Official Town Business (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book I)

Legs and Bags

Imogen was hardly prone to sudden amateur sleuthing - but she could see no other option but to go to Mrs. Sanders' shop - to, put simply, snoop around. She had no proof, except that it all somehow made sense in her mind: Mrs. Sanders and her daughter wanting to sell their shop, and the papers regulating the conservation and the sale of the building where the shop was suddenly disappearing, stolen by an assailant who had to be among very few people who had any knowledge of the secret tunnel, Mrs. Sanders herself being among those few.

Not to be misunderstood, Imogen had never had any problem with following the laws and conventions of the society - except breaking couple traffic rules, and the incident with the porcelain Isabela - and she would have been more than happy to leave any sort of investigative efforts to the proper authorities. Except in this case the proper authorities would be Andrew, whom she just couldn't go to with her ideas - because she felt horrible about the unfortunate interrupted dinner. She hadn't done anything wrong, but she deeply sympathised Andrew's potential frustration.

She was in no way feeling guilty for kissing the Mayor, right after - almost - kissing Andrew. She was an independent human being, free to kiss whoever she wanted - but she could see now that, though unintentionally, she had led Andrew to believe the dinner had been a date. And then she'd reaffirmed this illusion by the sofa incident. And then she had enthusiastically smeared her lipstick all over the Mayor's lips. 

A shiver ran through Imogen's body at the thought of said lips - as it turned out, soft, warm; and previously seen curved in a small smile or puckered when he was savouring his cuppa; with the dark whiskers above the upper one; or the bottom one brushing at Imogen's jaw. This ridiculous daydreaming needs to be taken under control, Imogen ordered herself. She'd arrived at Mrs. Sanders' book shop and had to focus.

The bell jingled above the door.

"Ah, Ms. Fox, came for your Dorothy Sayers, I assume?" the bleak voice of Ms. Sanders came from behind the counter. 

Imogen gulped and stretched her mouth in a polite smile.

"Um, well, you see, Ms. Sanders, I have had some unexpected expenses recently, and I was wondering if you could keep the books on hold for a while longer?" Imogen conjured her most convincing begging grimace. She was a poor liar after all. Also, she did have the money, thanks to the raise she'd been so generously given by the Mayor. But she assumed that Ms. Sanders would be more inclined to chat with Imogen if the latter appeared vulnerable and pitiful. "But I swear, I will come for them next month."

"It's your sister again, isn't it, Ms. Fox?" Ms. Sanders asked looking at Imogen above the thick glasses. 

The woman's large pale eyes were dull. Imogen nodded, industriously trying to look embarrassed. It wasn't that hard, she had to admit. Ms. Sanders' assumption was very much based on the past after all.

"Could I browse your shelves for a bit?" Imogen muttered, and received a dismissive 'Be my guest.'

Imogen edged towards a shelf with romance novels, since it was the closest to the counter. She pulled a random book out, and her eyes dropped on the cover. Surely, the woman in the picture should be very uncomfortable, Imogen thought, looking at a maiden in the arms of a presumable Scotsman. While the man was hench, dressed solely in a kilt, and looked rather lacking in the intellectual department, the woman, in a half open dress was bending backwards, seemingly overcome by a dizzying spell. She certainly looked quite cross-eyed. Since there was a castle in the background, and the woman's dress had a bodice and a petticoat, the book was of the historical nature. Perhaps, the woman was feeling faint from the odour that was surely emanating from the Scot. After all, a bath or a shower weren't among daily habits of people at that time. The Mayor, meanwhile - Imogen's brain supplied unhelpfully - smelled like vanilla. There was some sort of a cologne, something expensive, spicy, and unintrusive, but underneath... there was vanilla. Imogen had had the privilege to gather lungfuls of it while exploring the Mayor's physique on the floor of the library. Imogen ordered herself to stop being a daft enamoured cow.