The Cat That Had a Clue Read online

  “You could just as easily have come in through the cat flap in the kitchen.”

  He made a high, chirruping noise that sounded far too babyish for such an enormous cat. He rubbed his head against Fay’s leg and gave himself a shake. Icy rain drops dispersed in a fine mist. When Fay bent to stroke him, she found that he was virtually dry. It was still raining steadily outside, but his coat repelled moisture like Teflon.

  She sat at her desk and continued her research into Martin Caldwell. He had no social media presence besides Linked In. All the information that was publicly available about him was connected to his investment consultancy. Whatever his personal life had been, he had kept it quiet.

  Fay winced as Ivan jumped onto her lap and arched his back, demanding petting.

  “Why now, my boy? You weigh a ton. An actual ton.”

  He began to purr.

  “Oh, all right.”

  She used both hands to give him a full-body rub with lots of head scratches.

  “What do you think our Mr. Caldwell was up to, Ivan?”

  He purred some more and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “You think I should search his luggage? Yes, I think so too. It feels invasive, but the poor man is hardly in a position to object.”

  He nudged her hand with his head when she stopped petting him.

  “What’s that? You think I should share my findings with Sergeant Jones? Now you sound like that rude Dr. Dyer. But maybe I will anyway. When I was a cop, I didn’t appreciate civilians who withheld information from me either.”

  As Ivan settled on her lap and went to sleep, Fay dialed the number for the Bluebell Island Police Department. It was answered after two rings.

  “Bluebell Island Police, good afternoon?”

  “Mrs. Jones? It’s Fay Penrose here from Penrose House.”

  “Fay, love! How nice to hear from you. How’s the B&B?”

  “It’s doing well thanks, Mrs. Jones. We managed to keep our occupancy up throughout the winter, and now that spring is approaching we are even busier.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear. I always thought that old house should be a B&B. If I said so once to your grandmother, I said it a thousand times. It was only in the last year of her life that she finally listened.”

  “She’d been thinking about it for a while, Mrs. Jones. It was my grandmother who converted the rooms into guest suites just before she died. It’s a shame she didn’t live to see how much the guests would enjoy staying here.”

  “Well, it’s been lovely chatting to you, dear, but I must really …”

  “Mrs. Jones!” Fay said quickly before she could hang up. “I’d like to leave a message for Sergeant Jones and Constable Chegwin.”

  “Really, dear?”

  It always came as a surprise to Mrs. Jones that people might be phoning the police station for a reason, rather than for the simple purpose of enjoying a chat with her. She was Sergeant Jones’s mother and somewhat eccentric in how she went about her duties.

  “I wanted to let Sergeant Jones know that I have found out where Martin Caldwell came from and who he was. Unless he already has that information?”

  “Oh no, he has no idea.” Mrs. Jones sounded surprised. “How in the world did you track him down, dear?”

  “I looked him up on the internet. Somebody said he had a Birmingham accent, so I checked that city first. It turns out he was an investment advisor. If you give me an email address, I’ll send you all the details. He had a Linked In profile that is quite informative.”

  “Is that one of those social media things, dear?” I’ve never been able to make head or tail of them. How clever of you to work it all out.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Jones. And you will remember to pass on the information to Sergeant Jones, won’t you?”

  “But of course, dear,” she clucked. “Have a lovely afternoon and say hello to dear Morwen from me.”

  Fay thought there was about a fifty-fifty chance of her message reaching its destination. She sent off the promised email and lifted Ivan off her lap. He gave her a reproachful look and settled back in the warm spot she had left on the chair.

  She decided to go downstairs and help herself to a cup of tea and a scone.

  The residents lounge was a large and pleasant room on the ground floor. It had a fireplace where a roaring fire burned throughout the chilly months. A set of double French doors opened onto a deck that overlooked the ocean. In fine weather guests could wander out and enjoy the view. To the left they could see the white spear of bluff lighthouse standing sentinel on a finger of land that stretched out to sea towards the north of the island. Far below in the direction of the village was the natural cove that formed Bluebell Island’s only sandy swimming beach.

  In the summer, it would be full of beach umbrellas and picnic baskets as holidaying families spent all day on the sand. Today, there were just a few hardened dog-walkers in their waterproof Macintoshes.

  The fire glowed redly in the hearth. Morwen had switched on the lights to combat the deepening gloom of twilight. The days were slowly getting longer, but on a dull afternoon like this, it was already quite dim by five o’clock.

  Fay scanned the room, paying attention to which guests were present. She made a point of remembering everyone’s name and where they came from. It made the guests feel special to be greeted by name by the owner.

  She went up to an Australian couple that had checked in that morning.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Jackson … Mrs. Jackson. Sorry the weather isn’t cooperating this afternoon, but it’s supposed to clear up tomorrow morning.”

  “No worries.” Mrs. Jackson sounded cheerful. “We did the Bluebell Art Mile today and it was lovely. We even bought a painting that they are going to ship back to Perth for us.”

  “I knew the Art Mile would be a success. People tell me they love it.”

  The Bluebell Art Mile was a route through the village that included most of the art galleries and artists’ studios. It was proving popular with tourists, especially when the weather was wet because most of the route could be walked under shelter.

  “Can you recommend a restaurant for us to try for tonight?” asked Mr. Jackson.

  “Definitely. There are lots of good options. It depends what you’re in the mood for. If you feel like formal dining, there’s always the Royal Hotel.”

  “We ate there last night. It was good, but we’d like to try something different tonight.”

  “Do you feel like sushi?”

  The Jacksons looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “We’re from Sydney,” explained Mrs. Jackson. “We eat sushi three nights a week. What else does the village have to offer?”

  “If you’re in the mood for Italian, you can’t do better than Pappa’s. It’s in the high street quite close to the church. You can’t miss it.”

  Mrs. Jackson pulled a face. “We looked in there two nights ago. It certainly smelled delicious and looked attractive, but there was a box of takeaway pizza standing on the counter waiting to be picked up and the lid was completely open. All we could think was how it would be stone cold in a couple of minutes and a fly could settle on it. It just wasn’t sanitary. We turned around and walked straight out, didn’t we, Tony?”

  “We certainly did,” said Mr. Jackson.

  “About what time was that?” asked Fay.

  “It was quite late. We had been for a long walk and got to the village in the late evening. I would say it was about eight-thirty, wouldn’t you, Tony?”

  “Even later than that, perhaps.”

  “And were there other people in the restaurant, besides the owners?”

  They frowned as they tried to recall.

  “There were a few,” said Mr. Jackson at last.

  “No more than four or five people,” said his wife.

  “Well, I can assure you that Pappa’s always keep their takeaway boxes closed. And the pizzas don’t get cold because there’s a warmer under the counter. It sounds as thoug
h someone opened that box deliberately.”

  The Jacksons looked doubtful.

  “If you’re in the mood for a traditional pub meal, you’ll love the Pen and Pol. It is also in the high street on the same side as the Royal Hotel, but closer to the town hall end than to the church end.”

  “I like the sound of that, don’t you, Tony?”

  “That sounds excellent. I could do with a pint of ale.”

  They thanked Fay and went to get ready for their night out.

  “You’re looking rather pleased with yourself,” said Morwen.

  “Oh, I am. A casual conversation with a guest has just handed me a clue.”

  Chapter 15

  Fay was about to go back to her office when a shadow fell into the residents’ lounge and a large figure darkened the doorway.

  She looked up, as did everyone else in the room. Morwen surged forward.

  “Dr. Dyer! How lovely of you to join us. You’re just in time for a cup of tea and a scone.”

  Dr. Dyer’s cartoon-villain eyebrows snapped together. “No, thank you. I never indulge at this hour.”

  “Oh, but you must have something.” Morwen’s hospitable instincts were offended.

  “Coffee. Black. Thank you.”

  While Morwen fluttered around getting coffee for the new arrival, Fay noticed several women glancing in his direction. She caught snippets of conversation.

  “… the local doctor …”

  “… terribly good looking …”

  “… wonder if he’s single …”

  Fay rolled her eyes. What was he doing here anyway? Had he come to annoy her with more accusations about how she was treading on the toes of the local police force?

  A woman that Fay recognized as local plucked at his sleeve.

  “Dr. Dyer.” Her voice was anxious. “I’m so worried. My little Euan has a terrible sugar allergy. He just helped himself to a scoop of strawberry jelly when I wasn’t looking. Should we rush him to hospital? What symptoms should we look out for?” She pointed to the little boy who was running up and down the passage uttering fearsome war-cries.

  Dr. Dyer’s eyebrows drew even closer together. “Nonsense. There’s no such thing as a sugar allergy. Sugar is not a recognized allergen. Is the child diabetic?”

  “No.” The woman’s eyes were like saucers.

  “There you go then. Our bodies break our food down into glucose anyway. If we were allergic to it, we would all die. Who told you your child was allergic to sugar?”

  “A homeopath I visited in London.”

  “Well, tell him from me he’s an idiot.”

  Dr. Dyer had apparently lost all interest in the conversation because he turned away. Fay tried to slip out the door before he noticed her.

  “Miss Penrose!”

  She sighed and turned to face him.

  “Dr. Dyer?”

  “I need to ask if you use pesticides in this establishment. I’m talking particularly about sprays or granular pesticides left out in the open. Do you have anything like that?”

  It took Fay a moment to realize why he was asking.

  “The cyanide,” she said. “You think I’ve been using illegal pesticides on the premises, and that’s how Mr. Caldwell got poisoned? You can’t be serious.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. There have been several documented cases where this has occurred. Residents of New York City, in particular, have been known to bend the rules about permitted pesticides.”

  “And since I’m from New York City…”

  He gave her a close look. “Actually, I didn’t know that. I can hear you are an American with an east coast accent, but apart from that, I had no idea where you were from.”

  “We don’t use pesticides at the Cat’s Paw. And if we did, we certainly wouldn’t use illegal ones containing hydrogen cyanide. We only use organic remedies like cedarwood and mineral oil to discourage pests.”

  “There’s no need to sound defensive.”

  “And there’s no need to sound accusatory. Mr. Caldwell was deliberately poisoned when someone put cyanide on his pizza. It was murder, Dr. Dyer, not an accident. And if you go around saying that it was caused by the Cat’s Paw, that would be defamation.”

  “Typical American. Always looking for someone to sue. I’m just trying to eliminate a possible explanation for Mr. Caldwell’s death. If you tell me you don’t use pesticides, I believe you.”

  “I have five cats in permanent residence, Dr. Dyer. Plus, others that I foster. Is it really likely that I would leave poison lying around for them to eat?”

  He acknowledged the validity of her words with a nod.

  “In that case, I’ll be off.”

  He turned and walked out of the residents' lounge, unaware of the disturbance he had caused.

  Fay hurried after him. She couldn’t say why she wanted to speak to him after he had insulted her, but somehow, he seemed like the logical person to talk to about what she had discovered.

  “That pizza was lying open and uncovered at Pappa’s two nights ago. Vito and Luigi never leave their takeaway boxes open. That’s the moment it was done. Somebody opened the box and poisoned the pizza.

  Dr. Dyer seemed unimpressed by her detective work.

  “Then Sergeant Jones and Constable Chegwin need to speak to everyone who was in the pizzeria at the time. You know – the people whose job it is to investigate this murder?”

  He was almost out the door when he turned back with a scowl of such ferocity that Fay began to search her conscience for what else she might have done wrong.

  “How are those kittens I helped feed last night?”

  “Oh … er … they’re fine. Still eating well and growing nicely.”

  “Right.”

  He turned again and walked out without a backward glance.

  Fay gave the kittens their six o’clock feed and made her escape soon afterwards.

  She trotted down to the village in the dusk of early evening. As she walked, she stared out to sea, mesmerized as always by the twinkling lights that signified ships plying their way around the east coast of the island. Where were they going and what were they carrying? These were the questions that had fascinated her ever since she was a small child coming here for her summer vacations.

  The high street was busy, as it often was on a Thursday. This was the night that the locals could be found out and about enjoying their own village. Friday mornings saw an influx of tourists for the weekend. For locals who worked in the tourist industry, Friday was their Monday – the start of the working week. As a result, many of them went out on Thursday evenings to let their hair down before Friday morning when the first of the tourist-laden ferries began to arrive.

  Several people greeted Fay as she turned into the high street and headed towards Pappa’s. It amazed her that these islanders had accepted her so easily. She looked different, she sounded different, and it had taken her a long time to adjust to the slower pace of life here.

  The Cornish folk were private, cautious people who showed a friendly face to tourists, but saved their real selves for people who had lived in the west country for generations. Fay had thought it would take her a lifetime to be accepted, if she ever was. But somehow the process had happened overnight.

  “It’s because you’re a Penrose,” Morwen explained. “There has always been a Penrose at Penrose House. It doesn’t matter where you were born or where you lived before. This is where you belong, and everyone on the island knows it.”

  Fay never took it for granted. The fact that she had been so easily accepted made her happy every day.

  She walked into Pappa’s to find Vito twirling a round of pizza dough above his head on his fists.

  “Fay, cara.” He laid down the dough and began to paint it with crushed tomato sauce. “Why didn’t you phone? Joe would have delivered with pleasure.”

  “I’m not here for a pie, Vito, even though that looks delicious. Is Luigi in? I was hoping to talk to him about the other nig
ht.”

  “I think he went to the storeroom to fetch more bottles of passata. It looks like we’re in for a busy night. Why don’t you go back and help him? Then the two of you can talk.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Vito.” Fay skirted the pizza oven and went through to the backyard. The storeroom was a shed at the very bottom of the yard. A stone path led up to it. Normally, this was well-lit, but tonight there must have been a light out because she could hardly see her hand in front of her face.

  Fay picked her way along the path, hoping she didn’t walk into a spider web.

  Taking out her phone, she switched on the flashlight and shone it onto the path, so she could see where she was going. As the beam of light landed on a chicken coop, the resident rooster crowed suddenly.

  Fay was glad there was no one around to see her leap into the air like a startled deer.

  She jumped again when a rock lying at the side of the path suddenly got up and hopped away.

  “Mind the rabbits,” warned Luigi from inside the shed.

  Fay pressed a hand to her heart. “This literally never happens in New York City. Chickens and rabbits and spiderwebs. It’s like a National Geographic documentary out here. I might get mugged in Times Square, but at least I won’t see a rock turning into a bunny before my eyes.”

  “It’s a jungle, all right. Here, hold these.” Luigi pushed two jars of passata into her arms. “I need to pick up some olive oil while I’m at it.”

  They made their way back along the path together, with Fay following Luigi so he could trip over any bunnies first.

  “Luigi?”

  “Hmm…?”

  “When your takeaway pizzas are waiting to be picked up by Joe, they’re always covered, right?”

  “Sì. But of course! We close the box with the pizza inside and rest it on the counter to keep warm until Joe picks it up. There is a heating element beneath the surface of the counter.”

  “On Tuesday evening, a tourist saw a pizza lying open on the counter. It was at about eight-forty, so it must have been the one intended for Martin Caldwell.

  Luigi stopped dead and turned to look at Fay. “That must have been when someone tampered with it.”