Official Town Business (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book I)

Come Home

Imogen was sitting in the Mayor's kitchen. More so, Imogen was sitting in the Mayor's kitchen in the Mayor's PJ bottoms - the only item of his lower half clothing that had strings to tighten them around her waist, preventing her from flashing the poor man with her naked backside. She was also wearing his tee and a hooded jumper with a uni logo on it. Imogen was equally in heaven - the clothes were clean and dry... and his! - and in the deepest abyss of Tartarus - the clothes were his!

She'd taken a shower following his silent command that had come in the form of his index finger pointed towards his bathroom. And now she was clean, smelled like his juniper soap, and was sitting in his kitchen - in his clothes!

Imogen's poor mind just wasn't coping!

"How do you take your tea?" he asked, his back to her. 

He was making them cuppas, and Imogen was sitting, her feet tucked under her, on one of his kitchen chairs. The flat was clean, but felt lived in and cozy. Mrs. Roberts, the cleaner for most minted houses in Fleckney Woulds who visited the Mayor's House once a week, had once stopped by the Town Hall, and Imogen and her had had tea, biscuits, and a chat. Mrs. Roberts wasn't usually inclined to discuss her clients, but Imogen was the one who'd found her the job, and after all, everything Mrs. Roberts had to say was of the kind one could say about someone who was dead.

Mrs. Roberts said the Mayor was organised, did his dishes and laundry, and didn't ruin the kitchen when cooked, although he pretty much never did, just ordering take away. He was apparently mostly fond of Margherita pizza and Willie's fish and chips. He left endless mugs with traces of sweet coffee all over the flat, but otherwise, 'nothing to complain,' Mrs. Roberts said. 'And most importantly, not a woman, or a party in sight. Makes me life lashings easier,' she added, and Imogen had trouble faking a nonchalant face.

At the moment, Imogen was industriously studying the row of the aforementioned mugs on the counter - with the sole purpose of not looking at his back. Twice a week the Mayor went to Frake's Gym and Spa. Imogen was the one booking him sessions with Adam, the best fitness trainer in Fleckney Woulds. Currently, the glorious results of Adam's efforts - previously hidden under suits - were on display. The long muscles on his back, his bulging biceps, and - all gods and deities save Imogen! - his wonderfully sculpted buttocks were giving Imogen palpitations, due to the softness of his pale grey jumper and the worn out denim, sitting low on his hips.

"Imogen?" he called her back to reality, without turning.

"Cream and sugar, same as you," she squeaked.

He placed a mug in front of her and stirred his.

"What about the arboretum?" he asked, sitting down in front of her. 

He focused his mesmerising - bright blue, framed with black, like of a husky dog - eyes on her. It helped. Firstly, the buttocks were finally out of sight. Secondly, all her adoration and lust towards him aside, she was a professional.

"The current Mrs. Fitzroy, the lady of the manor, is a major patron of parks and nature," Imogen started her explanation. "Which is lucky for us, since the previous one was into dogs, and hunt, and that was dreadful."

"The current Mrs. Fitzroy being the mother-in-law of the recently killed Mrs. Patricia Fitzroy?" Imogen nodded confirming. "Is she number three?"

"Four."

"Good lord. And there are children from all of them, right?" The Mayor sipped his tea.

"Yes. The oldest son is Mr. James Fitzroy." Imogen cleared her throat. "The now widower. He also has a younger sister, Clara. She's 24. The second Mrs. Fitzroy had two daughters, twins. They are sixteen now. Mrs. Fitzroy number three has another daughter; and the latest Mrs. Fitzroy has a son from her first marriage, whom Mr. Fitzroy has formally adopted."