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

Not Sweet Enough

"Petra has been attacked because of our murder investigation," Imogen said flatly, still staring at her phone - and flopped on the floor on her side like a slice of pickled mackerel that had slid off an open sandwich.

"What?!" hollered the Mayor. "What ha--"

Imogen pressed her right hand over his mouth and shushed him.

"The children," she hissed.

"What do you mean she was attacked? What are the two of you doing meddling into a murder investigation? Leave it to the professionals like your ex!"

Imogen gasped, and then gasped again, and then again, because A. whatever she claimed she was actually quite proud of her previous investigative efforts. She'd caught a triple - well, twice and a half successful - poisoner! B. Andrew was not her ex! And C. who did the man think he was telling her what to do?! And dropping her on the floor! And looming over her drawing a stormy brow!

Imogen rolled away from him, then rose on all four, crawled a bit more, and flopped on her bottom. She crossed her legs, and then her arms as well, in an admittedly combative pose. While she was pondering which of his insults to address first, the man sat up as well and glared at her.

"This is what you're going to do--" the Mayor started in a low voice - in the least preferable manner when addressing Imogen Fox.

She'd been told what she was definitely and unquestionably going to do for too many years by too many people. Imogen bristled. 

"No, no!" she hissed at him basically in Parseltongue. "You aren't going to tell me what I am going to do. Petra and I are grown-ups, and--"

"Clearly, you are not," the Mayor interrupted in a disgruntled whisper. "You're sticking your noses in a police matter - and getting attacked over it! Like some sorts of Bill Bergson's!"

Imogen filed the Mayor's surprising comparison for later consideration. She was not going to swoon over the image of a younger Tommy Oakby reading her favourite childhood detective novels! She was dischuffed with him! He was being imperious!

"I have already solved two murders and one murder attempt before!" she susurrated forcefully.

"And have gotten yourself locked in an ice house over it!" he hissed back.

"I got us out!" Imogen sibilated.

"Those were the worst two hours of my life!" The Mayor's voice once again left the safe amplitude zone.

Imogen stretched her hand to cover his mouth, but he softly caught her wrist.

"Imogen, you escaped the danger," he muttered, his eyes begging. "This time you might not be so lucky! And now you're telling me your friend's been attacked."

He was now holding her hand gently and squeezing it - if it was possible to express emotions by squeezing, and it wasn't just Imogen reading too much into his gesture - pleadingly.

"It's because they know she's onto them," Imogen whispered back. "They don't know about me. They think I met up with them because I was going to accept a bribe from them, meanwhile your Father gave us the address, and Petra wasn't particularly careful during the dinner--"

"My Father is involved in this?!" This time the Mayor didn't need shushing. His voice was so raspy that it sounded as if he had group A streptococci roaming his throat.

"I think he's... indulging Petra," Imogen said apologetically.

The mayorial jaw slacked.

"Why would he?!"