The Toast of the Town (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book III)

Justifiable Cause

The chapter contains a wave to one of my favourite readers, @leoniderprofi <3 I felt a certain old lady detective simply had to be mentioned because of your lovely comment! Thank you for your ongoing support!

Love,

Katya xx

***

On Monday the Mayor had a parish council meeting in the morning, and Imogen sat at her desk, daydreaming. She simply couldn't focus on any work today, and for once in her life Imogen was quite alright with it. Her head was full of some sort of sparkles and bubbles, like a bottle of foaming bath soak. The memories of the Mayor's elated face when she'd accepted his proposal, of the dinner their little family had had together, and especially of the sleepless night she'd had, swirled in her head, and Imogen sighed doltishly and sipped her tea. Her phone beeped announcing a text, and she distractedly picked it up and unlocked it. She was still staring at the screen, when the door to their office opened and Mrs. Harris walked in.

"Good morning, Imogen," the clerk grumbled. "It's still raining cats and dogs outside. You just watch, we're going to have another flood." The woman stopped and looked Imogen over with concern. "Is everything alright?"

"Ah, yes, sorry." Imogen stuffed her mobile into her handbag. "Morning, Mrs. Harris. Everything is going very well, thank you."

Mrs. Harris hummed suspiciously. "What exactly is 'going well,' Imogen?"

"Well, you know, the town business, and such." Imogen plastered a fake smile on her face. "Do you mind if I take an early lunch today? I have a date. I mean, I'm having lunch with someone. With a friend."

Mrs. Harris' expression grew even more quizzical. Imogen cowardly hid behind her computer and pretended to type.

***

She stepped out of the Town Hall and quickly searched the parking lot with her eyes. Guthrie's black Bentley wasn't hard to spot, and she dashed to the car, hopping over puddles. When she slid onto the passenger seat, she was greeted with a brilliant toothy grin from the gallerist.

"Here's my favourite gumshoe!" he gleefully exclaimed.

"May I remind you, I'm also an artist you represent," Imogen grumbled. "You said you needed to discuss our work. I assumed it was a business meeting."

"It is," he agreed, maneuvering his massive beast of a car out onto the road. "It's a meeting to discuss the business of the burglary in my house."

Imogen sighed. "Mr. Guthrie, I'm not investigating the burglaries."

He quickly glanced at her and returned his attention to driving. "Deidre explained to me that you'd promised the Mayor you wouldn't - and yet I'm certain you know more and have figured out more than our dear DCI Balinson. It seems that he has zero leads."

"I doubt it," Imogen answered. "Andrew, my childhood friend, is his sergeant, and he's always spoken highly of DCI Balinson. Maybe, he just didn't want to share his leads with you," she said pointedly.

"Would your childhood friend Andrew, by any chance, happen to be Sergeant Cooper?" Guthrie asked and laughed. "Lovely chap. Reminds me of those shitzu dogs. All fluffy, obedient, and naive. Exactly what one needs in a village copper - given, only if you also happen to have a Miss Marple in the village to solve crimes to help out clueless policemen. Imogen, how long are you going to deny it?" he said fondly and gave her a wide smile. "If you stopped limiting yourself, there wouldn't be a mystery you couldn't solve."

Imogen pursed her lips and stared at the window. Soon, the gallerist parked his car near the Oak and Shield, and they quickly ran inside the pub. As always around lunchtime, it was full, and they had to settle for a small table tucked in the back of the room, near the backdoor. To Imogen's relief, Guthrie had abandoned the subject of sleuthing, since they did have an exhibition and a possible commission offer from a country life magazine to discuss. Imogen chewed her bacon sandwich and nodded to Guthrie's explanation of the contracts scattered on the table, when the door to the pub opened, and Rhys Holyoake walked in. As always, Imogen was struck by the man's size and the air of what they daftly called alpha-male dominance in romance novels, surrounding him. Men like him belonged in some fantasy telly series with long and ridiculously wide swords, bog monsters, and unsanitary cobblestone streets in medieval castles. He stopped by the bar, and Imogen saw Mrs. Owens, the landlady, rush to him with a wide smile plastered on her face.