Dear Abby Cozy Mystery Collection 2

by Sonia Parin

  “What about them?” he asked.

  “They might have captured the intruder.”

  “No such luck. They stop recording when you disarm the system.”

  “Yes, but the intruder might have arrived before we did…”

  He nodded. “Okay. We’ll check the recordings and we’ll look around the perimeter. We might find footprints.” As he finished packing the albums, they heard a few cars pulling up outside. “That must be the team now. I’ll take these out to the car and organize to have the place locked up after everyone leaves.”

  “You’re not staying?”

  “No, they’ll take care of collecting the information. I can sift through it tomorrow. I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

  She helped him carry one of the boxes to the car. “I’d like to know if Harold got along with George Mercer.”

  “Without Harold, whatever George Mercer says will be hearsay.”

  “Still, you can tell a lot by the way a person expresses themselves. He might let something slip. Something that might incriminate him.” Smiling, she added, “You have a full day to look forward to, detective.”

  “As do you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Joshua pulled up outside the residential entrance to the pub and helped Abby unload the boxes with the photo albums.

  When he finished, he said, “If you find anything, don’t hesitate to text me.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “There’s a cold shower waiting for me.”

  His tie hung like a noose around his neck and his usually tidy hair poked out in places.

  With his hands hitched on his hips, he held her gaze for a moment and then asked, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. The intruder has definitely given us something to think about.”

  “Yeah, it’s definitely a clue. We just have to figure out what he was looking for.”

  “We?”

  He smiled. “I’m taking the road of least resistance.”

  As Joshua turned to leave, Doyle burst in followed by Joyce and Faith.

  “Abby! You’re alive.”

  Doyle lunged for her. Abby managed to catch him and was then assaulted by his doggy kisses.

  Joyce hurried toward her, her wings flapping.

  “Um… Yes, I’m alive. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Elliot Barnes said there were police cars headed to Harold’s place. His wife’s been keeping a lookout and sending him the information.”

  Abby exchanged a look with Joshua. Nodding, he left. No doubt to have a chat with Mrs. Barnes. Although, if she’d seen something or someone, surely, she would have approached the police.

  Faith flung her arms around her. “What happened?”

  “I think you’re all overreacting.”

  “Not according to Mrs. Barnes. She says the place was swarming with police.”

  Abby set Doyle down, saying, “Thank you for your concern, Doyle. But as you can see, I’m alive and well.”

  “I called Mrs. Barnes to confirm what her husband had said and as soon as I got off the phone with her, Doyle started scratching the door and howling,” Joyce said. “He must have listened to everything I said and sensed my panic.”

  “Yes, well… I need to get out of these sticky clothes and have a cold shower.” When she took a step, the others followed. “What are you doing?”

  “Something happened. You’re being too dismissive,” Joyce declared. “I know you, Abby Maguire. You’re hiding something.”

  She gestured to the boxes. “Have a look through those albums and see what you can find.” She hurried into the bathroom and, before Doyle could follow her inside, she closed the door.

  Half an hour later, when she felt she had washed out the fear she had felt while she’d been bound and gagged, she emerged. While she’d been held captive, she had employed reason to calm down but the fear of what might happen to her had been there…

  She found Joyce and Faith poring through the albums.

  “This is amazing,” Joyce exclaimed and pointed to an album that sat on the coffee table. “He did the 1920s picnic we had at the lake. And… last month, when I went through my hot pink phase. It’s all here.”

  “I think his ex-wives gave him the information, but I’d like to be sure.” Abby thought about the photos he hadn’t had the time to print out. Getting her computer, she set up the printer. “I have more photos.” She waved her phone.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Faith offered.

  “I called Mrs. Barnes,” Joyce said. “The police are still at Harold’s place.”

  “They’re having a closer look.” Abby didn’t see the point in alarming them with a story about being bound and gagged.

  The fact she hadn’t come to any harm still puzzled her. She imagined the man thinking he just wanted to find ‘it’ and get out.

  He’d been prepared. Abby remembered seeing a black blur. She thought he must have worn dark clothes; black or maybe navy blue.

  Leaning over Faith’s shoulder, she looked at the first photo she printed out. Pointing to it, she asked, “Who’s had a baby recently? That’s a pram outside the craft store.”

  Joyce had a look and shook her head. “No one I can think of.”

  Gesturing toward all the albums, Abby said, “Harold was precise. If there’s a pram, there has to be a baby. I’m willing to bet if we look through those photos, we won’t find a pram. He only put the pram in the most recent display. It has to mean something.”

  Joyce tapped her finger on the photo. “In that case, we’re looking for a baby boy. The pram is blue.”

  “Perhaps someone visited,” Faith suggested.

  “No,” Joyce disagreed. “This is recent. Actually, it’s current. See, I’m dressed in my elf outfit.” She shook her head. “I don’t remember anyone coming into the café with a baby pram.” She grabbed her phone and called Bradford. When she finished the conversation, she said, “He didn’t see a pram and Brilliant Baubles would have been a major drawcard for someone with a baby. I found a box full of antique toys and did the display window last week. Bradford’s been complaining about people leaving fingerprints on his window.” She walked around the small sitting room and placed another call.

  “Who owns the craft store?” Abby asked.

  Faith rolled her eyes. “Really? How long have you been living here? What sort of snoopy reporter are you?”

  “It’s Genie Larson, Stevie Garth’s new wife and they’re on their honeymoon,” Joyce said.

  “Oh, the sparky’s wife…”

  Joyce nodded.

  “Any chance she might be pregnant?”

  “I haven’t heard any rumors.” Joyce shrugged. “You’re assuming Harold got his information from his ex-wives and they would only know about Genie being pregnant if they’d heard a rumor and since I haven’t heard it, it can’t possibly exist.”

  Abby didn’t have the energy to question Joyce’s stalwart belief.

  She changed the water in Doyle’s bowl and filled up his other bowl with his favorite doggy treats.

  “I guess you’ve both had dinner.”

  “No, Faith and I have been busy with the decorations.”

  “I’ll order something.” She picked up the phone only to frown. She couldn’t let it go. “Why would Harold put a pram in front of the craft store if there isn’t a baby?”

  “This is incredible,” Joyce remarked. “I’m looking at photos from six months ago and I remember wearing a black outfit when I went through my Audrey Hepburn phase. Look, here I am outside my café dressed in black. I think you’re onto something, Abby. There’s a reason for that pram. If he put it in his model village it’s because he or someone else saw it there.”

  The next morning, Abby stood in her small sitting room looking at the photo albums spread out on every available surface.

  Joyce had been the one to notice the little golden car positioned along the main street on its way out of town. It had appeared
on every photo taken at the beginning of the month.

  According to Joyce, only one person drove a gold colored car. A gold BMW, to be precise.

  George Mercer’s wife, Gloria.

  They had spent the night puzzling over Harold’s inclusion of the car in his model village because they had hit a dead end with the pram.

  She picked up her phone. Someone had to know something…

  Bradford’s words sounded measured when he said, “You must have a very good reason for calling me at seven in the morning.”

  “You collected the lights from Harold’s garage. Did he keep his car there?”

  “Yes. People usually keep their cars in their garages. Unless they happen to be Abby Maguire and she gets to keep her car out in the sun. Actually, Harold had a shed, not a garage.”

  “What type of car did he drive? The day he died, Harold drove into town in his truck. I remember it had Moorhead Electrical written on the driver’s door. I want to know if he had another car.” Abby heard him sigh and then shuffle some pages around. “Are you still there?”

  “Is this about my car not having air-conditioning?” Bradford asked. “Are you trying to rub my nose in it?”

  “Oh, you mean the way you’re doing about me having to park my car out on the street?” Abby couldn’t keep the confusion out of her voice, “I just want to know what type of car he drove. Never mind why. I mean… I’m working on a little theory and it has nothing to do with your four windows down system.”

  “A Range Rover, just like mine.”

  “Old and full of rust?”

  “No, brand new. He liked to keep up with George Mercer.”

  “What color?”

  “Black.”

  Abby thanked him. Sifting through the photos, she found the ones with the gold BMW and, sure enough, she found a black Range Rover headed in the same direction.

  She looked through her notes and found a question mark next to Harold’s name and an arrow pointing to Gloria Mercer.

  Had they been having an affair?

  She sent Joshua a text and thought she didn’t want to be in George Mercer’s shoes.

  Joshua called her straightaway. “You’re up.”

  “Since the crack of dawn. I intend making the best of the morning before the heat sets in.”

  “How are you feeling this morning?”

  She had woken up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and the vague memory of a bad dream. “Great.”

  “You sure?”

  “Are you about to suggest I seek counseling for the trauma I experienced yesterday?”

  “It’s your traumatic experience. If you don’t deal with it, it could become a problem.”

  She changed the subject by saying, “You sound chirpier today.”

  “That’s because I just had my first coffee and I didn’t break into a sweat.”

  Rubbing the wedge between her eyes, Abby tried to remember where they had left off the previous day. “Did you get anything out of Mrs. Barnes?”

  “The Barnes farm is across the road from Harold and she also has a clear view of the highway. She saw us arriving and then she saw me leaving.”

  But she hadn’t seen anyone else. How did the intruder access the property? The back paddocks?

  “Did you get my message about George Mercer’s wife?”

  He sighed. “Do I really want to hear your theory?”

  “Of course, you do. Why did Jon Reeds come looking for George Mercer at the pub when George Mercer said he’d been out all day driving his cattle to the reservoir. Jon Reeds is his foreman. Surely, they would have been out there together. Then, the moment George Mercer heard about Harold’s death, he rushed to see his accountant to get the ball rolling.”

  “And what does his wife have to do with any of it?” Joshua asked.

  “There’s a rumor about Harold being a Lothario. Gloria Mercer goes out of town every month. What if…”

  “Okay. I’ll follow up on it. Honestly, I don’t see George Mercer being so careless. If he killed Harold Moorhead, he would have remained calm and waited until a more appropriate moment to see his accountant. As for Gloria Mercer having an affair with Harold… No, I can’t picture it. But you’ve been right too many times. Anyhow, I have to get going,” he said. “I guess you’ll be busy going through the albums.”

  “Um… Yes. Lots to do and today looks like it’s going to be even hotter.”

  Doyle made an appearance, stretched and yawned and then went to sit by his bowl.

  “Yes, breakfast time. I’m not taking any chances today. I’m having breakfast at the pub.” She took the stack of photos Faith had printed out down to breakfast and spent the next hour taking notes.

  When Mitch came by to clear her table, she asked if he knew of anyone who’d had a baby recently.

  “Only one way to find out,” he said.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Talk to Martin Smith. If anyone has a baby, they’re most likely getting their baby stuff from his store.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  After breakfast, Abby headed to the café. When she reached it, she found Joyce setting up the tables outside. Noticing the umbrellas had somehow acquired icicles again, she smiled. “You’re persistent. Aren’t you worried the tape will melt off again?”

  “Did you forget already? Last night you gave me the tip about making them with glue. I found some clear glue and voila. Icicles!”

  “For your sake, I hope someone actually sits out here.”

  “You should consult a doctor,” Joyce suggested. “You might be allergic to the sun. Did you ever think about that? And, look at you. You’re not wearing a hat.”

  “I forgot… Actually, hats flatten my hair.”

  “Vanity over comfort?” Joyce clucked her tongue.

  “Hey, I’m not the only one who wants to stay out of the sun. Look at Doyle. He’s waiting by the door. If I wanted to sit out here, I’d have to tie him to the chair.”

  “At least you’re dressed appropriately. Think of all those poor office workers who have to wear shirts and jackets to work.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So people keep telling me. Speaking of clothes, are you taking a break from dressing up?”

  “No.” Joyce looked down at herself.

  She wore a yellow T-shirt matched with a yellow tutu skirt.

  “Give up?” she asked.

  “Um… a Christmas tree light? No… wait. A star?”

  Joyce nodded and smiled. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please. I’ve had breakfast at the pub, but the coffee… Well, it’s not your coffee.”

  “Praise will get you anything you want.”

  “Great. I do need something. Do you think you can contact Mrs. Barnes?”

  “Sure. What do you want to know?”

  Abby followed Joyce inside the café and sat down at the counter. “I’d like to know if and when George Mercer leaves his place today.”

  “And you want to know that because…”

  “I’d like to speak with Mrs. Mercer.” And something told Abby George Mercer wouldn’t be happy about that.

  “And you don’t want her husband to know. I wonder why?” Joyce didn’t wait for Abby to offer an answer. “This is about the rumors. You think Harold and Gloria had something going.”

  “You’re the one who suggested it first.” Distracted, Abby looked around the café. “Do you have the AC on?”

  “Sure do.”

  She fanned herself. Was it really all in her mind?

  Joyce set a mug of coffee down in front of Abby and took the stool next to her. “Okay. Walk me through your theory.”

  She wouldn’t necessarily call it that. George Mercer had already triggered her curiosity by appearing to lie about his whereabouts, even if the fact he had acted so promptly after hearing the news about Harold suggested he had nothing to hide.

  On the other hand, if his wife had been carrying on with Harold…

  Yes, that would give him motive for mur
der. Unless…

  Had he been prepared to turn a blind eye?

  “The photos Harold took show Gloria’s gold BMW and his black Range Rover heading in the same direction. You said Gloria went to Melbourne regularly.”

  “If it turns out to be true, what will it prove?” Joyce asked.

  Abby shrugged. “It could prove an affair existed. If George Mercer found out about it, he might have decided to take matters into his own hands. What else do you know about Gloria? You said she’s been happily married for thirty years. How do you know?”

  “I just assume. She’s still married so she must be happy.”

  “Is it possible she might be attached to her way of life and be prepared to put up with anything just to maintain the status quo?”

  Pressing the tip of her finger against her chin, Joyce gave it some thought. “I can’t help being an optimist and a romantic at heart. It pains me to admit it, but I suppose anything and everything is possible.” Joyce reached over the counter, got her phone and placed a call to Mrs. Barnes. When she ended the call, she said, “Mrs. Barnes will let us know if and when George leaves the house.” Joyce offered her another coffee and as she prepared it, she asked, “What about the pram? Have you had any new ideas?”

  “None. Despite no one around here having a baby, I insist it has to mean something. Maybe there’s a baby on the way.”

  The first customers of the day arrived. Joyce got busy serving them, leaving Abby to look through the photos she had taken of the model village.

  Closing her eyes, she went through the photos she had seen. They had all been organized by date.

  Each set of photos differed from the other. The ones going back to before Abby’s arrival had shown Faith and another little figure that could only have been the owner of the Gazette, Dermott Cavendish, at the newspaper office. Abby had only seen the man once and… unfortunately, he had been dead.

  The only photos with any similarity had been the ones taken at the start of the month when Harold had positioned the gold BMW and his car on the main road. He’d also made changes for the different seasons and special town events, but none had been recurring. Only the ones with the two cars. Almost as if he’d wanted to mark the special occasion.