by bored, hormonal kids who have nothing better to do than try to rattle the new girl in town. They'll learn. After tonight, they'll never try this again.
Eventually, Sam gets close to the cottage. She's surprised that she hasn't heard the kids so far, but she figures this is a battle of wills and wits. They're out here somewhere, and she's not going to let them get the jump on her. Leaning against the nearest gravestone, she resists the urge to peer over the top and look at the cottage; she figures she might give her position away, which would be a fatal mistake. Taking a deep, quiet breath, she decides that her best option is to just wait it out. There's no way she's going to let a bunch of kids outwit her, and she can wait until sunrise if necessary. Listening to the quiet night, she's alert to any hint of movement, but there's nothing except the faintest rustling of the grass as a soft breeze passes through the area. Finally, after almost half an hour, Sam starts to wonder if perhaps she's made a mistake; perhaps the teenagers are long gone, their final joke being to get into bed while thinking about the poor gardener freezing behind a gravestone. Torn between patience and a desire to get the night over with, Sam delays a decision for a few more minutes before finally standing up and turning to face the cottage.
"Okay, you little fuckers," she mutters, before letting out a gasp as she finds herself face to face with Sparky.
Chapter Twelve
"The autopsy'll tell us exactly what happened," says Dr. Wellington, kneeling next to Mrs. Mayberry's dead body, "but I'm pretty sure it was just a heart attack. Judging by the look on her face, I'd hazard a guess that she got herself worked up into quite a state and probably brought it on herself through sheer panic alone." He turns to Mr. Matthews. "You said she phoned you up and reported a possible prowler?"
Sitting wearily on the end of the bed, Matthews nods.
"But there was nothing?"
"The doors were locked," Matthews replies, before letting out a long, slow yawn. "She had so many locks and padlocks, we had a hard time busting our way in. The old dear probably imagined the whole thing, just like she imagined all the rest. Barely a night ever went past when she didn't think there was someone in her back yard."
"I'll still do the autopsy," Dr. Wellington continues, getting to his feet, "but there's clearly nothing suspicious about what happened. She got herself all wound up over nothing, put too much stress on her ticker, and dropped dead. I've seen it before. She was on blood-thinning medication and she had a history of heart problems. I'm confident I'll be able to sign off on her death certificate without too much delay." Checking his watch, he sighs. "It's 3am. Let's just get her body to my surgery and we can do everything else in the morning. It's not like we're rushed off our feet around here."
"Maybe," Matthews says, clearly lost in thought.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dr. Wellington asks.
Matthews groans as he gets up. As he walks over to the door, he glances down and spots something on the carpet. "Where do you think that came from?" he asks, peering at what appears to be a fine sprinkling of stone dust. He looks up at the ceiling, but there's no sign of a crack. "There's some more on the stairs," he continues, "and on the mat in the hallway."
"I wouldn't go complicating things if I were you," Dr. Wellington replies. "I think this is going to be a fairly open-and-shut case. Let's not go worrying about a bunch of silly little side matters and old wives' tales."
"Sure," Matthews says, "but -"
"Do you really want to go waking Mayor Winters up at this hour? Seriously? And then what? Drag him down here just to show him that an old lady dropped dead after giving herself one late night fright too many?" He pauses for a moment. "I'm more than happy to sign the death certificate and say that, in my professional opinion, Ethel Mayberry died of a heart attack. Can't
Eventually, Sam gets close to the cottage. She's surprised that she hasn't heard the kids so far, but she figures this is a battle of wills and wits. They're out here somewhere, and she's not going to let them get the jump on her. Leaning against the nearest gravestone, she resists the urge to peer over the top and look at the cottage; she figures she might give her position away, which would be a fatal mistake. Taking a deep, quiet breath, she decides that her best option is to just wait it out. There's no way she's going to let a bunch of kids outwit her, and she can wait until sunrise if necessary. Listening to the quiet night, she's alert to any hint of movement, but there's nothing except the faintest rustling of the grass as a soft breeze passes through the area. Finally, after almost half an hour, Sam starts to wonder if perhaps she's made a mistake; perhaps the teenagers are long gone, their final joke being to get into bed while thinking about the poor gardener freezing behind a gravestone. Torn between patience and a desire to get the night over with, Sam delays a decision for a few more minutes before finally standing up and turning to face the cottage.
"Okay, you little fuckers," she mutters, before letting out a gasp as she finds herself face to face with Sparky.
Chapter Twelve
"The autopsy'll tell us exactly what happened," says Dr. Wellington, kneeling next to Mrs. Mayberry's dead body, "but I'm pretty sure it was just a heart attack. Judging by the look on her face, I'd hazard a guess that she got herself worked up into quite a state and probably brought it on herself through sheer panic alone." He turns to Mr. Matthews. "You said she phoned you up and reported a possible prowler?"
Sitting wearily on the end of the bed, Matthews nods.
"But there was nothing?"
"The doors were locked," Matthews replies, before letting out a long, slow yawn. "She had so many locks and padlocks, we had a hard time busting our way in. The old dear probably imagined the whole thing, just like she imagined all the rest. Barely a night ever went past when she didn't think there was someone in her back yard."
"I'll still do the autopsy," Dr. Wellington continues, getting to his feet, "but there's clearly nothing suspicious about what happened. She got herself all wound up over nothing, put too much stress on her ticker, and dropped dead. I've seen it before. She was on blood-thinning medication and she had a history of heart problems. I'm confident I'll be able to sign off on her death certificate without too much delay." Checking his watch, he sighs. "It's 3am. Let's just get her body to my surgery and we can do everything else in the morning. It's not like we're rushed off our feet around here."
"Maybe," Matthews says, clearly lost in thought.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dr. Wellington asks.
Matthews groans as he gets up. As he walks over to the door, he glances down and spots something on the carpet. "Where do you think that came from?" he asks, peering at what appears to be a fine sprinkling of stone dust. He looks up at the ceiling, but there's no sign of a crack. "There's some more on the stairs," he continues, "and on the mat in the hallway."
"I wouldn't go complicating things if I were you," Dr. Wellington replies. "I think this is going to be a fairly open-and-shut case. Let's not go worrying about a bunch of silly little side matters and old wives' tales."
"Sure," Matthews says, "but -"
"Do you really want to go waking Mayor Winters up at this hour? Seriously? And then what? Drag him down here just to show him that an old lady dropped dead after giving herself one late night fright too many?" He pauses for a moment. "I'm more than happy to sign the death certificate and say that, in my professional opinion, Ethel Mayberry died of a heart attack. Can't
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