A Woman About Town (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book IV)

Red Sky in the Morning

Imogen Fox, the personal assistant - and conversely the wife-to-be - of John Oakby, the directly elected Mayor of the town of Fleckney Woulds, walked into the reception area slash her office in the Town Hall, reading yet another article in a bridal magazine, and moving on autopilot. She had had a wedding dress fitting earlier that morning, and the Mayor was supposed to have arrived at the Town Hall about half an hour before her.

"Darling," the voice of the man in question rang above her, and Imogen lifted her eyes off the page.

She opened her mouth to greet him - and froze with her jaw hanging.

John Thomas Crispin Oakby stood in the door of his office, still dressed in his coat - his hands covered in something bright red.

"There's a corpse in my office," the Mayor announced in a strangely mechanical voice. "Please, call the police."

You & Your Wedding slipped out of Imogen's hand and flopped on the floor, its pages rustling mournfully.

"What?!"

The Mayor made a gurgling noise and rushed past her towards the door to the toilet. Imogen heard the unmistakable sounds of a person being violently sick.

Imogen closed the door to the Mayor's office, making sure not to catch a glimpse inside by accident, threw a sympathetic look towards the loo, and dialled 999.

By the time she hung up, the Mayor still hadn't resurfaced, and Imogen knocked on his door.

"John?"

She could hear the sound of water running, and then he stepped out. His face had that unhealthy greenish tinge one would expect from a person who'd just expelled their breakfast at top speed. For some reason he held a large ball of crumpled paper hand towels between his hands like a volleyball setter.

"Did you call–" He choked on his words and swallowed, his throat bobbing.

"Yes, yes, I did! What happened, John?!"

The Mayor heavily sat down on Imogen's swivel chair, wobbled, and steadied himself, pressing one elbow into Imogen's file cabinet, still clutching his Aquarius sphere.

"I walked into the office, and–" He shuddered. "He was there, on the floor. And there was blood everywhere, on the floor. I knelt down and– I tried to see if he was breathing, or if I could find his pulse, and–" Another wave of nausea apparently rose, and the Mayor pressed his paper ball over his mouth. He took a few sharp, laboured breaths, and then continued, "He was cold, and– What is it called? When they are sort of– stiff."

"Rigour mortis," Imogen answered. "But the blood on your hands was bright red! On average, rigour mortis sets in four to six hours, and peaks at twelve hour mark. The blood's too fresh!"

The Mayor gawked at her, a series of nervous blinks making his lashes flutter. One of his brilliant cerulean eyes seemed to be closing a millisecond before the other one. Imogen could see how seeing a bloodied corpse could do that to a regular person.

"That's my blood," the Mayor said in a low voice and unnecessarily lifted his hands, as if to illustrate it with his cellulose globe. "I cut myself. There some shattered glass near his head, and there was the wound on the back, and– Oh god," the Mayor rasped out, heaved, jumped to his feet, and disappeared in the loo again.

Imogen sighed, picked up her trusted notepad from her desk, and started writing down everything that had happened and that the Mayor had told her. Considering how compromised emotionally they surely were, neither of them would be able to recall small details later. That was how Mrs. Harris, the Town Hall clerk, found her.