Forbidden Fruit (21 page)

He laughed again. ‘Actually, I think it’s called withholding information. Leave it with me.’

I hung up, checking the phone for any messages from Lucy that might have snuck through without the usual notification. Then I sat with the phone in my lap, feeling very Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps I should get one of those hats.

Five minutes later the phone rang, startling me out of a semi-daze. It was Ashley.

‘Okay. It’s not really a magazine, as such. More of a leaflet. Published by an organisation called The Friends of Ballarat and titled
What’s on in Ballarat – Autumn 1970.
Okay, so now who’s your witness?’

‘Hang on.’ I thought about this. ‘Autumn starts in March.’

‘Excellent observation.’

‘Yes, but I thought it was the date of the magazine that established the date of death?’

‘Don’t know where you got that,’ said Ashley promptly. ‘No, it was the receipt in her purse. Two bottles of milk plus a Barney Banana ice-cream, all purchased on 25 April 1970. Now, who’s your –’

‘I doubt I’m going to be able to access that leaflet online or anything. I’ll need you to scan a copy and send it through to me.’

‘Okay.’ He sighed, but I suspected that he had anticipated this request. ‘But it’ll have to wait till tomorrow. Now, the witness please?’

‘Amy Stenhouse. She’s currently a resident at the motel across the road from my house. Room number twenty-one. She only found out two weeks ago that her son is the father of Lucy’s baby. She’s already filed an injunction to stop any potential adoption. She has a clear view from her bathroom window and has been spying on us for the past week, if not longer. She’ll deny this, but you can dust the window ledge for prints if you need to.’

‘Good god.’

‘See?’ I said accusingly. ‘You should be
thrilled
I’m not pushing you to get more involved with my lot. Who’d want all that on their plate?’

‘I would,’ he said softly, just before hanging up.

‘Bloody,
bloody
hell!’ Lucy stretched her legs out and stared balefully at the hard, high mound of her belly. ‘When is this going to
happen
?’

‘A watched kettle never boils,’ I said sanctimoniously.

‘Okay, I’m not watching.’ She put a hand over her eyes and then groaned as she swung her head from side to side. She uncovered her eyes. ‘Get out, get out, get
out
!’

‘Maybe a hot bath,’ suggested Kate. She had a laptop in front of her and seemed to be researching ways to bring on labour. So far her suggestions had included pineapple, castor oil and red raspberry leaf. Separately and together.

It was late afternoon on Monday and the three of us were sitting in Lucy’s lounge room. The objective had been to keep her company, take her mind off the situation, but instead we had simply borne witness to the most remarkable change in personality. Over the course of the past twenty-four hours, my patient, compassionate, selfless daughter had turned into the mother-to-be from hell. Like a Bridezilla, but with no wedding in sight.

‘Fuck your hot bath,’ snapped Lucy. Her face immediately crumpled. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Yes I do.’ She lifted her head to glare at her belly. ‘Get out of there, you goddamned little parasite!’

Quinn’s excitement over her impending aunt-hood had not lasted the distance. Neither had that of Red, who arrived after lunch on Sunday, danced attendance for a few hours, and then departed cheerfully back to Melbourne. Meanwhile, Quinn had graduated from shrill demands that she skip school on Monday to an early, and eager, departure from the happy home this morning. Upon arriving back and discovering that nothing had happened yet, she had thrown herself on the mercy of her sister Scarlet, who had taken her over there for the evening.

‘It says here that, um, nipple stimulation often works.’ Kate kept her eyes on the laptop, flushing. ‘Just saying.’

‘Don’t look at me,’ I said smartly. This statement was totally superfluous as neither of them were looking anywhere near me. In fact, they seemed to be making a point of it. I had thought that Kate might have departed by now, but it appeared she had settled in for the duration. Everybody else acted as if this was totally normal; that a person could come along to a barbecue to meet their brother’s prospective in-laws, and then finish the evening at his sister’s house next door. And never leave.

I glanced over at Lucy, somewhat startled to see that she was now massaging her own nipples. She did not seem to have a very gentle touch.

‘Well, that just hurts!’ She dropped her hands. ‘And now my fingers have fucking cramp as well. Great.’

I rather envied Petra, who had made her trip to Queenscliff today. I suspected that her prompt departure, and anticipated late return, were due in no small part to the brief two hours she had spent in Lucy’s company the evening before. This had been to report that little was accomplished by the trip to Ballarat. Paul Patrick had been well enough to receive visitors, but had nothing of consequence to add except that ‘she was a frigid bitch who got no more than she deserved’. The upside was that Margie had shown her the family photo albums, which included baby pictures of Paul Junior, but the downside was that she was now concerned about latent hereditary traits. In this case, the apple didn’t need to just roll a little away from the tree, it had to be packaged and exported and prevented from any further contact.

‘What about a walk?’ said Kate, with exaggerated jollity. Without moving her body, Lucy swivelled her head slowly towards this new friend. She looked like she was auditioning for a role in
Rosemary’s Baby
meets
The Exorcist
.

‘That’s an excellent idea.’ I jumped to my feet. ‘Best-case scenario is that it gets things moving, and worst case is we just get out of this house for an hour.’

‘No-one
said
you had to stay.’ Lucy’s head swivelled in my direction. ‘Like, I’d hate to be putting you
out
or something.’

‘Enough already. We get it. Come on.’ I waved towards Kate. ‘Grab her other arm.’

‘I don’t
wanna
go for a walk,’ moaned Lucy, nevertheless putting her arms out. We grabbed one each and hoisted her upright. Her skin was clammy with frustration.

Kate slid thongs onto Lucy’s feet while I grabbed my sunglasses and mobile. Fortunately I was dressed once more in my exercise gear, which was so comfortable I had decided it was my go-to outfit. Richard White was no longer parked outside my house, having delivered his piece on a current affairs program aired on Saturday. It had been followed up with an extended article in yesterday’s newspaper, titled
Murder: In the Street with No Name.
Both segments were big on atmosphere and short on substance. Indeed, more time was spent on my missing street sign than on either death, and the only footage had me looking more mentally challenged than furtive.

It was a warm day, with a blustering northerly breeze that swirled through the trees lining our lane. Clouds crowded the sky, puffy and white with seal-grey silhouettes. Lucy, who was wearing a white cheesecloth top and lilac cheesecloth pants, actually fluttered as she walked. I gave a friendly wave towards the rear of the motel rooms, although I was not sure if Amy Stenhouse was still in residence or not. We turned right, heading over the uneven ground in the direction of the oval. Lucy walked slowly, grimly, with Kate hovering by her side.

‘What a lovely day,’ I said brightly.

Lucy sent me a look of disgust. ‘With this wind?’

‘At least it’s not raining.’

‘That’ll come,’ she said, casting an irritated glance at the sky. ‘I wanna go home.’

‘How about we go as far as that statue over there,’ suggested Kate, pointing to the cenotaph, ‘and then come back?’

Lucy wrapped her hands beneath her stomach, as if support was needed to prevent her toppling over. She continued methodically, one foot after the other, her eyes on the goal. If I had suggested walking all the way to the cenotaph, no doubt she would have refused, but it seemed that Kate had her uses. My mobile pinged and I slowed to read the message.
Attached is magazine as requested. Sorry it took so long. Ash
. I felt a flicker of annoyance at the brevity, but the feeling was quickly outweighed by curiosity. I tapped on the image and immediately my phone filled with the autumn 1970 edition of
What’s on in Ballarat
. It was mostly black and white, but with the occasional splash of colour that almost looked hand-painted. The first page consisted largely of an editorial, which was difficult to read on my mobile, and the next featured the Ballarat Begonia Festival and an array of photos showing luscious blooms and smiling families. It was difficult to determine which was more spectacular, the flowers or the beehive hairdos.

‘If you’re not going to walk, then neither am I,’ announced Lucy, stopping abruptly.

Kate took her arm encouragingly. ‘Hey, we’re almost there!’

‘Look, I’m moving. Come on.’ I started walking again, still scrolling through the pages. Who would have thought there was so much happening in Ballarat in autumn 1970? Lakeside markets and footraces and a canoe race and a library amnesty and a double-page spread previewing the new Sovereign Hill tourist attraction due to open that November. I flicked through, my impatience building, and very nearly missed it. I blinked as I stared at the tiny image, and then used my fingers to enlarge it. There was no doubt. It was the pair to the sketch that was even now in my study at home, the main difference being the sitter now had her back turned, her face invisible. But there was the same spare pencil-work, the same lovely, languid lines, the same sensuality.

I brought the screen back to size and squinted to read the accompanying text. The artist was anonymous, the drawing titled
Lost Love
, and it had been entered in the Ballarat Amateur Art Show, where it, along with the others, could be seen on display at the art centre until May. With my heart rate picking up even further, I enlarged the picture again, searching for a signature. I was fairly sure there was
something
in the lower right corner, but I had to amplify it so much that it pixelated into confusion. I would have to wait until I could transfer it to the computer. I looked up. ‘Well, I’ve had enough. What about you two?’

‘Finally!’ said Lucy, immediately turning. Beside her, Kate gave me a disappointed look.

The wind was in our faces on the way back, something that always sounds a lot more pleasant than it is. It had picked up also, blustering like a grumpy uncle. I set the pace, all the while wondering how I was going to pass this news on to Ashley without alerting him to the fact that I had, indeed, withheld evidence. If the police had had access to the sketch, then no doubt they would have made the connection also. I reached the corner of my property well in advance of the other two and then waited impatiently so I could tell them that I would catch up with them next door in a few minutes. Lucy was breathing heavily, which prevented her from objecting to this plan.

I let myself into a house that smelt surprisingly pungent. The reason for this was most likely the large kidney-shaped puddle by the sliding door, with the culprit making himself scarce under the couch. I made some half-hearted
bad boy
noises, threw paper towel on top and then disappeared into my study to transfer the file over to my main computer. Here I was able to select the image and enlarge it, then compare it with the one that lay on my desk. There was no doubt that they were drawn by the same person.

I took a deep breath and then zeroed in on the bottom right corner. It pixelated into a thousand tiny little grey-white boxes but this time it slowly resolved. I found myself leaning in, my breath caught in my throat, until two looping initials emerged:
C.F.
I stared, unable to make the leap at first, and then my mouth fell open.

Clare Fletcher. It hadn’t been Rex Fletcher, or my father, or any of the men. And suddenly it all made sense. This had been why my father had seen her as terribly unhappy in her marriage, and why Rita had seen her as a tease and her husband as just frigid. This was why they had been so desperate to keep the affair a secret, and why Dallas had been so uncertain about leaving. This was why she had thought she might lose her children. A lesbian relationship in 1970 would have taken a great deal of courage. What had her note said? She was unable to hide any longer, unable to deny her love. To thine own self be true.

And it also explained Clare Fletcher, and the bitterness that bubbled fitfully around each word she spoke. She had lost the love of her life, all these years believing that Dallas had never changed her mind, never chosen her. I realised in an instant that when she heard of the discovery of Dallas’s body, Clare had immediately assumed her husband had done the deed. Somehow she had persuaded him to come up here, check into the motel, and then kill himself in the room where she thought Dallas had died. But she had the room wrong, and the killer also.

I rocked back in my chair, stunned by the revelations, tumbling one on the other. The C.F. in the corner bore mute testament to Clare’s desperation. She had entered the sketch in the Ballarat Art Show on the off-chance that Dallas might see it.
Lost Love.
Amazingly, it had worked. Dallas had gone to fetch milk that morning and picked up the leaflet, perhaps to read during the day’s festivities, perhaps to further acclimatise herself with her new home. She must have been dreadfully unhappy herself. At some stage over the next hour she had flicked through the leaflet, seen the drawing, and it had been enough to tilt her over the edge. An hour later she was on her way to Majic with the rather romantic idea of picking up her tin, left behind as part of the fresh start. Perhaps she had intended on marking that box in the second letter, or reuniting the two sketches. Instead, she had been killed.

I pushed myself back from my desk, eager to share my breakthrough. I used the landline to ring Petra but it went straight to voicemail, indicating that she was probably on the road. The next best thing was to take my discovery next door, share it with the mother-to-be and perhaps even take her mind off her lack of labour. Gusto was still cowering under the couch so I cast him another
bad boy
before crossing to Lucy’s house. I had the lover now, but not yet the killer. Unfortunately, my father was still leading the field in that regard.

I pushed the door open and made a dramatic entrance, holding up the sketch. ‘I know who it was! Dallas’s lover! And you’ll
never
guess!’

‘Mum.’ Lucy was sitting on the couch. She looked pale. ‘Mum.’

‘Oh my god, has it started?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Not that.’

‘Then stop scaring me!’ I waved the sketch again. ‘C’mon, guess. Who was Dallas’s lover?’

‘Me,’ said Clare Fletcher, rising slowly from the other side of Lucy’s island bench. She was wearing a black cowl-necked tunic top over patterned, black-on-black slimline pants. Her red hair was pulled back into a bun that emphasised the fine bones of her face. And a black pistol was pointing straight at me. ‘Now give me that before I blow your hand off.’

My stomach felt like water. I walked slowly over and laid the sketch on the bench. Her eyes flicked down and lingered for a moment. Now I could see Kate sitting in the corner of the kitchen, her knees drawn tight to her chest. She stared at me without expression.

‘Is that everyone you were expecting?’ asked Clare Fletcher of Lucy. She kept the pistol pointed in my direction. Lucy nodded. She looked tired and pale.

‘She’s pregnant,’ I said, anger clipping my words. ‘You could at least let her go.’

‘Soon enough. I’ve just got a little business to attend to upstairs and I’ll be out of your hair.’ She moved around the island bench, gesturing towards Lucy’s circular table. ‘Sit. And I can see your mobile in your pocket. Hand it over.’