Dying to Eat at the Pub: A Jim and Dotty Cozy Mystery by Beatrice Fishback

Author:Beatrice Fishback [Fishback, Beatrice]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-05-01T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 27

We sat at a cold metal table on two uncomfortable chairs.

The plain grey room with one mirrored wall seemed to move in on us each time the single door opened and closed. My shoulders turned inward to stem the tide of claustrophobia.

Jim’s forehead beaded with sweat. Periodically he swept a brow with fingertips and wiped his hand on his trousers.

The police interrogation resembled a one-act scene from Ground Hog Day.

First one policeman came in the room, asked questions and left. Another entered, then another, each going through the same litany: “Mr. and Mrs. Weathervane, why did you choose East Lark to retire?”

“Do you know Dan and Barbara Swansey? Amy Miser?”

“Where were you on such and such a day, at such and such an hour?”

Jim responded every time with the same, even tone, “We came to East Lark because we wanted to find a place to enjoy a quiet retirement. My grandparents were English and when I was stationed here many years ago we enjoyed the countryside and locals.”

Each officer nodded—resembling bobbing heads on car dashboards—and exited the room. Another policeman came in and repeated the process.

One by one they asked about Barbara.

I answered, “We know her a little, but we didn’t know her before she and Dan were stationed here. When her husband died, we were trying to be kind. How dare you imply…”

When Jim sensed I was about to verbally assault someone, he grabbed my hand under the table and squeezed. Trying to keep a lid on my temper was comparable to someone trying to cork Mt. Vesuvius with a toothpick.

“Tell us again your occupation?” Yet again another police officer asked.

“I’m a retired service member,” Jim tolerantly answered once more. “No, we did not know Dan Swansey or Amy Miser.”

As time passed and questions continued, I sensed Jim’s military bearing beginning to kick in. The knuckles on his clamped hands atop the table whitened, and his voice lowered. No one else might have noticed the slight changes in his demeanor, but I remembered them clearly from those years he marched in cold wet weather and gave orders. Even nonplussed Jim could only take so much before being fed up.

We were finally released and told not to leave East Lark, “in case they had any further questions.” Where did they expect us to go anyway?

I growled when Jim opened the passenger car door for me.

Jim focused on the road as he drove us home, hard tapping fingers on the wheel a strong indicator of his frustrations at our humiliation at the hands of the police.

A pigeon the size of a small football flapped frantically in front of the car’s fender, barely managing to fly by without having its wings clipped.

Rapeseed fields, grown to produce canola oil, were beginning to ripen. Soon stretches of sunshine-yellow rows would extend as far as the eye could see.

“Where did they get the idea we could have been involved in a murder?” I snarled, rolling down the window for some fresh air and inhaled deeply.

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