Frankenstein's Guide (Book 1, the LiteraTours Cozy Mystery Series)

Chapter 8: Nightfall - Part 1

Must ring them, actually.

Gary banged open a cupboard and found six packs of Kibbles. Good. At least their feline companion wouldn't starve. And he didn't have to do anything he would regret later. But the vile stuff wasn't fit for human consumption, and while the cat wouldn't go hungry, they still were facing a catering crisis.

"I think I might have to do a supermarket run. We're completely out of stuff. I haven't even got milk for your muesli. Or bread. Or anything."

"It's alright, Dad," Jon said, an expression of patient martyrdom on his face. "I've got the cash you gave me earlier. I'll buy myself something in the morning. And a burger will do fine for now."

Gary could imagine what the "something" would look like. Or what it had looked like for the last few days. Sugar, white flour and useless carbohydrates would feature high on the agenda.

He was losing it. Plain and simple. Good job he had parked his ancestors in the attic. Otherwise, those paintings would now curl up their edges in shame. "No, this isn't on. I need to go shopping. How about steak and chips?"

"With ketchup?"

"If you insist. Can you check what drinks we still have? And do me a favour, have a look into the bathroom. Soap, deodorant, things like that."

"Dad! I want some food tonight."

"If we organise ourselves, it won't take long. Chips we can slap in the oven, and a steak is done quickly."

"Eeek, I don't like those. Those chips taste like unwashed feet."

Gary could only hope the boy hadn't been sucking his toes out of desperation. From experience, he knew suggesting a side salad instead would be strictly no-go, at Jon's age he too had been convinced greenery did not belong on dinner plates. He was still searching for an acceptable alternative when the phone shrilled into action. Leaning on his crutch, he extricated the blasted thing from his pocket.

"Do me a favour and check on the drinks and the hygiene stuff, will you?"

That cost him an eye roll but at least Jon shuffled off, and Gary could take the call in relative privacy. The cat didn't count. She was busy scoffing her goo, anyway.

"I beg your pardon? You were the one who went incommunicado."

"Yes, well, I was busy making a statement to the cops. Frightfully sorry, old chap."

Her words hit his insides like an arctic blast, freezing him to the marrow. Jessica's fake plummy accent was harmless by comparison.

"Would you care to repeat that? Perhaps with a few more details, such as what actually happened?"

Her normal voice was back. "I don't know how to package the news. I'm afraid it's a bit of a shocker."

"What is?"

"How much do you know?"

"I spoke to Brigitte, she said you were missing one pair of Wellingtons, and the consensus was that one of the tourists might have absconded with them. How am I doing?"

"That's what we thought at first, but it's more serious than that, I'm afraid. One of the Cambridge professors is dead."

Gary's fingers spasmed around the grip of his crutch. That was worse than expected. A death. On their first tour. As the ice spread into his stomach, a strange sense of detachment came over him, as if he was watching himself free-wheeling across the edge into mid-air. Next stop: plunge.

No, it wouldn't do, he had to remain rational, had to explore the consequences and the options he had. Which didn't look all that healthy: Not only would they have to hand out refunds, the rest of the trips would be in trouble and Litera Tours most likely doomed. It appeared, rational didn't work. He might as well hang himself in the attic. Strike that—not in the attic. Or at least not before he had removed those portraits.

"Jessica, please. Can you just tell me what happened? The full story."

"You tell me: How can you stay so calm? I frigging freaked. Twice actually. First when I found him, the second time when Harry told me he was dead."

"Who's Harry?"

"Sorry, Kommissar Stoffelhaut's aide. I didn't quite get the title. It's one of these complicated German words. Something like a Detective Sergeant I would figure. He was ordering around the uniforms. The other bloke must be something like a DI. They don't dress frightfully official though."

If Jessica were not miles away across the Channel, he would have reached out and strangled her. "Yes, well, I'm sure this is all very interesting. But I still don't know why you have a dead don on your watch?"

"Oh sure, keep blaming me, Gary. I've had a very long day, no dinner and a headache, so don't give me that crap."

"I apologise for any transgressions on my side. But I would still appreciate if you could be more forthcoming with the facts."

"Right. The professors kept having arguments, and I asked them to chill a bit. They then went away and split up to have a look at the underground reservoir. Friars, the dead professor, didn't come back with the rest and it appears he might have had an accident. Slipped or something. He basically suffered from what the cops called 'blunt trauma to the skull'. I'm glad I didn't see the back of his head, you know? Only the front. He was bleeding from the corner of his mouth."

"What do you, or rather—the police mean by 'might'?"

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.

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 This chapter is dedicated to Ruthzykira1616, thank you for reading and voting on the Avebury Witches cozy mysteries!!!