The next day Imogen once again escaped her workplace during her lunch break and biked to the Oak and Shield, their town's oldest - and only - pub. There, at a wooden table outside there sat her childhood friend Andrew and Dr. Nenadovich, her current co-sleuth.
"Imogen!" the archaeologist called and waved her hand enthusiastically. "Here you are! We've already ordered. Andrew said you'd like a chicken sarnie, but I've gotten a fish and chips vibe from you. So, we thought we'd wait."
"Fish and chips sound great," Imogen said and gave Andrew a shy smile.
He seemed tense, but again Imogen assumed Petra had already unleashed herself onto him.
"I'll order for you," the policeman muttered and rushed inside.
Imogen nodded and sat down. When Andrew disappeared inside, Petra leaned in to Imogen.
"He seemed somewhat surprised when I approached his table. Have you 'forgotten' to mention to him it's not a tête-à-tête?" Petra gave Imogen an eyebrow wiggle.
"I just said we needed to meet and talk. I reckon he misunderstood."
Petra snorted.
"How convenient!"
"Well, you see, we grew up together," Imogen rushed to explain, "and every time we talk I feel like we've sorted it out, but then he sees me again and--"
Imogen's frantic whisper was interrupted by Andrew's return.
"So, Dr. Nenadovich explained to me that the two of you have some information--" he started.
"Yes, pertaining to the murders!" Petra announced proudly. "We had a lead, and we followed it, and we found their love nest!"
Andrew's face grew blank. Imogen understood he needed a Nenadovich-English dictionary.
"Dr. Nenadovich received an address," she said.
"And the man said I was clearly his wife, and I'd hate that! No Serbian or otherwise Eastern European men for me, thank you very much!" Petra scoffed and stabbed a slice of cucumber on her plate.
Andrew gave Imogen a questioning look.
"We met a man near that address, he explained to us that he saw Kitty Oswood and Mr. Buric meeting there regularly," Imogen did her part.
Andrew pulled out a small notebook from his pocket.
"What's the address?" he asked in a serious tone.
"I now wonder if maybe it was his version of a bouquet, to think of it!" Petra suddenly exclaimed and turned to Imogen, her eyes widened in bewilderment. "Except it is so much better than a bouquet. No flowers died, and I had so much fun! And it's something that I actually enjoy! So it's either gallantry, or... what?! Oh! And he let me drink out of his cup! He can't possibly find me repulsive! And also he said I wasn't batty!"
Imogen momentarily forgot about Andrew and the investigation.
"What do you mean? That the Titan... what? Fancies you?!" she gasped. "He can't!"
"No-o-o-o! No, he can't!" Petra gasped as well and shook her head. "You're right, he's hardly human! How would he-- And why?!"
"Pardon, who's the Titan?" Andrew looked between the two of them. "The man who'd seen the victim and Mr. Buric meeting up secretly?"
"No, of course not! He was much older. Oh!" Petra exhaled and pressed her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, but he is old too." Her eyes suddenly went glassy. "Or is he?"
Imogen gave it a thought and had to say, "No, he's not. He is a lot of things - but he's not old."
"Oh," said Dr. Nenadovich.
"I'm sorry, but what--" Andrew started only to be interrupted again.
"Here!" Dr. Nenadovich shoved her phone under his nose.
"You got the address from Mr. Oakby, the Mayor's father?" Andrew read the email and his eyes boggled. "Oh, the Titan!" He was finally catching up. "Makes sense, he owns most of the buildings in the town. It's easy for him to find such thing out."
"Oh," said Imogen. "I didn't realise."
"Who cares what he owns!" Petra flailed her hands. "What does it all mean? And does it even mean anything?! Oh, I suppose I must have insulted him too much."
Imogen pondered the archeologist's last statement and nodded, "That surely has made you stand out."
"But it's like accidentally feeding a stray tiger!" Petra squeaked. "What am I supposed to do now when it shows up again?! Although--" she trailed away.
"Yes?" Imogen asked greedily.
"All tigers are stray, if you think of it." Dr. Nenadovich's tone was pensive.
"But what are you going to do about it?" Imogen asked.
"I'm sorry, but can we go back to the investigation?" Andrew asked in a pained voice. "So, you're saying that Kitty Oswood and Mr. Buric - not Horvat - were having an affair and meeting at this address."
"It's a small flat," Imogen explained, tearing her eyes off the archeologist. "And I also know for certain that Mr. Horvat did have an affair, but not with Kitty Oswood."
"Does Mr. Buric have an alibi for the time of the murder of Kitty Oswood and Horvat?" Petra asked, and Andrew's face once again grew expressionless.
"Oh c'mon, Andrew, we were very forthcoming with our leads," Imogen said, "Could you give us a hint?"
"No, no I can't," the policeman answered strictly. "You aren't supposed to be interfering into the investigation, and--"
"Yeah, yeah, all detectives say it in all novels," Petra dismissed. "And then the amateurs find the murder in the most dramatic fashion. And we just gave you a lead!"
"I'm sorry, I can't disclose anything," Andrew said in his official voice. "But we're grateful for your information."
"Hogwash!" Petra scoffed and inflicted another stab wound upon a vegetable on her plate, this time a tomato. "If I'm right and it was a bouquet, I'm going to go and make him pressure your DI a bit."
This time those were Andrew and Imogen who exchanged looks.
"I don't think even Mr. Oakby can ensure you're involved in an official murder investigation," Andrew said.
"Oh?" Petra hummed sarcastically and sent another slice of cucumber into her mouth. "We'll see."
Imogen was with Petra on this. Of course he could. He was the Titan after all.
***
Imogen came back to the Town Hall and plopped in her chair.
"Have you eaten?" the Mayor's voice came from his office from behind a half-open door.
"Yeah, I had lunch with Petra and Andrew," Imogen answered, and silence rang behind the door.
"Oh," said the Mayor from his office.
It was a day of oh's apparently.
Imogen turned on her computer and lowered her forehead on her arms folded on the table.
"I think we need to talk," the Mayor said right above her, and Imogen jumped up like a cat presented with a cucumber.
"Blimey, you scared me!" she squeaked and then finally heard what he'd said.
And that scared her more.
'"We need to talk" said without a timeline and an outline of the future discussion, preferably in a bulleted list form, is the worst thing one can say to an introvert lacking in self-esteem' was what Imogen would like to tell the Mayor - but she didn't.
"Oh," was her answer.
"How would you like to do it?" he asked.
Imogen scrutinised his face. He was calm - but when wasn't he?
"Tomorrow during lunch? Unless you have other plans," he said.
That surely wouldn't do, Imogen thought. She wouldn't survive 22.5 hours of anticipation.
"Would you like to come for dinner?" she blurted out, and the Mayor's left eyebrow jumped up under its usual whimsical angle.
"I thought you didn't want to," he said.
Imogen's jaw slacked.
"What?! Why?"
"I've previously suggested this option, but you've ignored my text. I assumed you didn't want me to spend an evening with the children."
"What?!" Imogen repeated her choked exclamation.
It was like he put two and two together and got... a flamingo!
He had indeed texted her something about a dinner some time ago, but that was when the mistress of a murder victim had approached her with information while his Father was demanding her to 'supervise' the woman whom he was apparently gifting with metaphorical bouquets these days!
"I do want you to come for dinner! And also I just remembered that you suggested me hiring a babysitter and going out with you!" Imogen exclaimed. "It had nothing about coming to my place! And I think it's a good idea." Her nose twitched in unease. "That is of course if you think it's OK, because Kathy and Brian are there, and you'd have to... talk to them."
And also, the children slept in the only bedroom of Imogen's tiny cottage, while Imogen occupied the sofa in the drawing room.
"I can talk to them," the Mayor said his face as expressive as an Easter Island dummy.
"Lovely! That's decided then!" Imogen's tone for some reason was unnaturally gleeful. "When do you want to come? I can cook! I do cook. Maybe, roast beef? I can--"
"I'll come at seven," he said, and Imogen nodded spasmodically.
"Alright! Excellent!" She properly needed to stop cheering as if he'd just finished the London marathon.
He studied her face for a few more seconds, nodded, turned around, and went back to his office. The door closed behind him, and Imogen exhaled sharply.
What had she done? Brian had been fighting a cold for the last few days, so he was cranky and snotty. There was hardly any food in the house. She hadn't gotten a chance to vacuum clean for ages. And again, he said they needed to talk! That didn't bode well.
Imogen groaned and put her now even heavier head back on her arms.