Read Online SAY GOODBYE TO ARCHIE: A Rex Graves Mini-Mystery by C.S. Challinor - Free Book Online
Authors: C.S. Challinor
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you with?”
“No, but thank you.” Rex gave a friendly wave and wandered back to the house, where he found Patricia in the downstairs study seated at her desk staring at a framed photo of Archie.
Rex was amazed to see that order reigned in the room, all the papers and files methodically organised on desks and shelves. A whole wall was dedicated to books; a step ladder st anding nearby. The desk at which Patricia sat held a personal computer attached to a slim printer.
“I thought you were taking a nap,” he said.
“It’s not the same napping without Archie. I miss him so much!” Her gaze returned to the photograph of the cat reclining in a semi-circle. “He was left at the shelter because black cats aren’t popular. That’s what they told me. Some people are superstitious. A black cat crossing one’s path is supposed to be unlucky. But Archie brought me nothing but joy and good fortune. All the other kittens had gone to homes.” She smiled wistfully. “His ebony fur was soft as velvet and he was so friendly. As soon as I brought him home he lay on the Persian rug in the parlour and started purring. He followed me everywhere. And someone took all that away from me!” She bent almost double over the desk. Tears splashed onto her gnarled hands. She removed her glasses and blotted her eyes with the cuff of her tweed jacket. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling herself together. “I’m making a spectacle of myself.”
Rex swiped at a tear of his own and sniffed back the rest. Sitting in a chair beside hers, he took one of her wet hands and pressed it in his. “We’ll find oot who did this,” he promised foolishly in fervid indignation. After all, he was not much closer to solving the case than when he first arrived, unless Noel’s account could be believed.
When Patricia had sufficiently recovered, he asked her about the premonition she had mentioned before tea.
“I have a recurring vision where I’m murdered with a letter opener or some other sharp object. It’s been going on since Archie was taken. I believe he’s trying to tell me something, just like when he communicated stories to me. I’d be writing them down at the computer while he contentedly cleaned his ears, knowing how clever he was.” Patricia reached into her desk draw and pulled out a wooden-handled ink blotter of the sort that rocked back and forth, and such as Rex had not seen in a long while. She must still write with ink, he realized. Very old-school.
“I found this yesterday morning with a red splodge on it.” She held the instrument up so he could see the glaring crimson mark that had blossomed on the fresh blotting paper. “It wasn’t there Thursday night.”
“The splodge?”
Patricia nodded. “The blotter was out on the desk where it always was. I put it away afterwards.”
Could it be blood? Rex wondered. Another warning, like the note? “Do you use red ink?”
“I do not. I have no red ink. I sign my books with green ink, using a quill.”
“I always admired your signature,” Rex said. The capital “F” of her last name was composed of a dramatic flourish, the ensuing letters elegantly scrolled.
“It’s become something of a trademark, so I always take my quill and green ink when I do book signings. Only Roger and Felicity come into my office and Faye, of course, if I’m not working. But there’s no lock on the door.”
“Who was here between Thursday night and Friday morning?”
“People were in and out of the house all day to offer their sympathies. Connie was already here and Charles arrived in the early evening. I was in my study until ten at night. Nothing was amiss that I remember. I first noticed the red on the blotter at eight the following morning. Archie’s definitely trying to tell me something. I’ve been racking my brains. A red blot. Dot. A button? I got my spare key back from Dot. She was quite offended, I think. And Roger’s button in the foxglove patch is suspicious, to say
“No, but thank you.” Rex gave a friendly wave and wandered back to the house, where he found Patricia in the downstairs study seated at her desk staring at a framed photo of Archie.
Rex was amazed to see that order reigned in the room, all the papers and files methodically organised on desks and shelves. A whole wall was dedicated to books; a step ladder st anding nearby. The desk at which Patricia sat held a personal computer attached to a slim printer.
“I thought you were taking a nap,” he said.
“It’s not the same napping without Archie. I miss him so much!” Her gaze returned to the photograph of the cat reclining in a semi-circle. “He was left at the shelter because black cats aren’t popular. That’s what they told me. Some people are superstitious. A black cat crossing one’s path is supposed to be unlucky. But Archie brought me nothing but joy and good fortune. All the other kittens had gone to homes.” She smiled wistfully. “His ebony fur was soft as velvet and he was so friendly. As soon as I brought him home he lay on the Persian rug in the parlour and started purring. He followed me everywhere. And someone took all that away from me!” She bent almost double over the desk. Tears splashed onto her gnarled hands. She removed her glasses and blotted her eyes with the cuff of her tweed jacket. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling herself together. “I’m making a spectacle of myself.”
Rex swiped at a tear of his own and sniffed back the rest. Sitting in a chair beside hers, he took one of her wet hands and pressed it in his. “We’ll find oot who did this,” he promised foolishly in fervid indignation. After all, he was not much closer to solving the case than when he first arrived, unless Noel’s account could be believed.
When Patricia had sufficiently recovered, he asked her about the premonition she had mentioned before tea.
“I have a recurring vision where I’m murdered with a letter opener or some other sharp object. It’s been going on since Archie was taken. I believe he’s trying to tell me something, just like when he communicated stories to me. I’d be writing them down at the computer while he contentedly cleaned his ears, knowing how clever he was.” Patricia reached into her desk draw and pulled out a wooden-handled ink blotter of the sort that rocked back and forth, and such as Rex had not seen in a long while. She must still write with ink, he realized. Very old-school.
“I found this yesterday morning with a red splodge on it.” She held the instrument up so he could see the glaring crimson mark that had blossomed on the fresh blotting paper. “It wasn’t there Thursday night.”
“The splodge?”
Patricia nodded. “The blotter was out on the desk where it always was. I put it away afterwards.”
Could it be blood? Rex wondered. Another warning, like the note? “Do you use red ink?”
“I do not. I have no red ink. I sign my books with green ink, using a quill.”
“I always admired your signature,” Rex said. The capital “F” of her last name was composed of a dramatic flourish, the ensuing letters elegantly scrolled.
“It’s become something of a trademark, so I always take my quill and green ink when I do book signings. Only Roger and Felicity come into my office and Faye, of course, if I’m not working. But there’s no lock on the door.”
“Who was here between Thursday night and Friday morning?”
“People were in and out of the house all day to offer their sympathies. Connie was already here and Charles arrived in the early evening. I was in my study until ten at night. Nothing was amiss that I remember. I first noticed the red on the blotter at eight the following morning. Archie’s definitely trying to tell me something. I’ve been racking my brains. A red blot. Dot. A button? I got my spare key back from Dot. She was quite offended, I think. And Roger’s button in the foxglove patch is suspicious, to say
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