by Sonia Parin
“If you want the right answer, you’d have to ask him,” Mitch said.
George Mercer definitely had plenty of motive. The spring on Harold Moorhead’s land would be enough to kill for. But, surely, he would realize that would make him a prime suspect.
Abby tapped her notebook. “So… Did Jon Reeds see George Mercer at the cattle drive?”
Mitch straightened and wiped the counter. “He couldn’t say for sure.”
Joyce frowned. “If he’s not sure, then the answer isn’t really no.”
Mitch looked up in thought. “Oh, yeah… I guess so.”
“I’ve never seen George Mercer at the café. I’d be surprised if he even knows it exists. So we can’t suspect him of tampering with my refrigerator. But we can still suspect him of killing Harold. You’ll need to question him, Abby.”
“Why don’t I start by passing on the information to Joshua?” Abby suggested.
“Yes, I suppose you should.” Joyce looked around the bar. “Where’s that brother of yours? And… Where’s Faith? And when is the detective coming?”
“I saw Faith headed toward the dining room.” Mitch pointed toward the restaurant and then shifted his finger to point at the stairs. “Markus is grumbling and making his way down the stairs and I’m sure the detective is busy investigating.”
Joyce huffed, “I should hope so. We don’t want an unsolved murder on our hands at this time of the year. It would give the town a bad name and bring tourists in for the wrong reasons.”
Mitch tipped his head back and laughed. “I think Joyce is back to her old self again.”
Abby looked up from her phone in time to see Joyce looking at her from the corner of her eye. “Something tells me I need to brace myself. There’s a look of expectancy about you.”
“I know you’re struggling with the heat and you’ve already skated around the subject… but do you think you could put your brain into gear and help the detective out? You don’t want to let the team down, do you?”
“Team?”
“The girls,” Joyce clarified. “Your batting average to date has been exceptional. Better than Bradman’s.”
“Who?”
“Our national hero. He played cricket.”
Abby’s non-sporting brain switched off. She looked down at her notes but the words performed a little rumba dance. “I think I’m groggy from drinking too much water.”
“Yes, I noticed you didn’t even ask what his batting average was. 99.9%. In case you missed it, I gave you a huge compliment.”
“Thank you. And, in case you didn’t notice, there’s a detective looking into Harold’s death.”
Joyce pursed her lips and puffed up her cheeks. “It’s just a little heat. For heaven’s sake. Think of the tennis players who have to endure it and run around a court.”
“They get paid a lot more than I do.”
“Is this about money?”
“Nope. It’s still about the heat.”
“Where’s your hunger for the truth?”
Abby had to concede Joyce had made a valid point. She glanced toward the window. Despite it being well after midday, the glare from the sun hit her eyes, probably reflected from a window on the opposite side of the street. Abby held her empty glass up. “Barkeep, another glass of water, please. Hold the ice.”
Clearly determined to get the ball rolling, Joyce said, “Show me what you have so far.” Joyce grabbed the notebook and snorted. “This is gibberish.”
“Please don’t insult my shorthand. It’s taken me years to perfect it.” Taking the notebook back, she asked, “By the way, is there a Mrs. George Mercer?”
Joyce nodded. “Happily married for over thirty years. Gloria. That’s her name.”
Abby steepled her fingers. Bradford had mentioned something about Harold being known as a Lothario.
She let her imagination run with it.
What if…
What if Harold and Mrs. Gloria Mercer…
“Do you think Harold had an affair with Mrs. Mercer?” Joyce asked.
“It’s amazing how you do that. I just entertained the same thought.”
“Yes, well… You know what they say about great minds.” Joyce grinned. “Harold Moorhead had quite a reputation with the ladies. I’ve heard say one of the reasons he stayed away from town was that he knew there were a few men threatening to get him back. Write that down in your notebook.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It really wouldn’t surprise me. Mrs. Mercer is all hoity-toity. She never comes into town and does all her shopping in Melbourne. Can you imagine that? She drives down once a month. I’m willing to bet anything they organized to meet when she traveled to the city. In fact, if you investigate that angle, I’m sure you’ll find no one will be able to verify Harold Moorhead’s whereabouts on those days.”
“That’s not necessarily true since everyone knew he liked to stay home. How would people know he wasn’t home? Anyway, are you suggesting they took their clandestine meetings out of town?”
Joyce reasoned, “That’s the only way they could have kept it quiet.”
Markus came down the stairs and set a large box down in front of Joyce and warned, “You put them up, you bring them down.”
“What is wrong with you? Where’s your spirit of Christmas?” Joyce dove inside the box and drew out a decoration. “Green and red?”
“We like to keep it tasteful.”
“Is this everything? Where’s the nativity scene?”
Mitch walked by and tapped the side of the box. “It says 1 of 3 there.”
Joyce pointed the finger toward the stairs and gave Markus a wordless command to get the rest.
Holding her gaze for a moment, Markus looked to be about to make a stand. Instead, he relented and strode off.
Joyce didn’t celebrate her triumph. As usual, she took it with good grace. “I’ll need a stepladder too, please.”
Before she could be roped into helping out with the decorations, Abby slid off her stool, and went looking for Faith. She found her in the dining room sitting with a group of women who appeared to be having an extended lunch.
Faith waved her over. The group didn’t exactly look lively. No one at the bar had expressed any sadness over Harold’s demise. Now, Abby suspected this group was about to make up for it. As she walked toward the table, she noticed everyone’s downcast expressions. One woman looked teary eyed. Another one didn’t bother to hide her tears.
Lowering her voice, Faith said, “They all knew Harold.”
Abby wanted to ask how well they’d known him…
One of the women dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “You have to find the person responsible, Abby Maguire.”
Abby assured her, “The police are doing all they can.”
Faith kicked her under the table. “I’ve just been telling them how you’re on the case and drawing up a list of suspects.”
One of the women gestured toward the bar. “Have you questioned the men in there? They all had it in for Harold.”
“I have been making discreet inquiries.” That didn’t seem to be good enough for them and Abby found herself at the receiving end of a couple of scowls. “Perhaps you can help me. Did anyone see something or someone suspicious this morning?”
“I already asked,” Faith said. “Everyone got a late start this morning so by the time they came into town, they were confronted with the devastating news.”
“You’ve got a nose for this type of thing, Abby Maguire. We know you do,” one of the women said. She turned to the others who all agreed with a firm nod. “You need to do something. How can anyone think about Christmas when this has happened?”
Looking at her phone, Abby smiled. “I’m sorry, I need to take this.”
“I didn’t hear the phone ring,” the woman said, her voice filled with accusation.
“No, neither did I,” another one said.
“Oh, it’s on vibrate.” Pretending to take the call, Abby hurried away
and returned to the bar where she found Joyce standing on the top rung of a ladder.
“Oh, good. You’re back. Could you please hand me those red ornaments?”
This time, Abby’s phone rang for real. Handing Joyce the Christmas decorations, she answered without checking the caller ID first.
“It’s Joshua. I’m outside. Could you come out, please?”
“Do you have air-conditioning?”
“Full blast.”
“Hand me the blue balls now, please,” Joyce said.
As Abby handed the blue balls to Joyce, she stretched and nudged Markus with her foot.
When he looked up, she made a few hand gestures which he tried to ignore so she nudged him with her foot again.
Despite grumbling, he took over the Christmas decoration duties, and Abby slipped out of the pub.
Outside, she looked up and down the street but didn’t see the detective’s car. “Where are you?”
“Outside the pub.”
“I can’t see you.”
“Look across the street. I’m waving.”
She looked across the street at the Gazette office.
“Now look down the street toward the corner next to the book store.”
“That’s not across the street.”
“Diagonally across, in the shade. Is that precise enough for you?”
She crossed over and hurried toward his car. “This had better be good. I’m already sweating.”
Joshua leaned over and pushed the passenger door open for her.
“What’s wrong? Why didn’t you come into the pub?”
“Too many ears and Joyce. I called Mitch to get the lay of the land. He told me Joyce is on the warpath and cranky because you haven’t found the killer yet. You should be thanking me. I rescued you.”
“I didn’t realize I needed rescuing. And… And I’m a reporter not a detective. What do they want from me?” She slumped back.
He nudged his head toward the pub. “I see George Mercer’s Range Rover is still here. Did he return to the pub?”
“No, not yet. He sure must have a lot to talk about with the accountant. What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been busy canvasing the area and following another lead.”
“That sounds promising.” When he raked his fingers through his hair, Abby thought he looked worn out. “I guess I’m not the only one succumbing to the heat.”
“It’s not that. It turns out Harold Moorhead would not have won any prizes for popularity. Not with the men. It took an entire day to establish it.”
A car pulled up outside the bookstore. Abby watched a woman taking her time to lock it. She then stood outside the store looking at the window display. Abby found herself mentally urging her to go inside.
Joshua pushed out a breath. “What made him a recluse? That’s what I don’t get.”
“His trains and model village,” Abby suggested.
“No, there has to be something else. He even ordered his groceries over the phone.”
“Not everyone likes to shop,” Abby observed. “In fact, it’s become trendy to buy exclusively on-line.” Leaning forward, she adjusted the air-vent so it would hit her in the face. “I guess you spoke with Martin Smith. Did you ask who else had been in the store when he spoke with Harold?”
His jaw muscles clenched and unclenched. “He said there’d been a couple of people but he couldn’t be sure which ones. No one is sticking to their routine because of the heatwave.”
Abby had never seen the detective looking so frustrated. She had met him the first day she’d arrived in town and every time they crossed paths, he’d always been optimistic, processing information and sifting through it until he found a key lead to follow. Even when there appeared to be nothing, Joshua always assumed something would turn up.
Growling, he wrenched his tie off. “I think someone is going to get away with murder.” He fell silent for a few minutes and then looked at Abby. “Are you thinking someone overheard Harold’s conversation with Martin Smith?”
“They would only have heard half the conversation, but maybe Harold mentioned dropping into town and then… Martin Smith mentioned it to his assistant and… someone heard him.” Abby tried to picture the scene. “Either someone who turned out to be the killer or someone who then mentioned it to someone else…” When she saw Joshua close his eyes, she added, “I guess that doesn’t help.”
“Actually, it does. I just need to give Martin Smith more time to see if he remembers anyone being present at the store while he had the conversation with Harold.”
“Are you okay?” Joshua had never sounded so despondent. “I’d hate to say it, but you sound as though you’re about to throw in the towel.”
“It doesn’t look good, Abby. No weapon. No witnesses. It’s down to who hated him the most and that’s just about everyone.”
Chapter Eleven
“Please tell me you’re not having a meltdown. If you are… Well, you can’t.”
Joshua brushed both hands across his face and gave a reluctant shrug. “Honestly, I’ve got nothing.”
Abby opened her mouth to speak and closed it.
The admission shook her. Since their first meeting, she had thought of Detective Inspector Joshua Ryan as confident and competent in his job. He had a tough job to perform and he did it with stalwart relentlessness. He could have dismissed Abby’s persistent meddling but, instead, he’d always welcomed her input.
Abby lightened her tone. “What do you mean you’ve got nothing? You always have something.”
“Not this time.”
“Pull yourself together, detective. The entire town is counting on you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. They’re depending on you. They want you to solve the case.”
“Yes, well… what they want and what they get are… Oh, whatever.”
“Did you just lose the thread?” he asked.
Abby shrieked, “It’s this heat. How can it be so persistent?” She clutched her throat. “It’s grabbed hold of me and won’t let go… And, when is the sun going to set?”
“It’s summer time, remember? The sun doesn’t go down until 9pm. Look on the bright side.”
“You’re telling me to look on the bright side?” She pushed out a weary breath. “I suppose you’re right but there’s just way too much brightness.” She clicked her fingers. “That’s it. It’s the light. I’ve never seen light so bright. It feels… It feels unfiltered.”
“Think of everyone living in Alaska. They have continuous darkness now and in summer the sun barely sets.”
“That’s right, but they don’t have to contend with the heat.” She grumbled. “At this rate, we could set ourselves up as a grumbling duet.” It was Abby’s turn to brush her hands across her face. “Let’s put our thinking caps on. We have a default to truth. Our operating assumption is that the people we are dealing with are honest.” Sighing, she added, “I read that somewhere. So, I’m going to assume everyone is lying. You want suspects? There’s a pub full of them. I just spent several hours sitting at the bar and just about everyone had an opinion about Harold Moorhead. There were also varying versions of his role in the Christmas of ’09 power outage.” Looking toward the pub, she gave Joshua a list of names of everyone who’d expressed their opinions.
“You’ve had a busy afternoon,” he said as he noted down the names in his notebook.
Abby gave a small nod. “For all we know, the killer could actually be sitting in there.”
Joshua put his notebook away and drew out his phone.
She listened as he placed a call and organized for one of his detectives to keep an eye on everyone at the pub. Disconnecting the call, he said, “Thanks. You’ve just widened the net for me. I might have to give serious thought to handing in my badge.”
It had to be the heat, Abby thought. No one could function at full capacity when the air felt too hot to inhale. “It’s the end of the day. That’s something.” She hoped Joshua would
perk up, but it didn’t work.
“This has never happened to me before. I can’t shake off the feeling this case might go unsolved.”
Abby cleared her throat and tried to insert some enthusiasm into her voice. “We’ve been tossing around a few ideas and trying to come up with motives for murder. What if it’s just a random act? Heat does strange things to people. On the one hand, the fact Harold was killed on the day he emerged from his little haven makes me think of opportunity. But on the other hand, he could have been in the wrong place at the wrong time and encountered someone who just couldn’t take another day of extreme heat. For all we know, Harold might have been whistling a happy tune that made someone snap.”
Joshua straightened. “His landline phone records show him sticking to a routine. Once a week, he placed a call to the grocery store. Twice a week, he spoke with his ex-wives.”
“He kept in touch, not once but twice a week?” What did that say about the man? Abby had noticed his house had been neat and tidy. Inside, everything had been kept in order. Meticulously so. Nothing out of place. A place for everything.
They both sighed and, in the next moment, they both leaned forward slightly.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Abby asked.
“I think so. Although, a second ago, I thought I was imagining a troop of gnomes crossing the street. The hats… Yes, I mistook the Santa hats for gnome hats.”
Abby tilted her head. “Yeah, they sort of look similar. I guess that’s the carolers and they’re headed to the pub.”
Joshua laughed. “You’re really good at piecing information together.”
“It wasn’t easy to hear the singing over the cicadas. Where do they get their enthusiasm and energy from? If I could hide under a rock, I would.”
She held her hand out and measured the distance between the rooftop and the sun. Two fingers. “I’d like to go back to his house.”
“We went through it with a fine-tooth comb,” Joshua said. “What do you hope to find?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I feel I didn’t look hard enough.”