How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (15 page)

‘That smells fantastic.’

She pulled away from him and swung around. Her mouth was tight. It jolted him back to the look on his mother’s face when she’d arrive home from a double cleaning shift at the hotel, to find that Reuben hadn’t done his homework or cleaned his room.

‘I don’t know what you were brought up to believe, but these days it’s supposed to be an equal sharing of the housework. And when one partner isn’t working, it’s not unreasonable for the other to expect them to cook dinner occasionally.’

‘I’m sorry, I went for a ride, I had to get out of the house. And don’t bring my mother into this.’

‘I didn’t even mention your mother.’

‘You mentioned my upbringing and as there were only me and my mother, by association you did.’

Carlene waved the spatula in the air. ‘Jesus, Rubie, get a grip, I’m not criticising your mother! Anyway, you told me you brought yourself up – “yanked myself up with fast talking and fast women” were your exact words.’

It was true – if you counted Joanne, the silicone-planted, peroxide blonde from Elite Escorts as a fast woman. She’d relieved him of his virginity at the age of fourteen in exchange for a couple of tickets to the Bon Jovi concert at the Entertainment Centre, which of course, turned out to be fake. And if you counted all the girls he’d had in high school – if they weren’t fast women then, they were rapidly heading towards that goal.

‘Anyway, you’ll be glad to hear I’ve got a job.’

She paused in between throwing slices of beef into the pan. ‘I’m scared to ask what it is.’

‘I’ll save you the trouble. It’s a kitchen hand at Joe’s Café, next door to the parole office, so I can call in for appointments after work.’

Over dinner Carlene thawed out in the heat of Reuben’s enthusiasm for his new career, a supreme test of his acting prowess.

‘I guess it’s a start. It’s just that I keep imagining you coming home with a finger missing.’

‘What’s a finger or two between friends?’

He leaned forward and planted a lingering kiss on her lips. ‘Come to bed and I’ll ravish you while I’m still able-bodied.’

As they lay in each other’s arms in post-coital somnolence, the image of Lucy standing at her front gate popped up before Reuben. Not only did he have to share her with a husband, whom he pictured as a nerdy, boring intellectual, but also a child. Changing nappies, wiping sticky hands and cleaning up vomit were not congruent with being a goddess. But the more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that motherhood added to her appeal. It gave her a warm, earthy depth; another dimension to her sensuality. He knew from conversations with women and his own observations, that motherhood changed them in a profound way – brought their emotions closer to the surface, made them more vulnerable. And vulnerability was a great turn-on.

Carlene was snoring. She tightened her arm around him and flung her leg over his body. He moved away a little and managed to loosen her grip without waking her. If Operation Luce End was successful, Frank would be depriving a child of its mother. He was also depriving a husband of his wife, but whereas a man could find another wife, a child could never find another mother. There was always Lucy’s husband, of course, but a father, no matter how devoted, was a poor substitute for a mother’s love.

Now there was another life for which he was responsible. When he eventually drifted off to sleep, he dreamt that Lucy was riding topless on a ferris wheel, pert breasts pointing skywards. As she swung down to the ground, he tried to run to meet her. But his backpack was full of rocks and he couldn’t move, and he watched helplessly as she was lifted up into the air again.

***

He’d just parked in the car park behind Joe’s Café when a battered Volkswagen pulled up beside him and Nina got out. She watched him take off his helmet.

‘Nice scooter.’

‘Thanks,’ Reuben said. ‘It’s only temporary until I can afford to buy myself a car.’

‘Oh? I’m disappointed.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought you’d be a bit of a rebel and deliberately buy a pink motor scooter to make a point.’

‘What point?’

She shrugged. ‘Whatever point you like.’

‘What if I told you I bought it as a promotion for breast cancer research?’

‘I wouldn’t believe you.’

‘What if I told you I won it in a church raffle?’

She laughed. ‘Now I know you’re bullshitting me.’

Her laugh transformed her face in an instant – it was warm and exotic, like the Mediterranean he imagined was her heritage. He saw her in a long, flouncy dress, her hair fanned out down her back, laughing, dancing, whirling round and round, absorbed in the joy of the moment.

She took a couple of hairpins from her pocket, wound her ponytail into a makeshift bun and pinned it onto her head. Reuben realized he was staring and looked away.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘Uncle Joe will be getting antsy.’

He followed her in through the back door.
Wait till I tell Joe I’ve already made
her laugh.

There was no chance of that. Joe was in a full-length white apron grating carrots at the workbench. He tapped his watch. ‘You are late. It’s one minute past seven.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry’s not good enough.’

Nina shot Reuben an ‘I told you so’ expression before disappearing into the front of the café.

Joe pointed a half-grated carrot at Reuben. ‘I saw you talking to Nina. I warn you again, stay away from her.’

‘We were just having a conversation. I’m not out to seduce her, I’m happily married.’

‘That may well be so, but sometimes things happen if you don’t watch out. My good mate Charlie, he came out from Malta the same year I did, he had a chain of storage warehouses, very successful business and a beautiful home in Ascot. He had an affair’ – he grimaced as he emphasised the word – ‘with his office manager and ran away with her. His wife was furious and took him to the dry cleaners.’

Reuben had a vision of the hapless Charlie being sponged, steam-pressed and hung on a rack wrapped in plastic.

‘Then his mistress left him for another man and now he’s living alone in a one-bedroom unit and working for the same company he used to own! Charlie, I say to him, you shit in your own bed, now you have to lie in it!’

Joe slammed the last bit of carrot against the grater as if imagining it was Charlie’s head he was mashing into pieces. ‘Don’t just stand there, boy! There’s a pile of lettuce over there to be washed and chopped!’

After Reuben had washed the lettuce, he separated the leaves and dried them in the salad spinner. It made a satisfying whirr as he turned the handle, and reminded him of the octopus ride at the Royal Show. Was it true that plants had feelings? He imagined the lettuce leaves huddled together in terror inside the spinner as he turned the handle faster and faster.

‘What are you doing?’ Joe yelled above the noise. ‘Trying to take off?’

Reuben placed the lettuce leaves in a heap beside the chopping board, picked up the terrifyingly large, shiny knife and began to shred the lettuce. Joe stood beside him, shaking his head.

‘Mother of Jesus, where did you learn to chop like that?’

He pushed Reuben aside and took the knife from him. It flew over the chopping board in a blur of silver, in its wake a pile of neatly shredded lettuce.

‘I finish this,’ he said. ‘You unpack those boxes in the corner. Later I teach you how to chop like an expert. It’s all in the movement of the wrist.’

He made a limp gesture with his thick hairy wrist. ‘It should be easy for you young fellows – what do you call yourselves? Met, metero….’

‘Metrosexuals?’

‘That’s it!’

‘I don’t consider myself metrosexual,’ Reuben said. ‘And anyway, they’re not limp-wristed.’

‘What are they, then?’

‘They’re guys who have some feminine qualities but they’re not gay. Some wear eye make-up, for example…’

A look of disgust flitted across Joe’s face.

‘And their wrists are probably more supple than limp.’

‘Whatever they are, it’s not right. Men should be men and women should be women. If Nina brought home one of those fairies, I’d shove his lipstick up his arse.’

Lipstick. It was still in his backpack, stashed in the garage. He must remember to bring the backpack with him tomorrow and get rid of the clothes on the way to work. And return Carlene’s lipstick to her make-up case.

‘Don’t stand there in a daze, boy! Get back to work!’

By the end of the day, Reuben had learned that in Joe’s parlance, the term ‘kitchen hand’ was a synonym for general dogsbody. He did everything from unpacking supplies to washing dishes and mopping the floors. The cafe catered only for the breakfast and lunch crowds and shut at four pm. The menu was basic – a choice of half a dozen dishes for breakfast and lunch, as well as the usual sandwiches, rolls and hot takeaway foods. As the dining area only consisted of about a dozen tables, most of the orders were for takeaways.

In between his other tasks, Reuben made sandwiches, warmed up pies and quiches in the oven, and presided over the deep fryer. In his first attempt at French fries he forgot to set the timer, resulting in a pile of charred remains beneath a cloud of smoke.

‘Holy smoke!’ Joe yelled at him, seemingly unaware of his pun. ‘Are you trying to burn the place down on your first day?’

After that, Reuben became obsessive about checking the timer to make sure it was on and peering into the deep fryer every few seconds, as if it were likely to trick him and burn the fries again if he left it alone.

As he placed the last dish on the drying rack he looked at his watch. Five to three. Damp with perspiration, he sighed with relief. When was the last time he’d looked forward so much to knock-off time? This was how it was going to be. One day after another, longing for knock-off time as soon as he arrived. He splashed cold water on his face and sank down on an upturned milk crate in the corner.

Joe burst in from the shop. ‘Move your arse and bring me those onions. I teach you now how to chop.’

‘But I thought three o’clock was my knock-off time.’

‘You thought wrong, boy. The only way you’re going to learn is to practise. You will chop till you drop.’

Reuben was about to protest again then thought better of it. He fetched a bag of onions and placed it on the bench. Joe took one and peeled the skin off. With a flourish of the knife he cut it in half, then in half again.

‘Now watch. The point of the knife stays resting on the board and you just move the blade along, while your other hand controls the food.’

In a series of swift movements, he’d reduced the onion to a pile of tiny pieces. Then he moved aside and held the knife out to Reuben.

Reuben took the knife and an onion, peeled it and began to chop the way Joe had shown him. But he couldn’t keep his onion together and it collapsed into a pile of uneven pieces.

Joe shook his head and clicked his teeth. ‘Hold the onion firmly, it won’t bite you! And go a bit slower to start with until you get it right. Here, try another one.’

Reuben didn’t fare much better with the second one. Joe shook his head as Reuben scrabbled around on the floor picking up the onion pieces.

‘You need lots of practice.’ He nodded towards the onion bag. ‘You can do the rest before you go home.’

He disappeared back into the shop. The onion bag held at least another two dozen onions. What could Joe possibly want with so many chopped onions? Reuben gritted his teeth and dumped the bag next to the chopping board.

Nina came in, handbag slung over her shoulder.

‘Still at it?’

‘Not through choice, I assure you.’

‘I warned you he was a slave driver.’

‘You did, and about his temper too.’

‘He’s got a good heart, you know. He’s all smoke and no fire.’

‘That’s not exactly a tactful analogy right now.’

‘Sorry.’ She didn’t look at all sorry. ‘See you tomorrow.’

***

Carlene was huddled on the living room couch with the phone to her ear. Her conversation petered out as he came in. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Had her boss been giving her a hard time? He was one of those employers who took out his stress on everyone around him. Reuben leaned over and kissed her forehead.

‘I’ll call you back, Jo,’ she said and pressed the ‘off’ button. ‘You stink of onions.’

‘Sorry, I chopped so many onions today I feel like I really know them now.’

She looked at him as if he were an ugly and dangerous species of insect.

‘What’s the matter?’

She burst into loud sobs. He went to put his arms around her, but she sprang up from the couch and pushed him away.

‘Leave me alone, you pervert!’

She flounced out of the room. What was going on? He’d been called plenty of unflattering things over the years, but never a pervert. His stomach gripped as he thought of Lucy. Had he talked in his sleep, called out her name? But surely Carlene would have said something this morning.

She returned to the living room, holding an object in front of her at a distance, as if it were infectious. His backpack. Oh, fuck. Why hadn’t he got rid of its contents straight away?

Carlene dropped it on the floor in front of him.

‘Well?’

She had her hands on her hips, tears running down her cheeks. Whatever you say, I won’t believe it, her expression said.

‘How did you find it?’ Reuben asked, stalling for time. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realised they incriminated him even more.

‘Why does it matter how I found it?’ Her voice verged on hysteria. She took a deep breath. ‘If you must know, I was getting some boxes from the garage to lend to a girl at work who’s moving house, and it was there. Not hard to find at all, almost as if you wanted me to find it.’

What the hell did that mean? Of course he didn’t want her to find it. Obviously he couldn’t tell her the truth – a dozen possible explanations flashed through his mind, but none that was remotely feasible.

He sank onto the couch. ‘What can I say?’

‘The truth would be a start.’

He shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.’

‘Try me.’