The Toast of the Town (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book III)

Poppy

Having sent Poppy Fitzroy a message through her Instagram, Imogen had arranged to meet the girl over coffee in Abernathy on Saturday. Imogen took a cab and arrived at the city three hours earlier. She walked, window-shopped, and spent an hour in Abernathy's largest book shop. There was a new Evelyn Cox novel she'd been eagerly expecting - and she made a small internal happy dance when the book travelled into her hands from the shopping assistant's, all glossy and fresh, in a crunchy paper bag, together with a cute bookmark with little robins on it. Imogen came to the coffee shop thirty minutes before the arranged time and indulged in the first two chapters of the thriller, two lattes, and the most delicious strawberry tart.

"Ms. Fox?" a voice above her asked, and Imogen tore her eyes off the page with difficulty.

Poppy Fitzroy was 20, cute as a button, and she knew it. She was dressed in this bizarre colourful assortment of clothing items that Imogen could appreciate aesthetically but would never be able to wear herself: a pair of wide navy blue trousers, probably either vintage, or as expensive as Imogen's monthly salary; a white tee with a logo Imogen wasn't familiar with; a bright yellow jacket - which could have been either the latest creation of some famous Japanese designer, or a man's suit jacket, or a sleeve of a giant's coat, cut off and remodelled by elves and pixies. A velvet maroon beret sat on the girl's head, roguishly cocked on one side. Imogen suddenly felt old and boring. The girl's hair was dyed purple, and pink spectacles sat low on the bridge of her elegant long nose.

"Hi! Yes, hi! I'm Imogen Fox. I'm–"

"You're the Mayor's doxy," the girl said and sat down in the opposite chair. "Hey, no judgement! I mean you could do worse than that. The man's delish. And apparently a decent bloke - so, hooray!"

Imogen slowly blinked and decided her brain needed some help, so she took a sip of her coffee, and inhaled, gathering her thoughts.

The girl meanwhile was turning her head, trying to read the menu on the blackboard behind them.

"So, what can I do for you?" the girl asked, the back of her head to Imogen.

"You see, Ms. Fitzroy, as I said in my message, I'm a painter, and I was hoping to ask you about your photography."

The girl finally faced her.

"Firstly, it's Poppy. There are so many Ms. Fitzroy's in my house, and in our tiny village alone, it gives me a headache. Secondly, what photography?"

Imogen opened her mouth, but the girl suddenly got up and left for the counter, probably to order. Imogen sighed and took another sip of her coffee.

The girl was back with a tall mug of something topped with whipped cream, and a plate with a large chocolate cake slice. She picked up a giant chunk of the cake with her fork, stuffed it in her mouth, and hummed, evidently encouraging Imogen to speak, considering the inviting waving of the fork she was doing.

"I've been commissioned to paint a series of illustrations for The Fleckney Country Life magazine, and they're looking into publishing several articles on the county's fauna, and possibly the fungi as well. So I was wondering if you have some reference materials I could use," Imogen said. "And I know you had an exhibition, and I follow your accounts on social media, but I assume you have many more photographs."

The girl in front of Imogen chewed her pudding, swallowed, and took a sip of her drink. Her magenta lipstick coloured the rim of her mug.

"You want to see my photos of the local animals and birds," she said, and Imogen nodded. "For magazine illustrations?" Poppy asked.

"Yes," Imogen answered, "and for some independent paintings as well. You see, that's what I do best. Animals, birds, and nature in general. And–"

"Are they sort of cutesie bunnies and kittens with bows?" the girl asked and scrunched her face in disgust. "You don't look that old, but something tells me The Fleckney Woulds Life is exactly this sort of rubbish."