Death at the Cafe (10 page)

Though the detective, and indeed, the onlookers themselves were surprised by the Reverend’s extraordinary pace, Annabelle herself was not. As the tallest girl in her year for most of her school life, Annabelle had developed a slight self-consciousness about standing out. She stood with a slight hunch or a bended knee to lower herself and always preferred sitting rather than standing when around her group of friends. When it came time to do sports, however, Annabelle relished her large physique. Field hockey, long-distance running, netball, or volleyball – Annabelle took to them all like a duck to water and gained plenty of self-confidence in the process. Though it wasn’t long before her love of cakes outweighed her love of winning matches, the endeavors of her youth had left their mark, and she retained a natural athleticism she could call upon when the situation demanded it.

As the chase continued, the young officer cleverly cut a corner by sidling between two market stalls and gained some ground on the runaway Reverend. After a few more yards of sprinting, he had her in his sights and was ready to catch her as soon as the opportunity presented itself. His plan became unnecessary, however, as suddenly, Annabelle flew through the air as if she were an angel spreading her wings about to rise toward the heavens, her arms outstretched in front of her.

“Geronimo!” she screamed, as she clattered into the mass of shoppers like a bowling ball into skittles.

The officer quickly darted back into the street and ran through the crowd toward the fallen vicar, followed seconds later by DI Cutcliffe.

Annabelle was sprawled on her stomach on the pavement, surrounded by shocked observers with barely a closed mouth among them.

“What the hell are you playing at!?” cried the Inspector once he had caught up. He leaned over the cassocked figure.

Annabelle rolled over onto her back, revealing the person she had crashed into and had been lying on top of – the dark-skinned man in the tweed suit.

“This is the man you want, Inspector!” she gasped between heavy pants. “The ‘doctor’ from the first murder!”

Roughly an hour later, DI Cutcliffe and his fellow officers marched Annabelle, Mary, and the mysterious tweed-suited man toward the reception desk of the nearest police station.

Mary walked soberly, her head down, mouthing a silent prayer, while the strange doctor walked gracefully, with his head high and an indiscernible expression on his face. Annabelle, in contrast, had not stopped pleading her cause from the back seat of the police car and was still vocalizing her astonishment at the situation.

“…terrible lack of judgment on your behalf, Inspector. Utterly baffling. I had you down as a good egg, someone with some common sense and decency. But this is just… well, it’s simply… I’m just completely speechless! I cannot find the words to describe the sheer absurdity of this far-fetched attempt to frame us. It’s inconceivable, and yet here I am – in handcuffs! Crikey! Of all the –”

“Fill in the forms, please,” the desk sergeant said sternly, making her voice loud and forceful enough to break Annabelle’s rhythm of speech. Mary promptly picked up a pen and began diligently giving her information. Annabelle, after a few more haughty sighs, did the same. The doctor, however, stared blankly ahead.

“Please fill in the forms, sir,” repeated the desk sergeant. Then, when the doctor showed no sign of responding, the sergeant turned to the Inspector. “Does he speak English?”

Cutcliffe shook his head in confusion. “I have no idea.”

The desk sergeant turned back toward the man. “Empty your pockets,” she said, slowly and loudly, in the manner frequently adopted by the British when talking to those who don’t speak English. She made a gesture to indicate the action, at which the man raised his eyebrow slightly.

“Your pocket,” the Inspector said, pointing toward the man’s pockets.

The man gave a look that could have meant understanding but could have just as easily been defeat before reaching into his pockets and putting items on the table.

“That goes for all of you,” the desk sergeant said toward Annabelle and Mary.

The Inspector watched closely as all three began to pat and pull objects from their clothes. The doctor was quickest, simply placing a wallet, a watch, a basic phone, and an incredibly detailed silver box about the size and shape of a cigarette case neatly on the desk in front of him.

The desk sergeant eyed the case suspiciously before picking it up and opening it.

“Nice cigarette case,” she said, bringing it to her nose and sniffing it. Her expression twisted into one of confusion when she could find no smell – of drugs nor tobacco – and she brushed a finger along the velvet insides of the case. “It’s wet. Why is the inside of this cigarette case wet?”

The doctor retained his blank stare.

A moment after she had asked the question, Annabelle’s eyebrows rose so high and so suddenly that they almost flew off. “The ice dart!” she exclaimed. “That must be where he kept the ice darts!” she repeated, toward the Inspector this time.

Cutcliffe nodded dismissively. “Sure. Empty your pockets.”

The desk sergeant, DI Cutcliffe, and possibly the doctor, found themselves watching with strange fascination the number of objects Annabelle and Mary had managed to secrete upon themselves despite their religious attire. Mary’s barely noticeable leather handbag seemed to hold enough for her to travel for days. Passport, paperwork, two purses (one for pocket change, one for notes), a card holder, a disposable camera, rosary beads, postcards, fridge magnets she had picked up for her friends in Africa, a Bible, some hard-boiled sweets, and finally, the clear bag which contained the foil-wrapped cake given to her by Teresa.

Annabelle’s treasure trove was no less impressive. After pulling out her own Bible and taking off her watch, she proceeded to place upon the table her cell phone, bus pass, notebook, pencil, a pocket bag of wet wipes, mints, an empty bag of fudge, lip balm, purse, keys, various crumpled receipts and sweet wrappers, then finally, her own see-through bag of cake.

“Are we done?” the desk sergeant asked, with more than a little sassiness. “We’ll have to dispose of the foodstuffs, I’m afraid.”

After putting most of the items in boxes, she gestured to Annabelle and Mary’s similarly-wrapped bags of cake. “Mind telling me what those are?”

“They’re cakes,” Annabelle retorted, picking hers up from the desk and tearing through the clear bag. “And if you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t dispose of them. They were gifts from a very kind old lady.”

As Annabelle unfolded the foil, revealing the remarkably well-preserved cake, the desk sergeant shot DI Cutcliffe an alarmed look, as if to ask whether it was really acceptable for Annabelle to eat cake under such circumstances. Cutcliffe replied with a shrug and a defeated shake of his head.

“Let them eat cake,” he said, with dry, rough humor.

The desk sergeant, who by this point had indulged the arrestees far more than was typical for her, pursed her lips and continued to pack and mark the boxes. While she did so, DI Cutcliffe persevered with completing the doctor’s forms. For his part, the doctor was still staring at some distant spot on the opposite wall. With this backdrop, her frustration over the turn the day’s events had taken showing clearly on her face, Annabelle defiantly and slowly brought the succulent cake to her mouth and took a large, haughty bite.

“Ow!” she cried, suddenly, spraying cake all over the desk and clutching the side of her jaw.

Everyone’s heads turned to see crumbs clatter everywhere with a loud tinkling sound. Their eyes shot from Annabelle’s pained expression to the scraps that had scattered across the desk – among which were two marble-sized gems that caught the light brightly despite the sugary remnants that still clung to them.

Annabelle slowly lowered the rest of the cake from her mouth, placed it upon the table, and broke it apart, revealing another four gems.

“The Cats-Eye Emeralds!” she said, mumbling through the tooth pain she was now experiencing. “Teresa baked them into the cakes!”

Promptly, the desk sergeant brought Mary’s cake from its box and tore the wrapping. After pulling it apart on the desk as Annabelle had, sure enough, she found another six of the brilliant jewels.

Cutcliffe snorted. “I have to say, Reverend. This is one hell of an act you’ve put up here, but you’re only confirming what we already know. You’d have been better off letting those cakes go into the rubbish.”

“But I had no ide –” 

“Put her in a cell and the doctor in another,” the Inspector commanded the young officer who stood to the side. “Mary, come with me. It’s time you told me the truth.”

DI Cutcliffe was a formidable interviewer. He was not the most adaptable nor even the most perceptive. Some said his technique was even rather old-fashioned. But he was by far the most detailed, and by an even further stretch, the most determined inquisitor any unfortunate reprobate was likely to meet. After ten minutes of questioning Mary, without any further information gained, he began to get tough. When that didn’t work, he began to pace furiously up and down in the interview room, searching for the key that would cause Mary to tell the truth. When that only seemed to make her cry, the Inspector began to worry.

Cutcliffe hated two things more than anything in the world – criminals and the sound of women crying. When the two things came in one package, DI Cutcliffe grew extremely exasperated.

“Look, Mary,” he said, after giving her enough time to stifle the sobs and wipe her face, “you’ve told me the same story about a dozen times over. You can cry all you want, but I know it isn’t the truth.”

“It is!” Mary said, the shake in her voice indicating that she was close to breaking down once again.

The Inspector sat at the table, leaned forward, and struggled to contort his face into the nicest, warmest, and friendliest expression he could muster.

“Look at it from my perspective, Mary. You’re asking me to believe in an almost insane number of coincidences, flukes, and mishaps. First you’re claiming that Lauren Trujillo died right in front of you, having gone to meet you, but that you have no knowledge of who killed her or how. You claim you ‘forgot’ to hand me a crucial bit of evidence, and then when you realized, you instead acted upon it yourself because it seemed the smartest thing to do. Then, Teresa dies in a room with only you and the Reverend with her, but you again claim you have no idea how or why. Her apartment is found trashed immediately afterward – but you say this was done after you left. You then take her emeralds away, hidden in a cake, and you still say you had no idea they were there. Now, just think about how that sounds. That’s a hell of a lot of convenient accidents.”

Mary looked up, her eyes red and her nose runny from crying. She laughed despairingly and mumbled softly: “That’s my nickname.”

“What is?”

“The Accidental Nun.”

The Inspector processed this comment, sighed deeply, then stood up to leave the interview room, still shaking his head.

“Sir?” the young officer who had been waiting outside said. “Did you find out anything?”

“She’s either the greatest liar I’ve ever encountered,” DI Cutcliffe replied, “or she’s telling the truth.”

“But she can’t be telling the truth, sir. If she didn’t do it, who did?”

Cutcliffe looked into his young officer’s eyes.

“It’s a good thing we brought in two suspects. Though I was rather hoping I wouldn’t have to question Reverend Annabelle.”

“Why’s that, sir?”

“She can talk even faster than she runs.”