Dead Men Don't Order Flake (12 page)

‘Hardly. Not when I've got a shop to run and a whole lot of detec…personal issues to look into for people.'

I started packing away the remaining sausage rolls.

He put his hand on mine. ‘Mum, I've checked and rechecked Natalie's file. There were no strange dents, scratches down the side of her car, nothing like that. Nothing apart from the damage clearly attributable to her crashing into the tree.'

I took it as encouraging that he'd checked the file. But. ‘What if he didn't leave any special marks? Maybe he overtook her, then braked suddenly and she swerved off the road. That's possible, surely.'

He sighed. ‘Look, anything is possible. A whole army of little green men could have beamed in from Mars and swarmed out in front of her, part of their Earth-invasion plan. But if we're talking reality, statistical actual likelihoods, there was absolutely nothing suspicious about the death of Natalie Kellett. She was on a public road. She drove into a tree on Jensen Corner. While speeding. There was no evidence of other vehicles present. No witnesses. End of bloody story.'

‘Come on, Dean. There's more to it than that. She was working on this big secret story. She'd bought bullets.
Had pepper spray. Her bag was stolen from my house. And Morris Temple has been stalking me. Surely you've got enough imagination to see that this adds up to… something? And…' But I couldn't tell him about Jacinta. Not without mentioning the dropped phone.

He snorted. ‘Yeah, right, as if imagination's going to help. Evidence, hard cold evidence, is what the world of policing is built on.'

He wiped away a speck of sausage meat from the corner of his mouth.

‘What you have to recognise is that there are plenty of strange little mysteries in everyone's lives. And everyone has arguments. Every day. Quite a few of us would love to leave our jobs, our wives, our whole damn lives, in fact.'

He stared out the window for a moment, then turned back to face me. ‘I suppose you'll be standing up for Brad, as usual?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Come on, don't pretend you don't know about his latest.'

Why is it that everyone knows everything about Brad before I do?

‘I'd say he's really wrecked his future this time. Good one, Brad.' He smirked.

The blood rushed to my face. ‘You wipe that smirk right off your face, Dean Tuplin. Brad's your little brother. You don't damn-well smile when he's in trouble.'

The smirk morphed into a downward-mouthed sulk. ‘Well, you have to admit it's not great news. Of his own making, naturally. All due to his
beliefs
. Ha.'

Christ, what had Brad gone and done this time? Nothing criminal, I hoped. Clearly I'd be the last to
know. I wasn't admitting that to Dean, though.

‘Well, at least he believes in something. What do you believe in, Dean?' I folded my arms and glared at him.

A pause. ‘You need hope to believe in something.' His voice had a weary tone. ‘All I'm after here is survival. That's what I believe in: survival in a shitty world. Like mother, like son, wouldn't you say?'

I stared. Whatever happened to that optimistic, dark-haired eleven-year-old? The kid who loved duck shooting, wild dog trapping; who couldn't get enough of camping and fishing by the Murray? I couldn't remember the last time Dean went camping. Melissa's not keen on proximity to ants.

‘Come on. You can do a whole lot better than just survive. You've got
heaps
to feel good about. There's, ah, Melissa…' I moved on swiftly. ‘And the kids. They adore you. And your job: well, that's a big achievement. Everyone looks up to a cop.' Almost everyone. Some of the time.

‘You have no idea, do you, of how much I hate my life? Spare me the positive-thinking bullshit.' He stood up. ‘Thanks for the sausage rolls. I'll leave you to see yourself out.' He stalked out of the room.

I lurched out to my car. Got in and slammed the door. I flung the esky onto the passenger seat. Then sagged onto the steering wheel and beat my head against it a few times.

Kids—why would you have them? Would there ever be a day when I could stop worrying about Dean and Brad?

For the first time in my life, I realised there might actually be an upside to dementia—if I forgot who the boys were, there'd be half a chance I could forget to agonise over them as well.

19

I dialled Brad's number.

‘What do you want, Mum?'

It brought tears to my eyes hearing the misery in poor little Brad's voice. Not that he's little anymore—he's only a whisker shorter than Dean. Every time I see Brad—dark hair, green eyes, exact spit of his father—it's another stab right through the heart from Piero.

‘Is this about me coming home tomorrow?'

‘You're coming home? How nice.'

‘Don't pretend no one's told you.'

‘It'll be terrific to see you.' I paused. ‘Do you need money?'

Brad does his best to fund his life at uni by working in a takeaway joint in Warrnambool. He hates it—well, Brad's never been what you'd call a takeaway enthusiast. He's more of a dhal and lentil burger kind of person, apart from his weakness for the smell of frying bacon.

‘No, but thanks, Mum.' He added, ‘It's not my fault, you know.'

‘Right. You haven't broken any laws, have you?'

He sighed. ‘Maybe I should just throw myself off Tower Hill.'

‘Don't say things like that. What's happened, son?'

‘I'll tell you about it when I get home.'

Well, that was improvement on the Tower Hill option.

A thought. Some distraction might do Brad good. And the concept that he was needed. Everyone loves to feel needed.

‘Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with some…environmental questions.'

‘You hate the environment.'

‘How can anyone hate it? We live in it. And we all have to put up with it. Anyway, what I'm wondering is this—is Andy Fitzgerald up to something dodgy?'

‘In the environmental sense?'

‘In any sense.'

‘Hardly an environmental question. But yes, he has a lot of close associations in the fossil-fuel industry.'

‘As in fracking?'

I'd had a mini-lecture on fracking from Brad just last week. He kindly spelled out the word for me, just in case I'd never heard of it. I'm pretty much the least informed person on the planet, in Brad's opinion.

‘Not just that. Before life in politics, he was a director of the IOI.'

‘Sounds like something Old MacDonald might sing after a couple of drinks.'

‘If only it was that harmless. Come on, everyone knows what the IOI is.'

‘Err…'

He sighed, like the way I used to do myself years ago when I was trying to get him potty trained.

‘The IOI is the Institute of Open Information. Calls itself a research organisation, but it's really just a mouthpiece for the fossil-fuel industry. They're very vocal in denying climate change, with a long history of promoting doubt about the science.'

I braced myself for a state-of-the-planet briefing.

‘Their latest contribution to so-called “open information” is funding that ridiculous book by Eric Buckland.'

Buckland. Where had I heard that name?

‘Anyway, why the interest in Fitzgerald?' he said.

Surely I could tell Brad; he's not one to go around blabbing. In fact, Brad'd be a lot easier to deal with if he did blab, just a little bit. About important details, the kind of details his mother could do with knowing, so she can help him sort out his happiness.

‘Just, ah, looking into some of the details around Natalie's Kellett's death.'

‘But her crash was just an accident, wasn't it?'

‘Well, her father says it wasn't. And someone broke into my place and stole Natalie's bag. Her laptop.'

‘Jesus. Are you OK, Mum?'

‘Yeah, apart from being whacked over the head. Anyway, it all gives you a certain impression, doesn't it?'

‘What does Dean say?'

‘What you'd expect. That he looked into the crash, it was a straightforward accident, stay out of it, no licence anyway. Blah blah.'

‘Typical. Bastard.'

‘Dean's just…under a lot of pressure.' It's a reflex,
standing up for my kids.

Brad snorted. ‘He's in the wrong job, Mum.'

Brad, the expert on all life matters.

‘So what's the right job for him, then?'

‘He needs to follow his passion.'

Did Dean have a passion? I'd never heard him mention one.

‘Look, I have to go. I've got a…meeting. See you tomorrow. And Mum? Be careful.' Brad hung up.

20

As I put my phone away, I remembered, regrettably, the promise I'd made to Madison.

I suppose you could say that my biggest problem in life is the way I allow myself to take on too many of the troubles that strictly speaking belong to other people. The theory is easy, isn't it? People can ask, and I can just say no. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen. For various reasons, and no doubt it'll turn out it's all to do with my childhood—my mother's fault, probably—the pattern is that I say yes.

At least this wasn't a promise to help with a crimey kind of problem. It merely involved an urgent shopping expedition. The Target intimate apparel department.

‘Cass, they're on special,' Madison had laid the brochure out on my counter. ‘No way I'll get a chance to go to Muddy Soak before it ends.'

‘Just order them online, Madison.'

‘Oh come on, you know how long it takes for anything to arrive here in the mail. It won't take you a second, I promise.' Her eyes were all big and begging. ‘Please? And you could get some for yourself. Take a look—I really think the leopard skin's the way to go, don't you agree? And the bulk pack is excellent value.'

I stared out my windscreen, pondering how to get out of this. Maybe I could tell Madison Target had run out of her size. But she'd know quick-smart I was lying. And Madison's my most loyal customer.

I looked at my watch. Two-thirty. Well, if I made it quick, I'd still have time to call in on Ernie, drop off those Anzac biscuits. He might let me look up a few Natalie-related matters on his iPad.

Target is a place you could wander around in for days, unrecognised. Probably not a bad spot to do a drug deal. There's no way you can shop there in a hurry, not with all the aisles full of stuff you think you might want but then you get it home and realise you'll never use it.

After only a few minutes in there, I could no longer will myself to hurry. Maybe they pump some kind of gas into the air conditioning to slow down the customers. I cruised past the iPads, the kitchenware, the books—amazing how cheap the books were. For the price of a few coffees you could have a whole decent book. Hours more entertainment than a few cuppas and a lot less caffeine.

Finally, I found the women's underwear and the real search began. I know there's not a lot to a G-string, but who'd have thought they'd be so hard to find?

It crossed my mind that this was possibly another of Madison's misguided attempts to encourage me to be more
adventurous
vis à vis
my own undergarments. There are a few people in Rusty Bore who seem to think I'm in desperate need of sex.

‘Your underwear is key, Cass. It's all about how you feel, especially for the older woman.' Madison had hurried on before I had a chance to protest about the O word. ‘The mature woman needs a little extra to…get motivated, apparently. I read about it in
Cleo
. Anyway, I'm not old myself, obviously, but personally, I find a G-string makes a difference.' She bent down to stroke Timmy.

I occasionally let Timmy into my shop after closing time. I shouldn't, really. But the big plus of Tim is that he doesn't try to savage anyone. He's a ferret who's just very comfortable with who he is, in Madison's expert opinion.

‘Err, you don't need to worry about my motivation,' I said. I gave my spotless counter a quick wipe to release the nervous tension. I'm as prepared as the next person to share her thoughts on intimate matters with her potential future daughter-in-law, but, frankly, that doesn't include the ins and outs of my date-related underwear.

After my fourth sweep through the Target underwear aisle, I finally found the G-strings. I picked up a packet. Excellent, Madison's size. And leopard skin—check. Not that there was a lot of actual space for the spots. I peered at the print on the pack.
Bonus his and hers musk oil
. Well, that would probably please Madison. Or at least the ferrets.

I glanced at my watch: after three already. I'd better put the foot down. I sped towards the checkout and joined the queue of weary-looking people. Glanced around at the long line of slumpy shoulders. I don't know what all these people in Muddy Soak had to feel so weary about.
Maybe it was all the Spectaculars. I suppose nonstop festivals would have to get pretty tiring.

I saw a familiar figure, four people ahead in the queue. Skinny bloke wearing an Akubra, his face in profile as he smiled at an elderly woman standing next to him. Shit, it was that Bamfield bloke, the comfort-specialist joker. Exactly the person you don't want to run into when you're purchasing an intimate item. For a friend.

What in heck a gravel baron was even doing in Target beat me. Maybe he was helping that elderly woman with her shopping, spreading some more of his magnanimity around the place. He looked over my way. I ducked behind the plump woman in front of me. She was wearing a beanie with a giant purple pom-pom: not perfect cover, but in a tight spot you have to accept whatever camouflage presents itself.

I scrunched the packet in my hand. No need for everyone to see exactly what I was buying. An uneventful queue-shuffling moment passed.

Maybe I should just ditch the G-strings and leg it. Come on, Cass, I told myself. It's a simple underwear-shopping expedition. Everybody wears underwear. And anyway, the bloke'd be well gone before me.