by Morgana Best
Chapter 18
The previous night my sleep had been uneven and uneasy, and I had awoken often. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been followed and spied upon the previous day, and I was worried that someone had been through my home. Still, the night passed without incident, and in the morning, just as the sun was rising, I got out of bed. I waited until the stores on Main Street would be open, meanwhile taking a hot shower, both to warm up and to pass the time. The second my iPhone read nine, I picked up my laptop and climbed into my van.
I drove down the main street and parked in front of a small coffee shop that seemed to have been wedged between two bigger buildings: a laundromat on one side, and a bank on the other. I managed to reverse the van with some difficulty, taking up two parking spaces. Still, there weren’t many cars on the street, so I hoped no one would mind.
I decided to have a good look around the town, and check out the shops. I was soon captivated by one store, which had heavily scented candles as well as unusual lamps and cushions, all at good prices. I stood for some time, trying to decide between one candle with a triple fragrance of caramel, vanilla and coconut, and another which boasted a triple fragrance of gardenia, patchouli, and sandalwood. I eventually chose the latter.
I also could not resist a shabby chic silk lampshade complete with lamp stand. It appeared to be have been made with strips of pale pink raw silk, tied at the top with the palest blue brocade which was held in place by an art nouveau clasp. It was more than I wanted to spend, but I wanted a lamp stand next to my bed so I could read at night and then go to sleep without having to get out of bed to turn off the light. This was especially important in winter; I had no desire to leave my electric blanket and climb out into the icy air. The warmth of the wood fire did not extend to my bedroom.
I packed my finds into my van and picked up my laptop, just as my cell phone vibrated. I looked at the number; it was my lawyer. Immediately my stomach churned, so I sat down in the passenger seat in the van and took a deep breath before answering.
“Hello, bad news?” was the first thing I said.
“Not exactly,” came the official voice. “Your husband, sorry, ex-husband, has agreed to let you have the cockatoo in exchange for five thousand dollars of the property settlement.”
I was elated and confused at the same time. “So, you’re saying I can have Max? And I don’t have to pay for him now? It will come out of the property settlement later?”
“Yes,” my lawyer said, “but I must advise you against it. That is an unacceptable price for a cockatoo. I suggest we wait it out, wait until the property settlement and claim the bird as part of the property settlement. No judge will think it reasonable that you pay five thousand dollars for a bird.”
“He’s not just a bird,” I said. “He’s my Max. Yes, I’ll do it.”
My lawyer attempted to interrupt me. “Sibyl, I must advise you…”
I cut him off. “No, I’m going to get Max. How soon can I do it?”
“I’ll call his lawyer and then call you straight back.” My lawyer sounded weary. It was obvious he thought I was making a big mistake.
I sat in the van wringing my hands for what seemed like an age, waiting for the call. I was about to call my lawyer back when he called me.
“Sibyl, your ex-husband said you can collect Max tomorrow, from his work.”
I thought for a moment. That was short notice, and it meant two plane rides, but at least I didn’t have to wait before collecting Max. “I’ll do it,” I said. “Make sure he has the photo albums there, too.” After speaking some more about the paperwork, I hung up.
I got my laptop out of the van and hurried inside the café. It was surprisingly empty, and I moved right up to the counter and ordered a latté from the barista, a young woman in her late teens with blonde hair and a crooked smile. I paid for the drink before moving to one of two wobbly chairs at a small circular table by the roaring wood fire.
I took a sip of my latté and opened the laptop. There was free WiFi in the café. To my surprise, my laptop connected to the internet at once. I immediately went to the flight center’s website and booked a return flight to Rockhampton, which was the closest town to where my ex-husband worked. I also booked a flight for Max, and as it was such short notice, I had no choice but to buy the airline’s expensive bird carrier crate.
The whole exercise was expensive, as flights are always more costly if booked at the last minute, but I had no other option. I wanted Max back as soon as I could get him.
When the bookings were complete, I rewarded myself with a slice of chocolate ganache cake. I sipped my latte and turned back to my laptop, this time searching for Tim Higgins. I started wading through all the ‘Tim Higgins’ entries that came up, trying to find the one I wanted. It took me some time to find him, and the WiFi kept dropping out, but find him I did. I learned his middle name was Eugene.
Luckily for me, he appeared to be the only Timothy Eugene Higgins in Australia. When I added his middle name, a few sparse details popped up, but they were all about him. I scrolled through images, disappointed not to see any of Tim with a woman.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve actually seen you wash a dog,” a voice said.
I jumped in my seat and looked up. There was Blake, standing over me with his thumbs hooked in his belt.
I slammed my laptop shut. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
The sergeant was holding a steaming travel mug of coffee, and he placed it on the table and sat down opposite me without being invited. He looked across at me. “We had the coffee and cereal analyzed. There was nothing in the coffee, but they found traces of barbiturates in your cereal. Not enough to kill you, but enough to make you fall asleep at the wheel.”
I was upset by the news, but not overly surprised. After all, I’d had the vision. I was wondering whether I should mention the vision—just to rub it in, after all, I didn’t like being thought of as a nut job—when he spoke again.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Research,” I said, somewhat defiantly. “Yesterday I drove up to Warwick and dug into Tim Higgins. I went to his old antique store. The new owners say he was married, but I can’t find his wife anywhere.”
Blake considered this for a moment. “Maybe they just lived together. Maybe they weren’t married. We knew nothing of any wife.”
“Yes, sorry. They said they didn’t know if he was married or not, but they were sure he had a woman in his life, long term.”
“Hmm,” Blake muttered.
“And they, um, they thought he was doing things, maybe selling stolen goods, stuff like that, so the painting, it could be, well you know, it could be something he was doing. They seemed sure he was up to something.”
“Why are you doing this?”
The question caught me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“Someone came after you, you know? You could’ve been killed. Are you looking to keep it going?”
I wilted under his gaze. “I want to figure this out.”
Blake stood up, and placed his hat upon his head. He grabbed his coffee and took a sip. “Well that’s my job,” he said sternly, and then he turned to go. He headed for the front door, rested his hand on it, and pushed it open. Then he turned back and shook his head softly. “Just stay out of trouble. I mean it.”
Chapter 19
I was only halfway to the airport, and already dreading the rest of the journey. I was on my way to Rockhampton to meet my ex-husband and finally collect my childhood photo albums, and more importantly, my cockatoo, Max. Unfortunately, this meant driving to the airport from Little Tatterford, flying to Brisbane on a tiny (and very uncomfortable) plane, then taking a connecting flight to Rockhampton itself.
All in all, it wasn’t the most unpleasant or lengthy journey, but I was dreading the encounter with Andrew. It would be worth it, though; I was sick of empty promises, and knew that if I didn’t go and get this sorted myself, I’d never get my ha
nds on Max again.
Plus, the flight from Brisbane to Rockhampton is actually a bearable one, on a much nicer plane than the little one from Little Tatterford to Brisbane. The flight is only an hour and a half. Better yet, the return trip would be even nicer, since I wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Andrew and I would have Max.
I arrived early to the airport, as was my habit. Normally, punctuality wasn’t a big worry for me, but missing my plane would have caused all sorts of unnecessary problems, and you never know how long it takes to get through security.
While waiting and when squished into my little seat on the flight itself, I spent my time thinking over recent events. At the moment, I had three prime suspects—Cressida, who might have poisoned her ex-husband, Mr. Buttons, who had cleaned up the crime scene directly after the incident, and who’d had easy access to Tim Higgins’ meals and my own kitchen, and Alison. Alison had the same ease of movement as the rest, although no known possible access to cyanide, and I as far as I could tell, no real motive. I couldn’t discount the possibility that they were working together somehow, but that felt extremely unlikely.
It could also be someone else entirely. Nevertheless, this whole mess was too much to think about with the impending Andrew-pocalypse, so I put these thoughts aside and tried to enjoy the rest of my trip. The second flight was a much more pleasant experience, with better seating, service, meals, and movies. At only an hour and a half of flight time, I didn’t get the chance to see an entire movie, but the fact that they had them playing at all was a nice distraction.
When I arrived, I got a taxi from the airport to the mining chemical production facility where my ex-husband worked. One hundred dollars later, I paid the taxi driver. The facility was sprawling and imposing, the kind of place you always see being blown up in action movies. There were strange metal pipes extruding from all structures and going who-knows-where, as well as a sea of colorful shipping containers. There were two taller buildings, both extremely industrial in their appearance, though the word ‘industrial’ encompassed this entire facility. Andrew worked in the most normal looking building here, a three story office building, from the looks of it. I hadn’t been here for quite some time, and this building was new.
I headed inside and, to my surprise, was greeted by a receptionist. I was wondering how many people visited a place like this, but realized that the receptionist was talking to me.
“What can I do for you?” the receptionist asked, smiling. He was young, probably in his early twenties. I recognized that smile, common in most people his age. It was as though he’d rather be anywhere but here. I could relate.
“I’m Sibyl Potts. I’m here to see Andrew Rankin.” I checked my watch. “I have an appointment. He should be expecting me around now.”
The receptionist nodded and typed on his keyboard. A full minute passed without him acknowledging me outside of that simple nod, and I wondered if I should say something. Just as I was about to do so, he looked up at me and said, “You’re fine to go up now. The elevators are over there. Mr. Rankin is on the second floor.” The receptionist was wearing that same fake smile as he motioned toward the elevator.
“Thanks,” I said, mustering up all the mental endurance I could for this next encounter. No matter how this played out, no matter how civil Andrew was, this wasn’t going to be pleasant for me.
The elevator music was infuriating. It was as if Andrew had discovered the perfect frequency to annoy me, then decided to play it on an incredibly short loop. I was going to get Max and then get the hell out of here as soon as possible.
The elevator doors opened to the most stereotypical office I could imagine. There were tiny cubicles lined up along the walls, with a few bigger closed-off rooms for the more senior management. Andrew worked in one of these, which was easy to find thanks to the massive, obnoxious sign on his door.
I took a deep breath and knocked. Within seconds he opened the door and greeted me with a thin-lipped smile. “Sibyl. I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it.”
I clenched my fists. I’d been angry on the way here, but seeing him face to face brought it all back at full strength. “I’m on time, Andrew. Where’s Max?” I pushed my way into his office and looked around for Max.
Andrew’s office was clean, almost sterile. He had a picture of some woman on his desk, which he flipped over as soon as he saw me looking at it. I caught sight of Max in a cage by the far wall. I ran over. “Max,” I cooed. Max was clearly happy to see me again and he did a little dance in his cage.
I picked up the heavy cage and walked around to the front of the desk. “Now where are my photo albums?”
“Just on my desk,” Andrew said, as he walked over to the albums and picked them up. “You could have just waited for me to send them to you, you know,” he said, still smiling.
“I’ve waited months!” I barely managed to bury the urge to slap him. “Four hundred dollars later, I had to come and pick them up myself! More than that, even, since I couldn’t do any work today.”
“It isn’t as easy as that,” he retorted. “I can’t simply leave work to mail you some photos. I had to wait until I had free time.”
“You haven’t had free time once in all these months? It would’ve literally taken you a few minutes. Just give me the photos and I’ll be leaving.” I was shaking.
“Fine, fine.” He threw them at me half-heartedly, and I had to lurch forward to catch them. “Is there anything else?” he asked, sitting down.
Without answering, I shoved the albums into my duffel bag and turned around and left, slamming his door behind me.
On my way down to the lobby in the elevator, that same infuriating tune took on a whole new meaning. I hadn’t beaten him—this wasn’t a competition, and he’d been exactly as I remembered—but I wouldn’t have to see him again in the foreseeable future. I’d gotten Max and my photos without too much hassle. I smiled at the receptionist as I left, before I noticed a photo hanging on the wall.
I took a closer look at it. Several people were kneeling in front of the chemical facility, smiling. It was a typical work photo, with each participant smiling awkwardly and desperately wanting to be anywhere else. What caught my eye was the woman kneeling at the front, smiling what seemed to be a genuine smile. She reminded me of someone I knew. Still, the photo appeared to have been taken years ago. Frustratingly, there were no names; the photo wasn’t labeled at all.
I deposited Max’s cage and my duffel bag on the floor and snapped a quick photo with my iPhone, before turning to the receptionist. “Do you know who this woman is?” I motioned to the picture as I did so.
He simply shrugged. “Someone upstairs probably does.”
My smile faded.
I found myself knocking on Andrew’s office door again, that awful elevator music fresh in my mind. He opened the door—no smile this time. “What is it now, Sibyl? We don’t all have time for conversation.”
I ignored him, and showed him the picture I’d taken on my phone. “Do you know who this is?” I asked. I jabbed my finger at the woman.
He frowned for a moment, staring at the image, and his face blackened. “How the hell should I know? Why do you…”
Before he could finish his question, I had closed the door in his face and was heading back in the elevator, struggling with the cage and the duffel bag. Who was this woman, and why was she so familiar?
I didn’t know why, but I knew this was important. Whoever she was, she at one time had access to the chemicals here, including cyanide. And I knew I had seen her in Little Tatterford.
Chapter 20
I thought so hard all the way on the expensive taxi ride from the factory that I had to take two Advil as soon as I arrived at the airport. I was itching to google the woman’s image on my iPhone, but out here in the middle of nowhere, the 4G phone service was sketchy at best.
I had a long wait at the airport before my return flight, so I settled down on a spare seat to find out as much as I could abo
ut the mystery woman. There was free WiFi at the airport, and it seemed to be working well. I opened the photo of the woman, tapped the screen, and then selected, “Search google for this image.”
It brought up several images. I wished I was in front of my computer, given that it was difficult on the phone. Some of the images looked completely different, and were clearly of different women—in fact, that was the case with pretty much all of them—but I found one that was very similar indeed. I clicked on the photo to go to the page. The page was from an old issue of Antiques and Arts Collectors magazine. The photo was of a woman with a man, and the caption read, “Antique dealers Tim Higgins and his partner, Cathy Bradshaw.”
The penny dropped. Now I knew who the woman was. She looked so different from the woman at the boarding house, with a different hair color and cut. It was obvious that no one else at the boarding house had known the connection between them.
I had discovered the murderer.
I at once called the police station, but Blake was out. I left a message on his voice mail, giving as much detail as I could before it cut me off. I tried several more times, but each time got voice mail. That was so frustrating, but it was one of the drawbacks of living in a small country town, I figured.
I called my ex-husband, Andrew, to ask him if he had heard of Cathy Bradshaw, but he hung up on me before I could speak.
I was awfully tired by the time I got back to Little Tatterford. I’d had coffee on the plane, but it hadn’t helped much. I put Max and his cage inside the van, climbed in after him, and headed straight to the police station. Of course, it was shut as it was after five, but I hoped someone would be working late. No such luck. Plus, Blake had not called me back. I didn’t know what to do next. I sat outside the police station in my van thinking over the possibilities. There weren’t many. Either I went back home, or I stayed in the van all night, or at least until Blake called me back.