How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery
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Authors: Robin Storey
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How Not To Commit Murder
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ROBIN STOREY
How Not To Commit Murder
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person alive or dead is purely coincidental. The city of Brisbane is real, and suburbs and well-known landmarks are used for authenticity. Buildings, street names and other locations are fictional.
Copyright © 2013 Robin Storey
The right of Robin Storey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Act (Australia) 1968.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the copyright owner, except in the case of quotations used for reviews or articles about the book.
Cover design by Judy Bullard.
http://jaebeecreations.com/samples.html
eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar
For Emma, Cassie and Tim
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
Reuben awoke to find himself staring at a large brown nipple. At first he didn’t recognise it – it was just a dark blob, blurred because it was almost poking him in the eye, surrounded by a curving expanse of paleness.
He moved his head back a fraction for a clearer view. Some men were turned on by large, dark nipples, although he himself preferred small, pert pink nipples. Of course he didn’t let on to the owner of the dark nipples, his wife of six weeks and three days.
Had the nipple been placed there deliberately? Even though he and Carlene had been at it like rabbits since the wedding, he wasn’t a morning person, and wasn’t sure if he was up to it today. Besides, he had an appointment with his parole officer; and just the thought was enough to put a damper on his libido.
But neither did he want to offend Carlene by ignoring her nipple. She was proud of her generous breasts, and even at thirty-one, hers were as firm and upright as a teenager’s. He gave it a tentative lick.
It moved away instantly as Carlene raised herself on her side. Both nipples were now aimed straight at him – like two weapons ready to shoot. She gave him a playful shove.
‘Rubie! We haven’t got time; it’s already past seven.’
‘You’ll keep, young lady!’ he said, with a lecherous wink. He fancied himself as a sex machine – always on idle, ready to rev up at any moment. And after three years inside, he had a lot of catching up to do.
Carlene giggled, planted a kiss on his forehead and sprang out of bed. He watched her as she sashayed to the ensuite – dark curls brushing her back, the pale orbs of her buttocks jiggling. In the past he’d preferred compact, petite women, so he was still getting used to her Marilyn Monroe figure. Her voluptuousness engulfed him – at night she sprawled out in bed, often leaving him balanced precariously on the edge, and when she hugged him she almost suffocated him. During sex she often wrapped herself around him so tightly that his senses were stifled and all he was aware of was the weight of her body on his.
He propped himself up and watched her through the open door as she soaped herself in the shower. There was something so erotic about watching a woman wash herself ... though after his long period of deprivation, watching a woman doing anything was erotic. He felt himself get hard. When Carlene entered the bedroom wrapped in a towel he said, ‘Hey honey, want to go camping?’
She looked puzzled. He pointed to the sheet, which he had draped over his erect penis. ‘I’ve got the tent.’
She gave a perfunctory smile and rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, Mum’ll be here soon. She’s got some shopping to do in Chermside, so she can give you a lift to the parole office.’
He groaned inwardly. He usually caught the bus to his parole appointments, as Carlene needed the car for work. It would be good not to strap hang with his nose in someone’s sweaty armpit, but the downside was a road trip with his mother-in-law. Only a twenty-minute drive, admittedly, but it would seem twice as long. On balance, the sweaty armpit won, but it would be impolite to knock back Nancy’s offer of a ride.
He hauled himself out of bed and surveyed himself in the ensuite mirror. Should he bother shaving? His three-day growth gave him a rugged appearance, as if he were about to mount a horse, rope in a few hundred head of cattle and a couple of bosomy cowgirls as well. A lot of women didn’t share his opinion on stubble, but it wasn’t as if he was out to impress his parole officer, the ugly old bag. Still, he had to go to the employment office afterwards.
He appraised himself again when he’d finished shaving. Now he looked more the smooth, business type who’d hang out in a wine bar after work, and talk about synergies and operational efficiency. Women had often told him he resembled Brad Pitt, but he suspected it was for the same reason he told them they reminded him of Cameron Diaz. Warren, his cellmate, had told him he looked like Baby Face Nelson. Reuben wasn’t into the gangster scene – the violence and lack of morality repulsed him – although he didn’t dare say so, and pretended to be flattered by the comparison.
He struck a Mr Universe pose, noting with pride the ripple of muscle in his chest and the bulge of his biceps; and ignoring the soft roll he’d already developed on his belly since his release from prison two months ago. His build was naturally slim, but this time round he’d taken advantage of the facilities in jail and had beefed up. One of the inmates, a brawny, tattooed heavy who was in for armed robbery, had offered him steroids, assuring him they wouldn’t show up in a urine test. Reuben had politely declined. He was satisfied with his body – enough muscle to fill out a t-shirt without being bulky. Women didn’t like too much muscle. He wondered, not for the first time, if that was what had initially attracted Carlene – along with his charm. Of course there were plenty of good-looking, charming men on the outside, but he held the trump card: he was, in her eyes, a lost sheep who needed to be rescued.
Carlene and Nancy were sitting at the kitchen table yabbering – at least, Carlene was yabbering and Nancy was listening. Carlene had long conversations with her mother every day, either in person or on the phone. He wondered what she found to talk about. He himself had the gift of the gab, essential in the business of fraud; but when it came to himself, he could sum up his day’s activities in a couple of sentences.
‘Good morning, Nancy,’ he said, flashing her as brilliant a smile as he could muster at seven-forty in the morning.
‘Morning,’ she barked. He felt her watching him as he helped himself to bacon and eggs from the frying pan. From behind her spectacles, her sharp eyes roved constantly like a metal detector.
He sat down at the table and began to eat. Both women had fallen silent. He looked up. ‘Don’t let me interrupt you.’
He put his head down again quickly, smothering a smile. Nancy reminded him of his Year Three teacher, Mrs Frost. Grey-haired and thin-lipped, she could make you quiver with just a look. One day, on playground duty, she bent over to help a first-grader with her shoelaces. A sudden gust of wind blew up her sensible tartan skirt to reveal voluminous, pink satin bloomers trimmed with lace – the kind that women might have worn in the Victorian era. Mrs Frost quickly smoothed her skirt down and whipped around, eyes flashing, defying anyone to laugh. Only Kenny Morrison dared to whistle and he got a week’s afternoon detention. But the damage was done – after that she didn’t seem quite as scary. Not that Nancy would wear pink bloomers, though he wouldn’t be surprised if she wore boxer shorts – there was something mannish about her. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him at all if Nancy turned out to be a man in drag.
‘Mum and Dad were thinking of buying you a car,’ Carlene said.
Reuben paused, fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Really?’
I
take that back about the boxers.
He noticed Carlene’s look of expectancy. ‘Wow, that’s very good of them.’
‘I mean, you,’ he said to Nancy.
‘You have to get a job first,’ she said.
The spectre of his botched attempts at employment loomed before him. Two days was his record for longevity so far. Reuben swallowed a mouthful of eggs. ‘That shouldn’t be too hard. I’m going to the job agency today. There are a couple of prospects in the wind.’
‘It’s a sort of incentive,’ Carlene added.
‘And you have to stay in the job for more than two days,’ Nancy said.
Reuben nodded thoughtfully, as if considering a business proposition. ‘That’s fair enough. It’s obvious I’m not cut out to be a waiter or a bricklayer. It’s just a matter of finding my niche.’
‘Considering your experience,’ Nancy said, ‘maybe you should try running for parliament.’
She pursed her lips into a faux smile; a special smile she kept just for him.
Carlene put her hand on her mother’s arm. ‘Come on, Mum, you know he’s got a good heart.’
‘And the rest of me’s in excellent working order too,’ Reuben said. He realised the connotations as soon as he’d said it. Carlene blushed and giggled. Nancy got up and took the dishes to the sink. ‘I’ll be going in ten minutes,’ she snapped at Reuben over her shoulder.
As Carlene kissed him goodbye at the front door, she whispered, ‘Don’t mind Mum. You know her bark’s worse than her bite.’
‘I still hope she doesn’t fucking well bite me,’ he whispered back.
‘Come here, baby,’ said Carlene. She drew him into her arms and pressed her body against his. She was warm and soft. The aroma of bacon mingled with her perfume. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after you. I love you, Rubie.’
‘I love you too.’
The words still sounded awkward, even though he’d said them many times over the last few weeks.
Carlene released him and gave him a lingering kiss on the lips. ‘Now go out there and slay some dragons.’
I can think of a couple of dragons I’d love to slay.
***
He buckled his seat belt and sat back in the leather seat of Nancy’s old Mercedes. She and Alec owned one each: 1980s vintage, both cream and in immaculate condition. They could afford new ones, his and hers style, but they liked to pretend they didn’t have money. What was the term for that? Nouveau poor? They wore their lack of pretension like a badge – a pretension in itself.
‘Give me an old Merc any day over a brand-new Jag,’ Alec was fond of saying.
How could anyone prefer a boxy, cumbersome Mercedes to a sleek, smooth-throated Jaguar? As Nancy pulled out onto the road, he hoped that she and Alec weren’t thinking of buying him a similar car. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, but he’d much prefer something smaller and sportier. He saw himself zipping around town in a sleek Corvette, drawing admiring glances at the traffic lights, gliding into a car park at the shopping centre (spaces always magically appeared when you were in a Corvette), springing jauntily out of the car, all eyes following him. And on Sundays, he and Carlene would take off into the hills of Samford, a rug and picnic basket in the boot, the wind ruffling their hair…