How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (5 page)

‘Of course not,’ Carlene said. ‘It’s so good of you to offer him the job.’

‘Cause for celebration,’ Alec said. ‘Let’s crack another bottle.’ He fetched another bottle of red from the bar, uncorked it and filled all the glasses. He raised his glass. ‘Let’s drink a toast to Reuben’s new job.’

The others clinked their glasses. ‘To Reuben’s new job,’ they chorused. Except Nancy, who chose that moment to get up and start clearing away the plates. The wine was like liquid velvet sliding down Reuben’s throat. There was something to be said for old money after all.

‘What do you reckon, Reuben?’ Alex said, nodding at the bottle. ‘Hardy’s Merlot 1980 vintage?’

Reuben shrugged. ‘You’ve got me there. All I know is it’s a good drop.’

Alex picked up the bottle and pointed to its plain label. ‘Three dollars – from the bargain bin at Liquorland. Would you believe it?’

He looked around the table, daring anyone to challenge him.

‘I’d believe it,’ Wayne said. ‘There’s a lot of bullshit about wine. Bouquets and palates and the rest. I read somewhere about a wine-tasting – they blindfolded a panel of so-called connoisseurs who couldn’t tell the difference between the el cheapo wines and the top of the range! I say if a wine tastes good, it
is
good. I don’t want to write it a poem or make love to it.’

As he took another sip, Reuben felt something warm and wet on his foot. He looked down. A yellow liquid arc was streaming onto his shoe from the direction of Brayden’s highchair.

‘Fuck!’ he yelled and sprang out of his chair. His glass toppled over and a river of red seeped into the white lace tablecloth. Indya appeared in the doorway and surveyed the scene. She looked at Jolene, who was ineffectually dabbing at Reuben’s shoe with a linen napkin.

‘Mummy,’ she said in a loud, high-pitched voice, ‘Uncle Reuben said fuck.’

***

As Carlene pulled out onto Junction Road, Reuben turned the car air conditioning to warm and pointed the vent on his side towards his bare feet. His socks and favourite shoes, blue Lacoste plimsolls he’d bought with his prison release welfare payment, were bundled in a plastic bag on the back seat. Even though they’d been washed in hot soapy water in Nancy’s laundry, Reuben fancied he could still detect a whiff of urine.

A steady stream of traffic whizzed past; it was still early for a Saturday night. He’d only had one drink, not bothering to refill his glass after the accident, but Carlene had insisted on driving home.

He glanced at her. The line of her jaw was taut; her hands tight on the steering wheel. In that moment she was her mother, the Nancy of thirty years ago. An image flashed into Reuben’s mind, of him and Carlene in their advancing years, reincarnations of Nancy and Alec: Carlene, her effusiveness moulded by age into disapproval; and Reuben trying to jolly her out of it, to smooth the waters and avoid conflict at any cost. The premonition was so strong, it gave him goosebumps.

He shook himself back to the present. ‘I’m sorry about your mother’s tablecloth. And the swearing. But it wasn’t totally my fault. How could I know the little brat was going to pee on me? I’m the one who should be mad, it’s my shoes that are ruined.’

Carlene’s mouth softened a fraction. ‘I know, honey. Your shoes will be as good as new after I put them through the washing machine. He’s only a baby, he didn’t do it on purpose.’

Reuben was sure he’d detected an evil gleam in Brayden’s eye as Wayne had hoisted him out of the highchair to clean him up. Was his unerring aim an accident too? The kid had a bladder the size of an elephant.

‘By the way, you put Wayne up to offering me the job, didn’t you?’

‘I asked Jo about it and she asked Wayne.’

‘You should have asked me first.’

‘I thought you’d be happy. Wayne’s one of the best roof tilers in the business, it’s a good steady job until something better comes up.’

‘That may be, but I’d still like to be consulted first.’

‘Fine. I thought it would be a nice surprise for you, but obviously I was wrong.’

Carlene pulled up at the traffic lights leading into Kedron Park Road. Still staring straight ahead, she said, ‘Have we just had our first fight?’

‘I’d say it was more of a disagreement,’ Reuben said.

‘What’s the difference?’

‘A disagreement is when you have different points of view on something, a fight is when you yell at each other.’

The lights changed. Carlene planted her foot and the Corolla shot ahead like a racehorse out of the barriers. On their left, trucks and cranes huddled silently together, dwarfed by the concrete ramps of the Northern Bus route still under construction.

‘That’s such a man thing to say. You don’t have to yell to have a fight, you can be very civilised about it. That was more than just a difference of opinion, it was a fight.’

‘So we’re disagreeing about whether we’re having a disagreement or a fight.’

‘I suppose so.’

Reuben stole a glance at Carlene and caught her doing the same. He reached over and squeezed her leg.

‘It had to happen, sooner or later. Your first argument’s always nerve-racking. I think every couple should have an argument on their first date, then it’s over and done with.’

‘You’re crazy, you know that?’

She was smiling. Reuben slid his hand up her thigh. ‘And you know the best part about arguing…’

***

Inside the front door they lunged at each other, undoing buttons and zips and leaving a trail of clothes all the way to the bedroom. They collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of hot breath and naked limbs. As Reuben kissed the soft, sweet meat of Carlene’s thighs, he closed his eyes and they became Lucy’s – pale and firm, yet malleable, like vanilla ice-cream. When he opened his eyes, all he saw was the creamy curve of Lucy’s shoulder, the perfect shape of her breasts, the plateau of her stomach dipping into the neat thatch of silky auburn hair.

Afterwards Carlene murmured, ‘Wow, Rubie, you were on fire tonight.’

He ran his fingers through her hair. ‘I told you it was the best part about arguing. I think we should have another one very soon.’

She giggled and nuzzled into him. Reuben’s insides prickled. He didn’t often allow himself to feel guilt, but this time it took him unawares. There was nothing wrong with making love to one woman while fantasising about another, he’d done it plenty of times, but Lucy wasn’t some Playboy bimbo you conjured up to get your rocks off. She was a goddess. And his parole officer. It was ludicrous to put goddess and parole officer together in the same sentence.

He drifted off to sleep and in his dream Lucy was doing a photo shoot for Playboy. She was wearing a white robe, sprawled on a lush lawn with her legs apart, her hair fanned out behind her, lips pouted in a suggestive smile.

‘Action!’ yelled the photographer. She began to unbutton her robe.

‘Don’t worry, Lucy, I’ll save you!’ Reuben called out.

He raced over, pulled the robe around her, scooped her up in his arms and carried her back to the parole office.

‘You were whimpering in your sleep again,’ Carlene said. She was in the ensuite, lips stretched, applying her lipstick in smooth, precise strokes.

He’d remembered his dream as soon as he woke up. He’d had Lucy in his arms, a couple of buttons away from naked, and he’d taken her back to the parole office. Even in his dreams he couldn’t win.

‘It was a moany sort of whimper, the sort dogs make when they’re dreaming about chasing rabbits.’

Not a bad analogy. He yawned. ‘No wonder I’m so tired.’

He stretched out and pulled the blankets up under his chin. Through the half open blinds he could see patches of blue sky draped with bits of wispy cloud, like a child’s collage. Outside, in the eucalypt tree, a wily wagtail chirped its cheerful soprano.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come to church?’

Carlene sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers through the hair on his chest. She leant forward and brushed his lips with hers, her hair soft on his cheek.

‘I’d enjoy it a whole lot more if you were with me.’

‘I’ll come on one condition.’

Her eyes lit up. ‘What?’

‘You let me ravish you in the back pew.’

‘Rubie!’ She gave him a playful punch on the arm. ‘How do you know you won’t like it if you don’t go at least once? It’s not like your usual church service, we clap and sing and everyone’s really happy and friendly. Pastor Bryan doesn’t believe religion should be about suffering and guilt, it’s about peace and joy and living in the moment.’

‘It’s still religion, however you package it. And as far as I’m concerned, living in the moment means lying in bed waiting for you to come home.’

She sighed, got up and flung her handbag over her shoulder. ‘Okay, I’m off.’

She stuck her head around the door. ‘Don’t forget the lawn needs mowing.’

The front door slammed, the Corolla roared into action and sped away. Silence settled around the house. Reuben huddled under the doona and tried to drift off to sleep again, to recapture the dream about Lucy so he could give it a more satisfactory ending. A chainsaw started up, its whine tearing apart the lazy morning ambience. What was it with these suburban weekend warriors and their chainsaws, whipper snippers and leaf blowers? Were these the new symbols of masculinity?

Reuben dragged himself out of bed and pulled on a pair of old jeans and a jumper. He went out to the garden shed, fought his way through the cobwebs and hauled out the lawn mower. As he started it up, he tried not to think of the factory workers on the bus.

CHAPTER 4

The darkness was just beginning to lighten as Reuben stood bleary-eyed on the footpath outside the house. The rest of the street was still steeped in slumber. Snuggled up under their doonas. He was the only person awake on the whole planet.

A stiff breeze whipped around him and he huddled into his jacket. Underneath his tracksuit he wore the singlet and King Gee shorts he’d bought for the labouring job, and his steel-capped boots. On the ground beside him, his cap perched on a small cooler bag in which Carlene had packed sandwiches, fruit and water.

Who was he kidding? Wayne, hopefully. Certainly not himself. He was an impostor – nothing new, he’d been one all his life – but it was a hell of a lot easier persuading people to part with their cash than hauling tiles and clambering around on a roof several metres from the ground (gulp), with the sun beating down on you.

The roar of an engine shattered the stillness. A ute came into view and pulled up with a screech of brakes. In the dawn light Reuben could make out the words ‘Wayne’s World of Tiles. Best quality, best prices. Experienced tiler, no job too big or too small’.

Wayne’s lip curled as Reuben got into the passenger seat. ‘Geez mate, are you going to the North Pole?’

He was wearing only shorts and a t-shirt that strained over his gut. He did a U-turn in a spray of gravel and headed towards Gympie Road.

‘It’ll be warm later on, so I hope you brought plenty of water.’

Reuben nodded. ‘Where’s the job?’

‘Cashmere, out the back of Aspley. Brand new home, would you believe the woman’s husband bought it for her as a surprise when she was overseas? A whole fucking house! And she had the nerve to say she didn’t like the colour of the roof tiles and wants them replaced. Ungrateful bitch! If I were her old man, I’d tell her to get up there and rip them up herself.’

‘Sounds like a big job,’ Reuben said.

‘It is, and expensive too. But money’s no object to them, not like you and me, eh mate? Battling to pay the bills and put food on the table.’

Wayne owned a huge tile warehouse as well as his tiling business, and he and Jolene owned a modern two-storey home in North Lakes, one of the newer estates. Reuben hadn’t seen any evidence of financial struggle and wondered whether Wayne, too, was a member of the nouveau poor. Or maybe he’d just been spending too much time around his parents-in-law.

Cashmere was a new suburb, with the flat, desolate air of half-developed estates before trees, parks and people imbue them with life and energy. There wasn’t much activity, except for workers on a couple of building sites, at whom Wayne waved and blew his horn as they passed. The house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, a sprawling Mediterranean-style home surrounded by a tidy lawn and palm trees, a tropical oasis in the desert of vacant allotments, their ‘For Sale’ signs poking above the brown winter grass. The roof tiles were of burnished orange-brown.

‘What’s wrong with the colour?’ Reuben said.

‘Too brown, apparently. She wants more orange.’

A cobblestone path led from the iron filigree gate to the front door. On a patch of lawn to their right sprawled a large untidy heap of tiles, glowing intense orange in the pale morning light.

‘The “orangest” tiles we’ve got,’ Wayne said.

Beyond the tiles was a large fenced swimming pool surrounded by deck chairs. The water was pristine and looked ice cold, with the deserted air of an unused pool in the middle of winter. A plump middle-aged woman wearing a terry towelling robe and slippers opened the front door. She had bleached blonde hair and the sort of heavy make-up that’s supposed to hide lines and sags, but only emphasises them.

‘Hullo, Mrs Landers, I’m Wayne from Wayne’s World of Tiles and this is my offsider, Reuben.’

‘Thank goodness you’re here. Those men made a terrible mess of my lawn when they delivered those tiles. Just dumped them all over the place. The sooner you get rid of them, the better.’

‘Right you are, we’re on the job.’

‘Stupid cow,’ Wayne muttered as they returned to the ute to fetch the equipment. ‘What did she expect the boys to do? Wrap them in a parcel with a bow?’

Wayne assembled the tile elevator and showed Reuben how to operate it. All he had to do was load it up with tiles, which would move along the conveyor belt to the roof where Wayne would off-load them. A lot simpler than mixing cement. Or waiting tables.

‘Load ‘er up, mate,’ Wayne said. ‘There’s only the two of us at the moment. The other boys are finishing off another job and they’ll be here in a couple of hours.’

‘And don’t drop any - they’re expensive and the old girl will bitch about the mess.’