The following morning…
“What are we going to do today, Waffle?” I stood in front of the tiny stovetop in my kitchen, adding toppings to my omelet. While I was no master chef, I’d mastered the art of making a quick, yummy breakfast, or so I liked to think.
Omelets and cupcakes should be staple foods in my humble opinion.
And cooking helped distract me from the rampaging fear in the pit of my stomach. I had gotten about two winks of sleep last night after the detective’s visit. Partly because I was furious that he had semi-accused me, but also because it was annoying that the cops on this case didn’t seem to be investigating as I’d expected them to.
Sure, there was something to be said for having a gut feeling, but to be confrontational like that during a first interview? You were more likely to get your witness to shut down than to open up, and the goal of interviews with suspects was usually a confession.
I dished the omelet—ham and cheese—onto my plate. Waffle munched on lettuce and carrots in his cute bunny food bowl in the corner, occasionally pausing and staring off into space.
I liked to think he was lost in deductive reasoning when he did that.
Perhaps, there were bunny mysteries to solve?
I ate my omelet slowly, trying to savor it but failing.
What if I put the pieces together?
“Oh stop,” I muttered. “You gave that up. You can’t go back.”
Even though being a detective had been my dream. What if I did this, wound up enjoying it too much, and then realized what a huge mistake I’d made taking over my father’s cafe? But if I didn’t try to figure out who had murdered Angela, wouldn’t I wind up losing the cafe anyway? Losing everything?
I finished off the omelet, washed up, then took Waffle out into the front yard to catch some sun.
“Darn, thing!” The noise had come from next-door.
A young man with a wispy beard, stood on the porch in front of Angela’s pink door, jerking on the door handle and turning a key in the lock.
That’s the boyfriend!
I’d seen him from afar, and, yesterday, Sue had mentioned that his name was Peter. Peter Hannigan.
I watched him struggle in silence, my brow wrinkling.
Tall and skinny, but strong. He had that lean muscle look about him. Was he the one who’d been arguing with Angela the night before her murder?
His movements were messy, erratic. A burst of activity, then a scratching of his head, followed by a curse word.
“Excuse me,” I called out to him.
He stopped jiggling the key in the lock and turned “Yeah?”
“Are you trying to get into Angela’s house?” It was a dumb question, but it was meant to be a conversation starter.
“No, I’m building a rocket to the moon. What the heck does it look like I’m doing?”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to pry, it’s just… she passed.”
Peter cleared his throat, removed the key from the lock, and came down to meet me at the garden fence. “You’re her neighbor?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We haven’t officially met yet, but you’re her boyfriend, right?”
“I was.”
“Milly Pepper.” I stuck out a hand.
“Peter Hannigan. Man, your hair is red. Like red as a beetroot.”
“Beetroot’s more pink.” What was it with everyone and mentioning my hair when they met me? I hadn’t colored it. That was just it’s natural, fiery hue. I didn’t go around commenting on wispy beards or weird glasses or saying, “Wow, you’re exceptionally skinny and intrusive,” when meeting someone for the first time.
“Right. Yeah.”
“Why are you trying to get into Angela’s house?”
“To feed her darn cat, Fluffles,” he said. “He’s a house cat, so he doesn’t leave the place without her. She gave me a key.” He lifted it. “A while ago. But it’s not working.”
“Oh. I’m sorry about that,” I said. “Maybe she changed the locks.”
“Changed the locks? And didn’t tell me about it? I don’t see why she’d do that,” he replied.
“I don’t mean to be forward, but I heard an argument the night before last,” I said. “I assumed it was between you two.”
Peter’s eyes, bright and the color of green snake scales, widened. “That’s… I haven’t visited Angela here in over a week. This place is tiny. I don’t see why anyone would want to spend more time in a house that small than they’d have to.”
I didn’t bristle at the insult. It was deserved after I’d just pried in his personal matters. “Ah OK. Then I wonder who she was arguing with. That’s real strange.”
“Did you tell the cops what you heard?” Peter asked, his fist clenching around the key.
“Yes. But I didn’t mention I thought it was you. I told them I overheard Angela arguing with someone.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s good. Because I wasn’t anywhere near here. I was at the Three Brothers Bar and Grill. You can ask anybody. Ol’ Bill at the bar served me all night long. You just ask. OK?”
“OK.”
Peter coughed into his elbow. “Besides, the last time I saw Ang was yesterday morning. I brought her a cup of coffee before I went to work.”
“Oh, OK. And you didn’t see her after that?”
“Nope.”
“What time did you see her?”
If he thought it was a weird question for me to ask, he didn’t comment on it. Desperate to prove his innocence? “At around 06:30 a.m., I think.”
A specific time.
“Anyway.” Peter walked off without saying goodbye, heading toward the gate rather than the front of the house.
“Hey, Peter,” I said. “What about the cat?”
“I tried.” He shrugged before getting into an old Ford pick-up. He drove off, leaving behind a cloud of smoke and worry.
He’d leave Fluffles the cat, whom I hadn’t known existed until two minutes ago, to starve? And why was he so keen to prove that he had an alibi from the local bar and grill? That kind of heavy-handed admission drew suspicion.
Angela’s pink house remained silent, the curtains drawn, beckoning without even trying.
If I did this, I’d throw everything into disarray. I’d lived with guilt over not visiting my father often enough, not being invested in his life enough, that the thought of losing the cafe took my breath away.
But investigating what had happened to Angela would only prove I’d missed out on my life’s calling.
Do it.