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

A Good Strong Man

The Mayor didn't come home that night - not that he spent the night elsewhere, but by nine thirty, when it was time for the little'uns to go to bed, he was, according to his text, 'still working on some papers.' It sounded vague at best, and considering that Imogen was well aware of all the papers he worked on, it was clearly an excuse to see as little of her as possible. Imogen sighed and accepted her predicament. After all, it was hardly reasonable to expect the man to get over his chagrin in one day.

The knock came to the entrance door while Imogen stood in the middle of the lounge directing the children to the bathroom to brush their teeth, and then back to their bedrooms to change into pajamas, and then back to the bathroom - because they clearly hadn't brushed their teeth - like a bobby. She wouldn't say no to a whistle at the moment.

Imogen looked at her watch. It was way too late for a social visit, and she wondered if it was Mr. Buck, the organic butcher, her current neighbour. Perhaps, there was an emergency, or he came to borrow sugar for some sort of urgent nighttime baking.

It wasn't Mr. Buck standing behind her door. Imogen stared through the small rectangular window into the red-rimmed and sunken eyes of Mr. Buric.

"Open the door. Ms. Fox," he growled from behind 4 cm of solid white American oak. "I need to talk to you."

Imogen took a step back, and he started banging on the door. His fist was the size of a Japanese winter pumpkin, Imogen remembered. Brian started loudly crying, while running, for some reason, to Imogen's bedroom.

Imogen turned around in search of her mobile - but she didn't have to. Kathy was near her already stretching her hand with the phone in it.

"Open it, or I'll break it!" Mr. Buric roared.

And then he did. The hinges emitted a dramatic screech, and the door hung askew, while the man tumbled inside. Kathy shrieked, but remained near Imogen. Buric swayed and stumbled forward, towards them.

"Go to my bedroom and lock the door," Imogen said firmly, shielding the girl - and the mobile she was pushing into Kathy's hand behind her back.

She felt the device slide into Kathy's fingers, and the girl rushed out of the room.

"I just— I just want to talk," Buric muttered, staggering closer.

Imogen exhaled slowly, gathering her bearings. She was trying to understand how drunk he was. Sadly, she'd had quite a few similar experiences while dealing with her sister's 'admirers,' given neither of them was a double murderer - at least, not at the time.

"It is very late, Mr. Buric," she said calmly - although she hardly felt so. "Perhaps, you'd like to come back tomorrow? I have children who need to go to bed."

"It's alright. Children are—" He cringed. "Children are just ungrateful brats. Spoilt rotten, they are. And I just need to talk to you. It's my legal right. It's just how a personal relationship is built, you see. One hand washes—" He hiccupped. "Washes the other."

Imogen now saw that he could hardly stand. She even considered incapacitating him with her standing lamp, but some sort of highly unstable energy radiated from him, and she decided she needed to stall.

"Alright, we can talk," she said. "Would you like to sit?"

"No, no!" He pointed his thick, hairy index finger into her face, but missed the mark, and then shook his hand in the air a few inches to the right from her head. "You don't understand! It's about a favour, you see." He swayed. His Slavic accent was growing stronger as he was getting emotional. "I'm a powerful man, I have— influence. You want to be my friend!" He frowned, and his tone was now menacing. "You listen to me, missy! You need to be on my good side."