by Sonia Parin
“No, it’s not the holidays.” Although, she would have liked to have spent them with her mom back home but her mom, who hated flying, had decided to go on vacation and spent Christmas in Hawaii with her friends.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
“Must be the heat,” Alan Hodge, a regular who always sat at the end of the bar, said.
“The heat?” Mitch looked at her. “Surely it’s not the heat. People pay to come over here and enjoy the heat. Boy, you’re really out of it.”
“Heat exhaustion,” Alan Hodge said. “She should stay out of the sun.”
Mitch took the beer away and gave her a glass of water with ice cubes. “You shouldn’t drink beer if you’re dehydrated. Have some water. Anyway, how far did you walk to get here?”
Abby hitched her thumb over her shoulder. Just then, someone walked into the pub.
Mitch chortled. “Your car’s parked right outside the front door. That’s only two steps away.”
“Enough to sizzle me,” she said. After drinking her water, she managed to straighten. “I’ve got a favor to ask.”
Mitch rubbed his hands together.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll owe you. I need to find out everything I can about Harold Moorhead. What can you tell me about him?”
Mitch gave a pensive shake of his head. “Poor Harold. We heard what happened to him.”
Really? “And you mention it only now?”
“We’ve been talking about it all morning. I guess we’re all talked out.”
Abby looked around the pub. There were over a dozen people sitting around talking and nursing their beers, while the sound of murmured conversations wafted over from the dining room. “Did you all know him?”
“Sure. He used to be a regular here. Then he retired and hardly ever came into town. In fact, he hasn’t been around town in years. Not since…”
“The Christmas of ’09 power outage,” Alan Hodge said.
“Oh, yeah. Did you hear about that?” Mitch asked.
Abby put her hand up to stop Mitch. “Not only have I heard about it, I can also recite the story back to front.”
Alan Hodge shook his head. “I don’t know what we would have done without Harold Moorhead. He came to our rescue.”
“Is that so? Can someone actually tell me how it all started?”
“Someone blew a fuse and set off a chain reaction,” Alan Hodge said.
They were joined by an old timer with a wisp of white hair barely covering his head and two-day old stubble on his chin. “The accident on the highway. That’s when it really started. Someone smashed their car into a pole.”
Alan Hodge clicked his fingers. “That’s right. But the real trouble started when the fool flicked a cigarette butt away. That set off a spot fire and then it spread until it reached the transformer.”
Mitch stepped back and shook his head. “It overloaded. That was the summer everyone got air-conditioners. Remember, we had that traveling salesmen making the rounds and no one wanted to be left out.” He looked at Abby. “Harriet Brown heard her neighbor had just purchased one so she had to have one too. Then everyone had to have one. The guy made a mint.
Alan Hodge nodded. “I remember. The following week, we had a heatwave and everyone had their air-conditioners running at full blast. Demand exceeded supply. The transformer overloaded and we spent the day with no electricity.”
“Is that even possible?” Abby asked.
“Who knows.” Mitch wiped the counter. “I just plug things in. That’s as far as my electrical knowhow goes.”
“So, who did the AC installations?” Abby asked.
“That would have been Harold Moorhead,” Alan Hodge offered. “Back then, he was the only electrician in town. He sort of still is… or was. Now it’s that young fellow who works for him but he’s on his honeymoon. Stevie Garth.”
A thought began to take shape in her mind, but she couldn’t quite define it yet. “Did Harold Moorhead get someone to help him install all those units?”
Alan Hodge snorted. “Not Harold. He’s always been a one-man show.”
Had anyone questioned Harold’s workmanship? “With so many air-conditioners to install, he must have been stretched to the limit,” Abby mused.
“Hear that, fellows?” Alan Hodge asked a couple of the men sitting nearby. “The young reporter thinks Harold stuffed up and caused the Christmas of ’09 power outage.”
Stuffed up?
Mitch leaned over the counter and whispered, “Made a mess of it.”
“Aha. Do you think it’s possible?”
He shrugged.
One of the men approached the bar. “You’ve got a theory going, have you?”
When no one answered, Abby realized he’d spoken to her. “I tend to question things. From what I understand, he was the only electrician in town.” Looking down at her glass she wondered what sort of person would set up a scenario and then jump to everyone’s rescue?
“Are you suggesting he wanted to be a hero?” the man asked. He looked to be in his late 50s. Tall with broad shoulders and an easy smile.
“This is Elliot Barnes. He lives near Harold’s farm,” Mitch explained. “Have you met Abby Maguire?”
Elliot Barnes extended his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
After they shook hands, Elliot studied her for a moment. Then he looked up and said, “She might be onto something.”
“What makes you say so?” Abby asked.
Leaning on the counter, he brushed his hand across his chin. “He’d had his eye on Eliza Menzies. That was her name back then.”
Harold’s second wife. “And?” Abby prompted.
“Well, Harold liked to impress the ladies” Elliot Barnes added. “What better way than to rescue the entire town? By then, no other sparky would have set foot here. So it was all up to Harold.”
Again, Mitch leaned down and whispered, “A sparky is an electrician.”
“Yeah, I sort of figured that one out. Thank you.”
Someone else joined the conversation. Angus Nicholson agreed there might be something to Abby’s theory. “That flat tire didn’t happen by itself.”
Abby remembered the story about the flat tire but she couldn’t recall where she’d heard it. She guessed either Faith or Joyce had told her about it. “You know about the tire?”
Angus Nicholson nodded. “Everyone knows about it and someone must have seen him doing it but no one has ever been prepared to come forward. I reckon it’s about time we find out the truth, if only to set the record straight.”
Mitch looked around the bar. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Does anyone here think Harold Moorhead was responsible for slashing the sparky’s tire?”
They all nodded.
“That’s amazing.” Abby shook her head in disbelief. “Why didn’t someone say something to him?” That’s when Abby remembered Faith had been the one to tell her about the tire. She had suggested no one had wanted to go up against the town’s only electrician.
“No point,” Elliot Barnes said.
Abby dug inside her handbag and retrieved her notebook.
“Are you going to start taking witness statements?” Mitch asked.
Using her own brand of short-hand, Abby took a few notes, writing down everyone’s names and their opinions. “I’d like to know if anyone held a grudge against him,” she murmured.
“I doubt anyone will own up to it,” Mitch murmured right back.
There had to be a way to find out. Abby knew she had to tread with care. Otherwise, she might trigger an avalanche of ill feelings.
A grumble emerged from the general direction of the fireplace. Looking over her shoulder, Abby saw Markus Faydon stretching his legs out. Clearly, he’d been listening to their conversations.
“You have something to say, Markus?” Mitch asked his brother.
“Only that you should all get everything off your chests before the funera
l. You wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead during his wake.”
“You should have a chat with his ex-wives,” Mitch suggested. “I hear they’ve reconciled but I’m guessing it’ll only be until they get the funeral sorted out.”
Abby searched her handbag for her phone only to remember she’d left it at the office charging. “How long till sunset?” She had no intention of setting foot outside until then.
“It’s not even the middle of the afternoon.” Mitch gave her another glass of water.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to dash across the street to the office. I need my phone.”
Markus got up and stretched. “I’ll go.”
“For real?”
Markus gave her one of his rare smiles. “For real and you won’t even owe me for it.”
After Markus left, Abby smiled at Mitch. “Your brother is one of a kind.”
“Yeah, when he hatched, we made sure to break the mold. Imagine having two like him grumbling all day long.”
Chapter Eight
“How’s Joyce holding up?” Markus asked when he returned with Abby’s phone. “I hear it all happened right outside her café.”
“In the alley, to be precise.” Abby sighed. “Hard to say how she’s doing. A situation like this one can mess you up psychologically.”
Markus grumbled under his breath. “Yeah, we don’t want to see Joyce more messed up than she already is.”
Checking for messages, she asked, “How’s Faith?”
“She was busy working and listening to the sound of waves.” He gave a nod of approval. “Soothing. I think I’ll try it. She’s been getting a lot of calls from people asking for the latest news on Harold. Everyone seems to know you were the first at the scene.”
“Technically speaking, Joyce was first on the scene.”
“I’m sure her phone is ringing off the hook too.” Markus went behind the bar and held up a cup. “Coffee?”
“Only if it comes with ice-cubes.”
“Sorry, I only do coffee.”
“Heads up,” Mitch said. “There’s an angel in our midst.”
“Huh?” Abby managed.
Mitch gestured with his head toward the entrance.
Turning, Abby saw a flash of light as the door opened wider. She rubbed her eyes and made out a vague shape. When the door closed, the harsh light of day disappeared and the vague shape took form.
Joyce Breeland dressed as a Christmas Angel.
Joyce breezed in. “I heard you were holed up at the pub. I couldn’t bear to be at the café when it’s empty.” She spread her arms out and flapped her wings. “What’s everyone talking about?”
“The heat,” Mitch said.
“Really?” Joyce settled down next to Abby. “I thought you’d all be discussing the dead man I found in my alley.” She turned to Abby. “Have you come up with any suspects?”
Abby filled her in on her visit to Harold’s house. “He must have worked late into the night to get the Christmas decorations up in his model village. It looks quite pretty.”
“I wonder what’s going to happen to it all? It would be a pity if it fell into the wrong hands.” Joyce drummed her fingers. “Harold didn’t have any children and, as far as I know, he didn’t get along with his brother.”
Abby noted that down in her notebook. “Do you know his brother’s name?”
“Herbert Moorhead. He lives up north where he runs some sort of fishing operation.”
“Up north?”
“Queensland. A lot of people like to retire there because of the heat. It’s like your Florida.”
“I keep forgetting your north is our south.”
“It’s your north too now,” Joyce said.
Abby drew a question mark on her notebook. If Harold had made a will and he hadn’t named his brother as beneficiary, who stood to inherit?
“You want to know who’ll inherit,” Joyce said. “I think Harold will have the last laugh and leave everything to his two ex-wives and enjoy watching them fight over everything from high up on a cloud.”
“A cloud?”
“Picturing him sitting on a cloud is better than having him haunting my alley,” Joyce declared. “Where do you stand on the afterlife?”
Abby tilted her head in thought. “I have an open mind about it.”
“That means you’re sitting on the fence.” Joyce laughed. “Hedging your bets. That’s sensible. Personally, I can’t believe it’s the end. I think it’s the beginning of something truly magical. Imagine being who you want to be and doing what you want to do without any effort.”
“I like your version of heaven. So hypothetically, if you wanted to spend eternity eating ice cream, you could?”
“I’d like to think so, but I’m not sure they have food in heaven. They might have some sort of ambrosia.” Joyce tapped her chin. “I might have to work on a new menu when I get to heaven.”
Picking up her phone, Abby scrolled through her messages and found one from Joshua.
Joyce leaned in and hummed. “I see our detective is sharing information with you. Anything useful?”
“Strictly speaking, Joshua is only following up on a suggestion I made. Something he would have looked into without my prompt.”
“I thought you had an understanding. He shares information and he benefits from tapping into your amazing powers of observation as well as your gut instinct.”
Abby read through the message. Harold Moorhead had contacted the store to order some groceries. Had he mentioned coming into town? Had he suggested collecting the groceries? Abby typed in the questions and sent it off. Could they include Martin Smith as a suspect?
Sitting back, she tried to picture the scene. Harold phoned the store, Martin picked up the call. There might have been customers in the store who might have overheard his conversation.
She typed in another message and sent it off.
Pushing out a weary breath, she put her phone away. “I have no idea how the police do it.”
“I agree,” Joyce said. “In their place, I would haul everyone to the police station.”
“Guilty until proven innocent?”
Someone opened the door letting in a fireball of heat. A low grumble of protests made the rounds and then everyone settled down.
“George Mercer,” Mitch greeted the man who had entered. “We haven’t seen you in town for a while.”
The middle-aged man took the stool next to Abby and ordered a pint.
“Been busy moving cattle up to the reservoir. Easier than getting water to them.”
The gruff tone betrayed a hint of weariness. Abby couldn’t begin to imagine what it took to drive cattle in this heat.
George Mercer took his beer and went to join a couple sitting in a corner table.
At the first opportunity, Abby asked, “Who’s he?”
“He’s actually Harold’s neighbor,” Mitch said. “And he is probably your prime suspect.”
Markus, who stood behind Mitch, shook his head.
“Markus doesn’t seem to agree with you,” Joyce said. “Tell us why, Markus.”
Abby glanced toward the corner just as George Mercer set his pint of beer down with a resounding thump. Beer spilled onto the table. His mouth gaped open, his eyes didn’t blink. Without saying a word, he got up and left.
Abby looked at Markus. “What was that about?”
“I believe George Mercer has just been informed of Harold Moorhead’s death.”
“And? Why did he leave so suddenly?”
Markus shrugged. “He probably has questions and knows where to get the answers.”
“Aha.” Abby took a sip of her water and experienced the unmistakable feeling of being watched. “Why are you all looking at me?”
“A sensible reporter would jump at the opportunity and go chasing after him,” Joyce said.
“In this heat? Are you mad?” Finishing her water, she glanced at them over the rim of the glass. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Sh
e picked up her phone and called Faith. “Are you still at the Gazette? Great. Did you see a man hurry out of the pub?” Abby rolled her eyes. “No, I don’t mean to imply you sit at your desk gazing out of the window.” She nodded at something Faith said. “I see. Okay. Thanks. Come over to the pub when you feel like it… Yes, I know. I’m a wonderful boss.”
“Well?” Joyce prompted.
“He crossed the street.”
“And?”
Abby dialed another number. “Hello, Bradford. Help me out, please. I believe a man might be about to walk past your store. He’s wearing…” What had he been wearing?
“A blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows,” Joyce said.
“Did you get that? Great. Any minute now… Wait for it. Wait for it… Are you still looking out of the window?” Abby cringed. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound pushy.”
“What’s he saying?” Joyce asked.
“Nothing yet. He’s just breathing.” Abby held up a finger. “Oh, thank you. He did? Oh… There you go. I don’t suppose you could step outside and go see? No. Okay, I just thought I’d ask. Bye.”
Joyce bounced on her stool and, in the process, made her wings flap. “What was that all about?”
Abby tapped her phone. “What type of car does George Mercer drive?”
Mitch crossed his arms. “A brand-new Range Rover. Green.”
Abby pushed herself off the barstool, walked to the window, looked out and then returned. “There you go. The Range Rover is still outside and George Mercer crossed the street and walked all the way to the corner. Bradford can confirm that.”
“So? What does it mean?” Joyce demanded.
Abby grinned. “Is George Mercer a cross-stitching cross-dresser?”
“What?”
“Think about it. Around the corner from Brilliant Baubles, there are three stores. A dress shop, a shoe store and a craft store. There’s also an office shared by the town solicitor and accountant.”
“Ah, I see. Actually, no I don’t.” Joyce frowned. “You think he went to the solicitor because…”
“You said he’s Harold’s neighbor.” Shrugging, Abby added, “He might want to instruct his solicitor to act on his behalf.”