Dead Men Don't Order Flake (5 page)

So I tend to feel pretty bad any time I see Vern. I never wanted to hurt him and, look, maybe he isn't actually hurt, it can be hard to tell. Still, I find life's a lot more comfortable if I avoid him. Trouble is, avoidance isn't easy to achieve in a two-shop town.

I took a deep breath. ‘Vern. Could do with your help. Got your notebook handy?'

Vern's a deeply observant bloke. He keeps a notebook on all the happenings in Rusty Bore, although it's a fairly slim kind of journal.

‘Private property, that.' He narrowed his eyes.

‘Calm down. I'm not the tax office. I'm just looking for a rego. The brown Fairlane that came into town yesterday.'

‘I get the feeling I'm being used for me information.' He made a minor adjustment to his groin.

‘Vern, your notebook could likely play a vital role in an important investigation.'

‘What investigation?'

‘Err, into the death of a young woman.' Best not to tell him everything. News spreads at top speed around here, especially news Vern's managed to intercept.

‘Natalie Kellett? Heard you were looking into her accident.' He unzipped a pocket in the front of his jacket and took out a blue-covered spiral notebook. He leaned the book on his bike and flipped it open. Ruffled through the pages.

‘Yep.' He stabbed his finger against the page. ‘Suss-looking vehicle. Dark-haired fella. Didn't stop. Slowed right down outside your place though. Assumed he was a friend of yours.' He gave me a sharp look. ‘Course, I wouldn't know who your friends were these days.'

‘The rego, Vern?'

‘ASY 341.'

Back in the shop, I was hurtled into an unexpected lunchtime rush: six customers. I gave them the extra-large welcome smile; tried to pretend I didn't have a black eye. The Rusty Bore Takeaway is in no position to put off new customers. Still, the new stainless steel decor might compensate for my eye. I hoped.

One of the customers was a stringy-looking bloke, moustached. He took off his Akubra with a sweeping cavalier type of movement. ‘So this is the famous Cass Tuplin, hey?' He gave me a wide grin. Somehow, I didn't have a good feeling about where this was headed.

He put the Akubra back on and leant his skinny arms on my counter. ‘Comfort specialist, is what I hear. Discretion guaranteed.'

He laughed. As did all his mates, standing in a King
Gee-shirted row behind him. There's nothing like a bit of side-splitting fnah fnah when you've got a cracking headache.

‘Not that I'd need that kind of service, of course. Get all mine for free.' More laughter from Skinny Arms and his hilarity teamsters.

‘Take your order?' I said. Did my best to flutter my eyelashes. Attempted a winsome smile. The things you have to do to sell a few chips.

I waited while they guffawed, spluttered and slapped each other's backs. Still, when they finally got round to ordering, it was enough to fill all my baskets: huge piles of chips, flake, dim sims and thirty-six potato cakes.

I set to, getting it all into the oil.

‘I should really introduce myself properly,' said Skinny Arms. ‘Pete Bamfield.' He held out his hand; I wiped my hand on my floral apron and shook it.

‘What happened to your eye?'

‘Minor altercation. With a door.'

‘Ah. Sorry to hear it. Well, next time he…it…bothers you, why don't you give me a call?' He held out a business card.

I took the card.
P. L. Bamfield. Muddy Soak Gravel International.
I recognised his name, once I had the context. Peter Bamfield is known as the Gravel Baron in Muddy Soak. Third-generation gravel dynasty. There's always a Bamfield in the paper—opening a building, attending a charity dinner, doing something magnanimous. Unfortunately none of that magnanimity has ever got as far as Rusty Bore.

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘But you don't need to worry about me. I can look after myself.'

‘Uh huh.' He clearly wasn't buying it. ‘Anyway, up here with the Lions Club today. Replacing the fences at the McKenzies' place.'

The McKenzies lost a heap of fences in the bushfire that whipped through two months ago.

I turned back to the baskets. Slipped in a few extra dim sims
gratis
, courtesy of the management. Complete tool he might be, but a stringy bloke like Bamfield could certainly afford to eat. And a few more Lions Club visits could make quite a difference to Rusty Bore.

A quick call to Dean to phone in the rego of the brown Fairlane. He wasn't there, so I left it in his message bank. Sent it as a text as well, just in case.

A late lunch: a boiled egg and toast. I made some plans. On Monday I'd go to Gary's place in Muddy Soak; look through Natalie's room. And call in on Dean with some peace-making sausage rolls.

I was just settling into my egg when my phone rang. I grabbed it from my handbag. But it wasn't ringing, and come to think of it, it wasn't my ring tone either. It took me a moment to realise. It was the phone I'd been finger-swiping.

I snatched it off the table. The name flashing up was
Jazz
.

I threw in a quick half-mouthful of egg before I answered.

‘Yeah, hi,' I said, doing my best to channel a deep-voiced book basher. When you operate in an investigative capacity, there are occasions when you need to temporarily deepen your voice, so it's something I've taken a more than casual interest in. There's no entirely foolproof method,
but these are the two that work best for me: one: half-swallow a Panadol; the trick is to let it sit at the very top of your throat. Once it's uncomfortable, and you think you might vomit, make the call; or two: throw in a small mouthful of food. You have to use minimal words and get them out quickly, before choking.

So it was fortuitous that I happened to have that boiled egg to hand when I grabbed the phone.

‘What the hell have you done?' A female voice on the other end. Familiar, somehow.

‘No idea what you're on about.' I said. Another quick nibble of egg.

‘Where were you last night?'

‘Depends who's asking.'

‘You
know
it's me, you bastard. Did you…hurt her?' Her voice was a whisper.

‘Who?' I swallowed. Threw in another mouthful.

‘Cass Tuplin, you idiot.'

She knew my name?

‘Why would I want to do that?' Not a bad effort, if I say so myself: always good to fire out an open-ended question.

‘Who knows what you want.' A pause. ‘Where were you that night, anyway?'

‘What night?'

‘You know what bloody night. Did you…do something to Natalie? Tell me the truth.'

Shit, I was onto my last skerrick of egg. I shoved it in. ‘Let's meet. I'll tell you everything.'

A pause. ‘You sound weird.'

‘Got a cold.' I coughed on the egg. ‘Feel like shit, actually.'

‘All right. You've got five minutes. After my kickboxing practice. Six o'clock tonight. Outside the community centre.'

‘Where?' I croaked.

‘Oh for God's sake. In Hustle, you dickhead.'

7

I drove along Hustle's main street, past that damn mural: a multicoloured council-sponsored painting of the Mallee Farm Days. Endless tractors, smiley happy children, contented chooks. No mention of how Hustle stole those Days from Rusty Bore, of course.

I parked outside the community centre, a red-brick building with a long crack running down a wall; used to be the high school. There's no high school in Hustle now, these days the kids are bussed to Muddy Soak. But the community centre still has a multitude of uses: community lunches, Men's Shed, job seekers agency, evangelical meetings, patchwork group, reiki for beginners. And kickboxing.

It was almost six o'clock.

I sat waiting in my car and watched the clouds move slowly across the sky: high ice-ripples, white puffs that reminded me of Ernie's early-morning hair and, lower in
the sky, thick blankets of dark grey. Maybe we'd get rain.

A few moments later a group of young women spilled down the steps, heading for their cars. One girl lingered, waiting by the entrance. Freckly face, dark hair in a ponytail. She was wearing a huge blue T-shirt and black leggings. She hugged herself tightly, like she was cold, or scared. Maybe both. Not really the kind of demeanour you'd expect of a kickboxer.

I got out of my car and walked over towards her.

‘Jacinta?'

She turned her head, a quick movement like a frightened bird.

‘Cass. I heard you had a break-in. Are you OK?'

I waved a hand. ‘I'm fine. You should see the other bloke.'

A quick intake of breath. ‘Oh, did you get a look at him?'

‘No, unfortunately. Anyway, I was…just passing and saw you here. Need a lift home?' I said.

‘Err, no. I'm meeting a friend.'

‘Anyone I know?'

She looked everywhere except at me. ‘I doubt it. He's… from Muddy Soak.'

‘Mind if I wait with you?'

‘I'm a bit, um, busy.'

‘Waiting's a very busy activity, I know.'

She hugged herself tighter.

‘Jacinta, what really happened to Natalie Kellett?' My voice was low.

‘What? She…died. In an accident.'

‘Something tells me you're not so sure about that.'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about.'

‘You and Natalie were friends, weren't you?' A guess, but worth a try.

‘I knew her, yeah.' She twisted a stray strand of her long dark hair around a finger.

‘What was she like?'

‘Why?'

‘Well, her father's asked me to look into her death. As I think you know. I met him in the Slick Café, remember?'

‘Did you?' A not-very-successful casual tone.

‘Yes. And it would help a lot if I knew a bit more about her.'

‘Yeah, well…'

I waited.

‘Natalie wasn't a person who liked attention.'

‘You mean she was shy?' A mozzie landed on my cheek. I flicked it away.

‘Not exactly. Just…focused.' She glanced at her watch. ‘Anyway, my friend will be here any minute. Don't let me hold you up, Cass.'

‘Where was your friend last night, anyway?'

The colour drained from her face. ‘What?'

‘Jacinta, it was me you spoke to on his phone today. Who is this guy and why did he break into my place?'

She stared. Opened and closed her mouth. Then she turned and ran.

I ran after her, my feet pounding the concrete, watched her jump into a red Honda and slam the door.

I knocked on the window. Shouted through the glass, ‘Jacinta. Please. If you're in trouble, let me help.'

But she gunned the car, revving like she was on the starting grid at Phillip Island. Then, tyres screaming, the Honda hurtled out of there.

8

I leapt into the Corolla and turned the key in the ignition. It didn't start. I turned it again. No go. I waited a moment and then tried it again. Finally, the engine fired. By the time I turned out of the car park, Jacinta's Honda was long gone.

I drove around the streets of Hustle, looking everywhere. No sign of Jacinta or her Honda. I didn't even know where she lived. Bugger.

The sun was low in the sky, the light growing dim. I pulled out my phone and dialled Gary Kellett.

‘Gary, was Natalie friendly with someone called Jacinta Thomas? Works in Hustle, not sure where she lives exactly.'

‘Never heard of her,' he said, the man whose daughter told him everything. I said goodbye and hung up. Tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. A thought. Jacinta's sister Taylah worked on the desk at the retirement home. Right,
I'd make a little social call on Ernie tomorrow: maybe Taylah could somehow help.

Not much of a sunset: the rain started as I left town, spattering at first, tickling the car roof and the ground. It grew heavier, a drumming, music on the windscreen. I wound down the window and sucked in a lungful of rain-scented air.

I peered through the smeary windscreen. Grey sky, brighter grey in the distance. Grey-white striped wheat paddocks. My windscreen wipers squeaked. I'd have to get the rubbers replaced. Another thing requiring money I didn't have.

I passed a blown-out tyre by the road. Glanced in my rear-view mirror. Visibility wasn't the best, but was the car behind me kind of dark in colour? Brown? Possibly a Fairlane? The left-hand fog light cover was missing. I squinted, but couldn't make out the number plate.

Up ahead, I saw a road sign, a turn-off to the left. I took the turn and headed down the gravel road. Checked the mirror again. The car behind took the turn as well.

OK, that confirmed the bastard was following me. I'd turn my car around, get a good look at the driver as I swung by him and then head back to the highway. Phone Dean with a full description.

My car engine stuttered and then died. The Corolla rolled to an apologetic halt.

I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. I tried again. No. Pumped the accelerator, tried again. Shit.

I flicked a look in my mirror. The car behind was a dark shape in the gloom. It pulled over beside the road, only a couple of car lengths away.

I grabbed my phone. No signal. My heart thudded in
my chest. I scanned through my windscreen, thinking fast. The farm around here sold a while back; I had no idea who owned it now. But there, ahead, across the gloomy wheat paddocks, I could see a light. Someone was home. Maybe they had a working phone; maybe whoever lived there was kind and strong and helpful.

Or a toothless, axe-wielding maniac.

I tore briefly at a fingernail. Well, no point sitting here waiting for my doom. I flung open my car door, ran over to the fence and wriggled under it. Not electric, thank God. I stood upright quickly, and then ran like hell across the damp wheat stubble.

The only sounds were my panting and the crunching sound of my feet against the stubble. Painful bloody stuff, wheat stubble. It scratched and tore at my ankles. The rain grew heavier, the wind driving needle-sharp water droplets into my face. I heard a car door slam. I glanced behind. Was that someone behind me, back there in the gloom?