Paint the Town Red (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book II)

Bon Appetit!

About ten minutes into the dinner, Imogen realised it had been quite a daft idea. She was no detective, and especially she was no Columbo. 'Obfuscating stupidity' was properly not her forte.

Her dinner companions, with the exception of Dr. Nenadovich, were saccharine chummy with Imogen and watching her like a kebab still on the spit, rotating and juicy, mouth-watering after a fortnight of enforced vegan diet. Never in her previous professional experience had she been that obviously 'charmed' and 'hopefully soon corrupted.' Imogen shortly wondered what sort of irregularities one could find in the Buric Construction's paperwork if Mrs. and Mrs. Buric were that interested in having a 'friend' in the Town Hall.

Mr. Buric was a large man with an exceptionally rectangular face. He had dark expressionless eyes and heavy eyebrows. His wife had probably been an exceptionally attractive woman when younger, but as they say handsome is as handsome does. Her skin, even under the heavy makeup, was dull and unhealthy; there were bags under her eyes; and the line of her perfectly outlined lips was bitter and spiteful.

"And have you grown up in our lovely village, Ms. Fox?" Mrs. Buric asked, picking up a leaf of arugula on her fork.

If Fleckney Woulds were indeed 'their lovely village' they would have known, Imogen thought.

"Yes, I have. Born and bred, so to say," she said with an awkward laugh.

Milena Savic, the fifth person present at the dinner was apparently Mrs. Buric's right hand, just as the late Mr. Horvat had been Mr. Buric's. She was an exceptionally skinny blonde of indefinite age, who had the same hungry unpleasant gaze as her immediate boss.

"But how are you handling it?" Dr. Nenadovich suddenly asked, and everyone else at the table looked at her.

She was pensively chewing a slice of peach.

"Handling what?" Mrs. Buric asked.

"The death of your colleague, of course, and his secretary, that poor girl..." The archeologist pensively waved her fork in the air. "Sophia? No, no, that's a wrong Tolstoy's character. Kitty?"

"Kitty Oswood," Mr. Buric said darkly.

He had hardly spoken a word since the beginning of dinner, just kept smiling at Imogen, like a hungry crocodile. Imogen found it discomforting, despite the fact that she had recently discovered that men who spoke little were her cup of tea. She'd hardly had any preference before her affair with the Mayor started, but these days she'd gotten quite good at filling in the blanks. Except, Mr. Buric seemed to be one big blank.

"Well, we're of course devastated. It's simply horrible," Mrs. Buric interjected, and Ms. Savic nodded vigorously confirming. "She was so young. But that hardly affects the business," Mrs. Buric continued. "I don't want to sound callous, but she... was just a secretary, you know."

"But not your friend Matej? He was a crucial part of your business, wasn't he?" the archeologist continued with the subtlety of a Volvo grader with its ripper attached.

"We're absolutely devastated about his death," Mrs. Buric said and looked aside as if overwhelmed.

Ms. Savic copied the gesture exactly, while Mr. Buric's face expressed the same nothing as before.

"So, so tragic," Ms. Savic chimed in.

"But aren't you at least a bit curious? Whodunit, I'm meaning," Dr. Nenadovich picked up her wine glass. "Or... Perhaps, you have your suspicions?"

"No, no, we have no idea who could have done such a terrible thing," Mrs. Buric rushed to reassure.

Imogen hid behind her water glass. It was uncanny how it was never 'I' and always 'we' when Mrs. Buric spoke.