How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (2 page)

He realised Nancy had said something.

‘Pardon?’

‘I said, “I suppose you’re feeling pretty pleased with yourself.”’

Reuben blinked. It so happened he
was
feeling pleased with himself, imagining the purr of the Corvette’s engine – as responsive as a lover to his foot on the accelerator – as it ate up the winding road to Samford. But of course, that wasn’t what she meant.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve just got out of jail for the nth time, you’ve got a nice home and a beautiful wife who loves you and is willing to do everything she can to help you.’

God knows why
. Her unspoken words hung in the air. And ‘nth time’ was unfair. It was only the fourth time, not too bad for thirty-five. There were guys inside who’d spent more of their life in prison than out. And it would be the last time for him.

‘I know I’m lucky to have Carlene, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I hope so, young man, because if you hurt her or do anything to make her unhappy, you’ll have me to answer to.’

‘I can assure you that’s the last thing I’d want.’

He sensed her sharp glance, but he gazed straight ahead at the battered ute rumbling along in front of them An overwrought mongrel dashed from side to side in the vehicle’s tray.

Nancy had made it plain from the start he wasn’t her first choice as a son-in-law, probably not even her hundredth. She and Alec had tried to talk Carlene out of marrying him, even tried to bribe her with a round-the-world trip; but she wouldn’t be swayed. In the end, they capitulated and organised a civil ceremony for the couple in their backyard, followed by a honeymoon in their four-bedroom ‘shack’ on Stradbroke Island. Their generosity was purely for Carlene’s sake, and he didn’t doubt the intent of Nancy’s warning. Having her to answer to was a vague threat which left room for a lot of possibilities.

They turned into the chaos of morning traffic on Gympie Road. He was still getting used to the speed and noise of the city. The first few times he’d crossed a road after coming out of prison, his heart hammered and he broke out in a sweat, even though the cars had stopped at the pedestrian lights. Brisbane had become much busier in the last three years.

The winter sunshine had dissolved the early morning cloud and bathed the world in a clear, pure light. His spirits soared. It was good to be back in the real world.

‘It’s a beautiful day,’ he said.

‘Humph,’ replied Nancy. She was still concentrating on the road ahead, hands clasped on the steering wheel. No point wasting his breath on her.

The used car yards, aflutter with balloons and flags like a giant birthday party, gave way to office blocks and shops that sold everything from wedding attire to garden supplies. He knew he could talk his way into a sales job in any of them, but his parole order had stipulated that he was not to have any job in which he handled money.

They stopped at yet another red light. He took in the two blonde, long-legged women in short skirts and knee-high boots, sauntering out of a take-away, coffees in hand. Everywhere he looked, there were women more beautiful and confident than he remembered. He loved to watch them as they strutted past in their high heels, chatting and laughing with the self-assurance of those who knew the world was theirs to devour like ripe fruit. They were clearly savouring every mouthful of the fruit’s soft, juicy flesh.

An indignant horn and the screech of brakes jolted Reuben from his reverie of licking fruit juice from their smooth, sun-warmed arms. Nancy darted into the left lane. Reuben looked behind him. A man in a shiny black Range Rover glared at them and gave them the finger. A chill gripped him and he turned around again quickly. Nancy pulled over into the loading zone outside the parole office. The Range Rover sped past, beeping its horn again. A woman with a tight blonde perm and large, dangly earrings glared at them from the passenger’s window.

‘Bloody four-wheel drives,’ Nancy growled, ‘terrorising innocent people. They think they own the roads.’

Reuben wasn’t about to argue with her. He scrambled out of the car. ‘Thanks for the lift.’ She nodded curtly.

Reuben watched her as she zipped out into the traffic again, narrowly avoiding a group of school children crossing the road. He was weak with relief that the driver of the Range Rover hadn’t stopped to vent his anger. Because he’d recognised him: Frank Cornell, businessman, self-nominated playboy and drug trafficker. Trust Nancy to cut off one of the heaviest crims in the business. That was the last time he was driving with her.

It was only eight-thirty and his appointment wasn’t until nine. Rather than sit in the waiting room of the parole office flicking through torn copies of
Woman’s Day
, he went into Joe’s Cafe next door and joined the queue at the counter. He smiled at the dark-haired, young woman whose name badge said Nina. ‘Hi Nina. A short black, please.’

She looked at him coolly, unimpressed by his familiarity in using her name. He mentally shrugged and took a seat at a corner table. The café was half-full with late breakfasters. He watched Nina as she took the orders. Her aloofness, while not rude, was brisk and efficient. At first glance she wasn’t attractive at all – her nose was too prominent and her mouth too wide – although Reuben didn’t mind a generous mouth on a woman when he considered where it could end up. But there was something exotic about her, with her caramel eyes and her hair, smooth and dark as licorice, tied in a single plait down her back. He imagined her in a long, flouncy dress and high heels, a rose between her teeth as she swirled in a flamenco dance, her haughty gaze sweeping the audience.

She looked in his direction and the haughty gaze became real. He smiled again, but her eyes were already on the next customer. She certainly wasn’t savouring the ripe fruit of life. She’d gotten a sour one and was spitting out the pips.

Another waitress brought his coffee. It coursed through his body like an electrical charge. He wasn’t used to real coffee yet; the stuff they gave you inside was like pencil shavings. He was ready for anything now – might even be able to outstare the battle-axe. As he left, he shot another smile in Nina’s direction, but she ignored him. It was rare for a woman not to return his smile.

On the ground floor of the old, shabby building next door was the office of Delahunty & Brown, Chartered Accountants. A sign announced that the Brisbane North Probation and Parole office was on the first floor, along with Willet & Associates Financial Planners. Ironic, as his latest scam had been as a financial planner.

The wooden steps creaked as Reuben walked up. The air was stale and musty, as if the walls were infused with the sweat and body odour of the thousands of lawbreakers who’d been there before him. The girl at the reception desk behind the glass panel looked far too world-weary for her young age.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, in a tone of voice that insinuated he was beyond her help.

‘Reuben Littlejohn. I have an appointment with Merle at nine o’clock.’

‘Have a seat.’

He took a seat at the end of a row of plastic chairs, next to a drooping plant. At the other end slumped a scrawny, lank-haired girl in a short skirt and jumper. Her gaze flickered over him, then resumed its contemplation of the floor. She took no notice of the grubby toddler scrabbling in the toy box beside her. From her vacant look, she was probably a dope smoker or pill popper. The toddler picked up a small furry rabbit from the toy box and rubbed it all over his snot-encrusted face. Reuben looked away. He had a weak stomach for bodily secretions.

Across from him a young guy in jeans, singlet and beanie was showing something on his mobile phone to his friend. They both snickered. They had a ‘fuck-you’ air about them, the sort that got their kicks from stealing cars and joyriding. A few seats away, a balding man with a ponytail flicked through a magazine. Drug dealer probably. And/or a bikie. He’d be much more at home in his leathers. They all had one thing in common – they didn’t want to be here. The air was thick with it. Even the plant looked as if it were dreaming of greener pastures.

A door to his right opened. A saggy face under a helmet of grey hair peered into the waiting room. ‘Come in Reuben,’ it commanded.

He took a seat in the interview room. Merle settled herself behind her desk, her shapeless dress streaming over her like a floral waterfall. The flab on her upper arms (bingo wings, his mother had called them) jiggled as she arranged her pens and notebook and fired up the computer.

‘How are you?’ she asked, without taking her eyes off the screen.

‘Fine, thank you. How are you?’

Not that he cared less, but politeness was second nature to him. She had to be seventy, not out. Did they bring her out of retirement because they were short-staffed? Or was she one of those people who worked until they dropped because they had no other life? Perhaps one day, when she was in the middle of firing questions at some poor victim, she’d suddenly gasp, clutch her ample bosom and slump on to the desk; dead before you could shout, ‘I didn’t do it!’ Reuben hoped he wouldn’t be the unfortunate witness. Didn’t people often vomit or froth at the mouth when they were dying?

Merle was talking. ‘I said, have you anything new to report since you were last here?’

‘Er … no. Everything’s much the same.’

She stared at him as if trying to bore a hole into his brain with her eyes.
You can’t
fool me,
her expression said,
I know you’ve been sweet-talking little old ladies out of their nest
eggs.

To fill the silence, Reuben said, ‘I’ve been looking for a job. There are a few prospects, so it shouldn’t be too long.’

‘Hmmph, your track record so far isn’t impressive.’

‘No.’

‘Anyway, this is my last interview with you. I’ve finished your assessment and now I’m going to introduce you to your new parole officer.’

She heaved herself out of her chair, opened the door behind her and called out, ‘Lucy!’

Reuben’s heart lifted. His new officer had to be nicer than this one. And younger.

Merle stepped aside and a woman entered the room holding a mug of coffee.

‘Reuben, this is Lucy. She’ll be supervising you from now on.’

Lucy smiled. ‘Hi, Reuben.’

Reuben stood up and opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He gazed at the vision before him. Petite and fine-boned, full-cream milk complexion, auburn curls that fell around her face and slanted emerald eyes that lent her a feline air. While his fellow inmates had entertained trite fantasies of long-legged blondes with bountiful breasts, Reuben had dreamed of a redhead with a delicate figure; small, neat breasts and the face of a Botticelli angel. It was a fantasy he’d had since he was old enough to have fantasies – from Grade Six in primary school, when he’d talked Jocelyn Freshwater into kissing him behind the boys’ toilets. But Jocelyn had dyed her hair, put on weight and had a tribe of kids by the time she was twenty-one. Since then, no woman he’d met had come close to his fantasy. Until now.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Merle.

Lucy slid into her chair and placed her mug on the desk. ‘How are you, Reuben?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ His voice came out as a croak.

‘Just excuse me while I log in.’

He watched her hands as they flew over the keyboard. Small and slim-fingered. A gold band on her left hand. Of course she was married. So was he.

She looked up and smiled again. ‘You can sit down.’

His legs had become light as air and he sat down abruptly. He smiled back at her to hide his embarrassment but it felt fake. As if every time he’d ever smiled in his life, it had been fake, and he’d have to invent a new smile worthy of its recipient.

‘Now then,’ Lucy said. Her eyes reminded him of the ocean, and he imagined diving into them. What would you find at the bottom of someone’s eyes? Just a lot of corneal tissue, probably. But Lucy would have the most beautiful corneal tissue imaginable.

‘I’ve read Merle’s assessment, so I know a fair bit about you already.’

I can do better. Honestly, I can.

‘How are you going with finding a job?’

He put on his let’s-be-frank-no-bullshit expression. That felt fake, too.

‘To tell you the truth, not very well at the moment. But I have an appointment at the employment agency this morning, so I’m hopeful something will turn up.’

‘I like your positive attitude,’ Lucy said. When she smiled, faint lines fanned out on the translucent skin around her eyes. Early thirties, he decided. He hoped she wouldn’t ask him about his attempts at employment. No doubt Merle had already recorded them, but it would be embarrassing to re-live them.

He was trying hard to forget his first and last night as a waiter in an Italian restaurant, tripping over the leg of a chair with his arms full of plates of pasta. An elderly customer found her lap full of tortellini and her husband garnished with slivers of Parmesan cheese. The boss sacked him on the spot, threatening to deduct their dry-cleaning bills from his non-existent wages.

The next job was an improvement – he lasted two days as a brickie’s labourer. On the first day he left the cement in the cement mixer while he went to lunch. When he turned it on afterwards the mixer jumped into the air and crashed to the ground, still grinding, like a huge, ungainly insect stranded on its back. The cement inside it was rock hard. His fate was sealed on the second day when, as he trudged through the site with a plank of wood on his shoulder, someone called, ‘Look out, Littledick!’ As he turned around, the plank of wood gave the foreman, passing by at that moment, a resounding whack on the side of the head. That afternoon he was given two days’ pay and fired. He never found out who’d called out the warning.

‘I’m trying to be positive,’ Reuben said. His heart swelled as he gazed at her flawlessly sculpted neck, the curve of her jaw and her pale chest, lightly dusted with freckles. She wore a jade blouse that matched her eyes. He felt another part of his body swelling and he wrenched his eyes away from her breasts.
Get a grip! This is
your parole officer, for fuck’s sake.