Page 9

Phyllis

Phyllis climbed into the backseat of the car, heaving Craddock in beside her. She heard Nova and Arthur get into the front seats but paid them little attention as her mind spun with everything she’d just learned. So, Michael wasn’t dead, but he was now a murder suspect, which explained so many things. For one, the red stain on his shirt that Phyllis had thought was paint had clearly been his mother’s blood. And the way he’d ranted about Kya’s mum in the Crawdads book, even calling her a monster, now made sense too. God knows what Eve Watkins had done to make her son hate her so much, but the man clearly had major mummy issues. And now they had the explanation for why he’d stolen the community center money too: to fund his escape. But for every answer, there were still many questions hanging in the air, and lots of new avenues to explore. Phyllis couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the days ahead.

“Bloomin’ heck, I wasn’t expecting any of that,” Arthur said as he closed the front passenger door. “And to think he was sitting with us at book club, chatting about Where the Crawdads Sing , while his own mother lay murdered at home.”

“It would explain why he was so jumpy in the meeting,” Nova said.

“Imagine killing your own mother in cold daylight and then eloping with your mistress?” Arthur said. “It reminds me of this book Esi loves, A Rogue and a —”

“For goodness’ sake, tell me you two didn’t fall for that nonsense?”

Nova and Arthur both turned to look at her, and Phyllis felt a thrill of satisfaction. Finally, people were paying attention when she spoke.

“What do you mean?” Nova said.

“I mean, not a word of that was true. The woman was lying from the moment she opened the door.”

“So, you don’t think Michael killed his mother?” Arthur asked.

“No, I think that bit was true. But she definitely wasn’t giving us the whole picture.”

“She seemed genuine enough to me,” Nova said.

“The problem with you two is you’re far too trusting,” Phyllis said, leaning back in the car seat. “Miss Marple knew—”

“Not Miss bloody Marple again,” Arthur muttered.

“ Miss Marple knew never to give anyone the benefit of the doubt,” Phyllis continued. “She always believed the worst in people, and she was always proven right.”

“Phyllis, she was a fictional character,” Nova said. “Whereas Cynthia Watkins is a real woman, dealing with a murdered mother-in-law and a runaway husband.”

“Didn’t you see the way her hands fidgeted while she spoke? And the way she couldn’t look us in the eye? No, that whole thing was a story, as fictional as anything Agatha Christie wrote, only considerably less well-constructed.”

“So, what do you think happened, then?”

“Well, that’s interesting indeed.” Phyllis rubbed her chin and then stopped in case it was too much. “Let’s take a step back for a moment and ask ourselves what Michael’s motive was for killing his mother. In murder mysteries, there are usually five main motives for committing murder: jealousy, revenge, anger, fear, and the most common, greed.”

“Perhaps Michael’s mum found out about his affair and threatened to tell Cynthia about it?” Arthur said. “So, Michael killed her out of fear, to keep her quiet.”

“That theory might work if there was another woman involved, which there isn’t. That’s another of Cynthia’s lies: a cover story to distract us from the truth.”

“What truth, Phyllis?” Nova wasn’t even bothering to hide the skepticism in her voice, but Phyllis didn’t care. She was used to people dismissing what she said; after all, even her own mother had never listened to her.

“Cynthia wants us—and the police—to believe that Michael’s motive was anger; that he killed his mother after an argument and then fled with his lover, while Cynthia was safely tucked away at her sister’s, oblivious to what was going on. But did you see the way her eyes shifted to the right when she told us she’d been staying at her sister’s? That was a lie, a fake alibi, just like Michael came to our book club so that he could have an alibi for the time of the murder as well.”

“So, you think Cynthia was involved in the murder too?” Arthur said.

“Without a doubt. All that supposed anger at Michael, her shock when we told her he’d been at our book club; it was all an act. She may not have committed the murder herself, but she definitely knew what Michael was up to. And my bet is that Cynthia knows exactly where he is now, and she intends to join him as soon as the police are looking the other way.”

“Perhaps she was involved in the theft too?” Arthur said. “Maybe they’re serial thieves who target community centers up and down the country? And then Michael’s mother discovered what they were up to and threatened to tell the police, so he killed her to keep her quiet!”

“I suppose that’s one possible explanation,” Phyllis said, trying not to sound impressed. Perhaps the old farmer wasn’t as stupid as he looked?

“Oh my God, listen to you both!” Nova said from the front seat. “Cynthia isn’t some master criminal, she’s a woman whose life has fallen apart in the past forty-eight hours. As will mine if I don’t get back to the community center before my lunch break ends in fifteen minutes.”

“The next question is: What are Cynthia and Michael going to do now?” Phyllis said, ignoring Nova. “My guess is they’ll try and leave the country with their ill-gotten gains. So, I propose we take turns to stake out this house, so we can follow Cynthia when she goes to join Michael.”

“Phyllis, are you joking?” Nova exploded. “If Michael’s mother really was murdered, then you have to stay out of this and leave it to the police.”

Phyllis let out an exaggerated sigh. “Have you never read a murder mystery? The British police never manage to solve a crime without the help of an amateur detective.”

“Yes, but this is the real world, not St Mary Mead. The police will be using all their resources to find Michael, so please just leave this to the experts.”

“Then what about the missing money?” Phyllis demanded. “Now there’s a murder to solve, do you think the police are going to care about a few thousand stolen pounds? And what does that mean for the community center? I know the place is in financial trouble, Beryl was always complaining about it, so shouldn’t you be doing everything you can to help the community center?”

Phyllis could see her words had hit home as Nova went quiet, clearly mulling it over. Then she blinked and shook her head.

“This isn’t some murder mystery game, Phyllis. This is a real police investigation, and we have to stay the hell out of it. Now let’s get back.”

She started the engine, and the car pulled forward. As it did, Phyllis glanced back at number eight. Was it her imagination or did she see the downstairs curtain twitch? She pictured Cynthia inside on the phone to Michael, telling him about her visit from the members of the St. Tredock Community Book Club. That damn old woman is onto us , Cynthia would tell him, and Michael would curse. I thought she was just a doddery old bird, but clearly I underestimated her.

Phyllis smiled to herself and stroked Craddock’s wrinkled head. Just you wait, Michael and Cynthia Watkins. Miss Hudson has only just begun.