The Mannequin Mystery

By Debbie Chase

The Village of Lambuck. 1966. A girl, Miranda Wilson, is missing. Sylvia Day, unmarried and lonely, who runs the Sylvia Day Detective Agency, joins forces with the police, the very dishy new man in town, Detective Inspector Nathan Royle, who is determined to solve the case. A body is found in the river, which, surprisingly, turns out to be a mannequin with the face of the missing girl, a clue cleverly hidden on its body leading them to the next mannequin, and then the next and the next.
Miranda Wilson’s diary refers to “R,” who she was to meet on the day she went missing. There are several “R’s” in the mix, one of whom is a man Sylvia has been seeing. Should she confess this to the Inspector or wait and see what is revealed about the other “R’s” before spilling the beans? Who has fashioned the mannequin with the face of the missing girl? Tendrils of clues that need to be painstakingly knitted together.
As the clues lead them closer and closer to the missing girl, will Miranda Wilson be found unharmed, and will romance blossom between Sylvia and Nathan despite Sylvia’s insecurities? Will they ever get their very own happy ever after?

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Apr 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891261778

Debbie Chase

Debbie Chase (married name Debbie Spink) was born in Emsworth in Hampshire in 1959, although she has lived in West Yorkshire since 1979. She is the eldest of five children (two sisters and two brothers) and has many nieces and nephews, great nieces and nephews, aunties, uncles and cousins, having come from a very large family. She has been married since 1984 and has one daughter, Lara and two cats Ruby and Teddy.She has always been a reader and has enjoyed writing since school. Her proudest moment being when she achieved an A+ for an essay! She has had many short stories and poems for adults and children published in books and magazines. She has written four books, the first being part fact/part fiction and called “You to Me Are Everything.” The second book based on a real-life pet sitting job is called “The Confessions of a Pet Sitter (from the Pet’s Point of View) and the third, the sequel to that book, “What A Catastrophe (Teddy’s Tale). The fourth book is a book of poems. All four books are available to buy on Amazon as a paperback or kindle. She has also had two pocket novels (“Planning on Love” and “Romance on the Run”) published with My Weekly magazine.Her other hobbies are running, walking, swimming, yoga, pilates and Tai Chi.After many years of office work she is now partially retired and works part-time in a baker’s shop and is also an Examination Invigilator in a local school!

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The Mannequin Mystery

by

Debbie Chase

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © 2024 Debbie Chase

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 9798891261761

eBook ISBN: 9798891261778

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, April 8, 2024

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Smashwords Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover: Cover Designs by Karen

Cover-designs-by-karen.com

Editor: Karen Fuller

Dedicated to my little sister, Rebecca Louise Chase.

21 December 1970 to 5 May 1975

Never forgotten

Chapter One

Mid-June 1966 – Lambuck River

Despite it being summer, there’d been a lot of rain, and the river flowed fast and deep, lapping at the grassy bank, slippery with mud, where ducks, geese, and swans padded awkwardly on their flat feet. Alerted by a telephone call from a distraught walker, the Detective Inspector and I had met at the river’s edge and now gazed into the murk as the birds honked around our ankles. The area had been sealed off, and a white tape fluttered and beckoned, and the great bulk of an ambulance stood behind, its light turning slowly, throwing out a long blue shadow.

Whatever it is, it’s caught in the reeds, he said softly, as if to himself, and then turned slightly, looking at me from the tail of his eye, the dimples on his stubbly cheeks clearly visible, Can you see, Miss Day? I nodded as I watched what looked like a hand, its long, thin fingers wrapped tightly around the dense greenery, as if holding on for dear life, the rest of what surely must be a body, with the long hair of a woman, submerged beneath the murk of the river.

Not a pretty sight, I said as I glanced at the Detective Inspector, a tall man who boasted a broad chest tapering down to long slim legs and wore a black double-breasted overcoat open over black trousers and a white shirt with a patterned tie, a suit jacket just about visible. He wore a trilby hat perched rakishly on his blonde hair, and even though his highly polished brogues were flecked with mud, it in no way deterred from his usual powerful look and style.

Turning to the paramedics, he said, Be careful when bringing her up, as he allowed them to step in front, and then watched as they slid down the bank and waded into the water, carefully feeling around in the reed bed, and pulling away the green muddy shoots that had wrapped themselves tightly around the trunk of a fallen tree that was lying half submerged in the river and half on the grassy bank, its glossy leaves shivering in the breeze. Our weathermen had predicted an end to the rain, and today, a weak sun had managed to peek out from behind, fluffy white clouds reflecting a myriad of colors on the churning water.

I couldn’t believe it, I heard the distraught walker say to a reporter, a microphone thrust in his face, Talk about a coincidence, but I’d just been thinking about that missing girl, you know Miranda Wilson, it’d had been on the news before I came out, so I thought I was imagining it, you know, what I could see. Almost gave me a heart attack…not something you expect to see on a nice walk, is it?

A knot of interested onlookers had formed on the opposite side of the river, a group consisting of yet more walkers, people with restless dogs straining on their leads, everybody nudging and staring, whispering, and wondering what was going on. Sergeant Alf Cooper, our village’s local bobby, stood nearby, arms outstretched, keeping the crowd back from the dangerous muddy incline leading into the water, which was deep and dense, an oily brown, filled, I was sure, with all sorts of unsuitable items, items that maybe outnumbered the fish, ranging from old bicycles to shopping trolleys. I suppose you’d call it a scrap man’s paradise.

There was a sudden great whoosh and a splash, and everybody turned to look as the body, suspended in mid-air for a second or two, landed on the river bank face down, trickles of water running down its waxy skin, hair spread out from its head like black candy floss, closely followed by a vast intake of breath from the crowd.

The Detective Inspector, a frown marring his handsome face, pushed forward through the paramedics, where they stood, their green boiler suits damp now, their wellies covered in a green slime, Good God, he whispered, It’s a mannequin!

A paramedic nudged him and, laughing a little, said, No need for the recovery position then, Sir? His colleagues giggled, and one made a pumping motion on his own chest with his hands as if resuscitating somebody. The Detective Inspector gave them a narrowed eyed glare.

Peering over his shoulder, I stared at the body laid before us. It was certainly not human, but a larger version of the Sindy doll I played with when I was a little girl. Fully clothed too in jeans, a blue shirt, and a red and white striped tank top, yet only one shoe, leaving one foot bare and white, yet each tiny toenail adorned with red polish like a splash of blood.

Detective Inspector?

Miss Day, I…

I’m just pointing out, Sir, I nodded towards the mannequin, She’s dressed exactly like the missing girl.

He gave me a quizzical glance as I pulled a notepad from the pocket of my trench coat and read my hastily scribbled writing just to confirm in my own mind that I was right. She was last seen in blue jeans, I told the Detective Inspector, A blue shirt and a red and white striped tank top. Even the shoes are the same, a white plimsoll with a red stripe, although supposedly she wore both. Turn her over, I said, Let’s look at her face.

We both recoiled as the mannequin’s face was revealed. The Detective Inspector said, surprised, The face of Miranda Wilson.

Yes, Sir,

Hmm, made by a specialist, I suppose, not just a run of the mill mould here, eh?

Why no, I replied, Most mannequins have virtually the same face, don’t they? So how is it possible to change a face like that? Wouldn’t the person have to know her to get a likeness?

He nodded as he stepped forward and then hunkered down close to her, Not necessarily. They could have sculpted a likeness from a photograph, and there’s plenty of those about, aren’t there? And then, What’s this? Pulling on a pair of thin gloves, he reached out a hand and touched something that hung around her neck.

I went closer and, bending over at the waist, peered too. A piece of paper protected by plastic, Sir, I said, On some sort of a chain.

There was a sudden kerfuffle as a man carrying a black bag came pushing through the amused paramedics and the few reporters loitering about behind the fluttering tape, cameras slung around their necks. He held out his hand to the Detective Inspector, Sorry I’m late, so much traffic. Dr. Patrick Wilmslow, Pathology. Is this the body?

He’d obviously not looked hard enough as the Detective Inspector said dryly, It’s a mannequin, I’m afraid, Dr. Wilmslow. No need for pathology, although we’ve seen something around her neck enclosed in plastic which needs to be preserved.

A mannequin? he spluttered, Why yes, so it is. At first sight, it looked so real.

It’s about as real as one of my daughter’s dolls, piped up one of the reporters, trying to move forward, his camera at the ready.

If only it could talk, replied the Detective Inspector, Maybe it could tell us how it got here.

Can we look at the paper enclosed in the plastic? I whispered, It might be a clue?

A clue?

Something that explains why a mannequin looking exactly like our local missing girl has been put in the river. It can’t have walked there by itself, can it, Inspector? Somebody must have put it there so that somebody might have left a clue in there. I nodded towards the mannequin’s extraordinary necklace.

Have a look on its back, piped up the reporter, It might have a string that lets it talk like one of them Chatty Cathy dolls. He made a pulling and pushing motion with a hand.

Shut them up, will you? said the Detective Inspector quietly to Sergeant Colin Gregory, another of our local policemen, as, gingerly, he pulled the folded piece of paper from the plastic around the mannequin’s neck. Taking a step or two back from the paramedics and smoothing out the paper, he read it quickly, his eyes flicking over the words as I stood by watching. Beckoning me over with his head, he put the paper in my gloved hands, What do you make of this then, Miss Day?

Glancing at the typed letters on the page, I, too, scanned it quickly.

In the river, our girl’s been found, dragged out of the water with barely a sound. Look for me again in the woods, dense and dark beneath a spreading oak. Oh, what a lark. You’ll see a stone angel staring sightlessly at the sky, dig deep and long, it’ll be tough, I ain’t gonna lie.

You see, I said quietly, so that only the Detective Inspector could hear, it’s a clue.

It’s some sort of game, he replied, his blue eyes boring into mine, A trick.

It might lead us to the missing girl, I suggested, I think we should follow it, I gave it back to him, Do as it tells us. I glanced around to make sure nobody could hear, After all, Inspector, this is the first real lead we’ve had in this investigation.

Yes, he nodded and then suddenly turned around and, lifting an arm, said, Okay, ladies and gents, it’s time to go. There’s nothing more to see. Move on, everybody.

Grumbling, the crowd across the river began to disperse, to break away from one another bit by bit, and slowly moved away. Sergeant Cooper waved his arms as if he was herding them like sheep. A couple of brave photographers tried to take pictures, rapidly clicking their cameras, before being pulled away by Sergeant Gregory. Come on now, lads, pack your gear away. There’s nothing to see. It’s only a mannequin. The paramedics picked up the mannequin and, putting her on a stretcher, slotted it easily into the back of the ambulance as the Detective Inspector, furtively, so that only I could see, slipped the piece of paper into his pocket.

***

Three Months Earlier – April 1966 – Lambuck Village

Early April, and the air was chilly. The sky was one big white cloud, but buds were opening on the bushes and the trees, and green leaves unfurled as daffodils bobbed and swayed in gardens and along grass verges. In public parks and window boxes, their splash of vibrant yellow hopeful after the months of long dark nights, driving rain and snow, and an icy chill that soaks into your bones. I noticed everywhere posters of the missing girl, Miranda Wilson, in shop windows and on lamp posts, even on the doors of public houses, anywhere in fact where people would see her pretty face with its bright white smile and maybe recall where they’d seen her last.

The village was busy with people strolling in and out of the shops, bustling housewives with baskets slung over their arms staring into plate glass windows thinking of dinner and tea, children on their way to school, some with their mothers holding tightly to their hands giving me a strange sort of pang. For I’d never had children, never been married either and, despite seeing someone, a local man named Robert Lund, lived alone with no hope of a future marriage as far as I was concerned, and him, too, I was sure of that. My mother and father died young, both of whom came from very small families, so, to be blunt, with my brother gone too, there was nobody left but me. And to make matters worse, my up and coming 40th birthday loomed into my mind, making my stomach clench and roll in a rather surprising manner.

I walked quickly, my heels tip-tapping on the path. I wore a trench coat belted tightly at the waist, a pretty scarf adorned my neck, and leather gloves covered my hands, for it didn’t seem to matter what season, be it a cold one or a warm one, my hands were always deathly cold, frighteningly so. I remember my Secretary, Rowena, saying, something for the doctor to deal with, she’d said, something to do with circulation … which I’d brushed off and carried on wearing gloves, even fingerless ones just like that old rogue, Steptoe, when I needed to write or type.

I tip-tapped past the village pond, ducks and geese squawking and fluttering, drops of water shining in the air, nodding hello to several acquaintances from the village. Mrs. Best from The Best Haberdashery (what a fortunate name for a shopkeeper, I’d always thought), Mrs. Mullins, who ran the newsagents, and Jack, landlord of the village pub, The Rabbit and Bear (boasting the actual nose ring and muzzle preserved from the cruel practice of Dancing Bears, that, chillingly I thought, adorned the misshapen wall of the pub. Even the wooden pole that the bear had been chained to as it danced, its paws burning on hot coals, was preserved in all its glory).

I paused for a moment or two as I always did, just to savor the pride I felt as I gazed at my own business, situated between Rod’s Fish & Chips and Cryer’s The Bakers, its sign painted in a dark green with thick gold letters saying, Sylvia Day Detective Agency, the same on its plate glass window, a flourishing business, myself and my secretary being kept busy with a varying workload consisting of domestic disputes, including infidelity, loyalty tests, and divorce cases, as well as insurance claims and I’d worked with the police on several crime investigations including missing persons.

The only drawback to the premises being stuck, as it was like a rose between two thorns, was the tantalizing smell of fish and chips and baking pies and cakes wound their enticing way around my office every day, being of