“Welcome to the Salty Seaman.”
Motts waved awkwardly at the brown-haired man behind the counter. “Am I too early?”
Of course, you’re not too early.
The welcome sign was on, and the door was open.
Why am I the way that I am?
“You’re the fruit girl.”
“I am not the fruit girl. My name is Pineapple. Call me Motts.” She groaned. Why did everyone call her fruit girl? Right, be subtle. “Have the police contacted you?”
Bugger.
“About?” He clammed up with his lips pressed tightly together.
Motts watched him storm through the door that led into the kitchen, leaving her to place an order with one of the other shop employees. “Can I get an order to go, please?”
With her cod fish cakes, chips with curry sauce, and battered sausage, Motts went outside and secured the packet of food in the top box on the back of her Vespa. She’d ridden over to Looe earlier to deliver a flower bouquet and on the way back caved to her sudden urge for fried food. Being able to question Rhona Walters’s brother had been a bonus.
“You live up in the cottage on the hill.”
Motts closed the lid on her top box and turned to find a slightly less angry man. “Yes.”
“The cottage Daisy stayed in. My sister used to deliver fish and chips to her every evening and help clean up around the house. I’m Innis Walters. My wife, Rose, tells me I was rude.” He didn’t apologise, but Motts was too busy trying to figure out what to do with her hands to care. “You were the one who found my sister.”
So it was Rhona Walters.
Motts shifted awkwardly in front of him. “Do you remember when your sister went missing?”
“She was going to London for a few days. Left a note in the shop after hours.” Innis glanced over his shoulder when his wife called from inside. “Again. Sorry I was so short.”
He was gone before Motts could think of another question. She made her way home quickly, trying to beat the incoming rain. The clouds opened up seconds after she ducked inside the cottage.
She was splitting her cod with Cactus when a thought occurred to her. The trip from Polperro to London, depending on the plane, train, or automobile, could be anywhere from an hour flight to over four hours in a car.
The Salty Seaman closed at eleven at night, according to the sales flyer stuck to the top of her food container. Who leaves for London close to midnight? No one. There’s no way Rhona planned to visit friends by going so late in the day.
No way.
Well, she could’ve, but it’s so unlikely.
And with her body in the garden, Rhona had quite obviously never made it out of Polperro. What if the killer had left the note? Did Innis still have it? Had the police tested it for fingerprints?
Slow down, Motts, you’re not a copper. They’re not going to answer your questions.
But it didn’t hurt to ask, did it?
With her (and Cactus’s lunch) finished, Motts considered how to discover more information. She had Inspector Herceg’s contact information. But Plymouth was significantly further away than Looe, and she’d already made one trip on her scooter.
Arguing back and forth with herself, Motts tried to decide on email versus text message. The inspector had seemed so understanding the day they’d met. And he had invited her to reach out to him.
She’d almost decided to text when her phone rang. She threw it across the room in surprise. Well, that was helpful and also a complete overreaction to a sudden sound.
By the time Motts found her phone, it had stopped ringing. The number was unfamiliar, so she decided not to call back. They hadn’t left a message either.
“Do you think the inspector would be more likely to tell me about the case via text or email?” Motts swayed with Cactus in her arms while staring out at the garden. “Is purring a yes or a no? I’m never certain.”
What if I just don’t contact him? Then I won’t have answers. But I’ll be way less stressed, so that’s something.
After ten minutes of pacing in front of her laptop, Motts sat down at her desk. She typed out seven versions of her email. None of the drafts seemed right, so she sent a quick text message to call for reinforcements.
Vina arrived twenty minutes later with tea and pastries from the coffee shop. She dragged a chair over to sit beside her at the table. “So, you want my help sending a message to a boy? You do realise we used to date, right?”
Motts poked her best friend in the side. “First, it’s not that kind of message. Second, he’s a grown man—too grown. And third, we dated until we realised we make better friends. And also, we’re not compatible.”
Vina clutched at her heart. “Oh, the pain. The betrayal. The hurt.”
“Are you being dramatic?”
“Yes.” Vina settled back into the chair. She turned her attention towards the laptop. “Okay. What are we doing? Why are you emailing the incredibly attractive detective inspector from Plymouth?”
“You haven’t seen him.”
“We googled him.” She grinned unrepentantly at Motts, who covered her face with her hands. “Well? Why are we emailing him?”
“There was a body abandoned under stones. Just there.” Motts gestured outside, almost knocking her mug of tea onto the laptop. “I slept with a decomposed body nearby. I have to know what happened to her. What if the berk gets away with leaving her like some random bit of rubbish?”
Vina twisted in her chair and placed a hand on Motts’s arm. “Is this about Jenny? Your friend who died?”
“No.” Motts paused to consider her automatic denial. Jenny’s disappearance had always haunted her. “Maybe?”
Vina kept her gaze on Motts for a few more seconds before turning back towards the computer. “Right. We’re going to play detective. Am I Holmes or Watson? Not sure I can pull off casual disdain like Cumbersquatch.”
“That’s not his name.” Motts shoved Vina lightly. “Think we’re more Rosemary and Thyme.”
“Intelligent but slightly accident-prone women who solve crimes with panache?” Vina considered for a moment. “Sounds about right.”
Over tea and pastries, they considered four more drafts of the email. Vina insisted she didn’t want to sound overly interested in the case. She finally sent a concise message sharing the conversation with Innis Walters and her odd first meeting with Danny Orchard.
She thought the detective might like to know about the Orchards’ reaction to her clearing out the gardens. They hadn’t wanted her messing with the stones. Was it because they knew Rhona was buried underneath?
Was that why they’d practically abandoned her auntie’s garden? Allowing it to grow wildly? Auntie Daisy hadn’t mentioned anything. I wonder if Mum knows.
Considering her options, Motts sent a text message to her dad. Her mum hadn’t shown any interest in speaking with her. Maybe he could ask her if Auntie Daisy had said anything about her garden or strange smells.
“I was wondering about the smell. Wouldn’t a decomposing body pong a bit?” Vina grabbed one of the last pastries. “I’ll split the last chocolate coconut curry pasty with you.”
“The smell would be awful. Absolutely terrible. And it would’ve spread.” She grabbed her portion of the sweet and savoury pasty. “How did no one else notice? My mysterious mystery masterfully muddles minds.”
“Eight out of ten points.” Vina gave her alliteration a thumbs up.
“I think the judges were bribed. It was clearly a 9.5 at the least.” Motts hit refresh on her inbox five times. “Why hasn’t he responded?”
“He’s a detective inspector. And male. He probably doesn’t even bother to check his emails but once a week.” Vina grinned. “Want to watch Bake Off?”
“I don’t watch telly often.” Motts refreshed a few more times. “You should go home.”
Vina shook her head and laughed. “Never change, Motts.”
“Why would I?” She frowned at her. “I’m me.”
“Figure of speech.”
“Figures of speech are weird.”