How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (18 page)

He slipped on his shoes then bent over Carlene to say goodbye. She was lying on her side, sprawled over the entire bed. The covers had slipped down to reveal her breasts, squashed in between her arms. She was so still, she could have been dead except for the faint rise and fall of her chest.

What would he feel if she were really dead? He’d be upset, of course, but it would be nothing like the pain of his mother’s death, all the more potent because he hadn’t realised how much he loved her until she was gone. He’d known when he married Carlene that he didn’t love her, but she was sexy, well connected and crazy about him. Who could resist that combination? And in his subconscious he’d hoped that sooner or later the love would come. Only it hadn’t yet.

Carlene’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Morning.’

She opened them wider. ‘What are you staring at?’

‘Just thinking how beautiful you are.’

That’s so corny, you’re losing your touch.
But Carlene didn’t seem to think so. She smiled and stretched out under the sheet, languorous as a cat. He could almost hear her purring. He bent over and kissed her on the cheek.

‘I’m meeting Finn at the pub at five-thirty tonight for a drink, so I’ll be home late. Don’t keep dinner.’

‘He’s in town again?’

Carlene sat up, wide-awake.

‘Just for tonight.’

‘Why don’t you invite him home for dinner?’

‘He’s already arranged to go out for dinner with some other friends.’

Carlene sprang out of bed and pulled on a robe.

‘Which pub are you going to?’

‘Don’t know yet. He’s going to ring me later today.’

She followed him out to the front door and gave him a long, lingering kiss on the lips. ‘Bye, honey. Don’t be too late tonight.’

He turned around to wave to her. She was standing in the doorway, a provocative smile on her face. Her robe had fallen open to reveal her naked body.

***

Joe bawled him out for his slowness, popping into the kitchen every few minutes to make sure he wasn’t taking a break to breathe.

‘You wouldn’t have survived a day back in Malta, boy. I was up at five in the morning preparing food for my parents’ restaurant before I went to school and then all afternoon washing dishes and cleaning up when I got home! And I had to do my homework as well! I was top of the class too.’

Then why the fuck are you running a cafe?
Reuben wiped the sweat from his face and plunged his hands into the hot washing-up water.

Joe pointed to the rubber gloves on the shelf above the sink. ‘Didn’t I already tell you to put those on?’

‘I can’t wear them, they give me a rash.’

He’d discovered it in prison, wearing rubber gloves on dishwashing duty. His hands had broken out in itchy, red blotches that turned into sores when he scratched them. He’d been taken off dishwashing duty and put on toilet-cleaning duty, unfortunately not being allergic to toilet cleaner.

‘You metrosexuals, you’ll get dishpan hands, you know.’

Joe chuckled to himself as he went into the storeroom and reappeared with an industrial-sized bottle of tomato sauce. ‘And, of course, you haven’t filled the sauce bottles. That would be expecting too much of your delicate little hands.’

He picked up a squeeze bottle of tomato sauce from the workbench, unscrewed the top and began to fill it from the larger bottle. In his Mandrake alter-ego, Reuben conjured up a metrosexual vision of himself with kohl-smudged eyes, black fingernail polish and man purse slung over his shoulder. Slipping on a pair of fluorescent pink rubber gloves, he picked up the large bottle of tomato sauce and upended it over Joe’s head. So satisfying was the fantasy that he replayed it several times and hardly felt the heat of the water on his hands.

At three o’clock, Reuben took the last tray of clean cups and mugs out to the cafe before knocking off. Joe had gone to the bank, only a couple of the tables were occupied and Nina was wiping down the others. He watched her as she sprayed cleaner on them from the bottle hooked in her belt and moved the cloth over the formica tops in ever-widening circles. Her long, smooth strokes mesmerised him.

She looked up. ‘Do you want something?’

‘Just admiring your graceful style. I’m a cleaning voyeur, I get my kicks watching other people do it.’

She didn’t answer, moving to the next table.

‘What course are you studying?’

‘Film and Television.’

‘Really? You want to be an actress?’

She gave him a withering look. ‘The correct term is actor, for males and females. And no, I don’t want to be one. I’m studying screenwriting, directing and editing.’

She looked at the clock. ‘Isn’t it your knock-off time?’

‘So it is.’ He reached into his pocket, drew out some coins and handed them to her. ‘May I have a double-strength espresso?’

She gave him another look, pocketed his money and finished her cleaning. Reuben sat at a corner table. When she brought the coffee he said, ‘Now you have to talk to me, I’m a customer.’

She shrugged. ‘I’ll give you a minute. Your time starts now.’

He pulled out a chair. ‘Have a seat.’

She sat down.

‘What are you hoping to do when you finish your course?’ Reuben asked.

‘I’d like to do it all, but so far I’ve enjoyed screenwriting the most.’

‘Interesting,’ Reuben said. ‘I’ve just joined a promotions agency, hoping to get some ad work, or maybe as a movie extra.’ He grinned. ‘We could join forces, you write the movies, I’ll star in them.’

‘I thought you said you were a behind-the-scenes person. Although at the time I thought that was a load of crap.’

A straight talker. That was refreshing in a woman.

‘Obviously I’m not as good an actor as I thought I was.’

‘On the contrary, I think you’re a very good actor. You do the sincere, charming persona very well.’

‘It’s not a persona, that’s how I really am.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Okay.’

‘What do you mean, “okay?”’

‘Nothing.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Your time’s up.’

She got up just as Joe was walking back into the cafe. When he spied the two of them at the table, his face instantly turned to thunder.

Reuben got up as well. ‘Must be off, I’ve got lots to do.’

He waved a cheery goodbye to Nina and Joe and made a hasty exit. He could feel Joe’s eyes burning into his back. What the hell did Nina mean by ‘persona?’ And the way she looked at him, as if she didn’t believe that he really was sincere and charming. What did she think he was? A latent serial killer? Women! Always trying to psychoanalyse you.

***

He arrived at La Cantina right on five-thirty, satchel over his shoulder. Although its advertised opening time was 6pm, the front sliding door was open a few centimetres. Reuben stepped inside. Frank and another man sat at a corner table. The interior was as dingy as the outside and smelt of stale alcohol and cheese. Mexican parrots wearing sombreros dangled from the ceiling.

‘Littledick!’ Frank clicked his fingers. ‘Another beer please, Gunther!’ He nodded to his companion. ‘Meet Bomber.’

The other man stood up and held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet ‘cha.’

He was tall and rangy with a goatee beard and long grey hair tied back in a greasy ponytail. He wore white wrap-around ‘happy pants’, woven sandals and a tie-dyed shirt. A relic from hippydom, right down to the glaze in his eyes that suggested a fondness for cannabis. It was hard to imagine anyone who looked less like his name – although you had to admit that any man who wore ‘happy pants’ in public displayed a certain sort of courage.

‘Likewise,’ Reuben said, shaking his hand. As he sat down, a slight, dark-haired man darted over to the table and delivered Reuben’s beer with a bow and a wide grin.

‘Service here is next to nothing,’ Frank said. He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Operation Luce End.’

Bomber and Reuben raised their glasses. ‘Operation Luce End.’

I don’t mean it Lucy, I’ve got my fingers crossed.

‘Now Littledick, what have you got for me?’

Reuben opened his satchel, took out a document wallet and handed it to Frank. Frank opened it, and took out a bundle of photos and a sheet of typed A4 paper, on which Reuben had neatly tabled Lucy’s weekly schedule. He affected a casual air as he watched Frank perusing the paper, in contrast to his stomach, which was churning into overdrive.

Inventing Lucy’s weekly schedule, imagining how a parole officer would spend her spare time, had tested his powers of creativity; and he’d done extensive research on the internet. He hoped he hadn’t gone overboard with the pole dancing classes. According to his research, pole dancing was the new pilates. Women from all walks of life were signing up and they were doing it for fitness, not because they wanted to slither up and down a pole in a nightclub, in a G-string.

Pity, because Reuben preferred the latter fantasy. The night before he’d dreamt of Lucy dangling upside down from a pole in a sparkling bikini. Stuffed in her cleavage was a note, which she whipped out and handed to him with an inviting smile. He tingled with anticipation as he opened it. Was it her phone number? He studied her neat, precise handwriting: ‘Your next parole appointment is at 3.30 on Thursday.’

‘Pole dancing?’ Frank said.

‘Classy,’ Bomber said, with a smack of his lips.

‘It’s all the rage,’ Reuben said. ‘All the women are doing it. Even accountants and lawyers.’

Frank smirked. ‘I know where I’d like to stick that pole.’

He looked down at the list again. ‘Jesus, is she ever fucking home? Monday night, yoga; Tuesday, gym class; Wednesday, pole dancing; Thursday, shopping; Friday, out for dinner; Saturday, gym class then the nursing home; Saturday night, barbecue; Sunday, picnicking at Samford; Sunday night … where did she go Sunday night?’

‘She stayed home Sunday night,’ Reuben said. He’d thought it safer for her to have an active social life; to make it harder for Frank to get to her while she was at home. Her husband, whom Reuben had named Nigel, had one good point – he looked after their child in the evenings so Lucy could attend her classes. But poor Lucy, exhausted by her weekly schedule, needed to spend at least one night at home to wind down.

Frank flipped through the photos. The classes were real, their venues researched to make sure they were all within a reasonable distance of Lucy’s home. Reuben had taken a photo of each venue and superimposed a photo of Lucy either entering or leaving the premises – with the surrounds suitably altered to reflect the time of day or evening. For her shopping on Thursday night, he’d created a photo of her at the front entrance of the Westfield Shopping Centre at Chermside and for extra effect, another of her browsing in one of the jewellery shops. Nigel would be too wrapped up in his own nerdy world to think about buying her jewellery or any of those other luxuries women liked.

Frank pointed to a photo of Lucy walking down the front steps of the St Mary’s Aged Care Residence, a few blocks from her home. ‘What’s she doing there?’

Reuben shrugged. ‘Maybe she has a relative in there. Or perhaps she does voluntary work there.’ In his mind it was the latter – he’d included the visit to the nursing home to demonstrate her compassionate, community-minded spirit.

Not that it would impress Frank or make him change his mind.

Frank’s lip curled. ‘Real little do-gooder, isn’t she?’

Lucy’s weekend social life proved to be more of a challenge as in real life it would be unlikely she’d go out without her husband and child. Reuben found an image on an internet photo site of a man who looked similar to how he imagined Nigel – tall, skinny and bookish with glasses. There was little chance Frank had seen Lucy’s husband or knew what he looked like. For their Friday dinner outing, Reuben created a photo of Lucy and Nigel arriving at Mama Spaghetti’s Restaurant in Aspley; Lucy’s mother having offered to babysit. Nigel would probably have droned on all night about the All-Ordinaries or economic rationalism.

Saturday night was a barbecue at a friend’s house – a large brick home Reuben had randomly chosen a few streets away from Lucy’s. As her poor child had not had much of a social life during the week, certainly nothing to match her mother’s, Reuben had decided she’d better accompany her parents to the barbecue. He found a photo of a curly-haired toddler and inserted her in the photo, holding Lucy’s hand as they stood at the front gate of their friend’s home. As an extra touch, Reuben had also included the friends – a clean-cut young couple who looked as if they’d popped straight out of a TV bank ad, greeting them at the front gate with wide, pearly-toothed smiles.

The last photo was of the picnic in Samford, a popular spot in the west of Brisbane. That had been easier, as Reuben and Carlene had visited it a few Sundays ago. Reuben had taken a photo of Carlene sprawled on the picnic rug in a secluded spot they’d found – a stretch of lush grass bordered by a tangle of rainforest, a stream tinkling away behind them. He deftly removed Carlene from the picnic rug and replaced her with Lucy, sitting demurely with her legs tucked under her, hair glinting in the sun as she watched Nigel throw a ball to their daughter. The perfect ‘happy family’ picture.

Frank tossed the photo on the table. ‘So she’s got a husband and kid.’

‘Yes.’

His expression hadn’t changed one iota. The fact that his plan would leave a young child motherless made no impact on him.

‘How did you do all this without her spotting you?’

‘Disguises and different vehicles. I assure you, I was very discreet.’

Frank looked hard at Reuben. ‘I hope so for your sake.’

Gunther materialised with another round of drinks then scurried away and returned with a steaming mountain of nachos, on a plate the size of a sombrero. They shuffled things around the table to make room for it.

‘Dig in,’ Frank said. ‘If this isn’t the best nachos you’ve ever had, I’ll eat my Mexican hat.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the kitchen. ‘On the house. Gunther’s an illegal immigrant. Not his real name, of course.’

He scooped a mound of meat onto a corn chip and waved it around in the air to dislodge the strands of melted cheese dangling from it. Bomber picked up his napkin and tucked it into his shirt, so it billowed out like a large white bib. The last time Reuben had seen anyone do that was Pa Kettle in the old movie
Ma and Pa Kettle Go To Town.