Murder and a Song (A Pattie Lansbury Cat Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) (5 page)

            “Yes?”

            “Can
you come to join me at the river, near the stone bridge?  Harry Widmore turned up … He’s been
murdered.”

A tributary of the river Ouse ran along
the bottom of the valley.  In late
winter, when the snows melted, it was a powerful stream, almost too fast to
wade across.  In the summer it was
shallow but rapid, bouncing over its stone bed along an ancient course that,
historians said, had been diverted by the Normans to support the hamlets. 

            Its
route was a regular fixture on most countryside walks in the area.  Pattie was especially fond of walking along
the high bank in the Autumn, when she could see through the trees and the
waters were shallow enough that she could spot the trout swimming there,
motionless brown bodies letting the river bring their food to them.

            Pattie
took the low bank past the festival grounds and farms and into the valley’s
crease.  In summer there were tall elms
and beeches that leaned over the river, the canopies from either side almost
touching in the middle.  A narrow strip
of sparkling water, where the sunlight could reach, glistened along the length
of the river until it reached the stone bridge. 
Pattie had seen signs of the police presence long before then.  A couple of officers in boots trudged back towards
the village had given her a wary nod.

            Beside
the bridge were D.C. Downey and Constable Palmer, along with a forensics
team.  Constable Palmer was trying to
convince a reporter to leave the crime scene and call the station for a press
release in four hours. 

            “Listen,
if you want a story, you’re going to have to clear it with the Chief,
okay?  We don’t have the manpower to be
giving out press interviews right now.”

            “Could
you at least confirm the facts?” pushed the reporter. Pattie recognised her as
the popular Laura Conrad, who scouted newsworthy stories for the TV news broadcasts.
“People will want to know what’s going on here.”

            “We
both know that it’s your job to
make
people
think
they want to know about
all this,” Constable Palmer said irritably.

            “But
a murder during a festival?  That’s big
news, Constable!”

            “I
don’t care if it has global significance; right now you’re interfering with my
investigation, so if you don’t leave I’ll have an officer escort you away!”

            Pattie
spotted D.C. Downey speaking into his recorder nearby and joined him under the
dappling shadows.  She saw the body of
Harry Widmore lying face-up beside the river on a tarpaulin.

            “He
was drowned,” said D.C. Downey. “A dog-walker found him with his face in the
water.  The rest of him is bone dry, so I
suppose he was held under by someone.”

            Pattie
looked at the body with sadness. “Could he have banged his head and fallen into
the river that way?  Or fainted for some
reason?”

            “It’s
possible, but that’s pretty unlikely…”

            Pattie
nodded in agreement.  This was murder.

            “Any
signs of struggle?” she asked.

            “There’s
a small tear in the seam of his shirt over the shoulder.  That could be from when he was being held
down.  The way the mud is smeared on his
front suggests he was moving around before he drowned.  I think that’s fairly conclusive.  And there’s this…”

            He
took out an evidence bag with something inside. 
It was a green flea collar for a cat.

            “May
I see that?” asked Pattie, taking the bag. 
She pulled the Polaroid photo of Seth MacGowan’s cat out of her pocket
and compared them.  In the photo, the cat
was wearing a green flea collar with a silver diamond-shaped tag, just like the
one in the evidence bag. “This collar belonged to the cat that had been in Harry
Widmore’s tent the last couple of days – Seth and Elaine MacGowan’s cat,
O’Malley.”

            “O’Malley,
like in that Disney film?”

            “What
Disney film?  Anyway, there’s some
strange connection between the MacGowans and those young men.  I just can’t figure out what it could
be.  Seth and Elaine have alibis for the
time of the murder.  Then our prime
suspect, Blossom’s love interest, shows up murdered!  What on Earth is going on?”

            D.C.
Downey took back the evidence and put it in a tray, along with his notebook and
some scrapings from the victim’s clothes and body. “My main questions right now
are, who killed Harry Widmore, and why?”

            Juliette
Palmer joined them, dusting her hands. 
She’d finally gotten the reporter to leave. “Do you think that somehow
Ms Carter arranged it, as revenge for Daryl’s murder?”

            “She
hardly seemed certain that he was the killer,” Pattie pointed out. “The only
thing she was sure about was that
she
was
innocent
.  Besides, I don’t believe there are many
contract killers in the Little Hamilton phone book.  And she didn’t seem the murdery type.”

            “You’re
right.  This didn’t happen by accident,
though.  But who has a motive?”

            Just
then, one of the other officers asked for D.C. Downey. “Sir, we just got a
call.  The Carter woman wants to change
her statement.”

Back at the police station, Pattie
excused herself and went to the petrol station across the road to buy herself a
sandwich and cup of tea.  The tea was
weak and burnt, but the sandwich stopped her trembling at least.  Too often during arduous cases like this one
she forgot to take care of herself.  It
was funny how her thoughts were always on the little residents of the Feline
Retirement Home, but she barely remembered to eat some lunch.

            D.C.
Downey found her sitting on a bench in one of the station’s hallways, quietly
finishing off the sandwich.  He sat down
beside her. “I’m glad that you’re involved in this one, Mrs Lansbury.  It’s giving me a headache.”

            “How
many times have I asked you to call me Patricia, young man?” Pattie replied
playfully. “I used to put you to bed during sleepovers, remember?  If you can’t be informal with me now, I don’t
know when you ever will!”

            He
laughed softly. “Old habits die hard, I suppose.  So … have you heard from Andy, lately?  It’s been so long since he was last in town.”

            Pattie’s
son Andrew was not her favourite topic. “And good riddance.  He was not entirely to blame for what
happened, but he was a Detective, like you. 
He should have known better.  So,
no, I haven’t heard from him in a long while. 
He always found a way to look after himself, so I’m sure he’s fine.”

            D.C.
Downey nodded without saying a word.

            Pattie
folded up the sandwich wrapper and binned it. “More importantly, how are you,
Thomas?  How are you coping with single
life?”

            “To
be honest, Mrs Lansbury, things between Isabelle and I had been poor for a very
long time.  I’m glad that I finally found
the courage to end it.  She always used
to remind me what a coward I was.”

            “Well,
she probably regrets seeing your brave side now,” said Pattie. “It’s her loss,
Thomas.  You’re still young.  If you want to share your life with someone,
you’ve plenty of time to find her.”

            Was
it fate or blind luck that Juliette Palmer showed up right at that moment to
invite them to the interview room? 
Pattie would never know, but there was a silly superstitious side of her
that liked to think it was destiny at work.

            Soon
enough, Pattie was back at that metal table in the interview room opposite
Blossom Carter.  This time Constable
Palmer handled the questioning.

            “So
we’re told that you’d like to revise your statement, Ms Carter.  Is that right?”

            “Yes,”
said Blossom tiredly.  She had bags under
her eyes, and her hair was greasy.  She
looked unkempt and fatigued.  Was guilt
playing on her conscience?  Or was she
just not psychologically suited to endless hours in a police cell?

            “Go
on, then,” said Constable Palmer good-naturedly. “What would you like to
change?”

            “Well…”
Blossom scratched her forearm and looked at the wall.

            The
Constable leaned forward. “People change their statements all the time, Ms
Carter.  Just go ahead.”

            “I
told you that I was in the tent when Daryl was killed.  But I wasn’t.”

            “Oh?  Where were you?”

            “I
was at Harry’s tent.  We were alone
together.  That’s how I know that Harry
didn’t kill Daryl.  It wasn’t my idea!  I know what you must think of me … But Harry
came to my tent a few hours after Daryl and I got back, and … Well, I left
Daryl asleep and went back with Harry. 
We were only gone an hour.”

            Pattie
was impressed at the Constable’s poker face. “So after an hour, you went back
to your tent?”

            “Yes
… I sneaked in beside Daryl, trying not to make any noise … I just crawled into
my sleeping bag and fell asleep.  Harry
and I had a few beers, and it was about two or three o’clock, so I was really
tired … Daryl must have already been … Oh, god!”

            Blossom
covered her tears, but it didn’t help. 
She broke down and began to cry, her head in the crook of her elbow,
pressed against the table.

            Pattie
took a packet of tissues out of her purse and discreetly passed them to
Constable Palmer with a look.  Blossom
took a tissue and cleaned herself up, but it took several attempts before she
was ready to speak again.

            “I’ve
done some bad things like that before, but it’s not like Daryl and I were
serious.  Normally I would have just
taken it as a sign that we weren’t meant to be together, but now that he’s … I
just feel awful.  I don’t know what to
do!”

            “It’s
alright, Ms Carter.  We’re not here to
judge.  We just need to know all the
facts.  Do you believe that Daryl was
already dead when you returned to the tent?”

            “I
didn’t sleep very well.  Probably guilt …
Everything running around my mind.  I’m
sure that if anyone had come in whilst I was there, that I would have woken up.  No, it must have already happened, when I was
out the tent.  But this proves that Harry
is innocent, doesn’t it?  He was with me
when it happened.  Just ask him!”

            Constable
Palmer took a short breath and gathered herself. “Ms Carter, I’m afraid I have
some bad news.  Harry was found dead this
morning.  We believe that it was murder.”

            “Oh
my god!  I can’t believe this is
happening!”

            “Were
you aware of anyone who might want to hurt Harry?”

            “Well,
if Daryl had found out then he would have been angry – he had a temper, did
Daryl.  But obviously he couldn’t have
done it … I’ve no idea who could be responsible!”

            “Do
you know what I think?” asked the Constable calmly. “I think your boyfriend had
anger issues and you didn’t know how to get yourself away from him.  So when you met a young, strong guy like
Harry Widmore at the festival, you thought ‘Hey, he’ll protect me!’  Only he protected you a little too well,
didn’t he?  He murdered Daryl.  And I think that somehow you arranged for the
truth to be covered up, by getting Harry killed.”

            Blossom’s
jaw dropped. “I could never do anything like that!  What are you even talking about?”

            “I’m
talking about a premeditated double homicide, Ms Carter,” Constable Palmer said
seriously. “If you tell me the truth now, then maybe we can cut some kind of
deal.  But if you keep lying then it’s
only going to get worse for you.”

            Now
Blossom really was crying.  Tears rolled
down her face.  Her tissue was soaked
through and unusable, but the Constable didn’t offer her a new one.  Tears just poured down Blossom’s cheeks and
dripped from her chin. “Oh god, I wish I’d never come to this horrible place!”

            Constable
Palmer looked to Pattie for her reaction. 
Pattie had nothing to say.

The last appointment at Croftmason GP’s
Surgery was 18:00.  Pattie arrived at
18:10 with a thermos and the cat collar, still in its evidence bag.  The Doctor was running over by a little
while, but he soon sent out his last patient of the day.  Pattie gave him twenty minutes to catch up on
the paperwork, then knocked quietly on his door.

            “Ah,
Patricia!” said Elliott as she put her head around the door. “I’m glad to see
you.  It’s been such a long day – I’ve
had four house-calls and a new-mums group prattling on again about whether the
MMR is dangerous.  What nonsense … and I
never knew the young families in this village were so fruitful!”

            Pattie
laughed and poured him a hot cup of tea from the thermos, which he accepted
gratefully.  She’d called ahead, and he
already had the pet scanner on his desk ready.