hearing with Andrew.

  As I made my way to the front door, I noted the remains of a garden. The rose stems were bare with winter on the way, so I couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead. Even the native bottle brush shrubs didn’t look well. What on earth had I gotten myself into?

  The cottage was a dirty faded gray, almost white, with broken white shutters on either side of the window to my right. The window to my left was equally large, but had no shutters. I walked down the short pathway, opened the screen door, and turned the lock in the wooden door.

  As the door creaked open, I looked at the living room in front of me. The first impression, to my great relief, was one of cleanliness. The pale gray walls looked freshly painted and contrasted nicely with the white gloss trim of the doors and windows.

  I had rented the cottage furnished, so the next thing to catch my eye was the decidedly weird furniture. It looked like reproduction antique French furniture, complete with gilt edging, and there were throws over the top, along with mismatched cushions. Thankfully the furniture was sparse, unlike in the boarding house. I figured a few more throws would disguise the worst of it.

  I walked in and adjusted the throw over the ornate, cherry pink velvet chair, making sure I also covered up the golden painted wood. There was an old leather sofa, and when I lifted up the drab beige throw and the old yellowing cushions over it, I saw long tears in the upholstery. Oh well, I’d just get a brighter throw and some nicer cushions, and no one would ever know the difference.

  I was pleased to see that the kitchen was a good size for such a small cottage, and had been recently renovated. The tiles were nice, bright, and white, and the bench tops appeared to be made of bamboo. Everything else in the kitchen was white. I was also pleased to see that the refrigerator was running. Cressida had assured me that it would be turned on for me before I arrived, but as she seemed a little odd, I had thought that perhaps she would forget. Clearly she hadn’t, as the refrigerator was humming along nicely, and was cold inside.

  I shivered and thought that the weather was probably colder in the house than it was inside the refrigerator, so I crossed the room to open the door to the wood fire. It was nicely cleaned out inside, and wood was included in my rent, but I had forgotten to buy fire starter cubes. I was too tired and stressed to go outside and gather kindling. At least someone had stacked a wicker basket full of firewood next to the fire.

  I looked in the cupboard under the kitchen sink, and to my relief someone had left a box of matches in there, as well as a bottle of kerosene. I selected the smallest pieces of wood and placed them at angles in the fireplace, then poured some kerosene over the top. I stood back at quite a distance and flicked in a lighted match. Boom! An instant roaring fire. I knew it was a dangerous way to light it, and I wouldn’t do it again—maybe—but I had been warned just how cold the nights are up in the mountains. I would be sure to buy fire starter cubes and gather kindling the following day.

  Thank goodness the chimney had been cleaned, and that there were no possums living in it. After a brief moment of apparent indecision, the smoke went up the chimney and not into the room. I had no idea how to shut the flue, so let the fire do its own thing.

  I looked in the bathroom, which was tiny but adequate. Two green frogs sat on the window sill, eyeing me off. I shuddered and shut the door. I had been told stories of frogs leaping out every time a toilet was flushed in the country, but I had taken it to be a joke. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  No sooner had I sat down on the old but comfortable sofa than there was a knock on the door. What now?

  I walked to the door and flung it open to see two men standing there. “Hello. Sibyl Potts?”

  Before I could answer, the man who had spoken continued, “Good afternoon. I am Detective Anders and this is Detective Johnstone.”

  The other man nodded to me.

  “I assume the attending officers told you we would want to speak with you tonight?”

  I figured the attending officers must be Sergeant Wessley and the constable. “Yes,” I said.

  “May we come in?”

  I showed them into the tiny living room, where Detective Anders sat opposite me while Detective Johnston stood as close as he could to the fire, his back to it. “Now give me your version of events,” Anders said, flipping open a notebook.

  I frowned. My version of events? That made it sound like I was a suspect.

  Nevertheless, I recounted the whole afternoon’s events to Anders, while yawning every few moments. He questioned me over and over again as to whether I knew the suspect, which irritated me no end.

  After telling me that the government contractors would take the exhibit—which I supposed must mean the body—after the crime scene exhibitors were finished with it, and explaining that they had to maintain the continuity of the exhibit, whatever that really meant, they finally left.

  I put another log on the fire, and poked it with the provided poker until it was nicely aflame. I sank back into the sofa, shook my head, and stared at the burning embers for so long that I nearly fell asleep.

  My first day in town, and what a day it had been. Surely it couldn’t get any worse?

  Chapter 5

  The morning light was bright and cheerful as it streamed through the bedroom window. It made yesterday’s events seem as if they were a bad dream. What’s more, I had slept soundly, apart from being awoken once or twice by possums scrambling across the roof. At least I hoped the noise was possums, as it had sounded like someone walking. I tried to push the unpleasant memories from my mind. I was declaring today to be the official first day of my new life. I wasn’t having my first day tainted by dead bodies, giant possums, strange people, allegedly talking cats, and rude police officers.

  I swung my feet up and over the edge of the bed, and jumped up to greet t
he day. I rummaged through the groceries for the microwave rolled oats and the coffee. It was easy to get used to bad food when living on a strict budget. I was looking forward to some real food. A week of chips, poptarts, and fast food had me craving some real cooking.

  I fumbled through the cottage, banging my leg on a desk while navigating the unfamiliar surroundings. My surroundings, I thought with pleasure. The fact that the cottage had come furnished was a good feeling, bruised shins and all. No more crashing on a friend’s couch or in a cheap motel.

  While it would likely be some time before the cottage truly felt like home, it did already feel like a sanctuary to me. It was a good start, especially when I had given up everything I could sell to buy the mobile grooming van.

  The coffee pot sputtered and grumbled as I shuffled outside to get the rest of my bags from the trailer. To my surprise, I found a rolled newspaper right at the doorway. I didn’t recall the paper being part of the rent. A bright yellow post-it note caught my eye.

  Thought you would like to catch up on the local news.

  Your card for today is the Two of Swords.

  Kind Regards,

  Bill Buttons.

  I bit my lip. It was nice of Mr. Buttons to draw a tarot card for me, but I hoped he wasn’t going to keep telling me what my cards were. I’d really rather not know what the future held. The Two of Swords—I thought hard. I didn’t know a lot about tarot cards, but I knew a little. The card showed a woman blindfolded, a woman who didn’t know the truth of what was in front of her. It had other meanings too, but that one sounded right.

  It was also nice of Mr. Buttons to give me a paper, but I wasn’t especially keen on my neighbors leaving favors on my doorstep while I was sleeping. Still, I figured it was better than him waking me up at whatever hour he had decided to walk over. And, of course, the community of a boarding house was very different to what I was used to. I was in the country now, not the city where one could live near someone for years and never once speak. I would need to remember to thank him later.

  I tucked the paper under my arm as I went to the van to collect my bags. On the one hand, I was a bit sad to see my whole world condensed into a few bags, but the optimist in me thought that it was nice to know that I wouldn’t be spending the whole day unpacking. Besides, a new life would be easier without a van full of horrid old memories.

  By the time I got my things inside, the coffee pot was full and growling as if in discontent at being put to work. I unpacked my coffee mug and sugar packets from the tub and prepared to have a nice breakfast.

  With a sachet of instant oatmeal in hand, I inspected the microwave. It looked as if it had only barely survived the 1980’s. The dials and buttons were decidedly vintage. I poured the oatmeal into half a cup of water and put it inside the microwave, then pressed the buttons for fifty seconds. I wondered if I needed to leave the room as it looked like it might explode. Thankfully, the microwave still worked fine, even if I had to send the oatmeal through twice, and one side came out kind of lumpy. It would do, though. I usually ate cornflakes for breakfast, but today, I felt like a change.

  I unrolled the newspaper as I settled in to relax over my first breakfast in my new home. I tensed as I saw pictures and headlines of the previous day on the front page. The memory of the body flashed back in all its awful detail, the way the shadows fell, the way the sergeant glared at me when I spoke.

  I closed my eyes, took a steady breath, and tried to calm my breathing. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth.

  I slammed the newspaper shut and opened my eyes. There was no point in processing the events of yesterday, no point in mulling over each and every detail. I opened the newspaper to the third page and glanced over the minor headlines. Proposals for roadwork, a community fundraiser, someone annoyed that someone had stolen their garden gnome. I had to smile at how small-town this place was compared to the chaos of the city I had left behind.

  I bit my lip and turned to the ‘Help Wanted’ section. Ideally, I wanted my business to pay my bills. Realistically, I could not rely on my grooming service to pay the rent until I had built up a steady client base. I had money I could live on for some months, but if the town could not support a grooming business, I would need to find part time work. Of course, none of this would matter once I got the property settlement, but my ex-husband was doing everything he could to delay it.

  The ‘Help Wanted’ section had nothing suitable anyway. The jobs were all for station hands or stockmen and stated, ‘must have own dogs’ or ‘able to operate harvesters.’ I shrugged. I considered myself lucky to have a sum to cover rent, utilities, and modest groceries for some time. It was a relief to have an emergency fund, no matter how small.

  I swallowed some lumpy oatmeal and pulled out my battered notebook with its duct-taped cover. The notebook was filled cover to cover with notes, post-its, lists, and dreams for the grooming van. I ran my finger wistfully over a photo of my cockatoo, Max, that I had taped to the cover.

  Max was a huge white bird, with, as the name ‘sulfur-crested’ suggested, a big yellow crest. He always had the cutest expression on his face. If I’d had a bad day, or got caught up in a sad movie, he was right there waiting for me to tell him all about it with big dark eyes and his head turned to the side.

  I blinked back the tears, trying not to let any fall. The divorce had been long and cruel. I had put that man through college, sometimes working two jobs and double shifts. His wealthy parents had said he needed to work through college to pay his own way so he could gain moral fortitude. What a joke! He had told me he was unable to cope with both studying and working, so I had gone to work to support both of us. I had forgone many nice things for myself. I had even missed a family reunion when he said I had to choose between that and supporting him through his exams in his last semester. Andrew had rewarded my sacrifices by cheating on me.

  When I had caught him, overhearing him on the phone with a woman on a day when I had come home early, he had tried to throw the blame onto me, for always being away at work.

  In a romantic haze, I had intended to sign the pre-nup he had presented me with prior to us getting married, but, luckily as it turned out, I’d had a most disturbing vision of me being penniless, so I had gone to a lawyer and made sure that the pre nup was fair. Andrew had been furious about it at the time, so much so that I had even considered not marrying him.

  Now, any request I made, he made it a point to block, no matter how unimportant it was to him. He even kept the birthday gifts he had given me. His lawyer said I legally had to give my engagement ring back to him. Andrew, because of his wealthy family, wanted to make sure I didn’t get a cent of the family fortune.

  I was most upset that he had not allowed me to take Max. We were both fond of him, but Andrew knew that keeping Max would rip out a piece of my soul. He wanted to punish me for leaving him.

  Fortunately, not everything had gone Andrew’s way. I was awarded a modest monetary sum to take care of my needs and he was ordered to send me my personal items, such as my photo albums. I wished I had taken them earlier, but everything is clearer in hindsight. There was so much in those photo albums, and I had no way to protect them while they were in his hands.

  Chapter 6

  I was at a loose end so decided to go the main house. After all, Cressida had invited me to have a cup of tea, although she had not specified a time.

  I hesitated in front of the boarding house, looking at the enormous, dark, and somewhat creepy mansion towering above me. The peeling paint showed signs of years of neglect. The bleak, sparsely grassed paddocks spreading out to the horizon and the looming dark clouds in the sky caused me to shiver to my core.

  There were several deciduous trees at the front of the house and their leafless frames danced wildly in the wind. I jumped as an open window swung in the wind and banged against the peeling wood. One shutter bore large holes that left a few jagged pieces dangling on the inside.

  There were no other homes
around, just trees and some curious Hereford cows grazing on the neighboring land. On this visit, the boarding house seemed untamed, unwelcoming, and utterly unsightly. It made my skin crawl.

  I stepped from the overgrown browning grass onto the creaky steps. I knocked on the boarding house’s main door and then stepped back. I expected someone to open the door and welcome me in, but no one came to the door. I figured that no one had heard me knock, and so I knocked again, harder this time.

  Again, no one came to the door. Frowning, I turned the doorknob and stepped in. I walked down the corridor and tried my best to avert my eyes from the police tape cordoning off the crime scene, but couldn’t help seeing it. The sheer bright yellowness of the tape distracted me. I saw no police this time, but heard a humming sound coming from the room, so I walked over to the door and looked in. To my surprise, I saw a vacuum cleaner, and Mr. Buttons polishing the coffee table.

  “Mr. Buttons!”

  Mr. Buttons looked up. His eyes barely flickered with recognition as he looked down again to polish the coffee table. “Hello, Sibyl. Welcome again,” he muttered, his crisp English accent ringing throughout the room.

  I was aghast. “Mr. Buttons, you shouldn’t be cleaning up a crime scene. The police might still need to collect evidence. What do you think the tape is for?”

  I pointed at the police tape that was barring my entrance to the crime scene, but Mr. Buttons continued to polish the coffee table wordlessly. I tried to catch his eye as he turned around to polish a different section of the coffee table.

  “Mr. Buttons!”

  The voice came from behind me. I swung around to see Alison, the maid. “Mr. Buttons, what do you think you’re doing?” she said, her voice bordering on angry.

  To my relief, Mr. Buttons put the rag away and came to meet us. He climbed under the tape.

  “I’m cleaning the place,” he said. “It’s so messy and awful. I couldn’t stand it. I just had to do something about it.”