02 Murder at the Mansion by Alison Golden, Jamie Vougeot

delighted to hear news about the case, but also mildly irritated that once again, her more mundane routine was going awry.
    “Good! What did she say?”
    “We interviewed her this morning. She seems to fit the description of the blonde girl who met you at Woodlands Manor.”
    “Oh, I assumed that already,” Annabelle said. “But why did she run?”
    “Well,” the Inspector began, “she said she didn’t want to be accused of Sir John Cartwright’s murder. Says she came back up the stairs when she heard you had opened the door, caught a glimpse of the dead body, and just ran for it.”
    “It is possible…”
    “Possible and likely. Turns out she knows how to use a crossbow.”
    “Inspector!” Annabelle said, as his insinuation became clear. “I didn’t mean that. You don’t really think she committed the murder, do you?”
    “She knew Sir John very well. Claims that she was just a ‘friend,’ but it’s obvious there was more going on between them. She knew how much he was worth, and I’m willing to bet that such a close ‘friend’ would be well taken care of in the will.”
    Annabelle mused for a second, recalling the sweet young face of the blonde girl at the door. She knew that she should never judge a book by its cover, but Annabelle trusted her instincts when it came to people, and Poppy’s innocence seemed as clear as day to her.
    “I just don’t believe it, Inspector.”
    “Look, Vicar. She confirmed that Sir John Cartwright was building a health spa, even mentioned some of the other investors by name –“
    “Investors?” interrupted Annabelle. “What were their names?”
    “Oh… Ah… Let me see… A Sophie and Gabriella. Couldn’t give us last names, but apparently they put quite a lot of money into the property. Why do you ask, Vicar? Do you happen to know them?”
    “I may have heard some rumors,” Annabelle said, wanting a little more time to investigate the mysterious “tourists” and still unsure of their names herself.
    “Anyway, we’ll be holding Poppy for twenty-four hours. If nothing happens by then, we’ll let her go but keep a close eye on her. Between her and Harry Cooper, though, I think we have enough to make a case.”
    There was a long pause. So long, in fact, that the Inspector followed up by saying, “Are you alright, Vicar?”
    “Yes, yes,” replied Annabelle, instinctively. “Bye, Inspector.”
    “Bye, Vicar. And take care. Stop worrying about the case. Now it’s up to us to take it from here.”
    Annabelle placed the handset down and held her hand there for a long time, biting her lip. She left the house, got into her car, and began driving. She was not happy. At the time when the whole, horrid affair had occurred, Annabelle would have been satisfied with offering whatever help she could. Now, she felt responsible for many aspects of this case. It was she who had discovered the name of Sir John Cartwright’s companion, Poppy Franklin, and it was she (with the help of Biscuit) who had found the cigarette that implicated Harry Cooper. Now, either one of them – maybe even both – would feel the force of the law upon them.
    Something within Annabelle stirred when she considered this. It wasn’t quite right. In fact, it felt entirely wrong. In a rare, sudden example of reckless driving, Annabelle slid her Mini into a sharp U-turn – nearly knocking Mr. Hawthorne off his bike.
    “Sorry, Mr. Hawthorne!” Annabelle shouted out of the window behind her, as he watched, with jaw open, the ever-unpredictable Vicar take the road that led to Truro.

    Annabelle marched into the Truro police station with all the enthusiastic vigor of someone who had a job to do and who was jolly well going to do it.
    “Hello, Vicar!” Constable Rose, the desk officer said, cheerfully.
    “Hello, Officer. I’m here to see the Inspector.”
    “He’s just this way. Follow me.”
    When Inspector Nicholls saw the Vicar approach his desk, he rubbed his eyes and took another