A Matter of Wife and Death (A Sibyl Potts Cozy Mystery, Book 4) (2 page)

Chapter 3
.

It had been a long day. Cressida had invited me to dinner, and Dorothy was in her usual, unpleasant mood. As soon as Dorothy had deposited the plates of Thai green curry in front of everyone and left, Mr. Buttons leaned over to me. “I’m sure the murderer is Dorothy this time,” he muttered. “She had a terrible fight with the victim the night before.”

I sighed. “Mr. Buttons, a lot of people have had terrible fights with Dorothy. She hasn’t murdered any of them, though.”

“As far as we know,” he hissed.

Eric Jefferies, one of the boarders, spoke up. “The cops gave me the third degree,” he said. “I told them about the guy across the hall from where I’m staying.”

“Peter Steele?” Cressida said. “He never comes to dinner, but that doesn’t make him a homicidal maniac.”

I raised my eyebrows and shot Mr. Buttons a helpless look. He simply shrugged and pursed his lips.

“Yes, him,” Eric said, after swallowing a mouthful of rice. “The other day, I was walking back to my room. I saw Peter Steele struggling to unlock his door while talking away on his cell. I didn’t hear much, but I heard enough to make me do some googling. The guy seemed irritated, and said something like, ‘The millionaire land developer who’s tearing down the wilderness is staying at the same boarding house I am.’ I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I googled it. It’s pretty intriguing.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Eric smiled. “I found that various environmental groups who are unhappy with the destruction of the wilderness areas have threatened Greg Summers. The cops were real interested when I told them that. Greg Summers is a big shot. He owns a commercial property development company. He’s in town to destroy the wilderness area just over west of here. There are tons of protesters coming out of the woodwork, apparently. They held a rally in Tamworth recently, according to one of the sites I came across.”

Eric leaned across the table. “You know what I think? I think one of those protesters was trying to kill Greg Summers, and accidentally killed his wife instead.”

“Trying to kill Greg?” I asked, confused.

“Maybe they weren’t targeting Lisa.” Eric paused for a moment, before continuing. “Greg told me that he usually smokes up on the balcony, but for the first time since staying here, he decided to go out into the garden this time to have a cigarette. What if Lisa wasn’t the one who was supposed to fall to her death?”

“No, Greg’s poor wife, Lisa, was the intended victim,” Cressida insisted. “Lord Farringdon told me that this afternoon.”

Eric looked taken aback. I wondered if he knew that Lord Farringdon was Cressida’s fat, tabby and white cat. At any rate, he did not comment on that, but pressed on. “What if the murderer was Peter Steele? He had the motive, and he had the opportunity. Greg Summers himself told me only a few hours ago that he always leaned over the railing every morning to smoke a cigarette.”

“I think the kid’s onto something,” Dorothy said, and everyone jumped. I shrieked, and my fork flew out of my hand. I had no idea she’d come into the room.

Dorothy glared at me, and continued talking. “The bolts were removed and tossed onto the ground. Greg, the husband, has admitted that his daily routine included standing on that very balcony, and now we have a possible motive. I think it’s safe to surmise that someone might be trying to kill Mr. Summers.” With that, she picked up the fork and waved it at me in a belligerent manner, before hurrying out of the room.

“That’s the most Dorothy’s ever said at one time,” Mr. Buttons said in a stage whisper. “She’s trying to throw suspicion off herself.”

“You’re all wrong,” Cressida said in a petulant voice. “Lord Farringdon said that Lisa was the intended victim, I tell you!”

I sighed, and rubbed my temples.

I hadn’t even finished my Thai green curry, when there was a loud bang on the front door followed by the bell ringing incessantly. Cressida jumped to her feet and headed for the front door, with me hard on her heels.

Cressida opened the front door to reveal a short, portly man, who was sporting an enormous, uneven, walrus-like mustache made out of brown and gray, bristly hairs.

“Are you the owner?” the man with the mustache asked in a brusque tone.

“Yes,” Cressida said. “What can I do for you?”

“Franklin Greer, from the Little Tatterford and Shire Council,” the man said.

“What is this about?” Mr. Buttons asked. He stepped forward, and then took both edges of the man’s mustache in his hands, and leveled it.

The man’s jaw fell open, and he stood silent for a moment. “We got a call about a fallen balcony,” he said after an interval. “I believe someone has died, have they not?”

“Yes,” Cressida said again.

“I have a duty of care to all persons in workplaces, including workers and volunteers, contractors and their workers, visitors and the general public. I have to make decisions about health and safety.” Franklin Greer puffed out his chest. “The Little Tatterford and Shire Council has an obligation to ensure that people are not exposed to hazards or damage. I need to see this balcony.”

“It’s a crime scene,” I said. “It looks like someone made it collapse on purpose.”

“Well, the authorities and I will decide that,” the man said, a rather smug look upon his face as he curled his plump lips into a slimy smile. “But as of right now, we need everyone up and out of the boarding house.”

“Why?” Cressida demanded.

The man looked her right in the eye. “Because this place is going to be shut down. It’s unsafe.”

“It’s not unsafe,” I said. “The police are treating it as a crime scene, so what does the council have to do with anything?”

“Let me assure you, madam,” Franklin Greer said, his eyes narrowing, “I know my job quite well, and I know what’s going on. I assume you don’t know my job as well as I do, so if you please, prepare everyone to leave the boarding house.”

“Are you saying it’s not structurally safe?” Cressida asked.

Franklin Greer sneered. “There’s been a death from a collapsed balcony. It’s plain to me that the boarding house is unsafe and violates several local building codes. I need to examine the entire building and grounds.”

This man was getting on my last nerve. “The police just labeled the investigation as a homicide, so how can you even think to blame the fall on the building itself?” I snapped. “The police seem to think someone took the screws and bolts out of the balustrade.”

Franklin Greer smiled, a thin-lipped, nasty smile, and waved a chubby hand at us. “Prepare for the boarding house to be condemned,” he said. “Good day.”

Cressida shut the door with a little more force than necessary, and leaned against it. “What are we going to do?” Her voice came out as a wail, so much so, that Lord Farringdon appeared from nowhere and let out a mournful howl.

“I’m not sure.” I sighed long and hard.

Mr. Buttons took out a white, linen handkerchief and polished the brass door knob. “We have to solve the case,” he said. “They can’t shut you down and place the blame on the building if the police solve the case. We just have to make sure they find out what really happened. When the case is solved, the boarding house will be completely in the clear.”

Chapter 4
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The woman had the stereotypical, hard-as-nails secretary look down pat. Her hair was short and sleek. Her blouse was form fitting, perhaps a little too much so, and her sharp, black slacks showed off her long legs, and ended at the ankle. She stood as if she were in command of the world, not an assistant to a land developer.

I smiled at the imposing woman. I figured she was the sort who didn’t know what the word
no
meant. It was difficult to envision her as an assistant to anyone.

“Would you explain why you’re here again?” I asked in an apologetic tone, ignoring the impatient grumbling of the woman in front of me. I had a mental image of her with a drum and a whip, mercilessly keeping a score of office clerks working nonstop on their projects.

“As I said, I am Greg’s personal assistant,” the woman said in a haughty tone.

As opposed to a normal assistant, how? Thankfully, I managed to stop myself asking that aloud.

“I just got into town, and I have an urgent document for Greg to sign. It can’t wait,” the woman said in an authoritative voice, as she fixed the front of the boarding house with a critical frown.

Some personal assistant. She didn’t act as if she knew that Greg was on his honeymoon, much less that his wife had just died. She did not appear the least bit apologetic that she was about to disturb him at one of the most inappropriate times possible.

I let out a long sigh of resignation. “Please come in, and I’ll see if Greg is taking visitors right now. He just lost his wife, so -”

“Yes,” she snapped, cutting me off. “I’m well aware of that. And he is expecting me.” The woman brushed past me.

I shrugged. At least I’d tried. If Greg wished to speak with a drill sergeant in secretary’s clothing, it wasn’t any of my business. People had their own ways of dealing with grief.

By the time I caught up to the woman, I found Cressida blocking the stairway to the upper floor, demanding to know the woman’s identity.

Cressida’s arms were waving in the air. “I don’t care if you’re a Nobel Prize winner with a cure for typhoid! You get your high heels and high horse into that living room and wait until I talk to Greg. Unless he tells me he is expecting company, I’m not going to have a guest bothered.”

The woman could have killed with the glare she gave Cressida, but before she could speak, Greg appeared at the top of the stairs, looking tired and apologetic as he regarded his guest unhappily. “It’s all right. I was just coming down to tell you that I was expecting Julie to come by.”

I had the distinct impression the woman had only been expected when she had pulled up in the driveway. Cressida moved to the side, scooting around Julie as she stomped up the stairs.

“Let me know if you need anything, Greg,” Cressida called up. “Dinner will be in a couple hours. Did you want it delivered to your room?”

“If you would, please, Cressida.”

“Will you need a second plate for your guest?”

“No, Julie will be leaving very shortly,” Greg said, as he nudged the woman out of his personal space.

I did not blame him at all. I would hate to have work hunt me down at such a time. I did feel a slight pang of guilt for enjoying the look of shock and disappointment on Greg’s personal assistant’s face when he said she would be leaving shortly.

I turned my attention to Cressida, as the pair disappeared around the corner of the stairway to make their way to Greg’s room. Cressida looked exhausted.

“Is everything okay, Cressida?” I said, as I guided her toward the dining room. “Would you like me to make some coffee?”

“Oh, if only coffee were the solution,” Cressida sighed, but she managed a weak, grateful smile and nodded. A pot was already brewed and looked fairly fresh. I added extra sugar to the two mugs, and then returned to the dining room.

“So what happened?” I asked, as I took a sip of my drink.

“Oh my, what’s happened!” Cressida exclaimed, as she rubbed her temples with the flat of her hand. “I’ve already blocked two reporters trying to get a look at Greg and the railing and stuff. And then before I finished breakfast, the horrible council man came back with an inspector, and threatened to shut the place down.”

“But Blake thinks that the railing was tampered with,” I said. “They can’t blame you for that.”

Cressida drained half her cup before speaking. “It’s not just that. He said they’ve had multiple reports of safety and sanitation violations. They’re going to do a major inspection in a few days. If we don’t pass, the boarding house is done. He’ll shut us down.”

My hand flew to my mouth. “But who was complaining? All the online reviews have nothing but praise for the place.”

“One person in particular. A Cynthia Devonshire.” Cressida grimaced and stared into her cup. “The inspector that the horrid, little man, Franklin Greer, brought with him knows Dorothy. They’re in the church choir together. He told Dorothy that Cynthia Devonshire was the one who’d made the complaints.”

I dug through my memory, trying to remember anyone by the name of Cynthia, but try as I might, I could not remember the name at all. “Who is she?”

Cressida finished off her coffee and tapped the bottom of the cup on the table. “Cynthia Devonshire is the owner of the new Bed and Breakfast on the other side of town.”

I swatted myself on the forehead. Of course. Cynthia Devonshire was going after business aggressively, and had gone so far as to put a flyer advertising her B&B in my mailbox.

Cressida was still talking. “Of course, it’s simply a matter of a business harassing a rival, but Franklin Greer doesn’t care. He didn’t even care when I said that she’s never even set foot in this place. He kept saying that all complaints have to be treated as valid, and so we’ll be inspected to see if we should be open at all.”

“That’s awful!” I shook my head. I had never imagined that a B&B would be such a cut throat business. I would have thought there would be plenty of clients to go around. I was appalled that Cynthia Devonshire would use a tactic so ugly as sending inspectors to harass and shut down the competition.

“There’s a lover’s quarrel raging upstairs!”

I jumped. I’d been so lost in thought that I hadn’t noticed Mr. Buttons entering the dining room.

“A lover’s quarrel?” Cressida asked, looking confused and at the end of her wits.

“Yes. I imagine the man would have quite a lot of explaining to do, well, if his wife were around to explain things to, at least,” Mr. Buttons said, in an irritated tone. He gave us a pleading look. “Please don’t send me back up there, ladies. I’ve no stomach for a soap opera through my bedroom wall.”

“Wait. What is going on?” Cressida asked, as I waved Mr. Buttons to sit down and explain.

“Whoever just came in to pay this Greg fellow a visit is quite a vocal woman. She’s going on and on about how they are meant to be. He’s yelling about her trying to crawl into his bed after his wife has just died. Both are yelling about how he did or did not play games with her.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

Mr. Buttons nodded, and then he mimicked a stern voice. “How dare you, woman! My wife is not even cold in the ground and you are trying to crawl into my bed?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Then she said she loved him. He called her a desperate, well, it’s not a word I would ever repeat. It’s one you have heard many a time, though, Sibyl.”

My expression must have shown my confusion, as Mr. Buttons continued, “From your foul-mouthed cockatoo,” he said.

I nodded.

“Anyway, at that point, I think she might have slapped him. I was heading out my door about then, so I couldn’t say for certain.”

“My goodness!” Cressida pushed herself up from the table, and Mr. Buttons waved her to wait.

“Just let them get it out of their system, Cressida. No good comes from getting into those spats, and no one else is around for them to bother.”

At that moment, we heard the click-clack of heels on the polished, tallow wood floorboards, heading loudly in the direction of the front door. Moments later, the door slammed.

Mr. Buttons winced at the sound. “Well now, at least if she damaged the hinges we know where to send the bill.” He rearranged the coffee cups on the table so that they all made a straight line. “I should have known it was her. That nagging, shrill voice is hard to forget.”

“You’ve met her before?” I asked.

“Oh yes. Well, not directly, but I did see her at the Bistro yesterday afternoon. She was doing her level best to reduce a poor waitress to tears over not refilling her glass fast enough, and then she said something about her food not being to her taste, too.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “She said she just got into town today.”

Mr. Buttons shook his head. “There is no doubt it was her. I won’t forget the voice or face any time soon.”

Cressida and I looked at each other, and then Cressida got back to her feet. “I better go check and make sure everything is all right. Mr. Buttons, I’m sorry they disturbed you.”

“Think nothing of it. It’s not the first spat I’ve witnessed.” Mr. Buttons waved off the apology as he made his way toward the kitchen. “Would either of you care for English Breakfast, or maybe Earl Grey tea?”

“No, thanks,” Cressida said, as she made her way upstairs.

“Sibyl?” Mr. Buttons turned his attention to me. I lifted my half empty coffee cup and gave it a little shake. “It’s coffee.”

“One of these days I’ll have to break that machine,” Mr. Buttons said, as he shook his head in disgust.