by Sonia Parin
Joyce’s eyebrows drew down. “Are you talking about witnesses? Surely if someone saw him being attacked, they would have come forward by now.”
Not necessarily, Abby thought. “Fear can paralyze people. Also… You might look at something and not really believe what you’re seeing.”
Now Joyce looked confused.
“Don’t worry. I’m just rambling.”
Ten minutes later, they heard the distant sound of sirens.
“They’re coming.” Out of the corner of her eye, Abby caught a movement. She turned and saw someone pressing their face to the café window. “It’s Bradford. I’ll go let him in.” When she took a step, her legs felt stiff and reluctant to move. It had to be the shock of finding Harold dead.
She opened the door and waved Bradford in.
“I came to rescue Joyce,” Bradford said.
Quick thinking Joyce had sent Bradford a text message before she left the pub saying she would need him to drop by the café in fifteen minutes to rescue her from Harold’s verbal clutches.
“You’re late,” Joyce said.
Bradford sighed. “Only because I spent the last twenty minutes trying to talk myself out of coming here at all.” He looked toward the back door and lowered his voice, “Is he still here?”
“Oh, yes,” Joyce nodded. “Harold Moorhead is not going anywhere.”
“What does that mean?” Bradford asked, his tone wary. “Did you find something else for him to fix?”
“No, he did the job just fine.”
Abby nudged her head toward the back door. “You should go see for yourself.”
Bradford looked from Abby to Joyce but neither one said anything to warn him.
“Am I going to like what I see?”
Joyce shrugged. “We didn’t get a warning. Why should you?”
“That’s a warning in itself.”
“Go on,” Joyce encouraged.
Bradford sighed and walked toward the back door. Sensing his approach, Doyle looked up and shifted to one side.
Bradford stood at the door for a moment, then he stepped outside. A moment later, he reappeared, his mouth set into a grim line. “Well. That’s that. I take it we’re waiting for the police?”
“Yes,” Joyce said. “The ambulance should have arrived here long ago.”
Abby didn’t want to mention the fact they’d only been waiting for ten minutes.
Bradford raked his fingers through his hair. Any other person might have launched into a barrage of questions. Not Bradford. Abby knew he had seen worse. Yes, indeed. In his previous job as war correspondent, he would have witnessed far worse.
The café door opened. They all turned to see Detective Inspector Joshua Ryan walking in.
Dressed in a light gray suit with a blue tie and white shirt he could not have looked more out of place. Abby tried to remember how many times she’d met the detective under similar circumstances. Five? Six times?
“He’s in the alley,” Abby said.
With a nod, he instructed the ambulance officers to drive up the alley. Walking back into the café, he headed straight for the back door.
“Would anyone like some coffee?” Joyce offered.
“I’ll take care of it.” Bradford took a step only to stop when Joyce grabbed his arm.
“That’s fine. I’ll do it.”
“I’ll help,” he insisted.
That left Abby with no choice. Her reporter’s instinct compelled her to join Joshua outside and find out all she could but common sense told her to give him room to work the scene.
She compromised by joining Doyle by the door.
Detective Inspector Joshua Ryan had been joined by several other policemen in uniform and someone else wearing a suit. Another detective, Abby assumed. Police highway patrol cars blocked both entrances to the alley. A police photographer was busy taking photographs while the ambulance officers stood nearby.
Joshua had a word with his colleague and then walked toward Abby. “What can you tell me?”
Drawing in a deep breath, she tried to get her thoughts into order. As a reporter she knew how to deliver the facts, but despite having the experience of encountering several bodies, the facts didn’t immediately come to her.
Shock, she thought.
Death always demanded some sort of explanation.
It happened to someone else, but those left to witness the aftermath needed to understand it, to put it into some sort of perspective.
“Joyce and I arrived just after nine. Harold Moorhead had been left alone in the café since just after seven in the morning… Close to half past.” She related the rest of the information in a calm voice that sounded hollow even to her own ears.
Looking up at the sky, she wondered how it could be so bright when it was still so early in the morning.
She shook her head and before Joshua could ask, she said, “I didn’t see anyone suspicious.” Brushing a hand across her face, she wished she could wipe away the last few minutes and start over. Instead, she added, “It must have happened at about eight thirty. He’d told Joyce the job would take an hour. We’re thinking he had been packing up…”
Where had she been at that time?
Looking down at the ground, Abby went through her morning routine. Had she heard anything unusual? The alley had two exit points and one of them was near the newspaper office and just opposite the pub. She still lived at the pub and after all these months she had become accustomed to the early morning sounds.
The usual cacophony, Abby thought.
She’d heard a delivery truck. That had been soon after waking up. Mitch had called out a greeting and had chatted with the delivery man. She remembered plumping up her pillow and thinking it couldn’t be so bad outside because he’d sounded cheerful. Then again, Mitch Faydon always sounded cheerful. More so now that Joyce owed him a favor…
“I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything that might help you.”
Joshua gave her a brisk smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You did great.”
Bending down, he gave Doyle a scratch behind the ear. Abby watched him lapping up the attention.
“Is Joyce still inside?” Joshua asked.
Abby nodded and looked toward Harold’s truck. The police photographer had finished his job and now the ambulance officers were moving in to do their job.
“Come on inside,” Joshua suggested.
His tone seemed to imply she didn’t want to see the body being removed.
“I think Joyce is taking it hard.” Abby decided that had to be the case because she’d been talking with Harold only a short while before finding him dead. “She’s calm but you and I both know that’s not Joyce’s resting heartbeat. She runs on rocket fuel.”
They walked through the kitchen and into the café where they found Joyce and Bradford drinking coffee.
Belatedly, Abby realized she should have warned Joshua about Joyce’s festive clothing. However, she then thought he would have already seen her dressed in her costumes.
Joshua acknowledged Bradford and smiled at Joyce. “Joyce.”
“Coffee?” she offered. “Bradford will make it. He’s revealed a hidden talent.”
Bradford warned, “That’s not to say you’re going to exploit it and ask me to work as a barista for you.”
Joshua took a chair opposite Joyce. Standing back, Abby saw him staring blankly at Joyce’s elf ears. She had to give him credit for keeping a straight face.
“I only want to know if you noticed anyone this morning. It might not come to you now, but if you remember something, please let me know.”
Joyce gave a stiff nod. “When he arrived, I went out into the alley to see if the local strays had made a mess. I do that every morning. I’m quite alert.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “No, I didn’t see anyone. In fact, I remember thinking people must have had a restless night because of the heat and might not get up until later. Just as well because I’d decided to keep the café closed while Harol
d did his job. The streets were deserted.” Joyce leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Who do you think killed him?”
Chapter Five
“Did you find a murder weapon?” Abby asked as she followed Joshua out the front door.
He shook his head.
“That wound did not happen by itself. So, I assume there is a murder weapon.”
“Oh, yes,” he agreed. “That was a nasty blow to the head.”
And what did that say about the killer? Did they deliver the blow with an extra pinch of rage? “Is there any way to tell if the perp was a man or a woman?”
Joshua glanced at her, his eyes shining with a mixture of amusement and surprise.
Abby lifted her shoulders into a shrug. “I think I’ve been watching too many police procedural shows.” She looked into the distance as she spoke. “Take stab wounds, for instance. The angle of the entry point can assist in determining a person’s height… But then, you know all that and I’m just rambling on. Actually, was it a single blow? It looked quite messy… Multiple blows might suggest a fiery temper.”
Who killed him? Why? Had it been a premeditated act or a spur of the moment attack?
“Are you all right?” Joshua asked.
Abby switched off the whirlpool of questions raging in her mind. “I will be. When I got up this morning, I really didn’t expect to find a dead body.”
“None of us ever do.”
Abby forced herself to smile. “I came to this town expecting to spend my days writing about weekend bake sales and here I am asking about murder weapons.” She sighed. “I suppose you’re now going to follow the usual routine and start knocking on doors.” Abby looked up and down the street. She saw a couple of cars approaching. They slowed down to see what was going on.
No point in going home and saying something had happened in town. People needed a few details. They needed to enhance… embellish their stories with emotions.
“He had two ex-wives,” she murmured, “I guess you’ll have to notify them.” She didn’t envy him his job. How did he handle the situation? Did he blurt out the facts or did he ease into it, preparing the person for bad news?
“Do you know their names?” Joshua asked.
She nudged her head toward the café. “Joyce will know.”
“Can you ask her and then call me?”
“Sure.”
He looked down at the ground. “Let’s keep the details to ourselves.”
Meaning, he didn’t want any information leaking.
Abby nodded and watched him head over to the building next door.
The sound of her stomach grumbling reminded her she still hadn’t had breakfast.
She looked up at the clear blue sky and shielded her eyes from the glare. Another hot one, she thought, and headed back inside the café to get the names for Joshua.
“Unless he handles it with the greatest delicacy, this could cause trouble,” Joyce said. “Make sure to tell him he needs to break the news to them together. Susannah Moorhead is ex-wife number one. She would never tolerate learning the news after Eliza Moorhead.”
“They kept their married name?”
“When Harold re-married, Susannah kept it out of spite and told anyone who would listen she would forever be wife number one. The first Mrs. Moorhead. After Eliza divorced him, she reverted to her maiden name but then she heard Susannah say she was the only Mrs. Moorhead. So, Eliza started using her married name again and flaunted the fact Harold had included a brand-new Mercedes in their divorce settlement. Susannah Moorhead has since been fuming and, if you ask me, plotting her revenge.”
Abby gave her a worried look. “I take it they don’t like each other.”
“Not in the least. Yet, every Monday morning, they can be found at the hairdresser, sitting side by side. What else do I know about them… They both belong to the Alpine Trail Carolers and they never buy their clothes here.”
“Why’s that?”
“Eliza made the mistake of buying a dress from Mannequin. As you know, it’s the only boutique in town. Anyhow, when Susannah saw the dress, she said she’d seen it the day before and had decided it was too garish and only someone with no taste in fashion would wear it. Ever since then, they have avoided shopping at Mannequin. Their rivalry creates friction for them and amusement for the rest of us.”
How far would they take it? Abby wondered. “Are they capable of murder?” She put her hand up. “Never mind.” There were always exceptions. People one assumed would never hurt a fly could suddenly pick up a rock and bash someone over the head with it.
Joyce took a sip of her coffee. “I suppose Joshua will now start compiling a list of suspects and, no doubt, you will investigate.”
“Me?”
“Of course. You were one of the last people to speak with Harold and you were at his house.”
“He did most of the talking,” Abby said.
“Did you see anything unusual at his house?” Joyce asked.
“There’s a miniature version of the town with a train running around inside his house. If that’s not unusual, I don’t know what is.”
“Do you think that could be a lead?”
The suggestion made Abby frown.
“His ex-wives resented his hobby,” Joyce continued. “I would think they’d be the prime suspects. Harold had been generous with them but some people are never satisfied.” Joyce shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he named Susannah and Eliza in his will. They knew about it and, deciding to work together, expedited his demise.”
“That sounds too far-fetched,” Abby mused.
“Does it? Yes, I suppose they’d be silly to make themselves the obvious suspects.”
Abby’s stomach gave a loud protest.
“I’ll make you that French toast I promised you.”
Doyle trotted over and settled by her feet. “I think that was probably too much excitement for you today, buddy.”
Doyle huffed out a sigh.
“Yeah, I agree. Humans.” She gave a pensive shake of her head. “They do the strangest things.”
A tap on the window had her turning around. “Faith.”
Faith signaled to the door.
“What do you think, Doyle? Should I let her in?” When Faith gave a loud, insistent rap on the window, Abby went to open the door.
“What’s going on? Why is the café closed? Where is everyone? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the office? Where’s your phone?”
Abby laughed. “Sit down. Relax. You sound frantic. Actually, you even look it.”
Joyce approached the table and set down a large serving of French Toast in front of Abby. “Faith! What’s wrong with you? I’ve never seen you so jumpy.”
Joyce could not have sounded more relaxed. Abby hoped the café owner wasn’t suppressing her emotions.
“I blew a fuse last night,” Faith explained.
“How many ceiling fans did you have on?”
“All of them, but that’s no reason… How else am I supposed to stay cool?”
“Did you change the fuse?”
“Yes.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Joyce asked.
“I spent the morning mopping up my kitchen. The refrigerator completely defrosted.”
“Faith. Faith. Faith. You’re here now. You should be happy. Celebrate the moment.” Joyce’s voice hitched and she threw her arms up. “You’re alive. Be happy. Be grateful.”
Abby and Faith exchanged a look of concern.
“I feel I should ask what’s wrong with you,” Faith said.
“Oh, nothing is wrong with me. I have nothing to complain about. Nothing at all. Life is peachy. The sun is shining.” Joyce’s jaw muscles tensed. “We found a dead man in my alley.”
“You what?”
“Harold Moorhead. Someone killed him in my alley. Right outside my café. Now, every morning when I step outside to see what the local strays have done I will think about poor Harold taking his last breath there. What if he
decides to remain there to haunt us for the rest of our lives?”
Bradford came out of the kitchen. “Joyce?”
“I’m fine,” she snapped. “I just needed to blow off some steam.”
Faith turned to Abby. “Harold is dead? When did this happen? How?”
“Chamomile tea, anyone?” Bradford offered.
“I’m going to clean the stove.” Squaring her shoulders, Joyce headed back to the kitchen.
“That’s not a good sign,” Faith murmured. “Joyce’s stove is always clean. Regardless, when Joyce is stressed, she cleans her stove. And if we’re not careful, she’ll turn up at our doorsteps in the middle of the night with a mop and bucket.” Looking up at Bradford, she said, “I’ll take a cup of that chamomile tea you offered.”
“I think Joyce pretty much answered all of your questions,” Abby said although she filled in some gaps with some details about how she happened to end up at the café.
“Another murder in Eden. At least you have something else to write about.” Faith’s eyebrows hitched up. “Hang on. Do you realize what this means?”
Abby gave a small shake of her head.
“You don’t have to print Harold Moorhead’s story.”
On the contrary, Abby thought. Now, more than ever, she would have to print it. Word for word. It was the least she could do.
Chapter Six
They spent about ten minutes trying to talk about something other than Harold Moorhead’s death. Then, they fell silent and stared at each other.
“It’s not going to go away,” Joyce said.
Bradford put his hand on her shoulder. “You’ll find something else to obsess about soon enough.”
“I’m sure I will but I’m also certain I will be scarred for life,” Joyce declared. “Something like this doesn’t go away by itself. I might need therapy.”
“At this rate, I think the town will need to acquire a psychologist.” Faith turned her focus to making a paper hat out of her paper napkin. “I wonder how many deaths it will take to become a regular hotspot for killers?”
“What a ridiculous notion.” Joyce nibbled the edge of her lip. “Although… You have a point. Surely crimes are more random. We’ve had more than our fair share, if there is such a thing as fair distribution of criminal activity.”