“Did you want something?”
Reg dropped by without prior arrangements all the time but usually within the confines of daylight. Willow often tuned out Reg’s long-winded explanations for how he spent his evenings. Most of the talk about UFOs was well above her head, and Willow didn’t mind it staying that way. However, she knew he liked to be out in the open, looking for suspicious activity in the night sky.
From the way Reg’s shoulders tensed, Willow knew he wanted to ask for something. She bustled past him, ignoring her own increasingly rapid pulse, to put on the kettle and wait for him to spill what was on his mind.
“Have a seat,” Willow said, more on the lines of an order than a question, pulling out one of the old, wooden chairs around the kitchen table.
As Reg sat, she plucked the penguin out of his tenuous grip to replace it in the living room. She’d lost many an expensive figurine to Reg’s arthritic fingers over the years and had no wish to add to the pile.
“I saw Harmony on the walk over,” Reg said, staring out the kitchen window until Willow pulled the blinds to shut out the darkness. “She didn’t even wave to me as she went past.”
Willow gave a snort. “Probably listening to one of those public radio shows on something technical. She never sees me when she’s out driving either.”
The kettle gave a whine and pinged off. Without asking, Willow began to prepare an herbal tea of deep, dark licorice for Reg, just pouring a mug of water for herself. She didn’t want to spoil her ‘tea appetite’ for later.
“Here you go.” Willow placed a large mug in front of Reg and took a seat opposite him. Despite her midsection being wound so tight that her breathing was shallow, she tried to look relaxed.
“Was over at the school today,” Reg said after a few sips. “They’ve lost half the roof on the art department building.”
“Really?” Willow shook her head. They didn’t often have storms in Aniseed Valley, but when they did, the winds tended to be a doozy.
Reg dropped by the school at least once or twice a week. He’d been the groundskeeper there for a decade before retirement and still liked to keep an eye on the place.
“I wonder if we should organize a fundraiser,” Willow said, rubbing under her eye where it had started to twitch. “That really helped them back on their feet when the truck plowed through the front gate and into the principal’s office.”
That memorable event had taken place a few years ago. The gossip around it had kept many a town council meeting going well past its appointed hour.
“Maybe.” Reg took another sip of his tea, smacking his lips together with satisfaction. “I did wonder…”
He trailed off, but Willow sat upright in her chair. Thank goodness. The man was finally getting to the reason why he’d come here.
She didn’t glance at the clock on the wall. It was better for her nerves that she didn’t check the time.
“Do you still have Molly’s old binoculars lying about the place?”
The request came out of left-field, leaving Willow blinking in confusion for a moment. Then she nodded.
“Sure. They’re in his wardrobe.”
She stood up, ignoring Reg’s offer to get them. “You wouldn’t know where to look. Just sit tight, and I’ll be right back.”
Her husband had been fond of birdwatching when he was a younger man. Molly would walk off for a few hours at a time, glasses affixed to his face as though they formed part of his anatomy. When a neighbor called by to complain one day, Willow had found out the ‘birds’ her husband liked to spy on weren’t necessarily of the avian variety.
After a stern talk, the binoculars had gone into the top shelf in the wardrobe and were only taken down again for picnics or such, when the both of them were in attendance.
Even at five-foot-eleven—the giantess of the high school many decades before—Willow had to get on tiptoes to reach far enough back to snag them. She held them out at arm’s length while grabbing a duster to get them clean. It was too late to change again if she got covered in dirt, and besides, she would have nothing suitable to switch into. She was already wearing her best dress. To don a house frock because of some unexpected dust would be a tragedy.
“Here they are, good as new.” Willow handed the binoculars over to Reg and patted him on his shoulder before taking his mug to the sink and walking to the front door.
Reg sometimes missed social cues, so Willow went out of her way to toss them about liberally when she needed him to do something.
What she needed from him most right now was to leave.
Don’t look at the clock!
Too late. Willow tore her eyes away, her heart skipping a beat in her chest before racing to catch up. Twelve minutes past six! Her guest was sure to arrive at any moment.
When she opened the front door, Willow so expected her guest to be standing there that for a split second she hallucinated him. A few blinks of her eyes cured that, but she knew that in another minute or two, the vision would solidify into reality.
“Thanks very much,” Reg said, loitering in her hallway as though neither of them had any other place to be. “You know, it was the darnedest thing, but I dropped—”
“You’ll have to tell me another time, Reg,” Willow said, giving him a helpful shove toward the front door. “Come by tomorrow and tell me everything, including your UFO watching results from tonight.”
“Oh, yes.” Reg turned in the doorway, blocking Willow’s view of the street. “I’m planning on keeping tabs in the center of town. Mrs. Matthewson said she saw something very odd there a few nights ago. Seemed most relieved when I said I’d keep an eye out on her behalf. She was quite upset.”
“You’re a good man, Reg.” Willow had no trouble infusing the words with sincerity; in a hurry or not, she truly believed he was. Otherwise, he’d hardly be so high on her list of friends.
The one thing he didn’t have was good timing.
As Willow finally got the front door shut and smoothed down her best dress, ready for company, a thought flitted across her mind. It was strange for Harmony to linger so long, then even odder for Reg to turn up at this hour.
If Willow didn’t know any better, she’d think her friends were trying to spy on the guest she wanted to entertain.
A fleeting thought but like a wild seed from a dandelion, it planted itself firmly in the soil of her mind and started to grow.
Not wanting to risk being interrupted midway through the dishes, Willow shoved the empty mugs into the fridge and hoped her guest didn’t look in there. No reason he should, of course, but today had been full of things happening without due cause.
Willow took her best china out from the cupboard—stored at the very back behind prying fingers and eyes. It was the most beautiful thing she had inherited from her mother, apart from her svelte figure and height. The delicate blue swirls nestled inside each other in a play of movement and color that delighted Willow every time she looked at it. Only for the best occasions had been her mother’s rule for the crockery, and Willow followed it religiously to this day.
It was well after six now. Willow tried her best to keep her eyes off the clock and focused on the dried herbs in front of her. She packaged them up in tiny silk purses that could be rinsed and reused, except for a single chamomile flower she left out to float to the top of her guest’s tea. Daisy tea, he called it, and Willow let it go without correction. In the long years of her widowhood, she’d finally learned the wisdom of letting things go.
At five minutes to eight, Willow sighed and put the china back in the cabinet. Even if she desperately tried to convince herself otherwise, it was clear there’d be no guest tonight.
As she moved around the kitchen, Willow caught sight of her reflection in the window. She stretched out a hand, almost touching the ghostly apparition, then pulled it back, pressing it flat against her chest instead.
As a teenager, Willow had been the prettiest girl in school. Then she’d gone off on a wild adventure, b
ecoming a model. Suddenly, she was lost in a sea of beautiful women, each one held up to intense scrutiny and found wanting.
It was hard to find that feeling again, the confidence that came from knowing you looked good. Willow’s husband Molly had never given her that impression.
On fleeting moments, when entertaining her guest, Willow had felt that sensation again. The knowledge that she was the prettiest girl in the room. Well aware that she could be inwardly focused to the point of selfishness, Willow wasn’t sure if she wanted to see him for the value he brought or just to experience that feeling.
She shook her head. Not that it mattered tonight! Her guest would never arrive this late; it was almost time for her favorite show. Even if Willow wanted to call him and find out where he’d gotten to, it would have to wait.
As Willow changed into her dressing gown and slippers and sat on the couch, sipping a mug of sleepy-time tea, she tried to push away her disappointment. Even so, it took a good fifteen minutes of Miss Walsham Investigates for her to let go of her troubles and become fully immersed in the show.
Chapter Two
The tinkle of broken glass woke Willow, and she sat up in bed with a gasp, her hand clutched to her chest, where her heart was beating fast.
Just as Willow started to relax, thinking the noise must be the last vestiges of her dream, a clunk and crack of breaking pottery came echoing through the house.
Someone was inside her home! Someone had broken in while she was sleeping!
Thinking she should definitely phone the police straight away rather than confront the burglar herself, Willow pulled on a dress and cardigan and grabbed the heaviest object she could find as a weapon. The Almanac of the world’s navies must have been left behind by Harmony at some point. The woman’s tastes in reading—and everything else—were strange and eclectic.
The sound of broken shards crunching underfoot broke Willow out of her brief reverie. Yes. She should definitely phone the sheriff’s office. Perhaps as soon as she apprehended the intruder herself.
Willow avoided all the squeaking floorboards as she crept closer to the origin of the noises. They were coming from the conservatory. An odd choice for a break-in since any burglar would still then have to get into the house, but Willow supposed thieves wouldn’t be the smartest folks in any room.
At the door, formerly a rear exit to the house, Willow pressed her ear up to the wood, holding her breath while she listened.
Nothing. More nothing.
Then the unmistakable sound of a pot being pushed off a bench and shattering on the floor.
Willow turned the key and grabbed the handle. One wrench downwards, and she shouldered the door open, holding the large book above her head, ready to strike.
After a moment, she lowered it, looking about the room in puzzlement.
The shards of ceramic and glass on the floor showed the signs of an intruder, but there was no one there. Even the smallest of thieves would have trouble hiding from view, given that apart from the earthenware pots stacked along the bench, and some chairs sitting where they’d catch the most sun, there was no other furniture in the room.
A horrible thought crossed Willow’s mind, and she shoved the door open all the way, hurling her weight against it until it slammed flat against the wall. No one hiding behind the door then. She was all out of ideas.
A flash of movement caught Willow’s eye, and she lunged forward, pushing aside some cardboard boxes on the floor to see a flicker of fluff and fur bouncing away.
As she sat back on the floor, letting her heart rate clamber down from its highest speed, Willow began to laugh. A cat, maybe a small raccoon. That was the thief that had kickstarted her morning. When the shadow flashed across her vision again, she stood up and closed the conservatory door firmly behind her. She didn’t rate the lives of her pots nearly so much as she wanted her morning coffee.
One caffeinated beverage later, Willow stood at the door again, this time armed with more than a book. She had an old butterfly net and a crocheted rug. If the first was too small, then the latter could be tossed atop her intruder. While they fought for freedom, Willow could then scoop them up and dump them into a cardboard box, out of trouble’s way.
A few minutes later, and the butterfly net proved equal to the task. Willow dropped the rug and lowered the insect net from shoulder height when a face full of curiosity peeped over the edge, trying to fly to freedom.
“Into the box you go,” Willow said to the wide-eyed kitten. Her own eyes were watering, and she sneezed three times in quick succession as she picked up the box and took it through into the lounge.
“Fancy waking me up at the crack of dawn,” Willow complained. It was only just edging past seven o’clock now, and having stayed up reading till past midnight, it wasn’t an hour she’d been expecting to see. “Now, who do you belong to?”
The kitten had a large red bow around its neck, a sight Willow might have found endearing if her allergies hadn’t been revving up into full swing. As she pulled it free, the kitten grabbed her hands, attempting to lift itself up and over the edge of the box. She shook it loose with a wry smile.
“Well played, kitty, but you won’t beat me this time.”
When the kitten jumped, this time getting its paws on the top edge of the box, Willow gently shook it again until the cat retreated. She quickly emptied her end-table of figurines and used the doily covering it as a roof for her makeshift cage.
As soon as its sides were tucked under the base of the box, the kitten grabbed hold of the fabric and started to walk along it, upside-down, gripping on with its claws.
As Willow stared down in horror, she realized the crimson smudges on its paws looked like blood.
“Well, Sheriff, I don’t know where it came from. The bow around its neck says it originated from the Fowler’s Pet Store in town, but I doubt it broke out of there on its own.”
Willow rolled her eyes as Jacob Wender, the elected sheriff of Aniseed Valley, broke into a lengthy explanation of something she didn’t bother to listen to. The man had been one year under her at school for goodness’ sake. She didn’t need a lecture from someone younger and with worse grades than her.
“It doesn’t matter where the kitten came from. What I think is more pertinent is that the little thing has blood all over it.”
Willow stared at the smudges on her hand in frustration. She wanted to wash them off immediately but didn’t want to get in trouble for destroying evidence.
When she watched people on the television having a shower to clean themselves up when they knew jolly well they should wait for the police to arrive and examine everything, Willow would roll her eyes in exasperation. Now, belatedly, she shared their anguish.
“You want me to what?”
Having dropped the thread of the conversation somewhere along the line, Willow was disturbed to hear that the sheriff expected her to go outside and investigate.
“I’m not stepping one foot outside my door if there’s the likelihood of something covered in blood lurking out there. I’ve watched horror movies, Jacob Wender, and I’m well aware that no matter how sensible it seems at the time, you don’t go down to the old boat shed.”
A confused silence greeted her at that one, but Willow didn’t feel up to explaining a horror movie series to a representative of law and order. “Please, can you come down here and take the kitten into the lab and sort out where it’s been and whose blood it stepped in?”
Sheriff Wender assured her he wouldn’t.
Willow rolled her eyes again, but although that made her feel better, it didn’t help her situation.
“I just want you to know that if I walk out the back door and a murderer is standing there waiting for me, it’s on your head. Do you understand that?”
The sheriff agreed half-heartedly. Willow was starting to believe he wasn’t taking her call seriously.
Willow checked that the kitten was still contained inside the box. It sat in a corner, the pointy tips o
f its ears making it look a lot more attentive than the sleepy gaze on its face.
“Fine,” Willow grumbled into the phone. “I’m going outside.”
She peered cautiously through the slit window in the kitchen door before she opened it. Being one-handed because of the phone made her feel about as vulnerable as having the sheriff on the line made her feel safe.
The first few steps, Willow was sure a heavy object was about to smash into the back of her skull at any second. Once she survived two yards along the path, her shoulders began to relax.
“Just a moment, I’m still getting out into the garden,” she complained into the landline when the sheriff questioned what was happening. “Give me at least a few minutes to walk out into the open so the murderer can attack me.”
The sheriff laughed. The cheek of the man.
Willow hesitated, scanning the back garden for any signs of disturbance. The long grass where she cultivated a variety of wildflowers perfect for tinctures and teas would shield any murderers from view until it was too late. Safer to go down the path to her right, so Willow did just that. Three steps farther forward, and she saw the first sign of trouble.
“Ah, Sheriff Wender,” she said in a small voice, resorting to formality as her brain scattered in panic. “I think you’d better get down here.”
The shoes on the path in front of her were beautifully tanned leather. Without venturing any farther forward, Willow knew they were handstitched in Italy. The soles were emblazoned with the name of the family company that crafted them. She remembered it by heart. Had sat across the table as the man who wore them crossed his legs on the chair opposite and gave her a broad smile.
The shoes were sitting at the same angle now, the toes pointing up to the sky overhead. A yard from them, her garden fork—the big one for turning earth at the end of planting season—had its handle pointing in the same direction. The prongs were buried deep into the chest of the body that lay there.
The body of the guest who hadn’t shown up the night before. Roger Randall.
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