Dead Men Don't Order Flake (16 page)

‘Hypocritical bastards.' Brad thumped the kitchen counter.

Presumably not the sharks.

‘We all know my life's a bloody failure. Just leave me alone.' He grabbed the book basher's phone and stamped off down the hallway.

26

I parked outside the squat, apricot-brick building of the Garden of the Gods Extended Care Nursing Home. Blew on my hands to warm them up. I really needed to get my car heater fixed. Got out of the car and crunched my way across the gravel.

Ernie was in his room, as usual. And in his dressing gown already.

‘Sorry I'm, err, a bit later than I said I would be.'

‘A day late, in fact.'

‘Yeah, had a couple of complications.'

He gave me a suspicious look. ‘I hope you haven't been spending the night with a fella? I have to warn you about fellas. That Leo Stone, for instance…'

Probably best if I didn't tell Ernie about Leo's phone call. Our date. Well, not really a date, not as such, given the Leo and Serena situation. Possible situation. Or not. A situation that could do with being clarified, anyway. So
my catch-up with Leo would be more of a business type of meeting, an informal discussion to identify the areas in which Leo, ah, could assist me. Purely in an investigative capacity. Unfortunately.

Ernie was always dead against Leo. Turned out he was against Piero as well, and any other bloke I ever took an interest in.

Time to change the subject, onto one I actually wanted to discuss. ‘Your iPad in here somewhere?' I looked around his room. There it was: on his dressing table, sitting in its little blue stand.

Ernie's iPad was a gift from a distant relative. His cousin's granddaughter, McKenzie Thompson. Quite a nice young woman, but she lives way down south in Gippsland, like all his cousin's family, so we don't see a lot of her.

I was surprised how quickly Ernie got into the internet once he got that iPad. He's found some ripper blogs, he tells me, his eyes all shiny. You'd be amazed at how many people are out there, blogging their hearts out about old farm machinery.

Maybe he'd let me do a quick Google search on Natalie; she'd probably be on Facebook. I might find something useful there. After all, no one keeps diaries these days: they're all too busy sharing their thoughts with strangers on the internet.

‘Why you want the iPad?'

‘Just wondering if I could look up a couple of things.'

‘I feel I'm being used for my internet access.' He sniffed.

‘I use you for a whole lot more than your iPad, Ernie.'

‘Don't I know it. Anyway, pointless you trying. Wi-Fi in here's flaming ratshit.'

He heaved himself out of his armchair and staggered over to the bookcase. Started rummaging through a towering pile of DVDs.

‘I generally find the internet's faster in the evening.' He picked out a DVD from the pile. ‘We'll watch a film together first and then you can use the iPad. No point in you going home in a screaming hurry, in any case, not to your empty, lonely life.'

The words might have sounded vaguely sympathetic, but there was no mistaking the firm look in those watery blue eyes.

I'm too good to Ernie, I know, but he looked out for me when I was young. And after Piero's and my little fertility issue—Dean—Ernie helped us set up the shop. ‘Young people gotta have a start in life. You'll be terrific in a takeaway, Cass,' he'd said. ‘Friendly, hardworking lass like you. Top flaming cook as well.'

The DVD was
All the President's Men
. Had Dustin Hoffman ever really been that young?

Forty minutes into the movie, Ernie started snoring. I flicked through a newspaper on his bedside table, the latest copy of the
Muddy Soak Cultivator
. At page four, my eye snagged on an interview with Serena Langton.
The
Serena. Leo's Serena. With a photo of her sitting cross-legged on a shiny blue cushion, looking up at the camera with huge dark eyes. Delicate elfin features, a stunning smile. Before I knew it, I'd drawn a giant moustache on those elfin features. Just one of those uncontrollable impulses, unfortunately.

I put down the pen. Got up and tip-toed around Ernie's room. Stood for a moment in front of his iPad, while I waged a brief internal battle with my personal code of
ethics. Well, he'd said I could use it. And I've endured about two thousand movies with Ernie over the years, so I probably deserve an occasional break.

Password? I darted a glance at Ernie. He was still asleep. Then I spotted a piece of paper pinned to the bottom left hand corner of his mirror. In Ernie's shaky handwriting:
Password1234
. Clearly the Garden of the Gods Extended Care Nursing Home put the same amount of effort as everyone else into safeguarding their internet security.

I settled onto Ernie's bed and logged into Facebook. Searched, and found three Natalie Kelletts. I scrolled through the photos. Photo number three looked just like the picture Gary had given me. And:
Journalist, Lives in Muddy Soak
. Same red hair; same plumpish, pretty face. So young, poor kid. Well, Facebook gave her the chance to be immortal. I wondered for a brief moment if Facebook lets you escape after you're dead. I clicked on Natalie number three and scrolled through her posts.

She hadn't bothered to limit her postings to her friends, something Brad warned me about when I first got into this social media biz. You have to put in a bit of effort if you don't want everyone reading about your life. Which is more of an issue if you actually
have
a life, but still.

I adjusted Ernie's pillows behind my back to get more comfortable. The Wi-Fi seemed OK, I don't know what Ernie was on about. He can be tricky sometimes, especially when you've annoyed him.

Natalie's last post was a photo of her in a long black dress, standing at the bottom of a staircase. Another young woman stood beside her, long dark hair, wearing a blue halter-neck, a forced looking smile. A big gash of red lipstick. Jacinta? I peered at the photo. It looked
like they were inside some kind of cellar. Brick walls, a curving roof over the stairs.

Behind Natalie, at the top of the stairs, stood two men in dinner suits. I couldn't make out the men's faces: they were pretty much specks in the distance.

Party!
the caption said. Twenty-three of Natalie's friends had liked it and six had made comments about how much they loved her dress. No other information about the photo and no clues as to where it was taken. The post was dated 26 January. What date had Gary said she died? The twenty-eighth of January rang a bell. So that meant Natalie had been at the party two days before she died.

Ernie's snoring stopped. I put down his iPad quick-smart and slithered back into the chair beside him, in front of the TV. His eyes fluttered open, then closed again. I heard his tummy growl. Good chance Ernie hadn't had his tea. I'd better make sure he ate something before he went off to sleep properly. I headed out to Taylah and requested some sandwiches in Ernie's room.

When I got back, he was awake. The film credits started rolling, and Ernie turned towards me. ‘So you'd better tell me the latest on this investigation of yours.'

I filled him in on recent events, leaving out the disaster in Target.

‘If only I could figure out the story Natalie was working on, maybe then I could force Dean to reopen the investigation into her crash.'

‘He's never been an easy fella to force into anything. Stubborn bastard. Always has to be right. All due to his flaming insecurity, of course. Like that damn Piero whatsit. Good thing you stayed right away from him.'

‘Err, we were actually married. For quite a while.'

‘I'll only say this once, Cass: I'm dead against the fella. He'll just cause you grief.' He clenched his hands.

I sighed. ‘Don't worry, I'll keep right away from him.'

‘Only got your interests at heart, you know that.' He stared out the window for a moment.

Probably time to go home. Clearly, Ernie had used up his allotted marbles for today.

‘You checked this Natalie Kellett out on Twitter? Lot of journos tweet. Part of the job description, poor bastards. Dunno how they can be bothered with it, personally.'

Ernie's moments of lucidity can be hard to keep up with. In fact, it beat me how he even knew this. Although he does read the technology pages in the
Green Guide
every week.

I settled back on his bed with the iPad; adjusted the pillows behind my back. Tapped in the search words:
Natalie Kellett Twitter
. Too easy. I clicked on the link to her Twitter page.

I scrolled through her list of tweets. They were heavily agricultural, with links attached:

Towards the end of January, she had a lot of tweets involving UnSmogOz. As in Will Galang? That got my attention.

There were links to articles with each one. I didn't open them. And then, below, there was another tweet:

‘Ernie, what does DM mean?'

‘Direct Message. It's for sending private messages.'

‘How do I see Natalie's private messages?'

‘You need to be logged into her account.'

Password
.

I tried
Preston
. No joy. Nor for
PrestonTheDog
,
PrestonKellett
, or
ShutUpPreston
.

Ernie's ham and salad sandwiches arrived. I sat with him while he ate—best way to make sure he did, in fact, eat them.

After I helped him into bed I headed off, reflecting on things.

One fatal car crash on
the
Jensen Corner might be regarded a misfortune, but two, within a week of each other—and when the people knew each other, even if only in the Twitter sense—clearly it added up to more than carelessness.

27

Back in my car, I rummaged around in my handbag for something edible. An old Mintie. Well, it would have to do. I threw it in my mouth, then grabbed my phone and dialled.

‘Slick Café. How can I help you?' A female voice at the other end of the phone line.

‘May I speak to Ms Jacinta Thomas?' Bugger, the Mintie was stuck between my teeth. A pretty useless position for voice deepening, but maybe it would muffle my voice at least.

‘Who's this?' she said.

‘My name's…Isssabel Allenby, from Allenby and…Co. I'm sorting out a number of outstanding legal mattersss relating to Ms Natalie Kellett's tragic death.' I tried adjusting the Mintie, aiming to sound less snake-like. ‘May I speak to Ms Thomas please?'

‘Speaking.' The voice was a whisper.

‘Excellent. Now, Ms Thomas, I presume you received our letter?'

‘Err, no.'

‘Oh? Well, that
is
rather odd. Still, the postal service these days…Anyway, the fact of the matter is that there's something Ms Kellett wanted you to have. Something… quite valuable.' I crossed my fingers. Surely Natalie had been too young to think about a will?

‘What do you mean? Natalie died months ago.'

‘Unfortunately, we did experience a slight delay with granting probate. Still, everything is in order now.'

‘Well, none of this has got anything to do with me.'

I clicked my tongue. ‘I know this must be quite upsetting. At Allenby and Co. our aim is simply to do the right thing by the deceased, in this case, poor Natalie. I'm sure you would understand that. As her friend.'

‘I'm at work. I don't have time for this.'

I suddenly started feeling a lot more sorry for telemarketers than I'd ever thought I would.

‘It's completely up to you, of course. But it is a rather
lovely
sounding item.'

A pause. ‘What is it?'

‘Let me read it to you.
I hereby leave to Jacinta Thomas my black maxi dress, the one I wore when I went with her to the Australia Day party at
…oh dear, there's a terrible smudge. Let me try it in a brighter light.' I paused a moment. ‘No, still quite illegible, I'm afraid. Still, given that you were there with her, I'm sure you'd remember the occasion. Perhaps you can state the location for me… for the record?'

I rustled through a couple of old flyers from my handbag, in the hope that it sounded like I was in an office.

‘Are you for real?'

‘Of course. At Allenby and Co., we pride ourselves on the quality of our record-keeping.'

‘Well, maybe I should come to your office.'

‘I'm afraid we're located in Collins Street in Melbourne. Probably not terribly convenient for you? I'm happy to resolve the matter on the telephone. If you can just state the location of that party…?'

‘Um, this is all very weird. Look, we're about to close. I have to go.' She hung up.

Bugger bugger bugger.

A few moments later, I was pulling up outside the Slick Café. I marched in over the black and white tiles, up to the counter. Jacinta had her dark pony-tailed head bent over a mass of till receipts spread out in front of her.

I leant in and put my arms on the counter.

‘We're closed,' she said without looking up.

‘I'll wait.' My voice was grim.

She looked at me then. Her eyes widened.

‘You bloody well listen to me, Jacinta. You know something about Natalie's accident, don't you?'

She glanced to the left, then to the right, like she was doing some strange eye exercises. Or searching for a lie she'd put down somewhere.