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

A Straight Shooter

Having politely declined several invitations for tea and offers of a lift, Imogen fled the Holyoake residence. A headache was setting in. Imogen never did well with interpersonal drama, charged atmosphere, and especially family members squabbling between themselves. She'd grown up longing for domestic bliss. She'd got it now and couldn't wait to return into the safety of her own home and her little family - and then she remembered that not all was well in her haven, since not all had ended well this morning, misquoting the Bard.

Imogen took a cab to her cottage and dragged her exhausted self out of the car. She was fidgeting with her keys, when her mobile rang. She was apprehensive to check her Android, but when she finally did, she saw that it was her friend, Oliver Pemberton's number glowing on the screen.

"Hiya," she answered blandly.

"Oh Mops, aren't you the soul of the party?" the man drew out. Sincere sympathy hid under his usual larking. "How are you, love? I've heard the news, obviously. I reckon, you're torn between your Mother Teresa style compassion for all creatures great and small - and your urge to sleuth all over the place."

"I'm–" Imogen paused since she wasn't at all sure how she was. "I'm sort of in shock, if I'm honest, Olly. I just– There's a lot going on, and I'm overwhelmed. It's just all sort of too... cosmopolitan for me." Imogen rubbed her temple with the knuckles of her right hand. "All this drama, and all these townies visiting, and–"

"Do you want me to pick up the little'uns?" Oliver offered, any sort of jesting gone from his voice. "You sound narked, dearie. And are they still questioning our darling Benevolent Ruler?" That was Oliver's nickname for the Mayor.

"No, he's– He's running some errands," Imogen muttered. "They've already asked all the questions. There's nothing we can tell them, let's face it. He just came in to the Town Hall in the morning, and–"

"And found a bloodied corpse in his office, I've heard." Oliver clicked his tongue. "Poor soul. Anyroad, love, I'll pick up your sprogs, and they can loiter at my place till the evening, and even overnight, if you need some space. You know how much they love my PS5."

"Thank you, Oliver." Imogen exhaled a long relieved sigh.

"Don't thank me yet." Oliver giggled. "I'm not doing it out of the kindness of my heart. I need information, doll." Oliver unsuccessfully tried to emanate some sort of a hard-boiled film noir detective. "Were you - or were you not - questioned by the one and only Jarvis Montjoy? And is he as shagalicious as they say he is? It's only been a fortnight since he's been back - and from Paris of all places! - and based on what I remember from secondary, it should be a spectacle to behold. Love me a man in a uniform!"

"Jarvis is just the same as he was at school," Imogen said levelly. "Gorgeous and charming. He's a bit more mature and more attractive, I'd say, but he was easy to talk to."

"Then I bet he's straight," Oliver announced unnecessarily tragically. "No way the gays of Fleckney - of which, as we all know, there are six and a half, counting the closeted Mr. Falstaff - are having Christmas come early this year."

"I'm sorry, Olly, but I haven't got the foggiest," Imogen muttered and walked into her lounge.

It was obvious that she was the only one home. She dropped heavily on her sofa. The cushion that her face landed on, smelled of the Mayor's cologne. Imogen suppressed a mournful groan.

"Alright, I see that you're in no mood for Fleckney's special - pointless gossiping - so I'll leave you to have some kip and wait for your snuggle-bunny to come back home so you can cuddle and make each other feel better. Cheers, love!"

Once Oliver hung up, Imogen finally allowed a loud tortured moan to escape her. Oliver was wrong, she wasn't feeling anywhere close to Mother Teresa. Her thoughts weren't preoccupied with poor late Mr. Staunton, his poor widow, his poor - possibly adopted - daughter, and all the poor people of Fleckney whose past would now become evidence in a murder infestigaiton. The only thing on Imogen's mind was her 'snuggle-bunny' as Oliver had put it, and why said bunny hadn't answered Imogen's question, and whether she could have behaved differently to avoid the current calamity surrounding the bunny's obvious evasiveness.

Imogen rolled on her back and lifted her phone above her face. There were no messages from the Mayor - and then a beep came. Imogen jolted, and of course, the mobile landed on her nose. Imogen yelped, the pain was surprisingly acute. She scampered, picked the gizmo, and pressed it to her ear.

"Ms. Fox, this is Danielle Witt."

The redhead's voice was low and smoky, and Imogen made a noise in her throat, reminiscent of a duck choking on an acorn. On a side note, Imogen did know what a duck choking on an acorn sounded like. Many years ago, at the tender age of seven, she'd thrown an oaknut into the Pond, a small body of water in the centre of Fleckney Woulds, literally named the Pond. Little Imogen had only been trying to feed the unfortunate foul! The experience scarred her for life - and the duck as well, probably. Imogen quickly wondered what the average lifespan of a duck was and whether they had good memory - and whether there was a duck somewhere out there now who was out to get Imogen for the attempted foul play, all puns intended. And then Imogen remembered there was a person on the phone with her.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Staunton," she said and then heard what the woman had said. "I mean, Ms. Witt. Um... My condolences for your loss."

"Ms. Fox, I'm not going to fudge and mudge," Ms. Witt said. "I wish to speak to you. I'm sure you've already been contacted by the Holyoakes, and I'm sure Thomas Oakby had enlightened you on some aspects of our shared past."

Imogen immediately thought that he had not, but naturally, kept the information to herself.

"I want to give you my side of the story," Ms. Witt continued. "I've heard of you, from several people in the county. I pay no attention to hearsay, normally, but a good friend of mine advised me to rely on your expertise."

Imogen wasn't at all certain what an appropriate answer to that would be, so she simply made a noncommittal sound.

"I didn't kill my husband, Ms. Fox," Danielle Witt stated. Straight to the point, innit? Imogen thought. "Neither did my daughter," the widow added. "But neither of us has an alibi for the night. For separate reasons. The police will question us soon, and unless we divulge some sensitive information about some of the most influential residents of Fleckney, we won't be able to give the account of our movements for the time when my husband was killed. And I presume, this would be the last thing you want, Ms. Fox."

Imogen's mind whirled. As much as she fought it, she obviously couldn't ignore the underlying meaning of the widow's words: an influential person in Fleckney would be exposed - and there were only that many of those whom Imogen could think of - if she didn't comply with Danielle Witt's demands.

"What is it that you want from me, Ms. Witt?" Imogen asked, sitting up and pulling her knees to her chin.

"Meet me for a cup of tea," the other woman answered. "You'll have to come to the B&B we're staying in. I can't go to any shop or café in this bloody place without someone harassing me." She scoffed. "It seems every person in Fleckney just has to tell me to my face that I'm a tart and, as they're almost sure, a murderer. They won't let you into your workplace tomorrow, it's still a crime scene, so 9 in the morning should suit you, innit? I'm in Chestnut Manor, room 14, but we'll meet you downstairs, in the restaurant."

Imogen felt quite strongly that she had been given no choice in the matter, so she agreed on the time, after which Danielle Witt hung up with a mannerly goodbye.

Imogen repeated the flopping onto her back manoeuvre from a few minutes earlier and stared at the ceiling. There was a crack in it that looked like a lowercase Greek letter Tau. She'd often glance at it while relaxing on the sofa and reading, usually with the back of her head cosily resting on the clavicular head of the Mayor's pectoralis major muscle. Imogen had once strained said muscle and still remembered the name. Currently, she mournfully followed the lines of the crack with her eyes and lamented the lack of a warm shoulder under her noggin.

When a knock came to her door, she had a ridiculous hope that the Mayor had forgotten his keys - but then she remembered that they had a digital lock and he could just scan his finger to get in. Imogen rolled off the sofa and minced to the hall.