Official Town Business (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book I)

Late to the Party

The bus was late. Imogen had taken a cab to her place from Rosie's - she needed clean clothes and fresh bandages - and couldn't afford the expenses of another trip. So, she was now standing on the stop, nervously checking her watch, and cursing under her breath.

"He's flirting with the coffee girl again, down at the station, mark my words," an elderly gentleman on the bench near her grumbled. 

Imogen thought his name was Spencer or Spence. They had taken the bus together for two years now, and she could vaguely remember filing an official complain of his at the office. It had to do with smoking, and not buses, though.

Imogen sighed. She was now late for work, and had no means to let her boss know, since her phone was impersonating Titanic at the bottom of a ditch.

"You're the Mayor's girl, aren't you?" Mr. Spencer or Spence asked, and Imogen tensed. 

The eyes of everyone on the stop were predictably on her now. 

"What's he going to do about them geese then?" the man asked squinting intently at her.

Imogen sighed. She then plastered a polite smile on her face and turned to Mr. S.

"I'm sorry, what geese?"

"The geese from the Mallow's farm. They wander on the Northern road, you know. Someone might get killed on that curve." Mr. S. pointed his bony crooked finger at Imogen.

"He's right, you know," some middle-age woman chimed in, and shook the leek bunch she was holding. Imogen edged away from it. "That curve is a death trap! First, Peters; then Joan Smith... Who's next to die there?" the woman asked in a tragic tone.

"Leave the poor child alone," an old lady sitting on the bench interfered, and gave Imogen a comforting smile. "Firstly, Peters and Smith died there twelve and seven years ago respectively," the lady continued, "and Peters was drunk out of his mind, while Smith was run over by a lorry from another county. And even if the curve is dangerous, what is this child supposed to do about it?"

"Let the Mayor know people are worried!" several voices joined in.

"Mr. Oakby is aware of the state of the Northern road," Imogen answered levelly. "It's in the reconstruction plan for May."

"Oh well then..." 

Mr. S. huffed couple times, but since he had been the most active out of the spontaneous protesters, the conversation then died out. Imogen exhaled discreetly. The bus finally arrived, and everyone climbed in. Imogen was getting off at her stop, when the old lady who'd supported her caught her sleeve.

"But my dear, you do need to grow out your hair," she said in a soft reproachful tone. "I understand it's of the unfortunate colour, but he will not notice you with this army haircut of yours." 

She pointed at Imogen's pixie hair with her eyes. Imogen's hand unconsciously flew to the short curls at the back of her head.

"Who he?" she asked the lady in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Well, Mr. Oakby, of course. Such a dashing gentleman, despite that dreadful beard of his."

Imogen laughed and patted the woman's hand on her sleeve.

"He wouldn't notice me even if I grew a beard," she answered, twisted out of the surprisingly tight grip of the little wrinkly hand, and tumbled out of the bus.

***

Imogen opened the door to her office and stopped in her tracks, her jaw descending to the floor. Everything in the small room seemed to fly around - and smoke - and spit out sparks: the electric kettle, the coffee machine, Mrs. Harris... and the Mayor.