by Ellen Jane
“What do you think it is?” Sinéad asked, popping the package onto the table between them and studying it.
“Only one way to find out.” Cian reached over to undo the string, but Sinéad smacked his hand away.
“That is definitely illegal,” she said quietly. “We should think carefully before we open it.”
“Well what else did you take it for?” Cian asked. “To look at longingly and hope a clue somehow falls in our laps? This isn’t like breaking into someone’s safe for no reason; this is a clue. I’m not going to ignore it.”
Sinéad glanced at Heather, and Heather knew she was thinking about Roger Branson.
“I don’t know,” Heather said. “We could get into a lot of trouble.”
“It’s evidence. You’re allowed to seize and consider evidence on account of it being evidence.” Cian drummed his fingers on the table, looking from one to the other in bewilderment.
“Only if you’re a registered private investigator,” Heather said flatly. “And even then you need to document every step. You’re not meant to lie to get the evidence.”
The giddiness at having received what might be their first real clue faded, leaving Heather with the urge to crawl straight back into bed. She propped her elbows on the table and slumped forward, staring at the package.
Cian frowned at the two of them. “But you are private investigators, aren’t you? I read about you in the paper when I tracked down Sinéad. You caught that murderer in Old Wetchhaven.”
Heather laughed without humour. “Yes, but now I’m paying the price for that since I didn’t have a licence. The bureau seems to have nothing better to do than threaten me with fines and legislation that would force me to close my business.”
Cian’s eyes widened. Then, he shrugged and leaned back in his chair, nonplussed. “That’s all right. We’ll just record it under my licence.”
Heather’s head snapped up. “You have a PI licence?”
“Yeah, man.”
“Level five?”
He snorted. “That’s what a PI licence is, so yeah.”
Heather gaped at Sinéad, who looked just as shocked. “Why?”
Cian shrugged. “Got drunk while reading Sherlock Holmes and signed up for the course.”
There was silence for several long seconds before Sinéad and Heather began talking at once. Cian held up his hand and winced.
“Please, ladies, it’s too much. I haven’t had nearly enough coffee this morning to dissect two conversations at the same time.”
“You actually went ahead with the course even though you signed up drunk?” Sinéad repeated, staring at him aghast.
“Of course.” Cian looked indignant. “I’m not some flake. Drunk Cian made a commitment, and Sober Cian needed to follow through. It was only a two-monther. Piece o’ piss.”
Heather winced, thinking back to that morning when the idea of taking the workshop had filled her with an unexplainable sense of dread. She took a deep breath, reached forward deliberately, and undid the string on the package before she changed her mind.
“Let’s see what it is,” she said without looking either of the other two in the eye.
“Right on.” Cian grinned and finished unwrapping the parcel.
The brown paper fell away, and the three of them stared at the contents in bewilderment.
“Souvenir pins?” Cian said finally, picking up a pin shaped like a lighthouse and staring at it. “What the hell?”
Heather recalled the matching pins on Mr and Mrs Dunne’s sweaters.
“What on earth does this have to do with bees?” Sinéad frowned at the pile of pins.
“And didn’t Mr Williams say the Dunnes don’t like to travel?” Heather asked, leaning closer to examine them.
“Clearly they’ve got that sorted, what with the souvenir delivery and all.” Cian waved at the contents of the parcel. “Why travel to the coast when you can bring the coast to you, complete with tacky plastic seashells and glitter?”
Heather picked up a few from the pile, turning them over in her hand. The pins slid aside, revealing several blank tourist postcards and a typed letter. She picked up the letter and scanned it.
“It’s just a list of obituaries and addresses printed on letterhead from the Beekeeping Society,” she said, staring at the paper. “I don’t get it. They all passed within the last month, so I suppose that’s what the lady meant.”
A name near the bottom of the list caught her eye: Smith. She wondered if it was the same Smith who had been murdered in the news article. But then, it was a common name.
“Is it a threat?” Sinéad rifled through the pins and postcards, but nothing else leapt out as interesting. “Kind of like a ‘do what I say or you’ll be next’ sort of thing?” She shook her head. “No, that doesn’t make sense. And who on earth needs this many travel pins?”
“Maybe they collect them,” Cian suggested, picking up another pin and studying it. “They did seem a bit odd.”
“We do know one thing,” Heather pointed out, the confusing conversation in the shop slotting into place, even if it still made no sense. “These families have all spoken to the Dunnes within a week or two before they disappeared.”
Sinéad’s eyes widened. “You’re right.”
“Not that it’s likely to produce anything useful,” Heather continued, deflating. “This investigation is such a mess already.”
“Yes,” Sinéad said softly, reaching across the table to clasp Heather’s hand. “But we’re an officially licenced business now. We can do things properly. You know what that means?”
Despite the heaviness that still weighed down Heather’s stomach, she began to smile.
“We can interview people without lying this time?”
Sinéad’s answering grin was as broad as Cian’s, the twin resemblance impossible to miss.
“How does Detective Millington sound?”
“If we’re all detectives now, I’m going to need coffee,” Cian interjected. “How far away do you expect our order is?”
As if on cue, the waiter arrived with three steaming mugs of black coffee and a plate of biscuits.
“Ooh, who ordered the biscuits?” Heather asked.
Sinéad and Cian shook their heads. The corner of a white envelope poked out from beneath the plate.
Heather plucked it free. She looked around for the waiter, but he’d already left.
“Open it,” Sinéad said.
Her face was emotionless as she scanned the room. The lighthearted atmosphere at their table had dissolved.
Heather slid her finger beneath the flap of the envelope and broke the seal to find a Polaroid photo hidden inside. She took it out and set it on the table between them. No one spoke.
The photo showed the three of them emerging from the bee shop, smiling at each other with the package tucked under Sinéad’s arm. Cian flipped the photo over to find a short message scrawled on the back.
Stop wasting time. We won’t wait forever.
The chatter of the café rose around them, full of laughter and warmth. Heather heard it all as if from a distance.
“So we are being followed,” she said dully.
Sinéad turned the photo over again, hiding the message. Her eyes were cold, lips pursed tight with anger. “I’m really starting to dislike this person.”
Cian sighed. “Our first family photo and it’s blackmail. Isn’t that just typical?”
Chapter Six
After a sobering end to their lunch, they decided to visit the Smiths, as a quick check in the local paper confirmed this was indeed the Mr Smith whose murder had been referenced in the article on the Dunnes’ desk.
When they arrived, Mrs Smith was dressed all in black, taking tea at a garden table out the front. She glanced up at them, expressionless, before tapping twice on the teapot in front of her. A bell chimed from inside the house, and a housekeeper emerged with a tray of biscuits and three empty teacups.
Heather blinked in surpr
ise. Mrs Smith must be a witch, though Heather couldn’t tell what her magic ran through.
That was one nice thing about being so close to the city; magic was everywhere. In Old Wetchhaven, there was only Heather and one other witch. The low magical population—and the attitudes of some of the non-magical townsfolk—made it hard to forget not everyone liked or trusted magic. Sometimes, Heather felt safer with her head down and her magic discreet. She didn’t feel the need for that in Starford or the city.
“You aren’t here to sell me something, are you?” Mrs Smith asked with a wry twitch of her lips, making it clear it wasn’t really a question.
“Not quite,” Heather agreed while Cian and Sinéad glanced over the surrounding garden. “May we sit?”
“Please.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Heather said gently as the housekeeper poured them each tea.
“That’s very kind,” Mrs Smith said, her voice just as flat and expressionless as her face. “Are you working with the police? We’ve already given our statements.”
“Oh, no,” Heather explained. “This is regarding another matter. We have a few questions about your relationship with the Dunnes, but we can come back another time.”
Mrs Smith raised her eyebrows. “The Dunnes? Are they in trouble? They’re terribly fine people. I can’t imagine they would be involved in anything requiring an investigation.”
“How do you know we’re investigating?” asked Sinéad curiously, sitting down beside Heather.
“You have that look about you.”
“Curious?” Cian asked.
“Persistent.”
Heather shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t have a strong read on Mrs Smith, but the woman had just lost her husband, so she supposed there were allowances to be made for personality.
The housekeeper finished arranging the teaware and straightened, looking to Mrs Smith briefly for anything further before retreating. Sinéad watched her leave, which seemed to amuse Mrs Smith, judging by the twitch of her lips.
“She’s new, obviously,” she said, reaching for her tea and motioning for them to do the same.
“Excuse me?” Sinéad frowned.
Mrs Smith lifted one eyebrow. “The housekeeper. Obviously she’s not the same as—” She broke off. “You don’t even know, do you? Heavens, you clearly aren’t undercover reporters, then.” She cleared her throat and recited the next words quickly, as if she was sick of saying them. “My daughter witnessed the dreadful act in its entirety, and when faced with the evidence, our old housekeeper confessed.” Mrs Smith’s face twisted into the first real sign of emotion since they’d arrived. “I never liked her.”
Silence fell on the group. No one knew what to say to that, and after a moment Mrs Smith smiled apologetically, though her eyes remained as fierce as before. “What can I do for you then if you aren’t reporters and you aren’t salesmen?”
“We’re so sorry for your recent tragedy,” Sinéad said gently. “We normally wouldn’t disturb you, but the Dunnes are missing. We wanted to ask you a little about the last time you spoke to them—their mood, general demeanour, that sort of thing.”
Mrs Smith’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “How dreadful. I heard whispers of something like that but assumed I must have misheard.” She adjusted in her seat and pursed her lips in thought. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. We spoke on the phone when George passed, so I assume whatever happened must have been recent. They were of course shocked and distraught then—we all studied at university together. Before that, I hadn’t seen them since last summer when we all stayed at St Ives for the weekend, along with the Careys.” She gave a tiny smile. “Rose had one of her fencing competitions, and we all went along to support her. Then, of course, it was all late nights on the beach and too many mimosas.”
Cian wrote some notes down in his book while Mrs Smith watched, her eyes flat. Heather shared a look with Sinéad; that was the second time the Careys had appeared in conversation. It seemed all three families knew each other well.
“They never mentioned an old grudge?” he asked.
“The Dunnes?” She laughed for the first time. “No, they neither invite nor harbour grudges. Are you sure they haven’t simply gone away without telling anyone? They’re not big vacationers, but when they do go, it’s usually a last minute decision. It’s entirely likely they didn’t think to inform anyone if they decided on a spontaneous trip.”
Movement by the front door caught Heather’s attention. A small, mousy girl of around Heather’s age hovered behind the fly screen.
Mrs Smith turned to see where Heather was looking. “Ah,” she said softly, “my daughter, Rose.”
She lifted her hand to gesture for Rose to join them, but Rose had already turned away. Mrs Smith sighed.
“She isn’t taking recent events well—to be expected, of course. She and her father fought more often than not, if I’m honest. But in times like these, old arguments never seem to matter, do they?” Her eyes grew distant for a moment before she gave herself a little shake and turned back to them. “Is there anything else? I’d like to retire now.”
An odd spark of anger flared in Heather’s chest at the thought of Rose and her father’s relationship ending like that, but she knew it was only her own emotions and newly sparked grief surging, so she tried to ignore it. These last few days had been such a whirlwind, she’d had no choice but to shove her feelings far away where she couldn’t reach them or deal with them at all. So far, it was working well enough.
Sinéad thanked Mrs Smith, and they said their goodbyes. It was a far shorter and less illuminating visit than they’d hoped, but with such a clear dismissal they had no other option. Cian studied his notebook as they walked back down the path.
“Well it doesn’t seem like she had anything to do with it,” he said when they reached the gate, pausing to lean against the picket fence and reassess. “And that’s two people so far to insist the Dunnes are the nicest folk in the world and no one would ever hurt them. If everyone else on this list says the same thing, it’ll be a waste of about two days, and we’ll really piss off every grieving family this side of the city.”
Heather agreed. The list would likely be a dead end if they kept following it blindly.
“That’s twice now that the Careys have come up at unexpected intervals,” she said. “Should we try them next? If they had a fight with the Dunnes recently, they’re unlikely to have the same nice things to say.”
“How will we get their address?” Sinéad asked. “They were on a previous list, not this one.”
“We don’t even know what this list is,” Cian complained, shaking the paper and glaring at it. “I’d have asked Mrs Smith, but it becomes a bit tricky when you’re dealing with grief, doesn’t it? I don’t want to upset anyone, but if we don’t know what we’re talking about, then sooner or later we’ll put our foot in it.”
“We need to find out what this list is,” Sinéad agreed. “And we need to get our hands on that previous list with the Careys’ address.”
“It’s printed on letterhead from the Beekeeping Society,” Heather said. “Should we go there next?”
Cian glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to bounce, but we can pick this up tomorrow. I think it’s a great idea, though.”
He grinned at Heather, and despite her concerns, she found herself smiling back.
Decision made, Cian headed home to take care of some business, so Sinéad and Heather decided to track down proper legal advice in person regarding Heather’s business dilemma. Cold calling had proven useless, and Heather’s anxiety continued to grow.
“I was thinking,” Sinéad said as they walked down the street, the crisp November air turning their cheeks and noses pink. “There might be an easy way out of this.”
“Oh?” Heather asked.
She pulled her parka closer, folding her arms and tucking her hands beneath her armpits. The cold had seemed inescapable since that photograph appeared; no matt
er what Heather did, she couldn’t warm up. Even Sinéad had drawn her light blue coat tight to her body, hunching forward as though the warmth wasn’t enough.
“The investigation was on my behalf, right?” Sinéad continued, her voice casual. “I was the client. So… if you move in with me—”
Heather stopped walking, unwelcome irritation buzzing beneath her skin. But when she tried to work out where the anger was coming from, her mind remained blank.
“—then we’d be able to argue it wasn’t a business case. No money exchanged hands. You were simply helping your girlfriend clear her name.”
“But money did exchange hands,” Heather pointed out. “We’ve already talked about this.”
Heather had refused payment for the investigation on account of the fact that she considered their first date far more valuable than money would be. However, Sinéad had gifted her with a business donation for Christmas, which Heather had gratefully used to replace the locks on her back window after it had been broken into. It wasn’t technically payment, but if someone wanted to be narky about it, it wouldn’t be too difficult.
“That’s why you move in.” Sinéad smiled a little sheepishly. “It muddies the waters, so to speak. They can’t link the payment to the client relationship when there is another relationship that clearly bears stronger weight.”
“Yes, but doesn’t that cheapen it?” Heather snapped.
Sinéad’s eyes widened. “Cheapen what?”
“It takes away my choice to move in with you.”
“You don’t want to move in?”
“Of course I want to move in. But if I also have to move in, then how will we know if we’re making the right choice?”
Sinéad stopped walking and stared at her. “Why on earth would it be the wrong choice? How could something that feels so—” She broke off and closed her eyes for a moment before continuing. “How could something that feels like this be the wrong choice?”
They fell silent, the wind whipping through their hair and all around them. Passersby continued on their way, barely noticing the couple who had stopped dead in the centre of the street. The bustle of the day continued, but Heather remained unmoored.