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

Wives Always Know

Imogen edged into the Mayor's office pressing an unnecessary file she'd picked up from Mrs. Harris desk to her chest.

"Morning," she squeaked and swallowed with difficulty.

She had nothing to feel guilty about, she kept reminding herself. She hadn't purposefully lied! She hadn't run away in the middle of the night to have a mad adventure - with his Father of all people! She'd gotten pulled into that deranged kerfuffle involving a table cloth, and a gun, and the Oakby family treasures, and a curtain pull rod! As for the morning, she couldn't say she'd tried that hard to tell him - but there hadn't been a proper chance, really.

"How was the meeting in the parish council?" the Mayor asked, without lifting his head, his eyes on a document in front of him.

The pen in his hand wasn't moving.

"Very well, very well," Imogen muttered. "I'll type the notes, and I'll share them with you in— in a few minutes."

"Very well," he repeated her phrase with exactly the same intonation. "It's Tuesday, by the way."

"Oh is it?" Imogen asked in confusion. "Is there— Is there something I'm forgetting? In conjunction with it being Tuesday today," she muttered.

"Your plants are being delivered today," he said and flipped the page.

Something told Imogen he hadn't seen a single word on that page.

"My plants? Ah, right, the plants for our cottage."

"Yes, for our cottage," he intonated pointedly and finally looked up at her.

Imogen's breathing hitched. His face expressed precisely nothing.

"Um... Should I take the second half of the day off then?" she whispered. "To receive the plants."

He watched her silently for a few seconds, and when she was just one second away from snapping and hollering 'Would you speak up already?!' he nodded and went back to pretense reading the papers on his desk.

"That would be all, Ms. Fox," he said.

Imogen had two choices. She could march up to him, punch his shoulder, and tell him to stop being the Mayor and start being her John. It would probably involve him telling her he was disappointed she hadn't felt inclined to tell him what had happened, and that it hadn't been just her business. They would argue for a bit, and then he'd sigh and look vulnerable, and she'd forgive him for not understanding that it had been exactly her business and her not telling him anything simply meant she was still processing. And he'd forgive her for putting him into the awkward position of hearing about her misadventure from Andrew.

Alternatively, Imogen could turn around and mince out of his office because she was still shaken after the previous night and just couldn't face another stressful moment, which the conversation from option one would surely be.

Imogen chewed her bottom lip, stared at the glossy top of his head for a moment, and walked out.

***

She hadn't seen him until it was time to go to the cottage. On her way out of the Town Hall she caught a glimpse of him through the half open door to the library. He was pacing, his mobile pressed to his ear, his face in a deep frown. Imogen sighed and walked to the bus stop.

In the cottage she plopped on the bed and groaned. She simply couldn't stand being in a silent fight with someone. It had been her sister's favourite psychological weapon against Imogen. Rosy knew that if one frowned and glared and pursed their lips long enough, Imogen would snap and apologise just to resolve the tension, even if she wasn't the guilty one.