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

Make Tea and Make Up

After a few minutes of civilised tea drinking and pastry chewing, Imogen's guests were starting to get ready to leave.

"It's a pity we didn't see Mr. Oakby," Mrs. Small muttered, picking up her handbag.

She didn't sound too convincing. It was clear that the guests' goal had been quite different - and judging by their self-satisfied faces, they'd achieved it.

"And do come for tea, Ms. Fox," Mrs. Barnett grumbled and couldn't hold back a yawn.

"Oh dear, has your insomnia been torturing you again?" Mrs. Small asked her friend with sincere sympathy in her voice.

"No, surprisingly not." Mrs. Barnett quickly glanced at herself in the mirror in Imogen's hall. "To think of it, last night was the first time in years that I'd slept like a baby."

Mrs. Small laughed. "And that's on the night when there was a gruesome murder happening in the town. You might be great at solving them, but not predicting them, I reckon."

"I'm not good at solving them either," Mrs. Barnett scoffed. "That's what Ms. Fox is for. So, about that invitation–" She turned to Imogen again. "Do let me know when you can come. Preferably, soon, before John - my John - leaves for London again. He has mentioned you, you know," she added cheekily.

Imogen blushed. "Has he?"

"He has." Mrs. Barnett looked very pleased with herself. "I told him all about you: how you're such a big fan, and about your relation to the famous detective Augusta Popplewell, and especially about your sleuthing successes of the last few years. And he said that he just had to meet you. More personally than just being introduced to him, in passing, at a reading, that is. So, tea, on Tuesday, perhaps?"

"Thank you," Imogen muttered. "I'd be honoured."

The old ladies bid their farewell and departed, chatting amicably. To be precise, Mrs. Small was chatting, while Mrs. Barnett listened benevolently. Imogen went back to the kitchen, started the kettle again, and just sort of froze, blankly staring at her window, not seeing anything really. She had hardly any time to ponder the fact that her former schoolmate Constable Jarvis Montjoy might have unrequited feelings for - or possibly some sort of an unhealthy obsession with - her friend, Dr. Viola Holyoake - or to confirm to herself her strong aversion towards the idea of using said unrequited feelings or unhealthy obsession to the advantage of her investigation - when she heard the familiar beeping of their digital lock and the buzzing noise of it pulling in the deadbolt.

She could hear the Mayor throw his briefcase onto a bench by the door, just as he always did, and walk to the bathroom. Imogen wouldn't be able to tell what it was that she felt and what her face expressed at the moment. Neither did she know what to say to him when she turned to the door. And then the kettle burst into its habitual high-pitch whistle. Something dropped in the bathroom. Imogen was pouring water over a fresh teabag, when the Mayor showed up at the door of the kitchen.

"I didn't realise you were home," he said quietly.

"Oliver is picking up the little'uns. They're going to spend the night too."

Imogen still hadn't faced him, industriously stirring her unsweetened tea.

"That's very kind of Pemberton. Please, thank him," the Mayor muttered. "I'm not– I'm not good company for the children right now. And they shouldn't see us row either."

Imogen's spoon clanked sharply against the side of the cup.

"Are we– Are we having a row?" she asked.

Imogen heard him sigh raspily. She was almost certain he'd just rubbed his temple with his thumb, and his forehead with his middle finger, as he always did when stressed.