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

Peace and Quiet in Fleckney Woulds

The Mayor had a meeting in Abernathy that day, before which he drove the little'uns to their respective places of daytime captivity, so Imogen had the morning all to herself. It turned out when one was unburdened by a man and two children, one ended up with no washing up to do, no mad running around to coordinate three groggy and unfocused people, no need to locate pieces of clothing that were 'nowhere to be found' - and no noise to ignore and try to shout over. She drank an additional cup of coffee - and tasted it. She even had time to cut her toast exactly the way she fancied - three narrow strips, perfectly crispy on the ends, and slightly soggy in the middle due to Imogen's tendency to overindulge in butter - as opposed to hurriedly biting from a full slice of bread, sometimes sharing it with the Mayor. Given, the latter wasn't at all an aggro. Even before they started to share their breakfast, the two of them had synced their eating and drinking while working together, but previously, Imogen had been attending to his nutritional needs - these days he was the one to lift a slice to her lips while she was tying Kathy's hair. 

When it was time to go to work, Imogen climbed on her bike and pedalled towards the Town Hall, humming a merry tune. 

It took only ten seconds to understand something had happened. Through the half-open door to the front room she could see an animated loud crowd, and Mrs. Harris, sitting at her desk, was on her mobile. Imogen knew, that although Mrs. Harris might be a gossip and a nosey Parker, she took her work responsibilities seriously. Chatting on her private phone during work hours would simply never come to her mind.

"I'll ring you up as soon as I can," she hurriedly said and hung up.

"Oh tell me it's not another murder," Imogen blurted out and dropped in her chair.

"Goodness me, of course not! It's a burglary!" Mrs. Harris sounded ecstatic. "At the cottage of that dreadful Ms. Skinner, the actress!"

"Eleonor Skinner?"

Mrs. Harris jumped from her seat and minced to Imogen, rubbing her hands. Imogen's blissful mood was dissipating as quickly as a sugar cube in a cup of piping hot brew.

"Last night someone broke into her cottage," Mrs. Harris whispered, hovering above Imogen's desk. "And everyone knows she's minted! There were apparently diamonds and sapphires, lots of valuables, and some extravagant presents from her fans, vases and statues and some other rubbish of the sort. There was this story about an American oil magnate who'd been in love with her when she was still on stage, and he gifted her with some outrageously tasteless jewellery! It's all gone!"

"Is she alright?" Imogen asked.

Ms. Skinner was, to put frankly, a very unpleasant woman. She was in her seventies now. She was sharp and bitter and unrestrained in her verbal criticism of every person she encountered. She had retired from the screen and the stage at the beginning of the 1970s, too vain to let her audience see her age and lose her glamour, and these days she resided in the Orchard House, the second most grand cottage in Fleckney Woulds.

"Nothing happened to her," Mrs. Harris dismissed. "She heard nothing either! She has all those alarms in the cottage, and she always claims she's an insomniac, and yet!" Mrs. Harris gave out a theatrical shrug. "She just woke up in the morning, decided to put on some rubies or something, and found out most of her sparkly friends were gone! She's furious!"

"Oh that's not good," Imogen drew out.

"Well, it serves her right. She still has her second husband's money in the bank, so she won't starve," Mrs. Harris scoffed. "Did you know that she had my Frank work in her garden all Summer last year and then she refused to pay him?! She dared to claim he didn't do his job properly, and then she had the nerve to claim some trinket was missing from her drawing room, and she said she'd go to the police if he insisted on her paying him and would accuse him! Can you believe that harpy?!"