Paint the Town Red (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book II)

You Were Saying?

Imogen climbed out of the police car, gave the constable inside a wave, and slowly walked up to the entrance door to the Firs. Her hand as if resisted her unlocking the door, and the keys jingled unpleasantly loudly.

The cottage was quiet and dark inside. She tip-toed through the lounge and peeked into the kitchen. The washing up had been done, with the exception of the Mayor's usual dirty mug left in the middle of the table, and even the amount of Lego, which Brian tended to plant all over the floors, was minimal.

After a short visit to the bathroom, where Imogen washed her hands and splashed her face with cold water, she minced into the bedroom. The Mayor was asleep, in his usual spread out position, on his stomach, taking up about 70% of the bed. His left hand was on her pillow, curled into a tight fist. Imogen hesitated.

Among many reasons why waking him up promised to make her night even more challenging - right after she'd been threatened by a weapon and tied to a chair - she just didn't want to wake him up. He seemed so peaceful and was almost smiling!

Of course, Imogen was apprehensive about the conversation she'd surely have to have with him regarding her sleuthing efforts of the past few hours, but also, the bed was calling her! She was exhausted, overstressed, and in pain. She'd checked her upper arms in the bathroom earlier, and the bruises were already blooming on her sensitive skin. The curse of a ginger!

Imogen shifted her weight between her feet, glanced the Mayor over one more time - and after quickly changing into her pajamas, she slid under the duvet. The Mayor snuffled contently in his sleep and wrapped around her like flatbread around a doner kebab. Imogen closed her eyes and let herself drift asleep, surrounded by his warm and the fresh smell of his soap.

***

The next morning she was woken up by Brian hollering into her ear that she'd slept in. Imogen tried to hide her head under her pillow, when Kathy barged into the room to make exactly the same statement. Imogen groaned. The children rushed out screaming to the Mayor that 'she's not up.'

The Mayor stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in his robe, his hair wet and sticking out in bizarre squiggles - Imogen peeked from under her pillow and her duvet, which she'd pulled over her head - and stared at her bewildered. She was always the first to get up, being one of those rare mutants who enjoyed their morning routine.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asked.

Imogen had never in her life been that tempted to play sickie! She could just rasp something out, burrow even deeper into sheets and duvets, and wait for her small family to leave the house. That would spare her from a conversation with the Mayor and give her a chance to recuperate. Imogen told herself to woman up and started slowly sitting up.

"I'm alright," she muttered. "But you see, something happened last night."

The Mayor hummed politely, lifting his eyebrows in a universal expression of cordial interest.

"So, I went to see Petra, and—"

The Mayor nodded and started absent-mindedly flipping through his suits and shirts in the wardrobe.

"The blue one," Imogen said. "No, not this one, the next one, the one with— Yes, that one."

The man obeyed and was now struggling with his tie.

"Do you need help?" Imogen asked.

"No, I'm good." He indeed was good at it. The knot lay down, perfectly shaped and tight. "Sorry, you were saying?"

"Yes, right. Um... Well, you see, I was at Petra's, and—"

"I have no toast!" Kathy shouted from the kitchen. "Brian ate my toast!"