How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (36 page)

‘I’ll be fine; I just need to rest,’ Reuben reassured her, with a hint of martyrdom. He waited fifteen minutes after she left in case she’d forgotten something, then sprang up from the bed, locked the house, raced out to the Barbiemobile and zoomed down to the tenpin bowling alley at Clayfield. He was relieved he could use a more creative alibi (if you could call a headache creative) for his meeting with Frank than the usual Finn crisis. He’d counted on being home and back in prone position before she returned.

As he walked in the front door, he put on a strained expression. Carlene came out in her bathrobe. She had a face cloth in her hand; one half of her face was made-up and the other scrubbed clean, giving her a peculiar two-faced appearance, like a Picasso painting.

‘Where have you been?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve been worried about you. You’re supposed to be sick!’

‘I am sick,’ Reuben said. ‘I went to the day and night chemist to get some stronger tablets.’

‘What did you get?’

‘They were out of the gel capsules so I didn’t get anything.’

‘What’s in your pocket?’

Reuben looked down at his bulging jeans pocket and pulled out one Mars bar, two Cherry Ripes, a Crunchie, a giant Freddo and a small Caramello Bear. He gave a sheepish grin.

‘I bought them to share with you.’

Carlene sighed as she dabbed at her face with the cloth. ‘It’ll only make your headache worse. Anyway, I’m off chocolate. I put on two kilos over Christmas. I think it’s all the stress.’

As Reuben sat up in bed munching on the Caramello Bear, Carlene said, ‘You’ve made a remarkable recovery for someone who was on death’s doorstep a few hours ago.’

She was beside him in her nightie, propped up with pillows reading
Angel Magic – a guide to discovering your angels and tapping into their powers
.

‘Chocolate cures headaches – it’s been scientifically proven.’ He held up what was left of his bear, one small chocolate foot. ‘Your head is so full of endorphins and serotonin, there’s no room for the headache.’

It sounded quite plausible for something he’d made up on the spot.

‘I think you just invented the headache so you wouldn’t have to come to the cocktail party. And then I caught you out coming home from your little outing, probably to see your girlfriend.’

‘You know I don’t have a ... ’

‘You don’t like my family, do you?’

‘Hang on, what’s this all about?’

‘You know what it’s about.’

Her voice was quivering.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Just answer the fucking question!’

‘I don’t not like your family – I mean, I like them!’

Even to himself, his words sounded unconvincing. ‘Sometimes I find them a bit overwhelming. I don’t mean in a bad way though.’

Whoops, the hole just got deeper. Was it possible to be overwhelming in a good way?

‘I’m glad you like them,’ Carlene said, ‘because they’re coming to the ball.’

She glared at him, defying him to object.

‘When did they decide that?’

‘Mum’s good friends with one of the organisers. She offered her a couple of tickets for helping out, and then Mum managed to get hold of two more so Wayne and Jo could come.’

‘Great, the more the merrier.’

Hopefully he’d be able to mingle with the crowd and not be stuck with his in-laws all night. He’d have to if he was keeping an eye on Lucy. And dodging Frank’s spies.

He had to assume the worst-case scenario that Frank wasn’t bluffing. It was all too likely that he was suspicious of Reuben and leaving nothing to chance this time. If his spies were watching Reuben closely enough to prevent him making a phone call, they’d be disguised as guests at the ball to blend in. Or maybe waiters. Or bouncers. Somehow he’d have to suss out who they were and give them the slip. Would they be armed? Don’t even think about it...

He finished the Caramello Bear and started on the Mars Bar. Carlene put her book down and turned off her bedside lamp.

‘I wish you wouldn’t eat in bed, it’s a disgusting habit.’

She turned her back to him and slid under the sheet. He looked at her hunched body, only inches away from him, but she may as well have been in the next suburb. Already they were like an old married couple who went through the motions out of habit and could no longer remember the pleasure they’d once enjoyed from each other’s company. She was punishing him, but how much punishment could a man take? It was only three days since they’d last had sex – fervent, post-argument, homecoming sex; but it felt like a year.

His mind moved on to Lucy, as it usually did when he thought of sex. The only way he could think of, to follow her to the ball, was to wait for Carlene to arrive home from work at five-thirty, persuade her that he needed the car for a short but urgent mission he’d tell her about later; and ask her to get a lift in with Jo and Wayne or Nancy and Alec. She’d be annoyed, to put it mildly, but he’d keep his promise to tell her the full story when it was all over. If it all went to plan, he’d have nothing to lose.

It’s a pretty big ‘if’.
His plan had so many loose ends, so many variables that could go wrong, that his mind was spinning like a disco ball thinking about them all. He threw his Mars Bar wrapper onto the bedside table, turned off his lamp and stretched out under the sheet, listening to the noises of the night outside his window. He’d never noticed before how noisy stillness was. Or perhaps it was his head. He realised he had the beginnings of a headache.

CHAPTER 29

His mobile phone rang as he was unlocking the front door. By the time he got inside and fished it out of his pocket, it had gone to MessageBank. The message was from Carlene.

‘I won’t be home till about six-thirty – there’s a Red Cross function on at the Bowls Club and I have to help out with a few last minute things. Sharon was supposed to do it but she’s gone home sick and I can’t leave Barry in the lurch. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Reuben sank onto the couch. Six-thirty was too late – he had to be at Lucy’s by six. Why did Sharon have to go home sick, tonight of all nights? Who gets sick on New Year’s Eve anyway?

It was three forty-five now. He had less than two hours to find another car. Could he steal one? In prison, Revhead had instructed him on how to break into a car and steal it in less than two minutes. But he wasn’t confident he could do it without any practical experience. Think up an emergency and ask Nina to lend him her car? He didn’t want to involve her in something that would undoubtedly lower her opinion of him if she found out the truth. Jump into a taxi and order the driver to follow that car? He’d always wanted to do that but it was too risky under these circumstances. Hire a car?

That wasn’t so bizarre. He grabbed the Yellow Pages and flipped through to the Rental Cars. Cheap-as-Chips Car Rental. Sounded promising. And at Aspley, only a ten-minute drive away. He dialled the number.

‘Cheap-as-Chips Car Rental has closed and will reopen for business at eight a.m. on January second. Please leave a message after the tone and we’ll contact you as soon as possible.’

‘As soon as possible is too fucking late.’ He was just about to hang up when a female voice said, ‘Hullo?’

‘Oh ... hullo. I didn’t realise anyone was there.’

‘I was just about to go home. I wouldn’t have answered the phone except you sounded pretty desperate.’

‘I am. I need to hire a car for tonight.’

‘I’m sorry, all our cars are out at the moment.’

‘Shit. I mean are you sure? You haven’t got one secreted out the back somewhere?’

‘I’m sure. The only one I have left is an old MG that I’m driving home myself.’

An MG was not a car in which you could blend in with the rest of the traffic, but what choice did he have?

‘That sounds perfect! Could you hire it out to me and I’ll give you a lift home?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Her tone was wary. Perhaps she thought it was a pick-up line.

‘Look, I know we’ve never met, but I assure you I’m a fine upstanding character. It will be no trouble to drop you home.’

‘No thanks. But I’ll tell you what, I’ll hire it out to you on two conditions – that you have it back here by ten tomorrow morning and that I add my taxi fare home and back to your fee.’

‘Where do you live?’

Not at the Gold Coast, I hope.

‘Mount Gravatt.’

Halfway to the Gold Coast, almost as bad. It would be a good fifty-dollar cab fare each way. Operation Luce End was becoming an expensive exercise.

‘Okay, it’s a deal.’

‘How soon can you get here?’ she asked.

‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

It was twenty-five minutes before he pulled up at Cheap-as-Chips. He’d got stuck in peak hour traffic, with commuters leaving work early for the New Year celebrations, and had caught every red light as well. As he darted in between lines of traffic, he narrowly missed being crushed between two hulking four wheel drive vehicles.

Cheap-as-Chips lived up to its name appearance-wise, a tired, faded wooden building at the end of a small block of shops on Gympie Road. A sign on the front door announced it was closed. Surely she hadn’t gone home? He was only ten minutes late.

He peered in through the glass. The office was deserted, although a fluorescent light beamed above the small reception desk. He banged frantically on the door.

A woman hurried out from the back. Close up, she looked barely eighteen. Petite, a sheen of blonde hair, exuding a dewy innocence. She unlocked the door.

‘No need to break the door down.’

‘Sorry, I thought you’d gone home. I got stuck in traffic.’

‘I thought as much. Follow me.’

He followed her through the tiny, cramped office, out the back door to a row of carports. All were empty, except the one at the far end, in which was parked a red convertible MG with the hood down. It was quaint in a Noddy’s Toyland way, but close up, with its scratched paintwork and faded leather seats, it resembled more a tired old relic at the bottom of the toybox.

‘Looks great,’ Reuben said. ‘How much?’

‘Two hundred and fifty dollars.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding! For one night?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Double time for New Year’s Eve. And my return taxi fare.’

So much for youthful innocence! They went into the office where he filled out the paperwork and tried not to wince as he took the receipt from the EFTPOS transaction.

She thrust the keys at him. ‘Don’t forget, it has to be back here by ten tomorrow at the latest. I’m going away.’

‘Just one thing … would you mind if I parked my motor scooter in one of your carports? I don’t want to leave it parked out the front all night.’

She shrugged. ‘If you want. Fifty dollars for parking.’

He was about to protest then realised it was pointless. Where was she when he needed a sidekick, someone who could extort money without blinking an eye? He pulled out a fifty-dollar note from his wallet and slammed it on the desk.

She stood at the back door, hands on her hips and a sardonic smile on her face as he rode the Barbiemobile round and parked it in the carport next to the MG.

‘Now I know why you were so desperate for the car.’

***

By the time he arrived home it was five-twenty. He wolfed down a sandwich, had a quick shower and dressed in the evening suit he’d hired. He surveyed himself in the mirror. Evening suits for men were surely invented by women, to stop men from turning up to formal occasions in their jeans or footy shorts. But what man really felt comfortable in this get-up? He looked like a waiter with his satin waistcoat and bow tie, as if he should glide around with a tray and a supercilious smile, filling up glasses and offering platters of steamed crab’s claw with octopus jus.

He entertained himself with this vision as he pulled on his shoes and socks – Nancy and Wayne, his most disliked in-laws, tucking into the crab claws laced with arsenic and falling down in a heap on the floor, writhing and clutching their throats. But it didn’t dislodge the cold lump of fear in the pit of his stomach.

He slipped the mobile phone Frank had given him into his jacket pocket, scrawled a note to Carlene and left it on the kitchen bench. ‘Had to go on an unexpected errand. Can you go without me and I’ll meet you there between eight and nine pm? Really sorry – will explain all when I see you.’

It was a relief to avoid confrontation by writing a note, but it was only delaying the inevitable. One positive point was that Carlene wouldn’t dare make a scene at the ball. Or would she? He pictured her, lips pursed and eyes glittering like a madwoman, throwing her drink in his face, wine dripping onto his spotless white shirt. Yes, she would, but she’d be discreet about it as well – inveigle him into a corner away from the public eye, to allow optimum satisfaction and minimum humiliation for herself.
Keep well away from corners
.

The MG rattled and clunked through the peak hour traffic on Gympie Road. On the tattered passenger’s seat was an empty Coke can and on the floor, two empty crisp packets. She hadn’t even bothered to clean out the car. How dare she take advantage of him because he was desperate!

It was five past six when he arrived at Lucy’s street. He drove past it and parked outside the Henry Mitchell Park. From there he had a clear view of any car leaving the street and Lucy would have to pass him on her way to the city. Two boys of about ten kicked a ball desultorily around the brown-patched grass. Sweat trickled into all crevices of Reuben’s body. He wrenched off his jacket and loosened his bow tie. The air was hushed and still with the expectancy of a thunderstorm. He searched the console until he found the button that said ‘hood’ in case he needed it, and hoped the rain would hold off for an hour or so.

Reuben slumped down in his seat, aware that a lone man loitering outside a park was bound to arouse suspicions. Especially a man in a dinner suit in a battered MG convertible. He would have been better off riding the Barbiemobile in drag.

He turned the radio up. The New Year’s Eve party mix had started and ‘Celebrate Good Times’ boomed out. He had nothing to celebrate. He switched the station. Deep Purple’s ‘Highway Star’. That was better, a beat you could lose yourself in, meaningless words. Meaningless to him anyway.