put a cup under fabulous coffee machine number four’s spout and let it do its thing. “No one. I think they’re meant to be someone’s bent sense of humor.”
“If I were to leave dead flowers for a woman, my intentions wouldn’t be to amuse her. Had a nasty breakup in the last couple of months?”
I bit my lip. “Nope. None.” Never—I’d never been in a relationship, and Luke was away doing whatever it was Luke went away to do so often so they weren’t from him. “Actually take them outside and toss them in the garden, they might as well become compost. Once I find out who left them, I’ll get my revenge.” Thing was my circle of friends weren’t the sort to find that funny. They were more the doggie doo-doo in a burning bag types.
Outside, Tyreal tossed the flowers and patted my dogs and cats. Coffee mugs and cake slices I’d bought at the local bakery on a small tray, I slid my cast under one side to balance it and shuffled carefully outside. Tyreal stood looking over the paddocks while my ducks quacked and hens excitedly cackled at him hoping for dinner. He took the tray and put it on the table.
“Nice property. Must be pleasant to come home to.”
“It is.” I’d miss it if I ever got to where I could afford to buy a bigger farm.
“How many acres?”
“Twenty-five, but I need at least two hundred and fifty. More if possible. The bigger the rescue farm the more animals saved.”
“It’s always good to plan big,” he looked at me. “Is this a rescue farm?”
“As much as it can be since the property is so small. All my animals have been saved from pounds and slaughter yards. Even my chickens are all ex-battery hens.”
We sat and slurped in silence, and both devoured a slice each before he spoke again. “Had you done any research on Clyde Owen Jones previously?”
“Just a general one to find his burial site.” Cold fingers of recollection skittered over my skin. My fingers stung with phantom memory. Dead bastard did that to me. “What did you discover about Clyde?”
Tyreal rubbed two fingers to his left temple. “Our man Clyde was the second son of a Viscount and part of the Ton. Do you know what that means?”
“Yep,” I’d seen enough of it in my treasure hunting. For the titled rich and not so rich, it provided entertainment, introductions, business opportunities, gossip, and a marriage market.
“To the Ton, Clyde the bachelor was regarded as charming and handsome, although his father was not liked and considered a violent man. Other than a Rembrandt promised to him by his father, Clyde held little wealth but still won a wife with a large dowry.” Tyreal settled back into his seat.
“Within a year of their marriage, he’d sold all her real estate assets, and together they sailed for Australia. Clyde and his wife lived in Sydney for seventeen years in various residences before they moved to Brisbane.”
“My client Claudia, said they only lived in Brisbane for three or four years before he died.”
“Apparently so. I found records of him accused of seven assaults in Brisbane and fifteen in Sydney. All seemed to have been brushed aside, so I gather he paid off the judge or the person he assaulted.” He took a sip of coffee. “How do you believe he died?”
“Horse kicked him in the head.” Probably deserved it. After groping his grave, I wanted to kick him too.
“Family fabrication. Clyde Owen Jones was murdered. Brutally. His wrists cut, heart hacked from his chest, and then as if he might resurrect himself, decapitated.”
I covered my throat with my hand and swallowed. “Jesus. That’s sick.” So Clyde found someone his equal in evil. Good score Clyde.
“They hadn’t finished. They hammered his body and head to a large wooden cross set in an inverted pentagram scraped into the ground. Then doused him with some sort of accelerant and tossed a match.”
“After he was dead?”
Tyreal flashed those imperfect teeth, “Decapitated usually means
“If I were to leave dead flowers for a woman, my intentions wouldn’t be to amuse her. Had a nasty breakup in the last couple of months?”
I bit my lip. “Nope. None.” Never—I’d never been in a relationship, and Luke was away doing whatever it was Luke went away to do so often so they weren’t from him. “Actually take them outside and toss them in the garden, they might as well become compost. Once I find out who left them, I’ll get my revenge.” Thing was my circle of friends weren’t the sort to find that funny. They were more the doggie doo-doo in a burning bag types.
Outside, Tyreal tossed the flowers and patted my dogs and cats. Coffee mugs and cake slices I’d bought at the local bakery on a small tray, I slid my cast under one side to balance it and shuffled carefully outside. Tyreal stood looking over the paddocks while my ducks quacked and hens excitedly cackled at him hoping for dinner. He took the tray and put it on the table.
“Nice property. Must be pleasant to come home to.”
“It is.” I’d miss it if I ever got to where I could afford to buy a bigger farm.
“How many acres?”
“Twenty-five, but I need at least two hundred and fifty. More if possible. The bigger the rescue farm the more animals saved.”
“It’s always good to plan big,” he looked at me. “Is this a rescue farm?”
“As much as it can be since the property is so small. All my animals have been saved from pounds and slaughter yards. Even my chickens are all ex-battery hens.”
We sat and slurped in silence, and both devoured a slice each before he spoke again. “Had you done any research on Clyde Owen Jones previously?”
“Just a general one to find his burial site.” Cold fingers of recollection skittered over my skin. My fingers stung with phantom memory. Dead bastard did that to me. “What did you discover about Clyde?”
Tyreal rubbed two fingers to his left temple. “Our man Clyde was the second son of a Viscount and part of the Ton. Do you know what that means?”
“Yep,” I’d seen enough of it in my treasure hunting. For the titled rich and not so rich, it provided entertainment, introductions, business opportunities, gossip, and a marriage market.
“To the Ton, Clyde the bachelor was regarded as charming and handsome, although his father was not liked and considered a violent man. Other than a Rembrandt promised to him by his father, Clyde held little wealth but still won a wife with a large dowry.” Tyreal settled back into his seat.
“Within a year of their marriage, he’d sold all her real estate assets, and together they sailed for Australia. Clyde and his wife lived in Sydney for seventeen years in various residences before they moved to Brisbane.”
“My client Claudia, said they only lived in Brisbane for three or four years before he died.”
“Apparently so. I found records of him accused of seven assaults in Brisbane and fifteen in Sydney. All seemed to have been brushed aside, so I gather he paid off the judge or the person he assaulted.” He took a sip of coffee. “How do you believe he died?”
“Horse kicked him in the head.” Probably deserved it. After groping his grave, I wanted to kick him too.
“Family fabrication. Clyde Owen Jones was murdered. Brutally. His wrists cut, heart hacked from his chest, and then as if he might resurrect himself, decapitated.”
I covered my throat with my hand and swallowed. “Jesus. That’s sick.” So Clyde found someone his equal in evil. Good score Clyde.
“They hadn’t finished. They hammered his body and head to a large wooden cross set in an inverted pentagram scraped into the ground. Then doused him with some sort of accelerant and tossed a match.”
“After he was dead?”
Tyreal flashed those imperfect teeth, “Decapitated usually means
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