“Looking? For me?” Autumn wished she was better at pretending innocence. As she faced Officer Warring, looking into his eyes, sharp and dark in his broad face, she knew she was blushing guiltily. She could feel her face growing hot.
“Yes,” he said. “For you. I need to ask you a few questions.”
A few? What would those be? He clearly didn’t want to have this conversation right outside the sweet shop, because he turned and walked a few paces away, with herself and Max following. Even Max knew something was up. He was prowling along, as if he’d sensed Autumn’s worry.
"What interactions did you have with Mr. Stafford before his death?" he asked sternly, when they wee standing in the shadow of a building overhang. The store opposite Sweetly's Treats was vacant. A competitor in the sweet trade had made a last-minute decision to pull out, which Autumn personally considered wise.
“Me? Well, I was asked to look after him on the night of the masked ball. I think I mentioned that to you last night?”
“Your account last night was confused, and there are a few things you said that didn’t make sense,” he countered.
Autumn wasn't surprised. She was amazed she'd made any sense at all, she'd been in such a panic. Garbled was probably a kind word to use to describe her account of things.
"Did you speak to Mr. Stafford at any length during the evening?" the officer asked her. Autumn's worry unclenched itself slightly. This seemed to be just confirming a few points. She didn't seem to be in trouble or to be a suspect. Great news on both counts, but she warned herself not to relax too much. This situation could turn precarious in a flash.
“We spoke a little, but not that much. My main role was just to guide him through the evening. A sort of PR person, you could say,” Autumn admitted honestly.
“I understand that he often engaged with people in an offensive way,” Officer Warring said, surprising Autumn with his frankness.
“Yes, he was very offensive. That’s why Thom asked me to manage him,” she admitted, able to be more honest herself in response.
“Did he fight with anyone, or exchange bad words? Did he seem afraid of anyone?” Officer Warring asked.
“No,” Autumn said. “However, I wasn’t with him all the time. I was wearing a few hats that night, as well as a mask,” she said jokingly, but Officer Warring didn’t laugh.
“Did anyone ask you to leave him alone?” was his next question, causing the chill in the pit of her stomach to intensify.
He didn’t think she was the killer, but he did think she might be an accomplice. He was checking to see if she’d been lured away from him, either inadvertently or intentionally.
What if she had been? Autumn thought back on the medley of events, trying to recall them as accurately as she could. Then, she shook her head. “No. I wasn’t asked to leave, or purposely distracted by anyone.”
He nodded, and made a note in the black book he was carrying.
“Thank you. That’s all I need for now.”
She let out a deep breath as she turned away, and then drew it in again sharply as his voice cut the still, heavy air.
“Autumn, I must warn you. Do not get involved. For your own safety, remember that we are dealing with a dangerous killer.”
With that, he strode away, leaving her shaken.
She took a minute to regroup, adjusting Max’s collar while he got onto his bicycle and pedaled away.
The suddenness of the warning had thrown er, and it brought home the seriousness of the situation to her. It wasn’t like she was fooling herself about the dangers. But while moving from suspect to suspect, it was easy not to think of it. Especially when the suspects turned out to be harmless, innocent, and sometimes, really interesting people, too.
But Stafford had been killed in a horrible way, and the person who had stabbed him would surely not hesitate to kill again.
Autumn paced up and down the sidewalk a while, with Max walking alongside, glancing up at her curiously each time she turned.
The perils were real. But surely it couldn't hurt to ask just a few more questions.
After all, she’d done something similar last time there had been a murder, and she’d managed to survive it and helped to catch the killer. Surely she could do the same again, even though she knew Warring would not be happy about it?
Torn, Autumn hesitated one last time, weighing up the pros and the cons of what she was about to do. Logically, she had to admit, the cons outweighed the pros by a long way.
Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to turn back home. Doing so now felt craven. This was only one person, one last person, she needed to speak to. And then, this entire case could be in the bag.
“I’m not going to put you in danger, Max,” she said. “I’m taking you home first. I wouldn’t want to expose you to a killer.”
Max wagged his tail, as if he was perfectly happy to help her catch the killer, but Autumn was firm. Her dog had had a lovely outing, but it was time for him to relax in the kitchen, and for her to head out on this risky mission alone.
Quickly, she headed back to Harbor View and dropped him off, checking in with Jasmine once again to make sure everything was running smoothly.
“Are you sure you don’t need me?” she asked, heading into the dining room, where Jasmine was busy setting up the breakfast tables for tomorrow morning. One table less than today, thanks to their departing guest. She hoped that Mrs. B would choose to stay.
“Are you going to actually take your afternoon off,” Jasmine asked her, “or are you going to keep coming back here? We’re all fine! Ethan is in the bedroom, finishing off the painting of the boards. They look as good as new. Now go! Shoo!” she said, playfully waving her arms at Autumn.
“I’m going, I’m going.” Grinning at the humor, relieved that her guesthouse was in the very best hands, Autumn turned away and headed up the street again, this time going in the direction of Victor Drake’s house.
As she approached it, Autumn felt her resolve eroding. The house itself was a dark, Tudor style building, with windows that looked tinted, and a yard in which the centerpiece was a dead tree, its jagged branches like long, skeletal fingers. There were no flowers in the yard, only dark shrubs and a a few herbs, in black clay pots.
The front door was painted a deep gray, with an ebony knocker.
This was very bleak, very Goth, and it all felt a lot too murderous for comfort, Autumn thought. Coming on top of the officer’s stern warning, she had to admit, her stomach was churning as she raised the knocker and brought it down, with less authority than she would have liked. Her knock was little more than a hesitant tap.
“Stop being such a cowardly custard,” she told herself, remembering a term that her younger brother had sometimes used, with a mix of affection and exasperation.
She raised the knocker again, and this time, brought it down with a loud, authoritative bang.
Not even a moment later, the door was wrenched open so suddenly and violently that she let out an inadvertent shriek.
She was face to face with possibly the angriest man she’d ever seen in her life.