In part one, some unexpected time off work allows Trixie to accompany Jim on a trip north. Shortly after arriving, she notices strange happenings in the house next door and on investigation discovers a fresh grave…

Part Two

The following morning, Trixie was up early to race to the nearest store for a newspaper. She had been disappointed by the lack of television news coverage of the events next door, and was living in hope that the print media would supply her with much-needed information.

She returned to the trailer just as Jim was sitting down to his breakfast with a local paper from the neighbouring town. “What do you have there?” he wondered, as she found the right page and struggled to find enough space to spread it out.

Trixie muttered an answer, as she skimmed through the article, then cried, “Aha! Look at this, Jim! It was Mrs. Hill’s body they found. She’d been strangled with electrical cord – so, it really was a murder! But it says that the cord came from her own house, so it wasn’t necessarily premeditated – and that also means that just about anyone had the means and the opportunity to do it.”

She paused, considering the further implications. Normally in an investigation, the motive was little more than icing on the cake. The main things she had to establish were the means of committing the crime and the opportunity to do so. In a case such as this one, the normal principles were turned on their heads.

“It’s got a little bit about her life,” she continued, “her family, her business associates… the police, apparently, suspect her husband… That’s funny; Olivia didn’t say anything about a husband.” She shook her head, setting the matter aside for later. “It also says they think she’d been dead for about three days when they found her… That would be around the same time I saw that the window was broken.” She frowned. “I wonder why they only buried her last night, and where she was in the meantime.”

Her husband’s face displayed his concern. “They probably decided to bury her because you were snooping around,” he pointed out. “The body might have been anywhere on the property that you didn’t look – the cellar, for instance.”

“It was probably starting to smell,” she added, with a screwed-up nose. “It must have been wrapped up, or something, otherwise I would have known then.” Her face took on a thoughtful look. “I don’t think I’ve ever brought a murderer to justice before.”

Jim let out a surprised laugh. “I don’t think you’re going to this time, either,” he replied. “The police won’t let you anywhere near this case!”

Trixie grinned. “Like that ever stopped me before!”

When Jim left for work that morning, Trixie tagged along, mostly for the chance to speak to any of his colleagues who happened to be there. Some of the time, the building only housed Jim and the receptionist, Olivia. Often, however, other members of the staff dropped in to retrieve something, or use an empty office for a few hours. To her disappointment, none had chosen to do so that morning.

“There’s nobody here,” she complained, after poking her head into each room.

“What did you expect?” Jim laughed as he settled down to his own desk. “Part of my job here is to close down this facility, while the regular staff get the temporary office established,” he reminded her. “They only come here because their own offices are so untidy that they can’t find the desks.”

“I need local knowledge.” She pouted. “How am I supposed to get it, if there’s no one to talk to?”

Jim did not look up, but frowned in concentration at some papers in front of him. “You won’t find it in my office. See you later, Trixie.”

Taking the hint, she wandered out into the reception area and bid Olivia a rather dejected good morning.

“Why so unhappy?” that young woman enquired. “You’re big news, you know. It’s been over twenty years since anyone found a murder victim around here!”

Trixie let out a sigh. “I just wish I could find out what’s going on,” she admitted. “No one wants to tell me anything about it.”

“What do you want know?” Olivia asked. “The less I know about it, the better. I don’t want to think about a murder happening next door, probably while I was sitting right here at this desk. It gives me the shivers.”

Disappointed, Trixie smiled and turned to leave. “Oh, by the way,” she asked, on her way out, “I read in the newspaper that the police suspect Mrs. Hill’s husband. You didn’t mention him when I asked about her a few days ago.”

“Which paper did you read that in? The Herald?” Olivia rolled her eyes. “Either that newspaper is making things up again, or those police couldn’t investigate their way out of a wet paper bag. Mrs. Hill was a widow. Mr. Hill has been dead since before I was born – the Hill plots in the cemetery are right next to my family’s plots; you can go and see for yourself, if you like.”

Trixie looked at her in dismay. “If they got that wrong, how much of what I read in the paper is actually true?” She took the clipping out of her pocket and passed it over.

“Well, most of the rest of this seems okay,” the receptionist decided. “Mrs. Hill really does have a son; he’s married, and they don’t have kids. But I don’t think they got along with his mother, because he never seemed to come around. She did have an interest in the local electrical goods store. I think she might have been kind of a silent partner. She didn’t have anything to do with the daily running of the business.”

“And it’s in good financial health?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Olivia replied. “It’s the kind of place that’s just always been there.”

Trixie frowned slightly. “One other thing: you wouldn’t happen to know Mrs. Hill’s maiden name, would you?” Trixie asked, without much hope of success.

“In fact, I do,” Olivia responded with a smile. “It’s Lychfield, as in Lychfield Road, down at the other end of town. They were a pioneering family around here, but I don’t think there are any other Lychfields left.”

Trixie nodded, thanked her and went off in search of the town cemetery.

Her footsteps were loud on the gravel path as she made her way towards the grave. After a few minutes, she located the right one and stopped before it. Lichen crept across the face of the gravestone, though the words carved there were still quite legible. Trixie jotted down the entire inscription to check against whatever other records she could access. It would be just as well, she considered, to make doubly certain that this was the right man.

Next, she wandered around for a while, reading other gravestones with the same surname, and looking for ones which might somehow be related. Those with the name Lychfield tended to be large and grand. All of them dated back more than forty years. The Hill graves were more modest, usually little more than a name and some dates. With a shiver, Trixie noted that many of the Hills had died young.

Seeing that the cemetery had little more information to offer, Trixie set off in search of a newspaper archive. After several enquiries and a very long walk, she found the entire archive of a now-defunct local newspaper was housed in the basement of the library. The librarian was more than happy to allow her to search to her heart’s content.

It did not take long for her to find the information she sought. Her first instinct had been to look for an obituary for Mr. Hill. She had only to search through a few papers before finding the correct date, along with a glowing and verbose account of the life of the man in question.

Reginald Horace Hill, Trixie thought, as she jotted the information down. Exactly the same as the gravestone. Same dates of birth and death, too. Married to Euphemia, nee Lychfield. Good. Son, Reginald Junior; aged seventeen at the time of his father’s death. What would that make him now? Forty-four? Funny, I thought he’d be older than that, since his mother was eighty-two. The father seems to have been a well-respected member of the community… but I don’t see how any of this relates. He’s been dead since 1968.

From there, she cross-referenced as much of the other information as she could, ending with the conviction that Olivia had been correct and that their late neighbour had certainly been a widow. Not that it was wasted effort, Trixie thought to herself, partly in self-congratulation. I know a lot more about the Hills now than I did this morning. I know he was about fifteen years older than her, she was only fifty-five when he died, and their son was still at school.

I know that she inherited the share of the business from her husband and that he had started it with his friend George Pickering – and that friend was the father of her current business partner, Michael Pickering. I know they were well-off and respectable. At the time he died, the business seemed quite successful, and it’s still running, twenty-seven years later. She ran her eyes down the pages of notes she had made, trying to pin down an impression that was building in her mind.

There’s something else here, she mused. Maybe I’ll be able to see it better when I know a little more.

The next task on Trixie’s to do list was gaining an impression of the state of the business. With this in mind, she set off in the direction of their establishment, which was in the main street of the town. Keeping her pace to that of an aimless wanderer, she made careful note of the surroundings, finding that the store was located in the best part of town.

Is that new paint I can smell? she wondered, as she reached the correct place. Everything looks clean and neat and new – except the signs. I wonder why they haven’t repainted them? There must be enough money to keep up appearances, at least. On the door, a hand-lettered sign politely asked that potential customers call again after the funeral. Trixie stopped to peer past the sign into the dim interior. Clean and new, she noted, once again. Lots of money spent here lately… not to mention the money they must be spending all the time on utilities and taxes and things.

Still, she thought, casting her mind back over some things her father had told her, it doesn’t mean that they’re really solvent. Maybe there’s a lot of debt from all the work they’ve been doing on the place.

The telephone directory yielded the first part of the next line of enquiry: the location of Mrs. Hill’s son’s home. A short conversation with Olivia confirmed that Trixie had found the right address. It stood on a high hill, on the other side of town, and was even grander than his mother’s home.

I wonder if he owes a lot on this? Trixie mused, as she gazed through the wrought iron gates. A black Jaguar purred down the sloping drive and Trixie moved away from her vantage point to let it pass without seeing her. At the wheel, a flashy blonde woman tapped her long, red-enamelled fingernails in impatience as a delivery truck lumbered past. As soon as the way was clear, the engine purred as she pulled out and slipped away.

Trixie stood for a few minutes and stared at the mansion. There could be any number of motives here, she imagined, but I’d never be able to find them. Shaking her head, she turned away. I need to think about this some more, she decided.

During her long walk home, she passed by the house she suspected was that of Mrs. Hill’s business partner, Michael Pickering. The telephone directory had listed numerous entries for that surname, but only one which seemed to correspond to the man she sought. The modest, but well-kept, residence was built in the style of about thirty to forty years before. No clue here, Trixie decided, and kept walking. No big display of wealth… though, maybe that’s what he resented – that his business partner and her son seemed so much more wealthy. With these thoughts circling in her mind, Trixie headed back to the trailer to think.

When Jim returned to the trailer that evening, it was to find Trixie engaged in pacing the available floor and muttering to herself. “Everything okay?” he asked, when she did not seem to notice his arrival.

“Oh, Jim!” she cried, throwing herself at him for a hug. “I’ve been thinking and thinking about what’s happened next door and I just can’t seem to make it make sense!”

He returned the embrace, then invited her to sit with him and talk the matter over. A quick glance at the oven reassured him that the evening meal was, in fact, already cooking and that they were not in danger of starving just yet.

“What doesn’t make sense?” he asked, when she showed no signs of elaborating.

Trixie heaved a sigh. “Well, to begin with, some of the information in the newspaper turned out to be wrong. Mrs. Hill had been a widow for twenty-seven years, so there’s no point suspecting her husband. I think the police really suspect her son, who had the same name as his father, though how they could get it that wrong, I don’t know. Even so, I get a feeling he’s not the one.” She let out another sigh. “Other than that, there’s a nasty-looking daughter-in-law, a business partner and not a lot of other suspects, as far as I can see.”

Jim chose his next words, as well as the tone in which he delivered them, with great care. “You might just have to leave this one to the police.”

“Yeah, they’re sure to solve it,” she muttered, with heavy sarcasm. “Just look at how quickly they acted when I tried to tell them something was wrong in the first place.”

Her husband laughed. “I’d imagine that it’s gone rather higher up the chain of command than the man you dealt with on the phone.”

“That’s a point.” Trixie frowned as she thought. “The man I spoke to is very suspicious. I wonder how I could find out who he is?”

“Trixie!” Jim chastised, with a shake of his head. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Caught up in her idea, his wife continued, regardless. “I could just drop by the police station, to add something to my statement,” she decided. “The officer in charge of the case probably wouldn’t be there, so I’d just have to deal with the man at the front desk. Then, when I get his name from his name tag, I can find out more about him.”

“Trixie,” Jim warned, “I’m sure it’s really not a good idea to investigate the police!”

With a wave, she dismissed the concern. “It’ll be fine. Now, I just need to think of something to say…” After a few minutes of muttering, she came to a conclusion. Nodding her head, once and with force, she plopped down onto a seat and asked her husband about his day.

Jim favoured her with a perplexed look, before giving one of her curls a tug. “Sometimes, Trixie, I wonder how I cope with you and your one-track mind! My day was fine, thank you for finally asking. It would be better if my wife would keep herself out of trouble, but I knew what I was getting myself in for when I married you, I have to admit.”

“I’ll be fine, Jim,” she answered, in a small voice. “Really. The police won’t know that I’m investigating them.”

“It’s the murderer that I’m most worried about,” he admitted. “Have you really stopped to think about this, Trix? The person you’re tracking has already taken a life. What if they find out you’re on their trail and decide to get rid of you next?”

For a long moment, she would not meet his eyes. “They might,” she finally conceded, “but I don’t think they’ll get the chance. All my waking hours, I’m looking for them; I’m on my guard. All my sleeping hours, I’m with you.” She gave him a rather watery smile. “I’m taking every precaution, Jim. You just have to trust me on that.”

“I know,” he whispered, dropping his forehead to touch hers. “I do trust you, Trix. Please, be safe.”

At nine the next morning, Trixie sauntered into the police station and looked around herself in curiosity. Behind the desk, a nondescript man was speaking on the telephone, a bored look on his face. As she watched, he ran a hand through his short, brown hair and rolled his eyes. From his facial expression, it was clear that he disbelieved everything the caller was saying, though his tone of voice remained polite. It was also clear to Trixie that this was the same man to whom she had spoken previously.

When the call ended, he ignored Trixie and began shuffling the papers in front of him. It was not until she cleared her throat, loudly and for the second time, that he looked up.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if I could see someone about the murder case?” she asked, taking careful note of everything about the man. “I can’t remember whether I mentioned the man I saw in the distance in my statement.”

“There’s no one who can help you here at the moment. Try again later,” the man almost snapped and returned his attention to the papers.

Her true purpose fulfilled, Trixie wavered for a moment on whether to push the issue, but finally decided to walk away. So… she mused, as the door swung closed behind her, I wonder if it’s a coincidence that the man I first spoke to has the same surname as Mrs. Hill’s business partner?

Later that day, Trixie made a few calls to friends she had made while researching genealogy and discovered that the local area had a historical society. She secured an appointment with their representative, with the intention of discovering more about the pioneering families of the area, particularly the Lychfield family. At half-past four, she ascended the front stairs of a stately old residence, not far from the site where she was living.

An elderly lady of formidable proportions answered her knock, asking, “What can I do for you, child?” On hearing Trixie’s introduction, she ushered her inside and the two settled in the living room.

“I guess I’m just curious,” Trixie admitted, on being pressed to explain her visit. “We’re staying on the grounds of St. Leonard’s Mission, and some of the workers have been telling me stories about the place. I thought I’d like to find out the history of the town, especially the pioneering families.”

“Ah,” Mrs. King – as she had introduced herself – replied, with a nod. “Well, that’s easily fixed.” Heaving herself out of her chair, she crossed the room to a bookshelf and extracted a quarter-bound booklet from what seemed to be a row of identical copies. “For a small fee – to cover copying expenses and so forth – you can purchase a history of the local area, compiled by our society.”

With a smile, Trixie took the booklet and glanced through it. “Excellent,” she murmured, while searching for the correct change. “I’m sure this will answer most of my questions. If it doesn’t, perhaps I could come and see you again?”

“Of course,” the older lady assured with a smile. “I’d love to discuss it with you, once you’ve read the material here.”

Tucking her purchase under her arm, Trixie hurried home to do a spell of research. By the time Jim arrived home from work, she was well into her study. The table was strewn with pages of notes and Trixie was staring intently at a diagram.

“What are you up to?” he asked, with affection.

She looked up in astonishment. “Jim! I didn’t hear you come in.” She bestowed upon him a lightening-fast hug and kiss, then returned to her book. “I got this from the local historical society,” she explained, “and it has some genealogical information in it for the Lychfield family. Aside from telling me that Mrs. Hill was somehow related to just about every other important family in town, I haven’t learned much, but I’m sure this is the right track.”

Jim leant over the book and tapped a spot with his finger. “Pickering,” he read. “The business partner?”

“Could be,” she admitted with a shrug, “or it could just be a coincidence. If that is his family, there might be more than one motive there.” She sighed. “If this had happened in Sleepyside, I would have had a much better idea of how everyone related. I don’t think I ever noticed how much easier mysteries are at home.”

“Maybe that’s a hint,” her husband replied with a grin. “It’s a big sign that says, ‘Trixie, this one isn’t for you.’”

Setting the book aside, she wrapped her arms around his waist. “You wish!”

The following morning was the funeral. Feeling rather unscrupulous, Trixie went down to the cemetery an hour and a half before it was due to begin and found a position where she could keep watch over the only entrance. At her earlier visit, she had seen that the high wall was unbroken, and its ornamental spikes appeared to all be in place. Before taking her position, she took careful note of those who were inside.

Over the next few hours, Trixie watched and waited, jotting down the names of the few mourners she recognised and photographing as many as possible of those she did not. In addition, she took copious notes of times and impressions. She was just about to leave when a man entered, casting a furtive look over his shoulder.

Now, what is he up to? she wondered, clicking off a couple of shots. He doesn’t want to be seen, that’s for sure. She fidgeted with impatience for the next ten minutes, waiting for the strange man to return. When he did, she was surprised to note that his face was tear-stained and his eyes red-rimmed. He’s really upset, she noted, with a jolt. He’s the first one to be really, genuinely upset. She remembered, with disgust, the flashy daughter-in-law, who had dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, all the while looking calm and composed – even uncaring. This man had truly cared, while most of the other so-called mourners had not. All I need now is to find out who he is.

“Jim? Can I take the car tomorrow?” Trixie asked, late that evening. “I want to go back to Sleepyside for a few things.”

“I won’t need it,” her husband decided, after considering for a few moments. “That won’t be a problem.” He eyed her with suspicion. “This is somehow connected with the investigation, isn’t it?”

Meekly, Trixie nodded.

“Well, at least you have something to keep you occupied,” Jim conceded with a sigh, “though, I still think I’d rather you didn’t go after someone who has killed already. Couldn’t you visit the elderly, or volunteer to read to children in the library, or take cute photographs of kittens as a hobby, instead?” By the twinkle in Jim’s eye, it could be seen that his last suggestion was not serious.

“What harm could I possibly come to in Sleepyside?” she asked, with a grin.

Jim cast his mind over all of the trouble which their home town had held for her in the past. “I shudder to think.”

The following morning, true to her plan, Trixie headed for Sleepyside. Her first port of call, when she arrived, was to drop off her films to be developed. That most important process set in motion, she headed towards Rose Cottage, to check on the place and pick up a few little things she had left behind in her rushed departure.

The house seemed calm and untroubled, as it always did. For a few moments, Trixie basked in the sense of peace that she always felt here. After a few minutes, her natural restlessness returned and she headed outside for a walk, to occupy her while she waited. She locked the house and wandered in the direction of the old farm buildings.

She pushed open the door to the old stables and picked her way through the cluttered interior. The old cars were still there, waiting for a time when Brian would take them away. Jim had promised them to him long ago, when he first inherited the place, but his friend and brother-in-law still had nowhere to keep them. Behind them lay piles of other discarded goods.

Trixie reached carefully into a wooden crate, simply for the thrill of pulling out an unknown object. Her hand fastened on something cold and hard. After a few moments of tugging, it emerged and revealed itself to be a shoe last. Shaking her head, Trixie returned it and tried a different box. In her next few attempts, she found a rusty wrench, the glass chimney from a lamp and a coil of brown, scratchy rope.

Glancing at her watch, she knew it was almost time to leave. One more, she thought, choosing a particularly large crate. What’s this? she wondered, turning over the contraption in her hands. The object was long and thin, with an electrical cord attached. Trixie ran her hand over the cable, feeling the way it fitted against her palm. She tightened her grip, noting with surprise that her short, stubby fingernails bit into her hand. On examination, she found a row of shallow depressions where the nails had been.

How hard would you have to pull to strangle someone with something like this? she wondered, giving the cord an experimental tug. Deep in thought, she replaced the strange item where she had found it and left the building.

A short time later, she collected her photos and rushed outside to examine them. For a moment, she considered going through them right there in the store, but regretfully decided against that course of action. Instead, she headed back to the car.

Once safely inside, she drew the first film’s prints from their envelope and flicked through. Finding everything in order, she moved on until she reached the last few shots she had taken. The last man – the one who had appeared to be so deeply upset – was captured perfectly. Smiling with satisfaction, Trixie started the engine for her journey north.

Continue to part three.