Chapter 23: Exiting the Circle
It was not without a little trepidation that Troy opened the door to his flat, stepping back to allow Cully in first. After closing the door, he hung his jacket on the rack, placing Cully's bag there as well. He was still surprised she did not have a coat, though it made sense when he thought about it. She had not expected to be quite so late getting out of rehearsal this evening, and the day had cooled unseasonably.
The kitchen was as tidy as when he had left, just like the rest of his flat. But the rest of his flat was unimportant, because Cully was only surveying the kitchen, her eyes running over every surface. The counter was clear except for a loaf of white bread, the tea kettle, and a folded towel beside the sink. Not a single dish waited on the draining board to be returned to its proper place. The chairs were tucked beneath the table on which the paper he had read earlier lay, along with his used tea cup. It was, Troy noted a touch unhappily, the only thing out of the ordinary: the single point of disarray.
Well, not quite, after all—
No, that wasn't right either. Two months ago, even one month ago, Cully would have been out of place: a stranger in a strange land. But after the past month, her presence felt almost normal—not quite expected or typical, but comfortable.
Stopping in front of the tiny refrigerator, she glanced to him. "May I?"
"Sure," he said in a flat voice, his muscles already tensing as she swung the door open. She needn't have asked permission and heaven help her if she expected anything other than what she found.
"Gavin," she said quietly, her head dropping.
"What?"
"You can't live like this." She waved one hand toward the rather bare interior and he walked over to join her, peering in as well. Troy had anticipated her reaction—it was almost disappointment, though he saw no surprise on her face—but that made the feeling no easier. A pack of bacon, a jar of marmalade, a tub of margarine, and a bottle of ketchup sat on the lowest shelf of the refrigerator. On the shelf above was a small silver container with leftovers from the night before, and in the door was a nearly full bottle of red wine and a pint of milk rapidly approaching its use-by date. The rest was empty space.
"You didn't think there'd be any mushrooms, did you?"
"What about them?" Cully asked, standing straight again. She had had to crouch slightly to see properly. "They're perfectly fine when you buy them at the shop."
"Right," he said, just catching himself before he rolled his eyes. The newspaper's advice for collectors to be cautious was a little off the mark.
"Okay, forget about the mushrooms, Gavin." She lifted her hand from the top of the door's frame, and it closed with a gentle thud. "That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
"The only real thing you have in there is leftover takeaway!"
"Is that all?" He rarely paid much attention to the refrigerator's contents, except on the occasional weekend morning when he cooked something for breakfast.
"A curry from last night, I hope?" she asked, folding her arms beneath her breasts.
"Probably." He shrugged, pushing the sudden wrinkling of her blouse from his mind. "There's bacon and margarine."
"And the bread to make a nice bacon butty." She nodded to the loaf on the counter.
"It's quick."
Cully shuddered, though Troy thought it was a brief moment of the actress breaking through. Sometimes, there was no knowing where one ended and the other began. "I have no doubts about that," she said.
"You're the one who offered, remember?"
Her arms dropped and she tucked her hands in her back pockets—and Troy had to clench his teeth, almost hearing her blouse move as it clung to her body. That was as much torture as merely seeing— No, stop it! "But you never answered the question, Gavin."
Troy loosened his jaw, drawing in a deep breath of thick air. "I did ask if you were up for a challenge."
She turned around, lifting her head to look at the cupboards over the sink. "You could have warned me it was as bad as this."
The cupboards were no better than the refrigerator, Troy knew. In one, Cully's investigation revealed some tins—several contained beans, though he had forgotten what hid inside the others—beside a box of cereal and a small, ancient stack of instant noodles. The next one was much the same—pasta, oil, and a handful of other items he could neither see nor remember—though the final cupboard was nothing to be concerned about. At least there was no embarrassment in the canisters of tea, coffee, and sugar, and a small stack of plates.
"So, what do you make of it all?" he asked quietly.
She closed the door of the last one. "For dinner or of you?"
"Either one." The state of his kitchen probably revealed more to her than he had ever intended—but what of it? He had never attempted to hide his lack of regard of food from anyone, not even Cully.
"You mean," she began, walking back toward him, "apart from the fact that I don't think you could cook anything beyond bacon and toast?"
"That's the long and the short of it. I could do a bowl of cereal if you'd like."
"That's not cooking, Gavin."
"It's close enough," Troy said, smiling nonchalantly.
"Do you have a pan big enough to boil water?" she asked, glancing around the room again, as though wondering where a pan might be concealed in a kitchen that was never cooked in.
"The situation's not that bad."
"I'll have to see it before I trust you to have one. You were the one who thought Mum's bœuf bourguignon was wonderful, after all."
"Well, it was."
The sudden kiss she pressed to his lips was quick and gentle, unexpected but not unsurprising. And it might be for the best, he knew, that it began and ended in just a moment, given that only a couple inches of space were between them. "If you keep saying that, Gavin—"
Cully stopped in the middle of the sentence. "What?" he asked. She remained so close, each breath she released touched his skin.
Her eyes briefly narrowed, suddenly unfocused as she looked over his shoulder. At nothing. "Don't worry about it," she said, just above a whisper. "It's not important."
"All right," Troy said, his mouth dry and his pulse rapidly increasing. "So—" He had to begin again, the word fraying on his tongue. "So, what's for dinner?"
"I'll start something if you tell me where that pot is."
With the pot revealed—Troy did have a small, mismatched set of rarely used cookware—Cully set to work, first putting the water on to boil. As it began to steam and bubble, she returned to his cupboards, removing the box of pasta from one and an old tin of tomato sauce from another. When she asked him to hand her the bacon from the refrigerator, Troy only nodded, retrieving both the opened bacon and the red wine. He passed the former to her and poured two glasses of the latter, leaving the bottle uncorked beside them.
She had found a small frying pan in with his other cookware and laid four rashers of bacon across it. After she wrapped up the package again, she gave it back to him, taking the glass of wine he offered in exchange. At least the glasses match, Troy thought.
The water finally spitting and hissing as it boiled, Cully peeled back the cardboard flap on one of the ends of the pasta box, removed a handful, and dropped it into the hot water. She didn't bother looking for a box of salt, choosing instead to unscrew the lid from the shaker beside the electric cooker and pour some into her palm before sprinkling it into the water.
"It really shouldn't have been that long tonight, Gavin," she said, putting the lid on again and returning the salt shaker to its corner of the counter. "I don't think he's ever held us back like that."
"Only what I deserve."
"Still." As the water struggled to boil again, she turned on the burner underneath the pan of bacon.
"But it figures it's the day I have time to spare," he added.
"That is strange, you having extra time." Cully opened one of the drawers beside the cooker, then closed it and moved to the next one, finally retrieving a long-handled wooden spoon. Probably the only one there is. "How's the case going?" she asked, swishing the pasta around to force the exposed ends beneath the surface of the water.
"There's nothing to hold onto, Cully," he said, leaning back and letting the counter take the bulk of his weight. If he wished to, he could reach out his hand and touch her arm, her hair, her face—
"There has to be something." She set the spoon beside the cooker before glancing to the digital clock set above the burners: five minutes after nine, Troy saw. So much for not running late. The pan with the bacon was now beginning to sizzle, the rich smell of salt, sugar, and pork fat wafting around the small room. Cully looked at it for a moment, then shook her head, leaving the rashers alone.
"I wish there was," he said, touching his wine glass. "Our suspects keep dying—or getting themselves poisoned."
Cully reached for her glass as well, lifting it briefly before taking a sip. "Wait," she said, tapping her fingers on the stem, "that article in the paper this morning—is that what you mean?"
"Yeah." The wine was almost warm enough to drink, Troy discovered, finally tasting it himself. "Didn't he tell you about it?"
"No. I haven't really had a chance to talk to him." Opening the first drawer beside the cooker again, Cully removed a fork. "He had only just got home when you called yesterday evening and he wasn't much for talking about it. I didn't even see him before he left this morning." Sliding the fork beneath the end of one piece of bacon, she turned it quickly to cook the other side. "But someone poisoned one of your suspects with mushrooms? Sounds like something from the Roman Empire," she continued, setting the fork beside the pasta spoon after all the bacon was flipped.
"Don't think I'll be eating any for a while."
"When were you planning to?" Cully asked, stirring the pasta again. "They're not the most popular ingredient in a chicken tikka."
"All the better for it," Troy said, nearly grinning as he swallowed another mouthful of wine.
"Gavin, you really are hopeless sometimes." With her slender, cautious fingers, she touched the bacon, nodding this time. "Do you have a tin opener?"
"Of course."
It was, in fact, tucked in one of the far corners of a drawer she had already opened, but Troy said nothing, instead retrieving it himself and handing it to her. "Thanks," she said. "Could I have a plate as well?"
"Sure." The small space between them—less than a foot—was suddenly tiny. The awareness of that proximity only became worse as Troy stepped away from her again to find a plate. As soon as he handed it to her, Cully pulled the bacon from the pan, laying the rashers flat on the ceramic where they still sizzled.
"So who is he, the man who was poisoned?" she asked, placing the gears on the top edge of the tin of tomato sauce and twisting the handle on the tin opener.
For a brief moment, Troy glared at the tin, not wanting to think about the date stamped on the metal. "He's one of the four—or you could say three, now—who inherited the hotel," he said, taking a large sip of wine. "It was some sort of mushroom he said this bloke collected a couple days ago."
The top of the tin finally yielded and Cully set the opener and the small circle of ragged metal aside. "Wait, who are we talking about? He didn't collect them himself?"
"No, Gregory Chambers did."
She tilted the tin over the pan, pouring some of the sauce into the still warm bacon drippings. "The man who went missing?"
"We're saying killed at this point."
Satisfied with the level of the sauce in the pan, Cully turned the tin upright, peering at the label. "Is there a chance you'll eat the rest of this, or should I just put it in the bin now?" she asked as she looked at him.
"Not likely I'd know what to do with it," Troy answered quietly, shaking his head. Isn't that the truth of it.
"Pass me a container, will you?"
The plastic containers that hid behind the plates saw more use than his pots and pans, and a number had faint yellow or red stains from various leftover curries and Chinese. Taking the one on top, Troy handed it to her with the matching lid. The tin emptied itself for the most part, and when she opened the same drawer where she had found the wooden spoon, Cully didn't bother looking for a spatula, Troy realized. Instead she scraped out what remained with a tablespoon, setting aside the tin to be rinsed out later and resting the used spoon on the edge of the plate.
"So he's officially missing, but probably dead," she said, pressing the lid on top.
"He went missing when he was collecting mushrooms," Troy said, taking the container from her before she could say anything, "and he's down a hand if he's still hobbling around."
Her hands now free, Cully gave the still boiling pot of pasta a vigorous stir. "How did they get the mushrooms if he disappeared whilst looking for them?"
He drank another mouthful of wine before leaving the counter to put the leftover sauce in the refrigerator. "They said he found some the day before, too. How often can you go mushrooming before it gets old?"
"It's a hobby. Some people really enjoy it."
"Then they can have at it. But Midsomer Magna's local mushroom nutter was going on about what it was like to eat one of these." And god, the man was barmy, wandering around his house in nothing but a woman's apron and taking orders from his bloody housekeeper! The fewer times he talked to that man, the better. "The whole time we were waiting for the ambulance, he kept asking what they tasted like, what the texture was like, how long did they take to cook."
"He wouldn't know if he's the local expert," Cully said, still gently sipping at the wine. Her glass was half full; his was nearly empty.
"He was so interested, it was a mess getting Goodfellow into the ambulance."
"Do they think he'll survive?"
Troy shook his head, and the man's agonized groan cut through his head again. "Just a matter of time, unless they can arrange a liver transplant. And those are hard to come by." It was almost unbelievable that such a small thing could do so much damage. A single mushroom was more than enough to kill, Salter had declared. They just huddled in the wood, patient and innocent and silent, waiting for someone to come along and mistake them for something else: biding their time like any other killer. But this whole mess was not the result of a mistake, not if a bag of the same mushrooms had appeared at the Gooders' door as a vicious little present. It had never been a possibility.
"That's awful," Cully said, her face growing pale, "knowing that you've been murdered and just waiting to die."
"I've never seen anything like it," Troy agreed quietly. Most murderers went about their business quickly, wanting the deed complete and receding into the past, the better to distance themselves from their crimes. But this—whoever was preying on Wainwright's heirs was almost playing a game, wanting it out in the open with everything done but nothing revealed. "Heartless bastard."
"Murderers usually are."
"Not all the time."
"How many sympathetic ones have you arrested?" Cully asked, stirring the pasta once more and glancing to the clock. Almost twenty after, Troy noticed, without the slightest inclination to hurry.
"A few. But it would be easier if they were all cold as fish."
"Simpler, you mean." Now Cully stirred the sauce in the pan with the same tablespoon as before, a hiss rising as it spit.
"Right," Troy said, picking up the wine bottle to top up Cully's glass. "And then, what the hell did someone hear in a—a puppet show to go off and try to kill the Professors?"
"Evelyn?"
"And her niece," he added, refilling his glass as well. "They almost hit a wall in their van today."
"It wasn't an accident?"
He shook his head again. "Not a chance with three clean holes in the tires."
"But they are all right?"
"Just frightened."
"They'd be mad if they weren't," Cully murmured, taking a larger sip of wine.
"Well," he began with a shrug of his shoulders, "if they're willing to work with those puppets, you never know."
"What's wrong with the puppets?" she asked, setting her glass down again and reaching for the wooden spoon. "They're just meant to be funny—no matter what else they mean in Midsomer Magna."
"Weird little things." His eyes narrowed as Cully drew a piece of the pasta from the pot, biting and chewing it slowly. She tapped her fingers on the spoon's handle for a moment, then nodded. "And you spend all day talking to yourself," he continued, blinking heavily. "It's a wonder it doesn't make them all crack."
"And you spend all day worrying about dead bodies or burglars. A lot of people are surprised it hasn't made policemen crack."
"Yeah, well, maybe it's a matter of time," he said with a frown. They should mention that in training. "You do wonder when the obvious suspects are almost ignored."
"I doubt that. Do you have a colander, Gavin?" Cully asked, turning off the heat beneath the pot of pasta.
"Somewhere." A minute or so of rummaging through one of the cupboards beneath the counter—the one Cully was standing in front of—yielded an almost unused plastic colander.
"Thanks," she said, placing it in the sink before returning to the cooker for the still simmering pot.
Troy touched the pot's handle then lifted his fingers again, the surface hotter than he had expected. "Here, I can—"
"It's all right, Gavin." She waved him away, lifting the pot with both hands and quickly pouring the contents into the colander, a great column of pale steam rising before her. Setting the pan on a cold burner, she shook the excess water from the pasta, the steam dissipating after a moment. "But what's going on?" she asked, turning away from the sink. "Are you and Dad arguing about something?"
His face twisted as he scowled. "Not arguing, just..."
"It sounds like it."
Troy didn't wait for her to say anything before he returned to the cupboard with dishes and found two bowls. He only ever used them on the mornings he had time for a quick bite of cereal. "Then tell me, Cully," he said as he set them on the counter, "if a man's having an illegitimate child and suddenly inherits a huge piece, wouldn't the mother have the best motive?"
Cully was silent for a moment, reaching for her wine glass—now half full again—then the stacked bowls. "She'd have one, but surely others do, too." Lifting the still dripping colander, she divided the pasta between them. "Is that what he's been saying to you?"
"Got it in one," he muttered. Now what? he thought. Did he set the table, did he refill her glass another time, did he offer to help finish the meal? Well, the last didn't matter anymore: Cully had already lifted the pan and was pouring out the sauce.
"Then maybe you should think about other suspects," she said, replacing the pan on the cooker. Taking the plate with the now cooled and slightly crispy bacon, she crumbled the rashers over the bowls with her fingertips.
"Right," he began, opening a drawer to remove a pair of forks, "but—"
"She can't be the only one." Finally finished with each dish, Cully turned on the tap, running her hands under clean water before drying them on the towel. "And what about the others who have died?"
The metal forks clanked sharply on the wooden table as he set them down. "She's still the best one," Troy said, returning to the counter for both glasses and the now much emptier wine bottle. "She's lost her job, what with everything they want to do to the hotel."
"So which is it?" Cully asked, walking to the table with the bowls in her hands. "Did she kill him because of a lover's spat or did she kill him—and the others—because of the inheritance?"
"No reason she couldn't have different—"
Cully shook her head. "Look, let's talk about something else."
"Fine," Troy said, immediately regretting the word as they sat. It always had a harshness to it and no matter who spoke it, it never rang true. Start again. "Actually," he continued, lifting his glass of wine once more as he looked at her across the small table, "I want to ask you something, Cully."
Whatever exhaustion he had seen on her face an hour earlier had long ago vanished, and a small smile danced across her mouth while she took her glass as well. "What, Gavin?"