How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (9 page)

‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the highlight of the evening.’ The MC’s chin wobbled with excitement. ‘I’m about to draw the prize we’ve all been gazing enviously at all night. Or at least, the ladies have. I don’t know about you men, but I’m not sure that riding around town on a hot pink motor scooter would do a lot for my reputation!’

‘It might improve it, mate!’ yelled a male voice, causing a round of titters.

‘You could be right,’ the MC agreed cheerfully. ‘Because it’s such an important prize, I’m going to let one of the little ones draw it. Who wants to be the lucky one?’

A sea of small hands shot up, accompanied by choruses of ‘Me! Me!’ The MC’s eyes roved the room; then he pointed into the middle of the crowd.

‘That little girl, the one so beautifully dressed with her hair up.’

The appointed child made her way through the crowd. She stepped up to the small makeshift stage and turned to face the audience with the aplomb of a seasoned actress about to make her Oscar acceptance speech.

‘What’s your name, darling?’

The MC bent down and put the microphone to her mouth.

‘Indya.’ Her voice rang with self-assurance.

‘That’s an unusual name for a little girl. Do you like curry?’

The MC beamed around the crowd, eliciting a couple of chuckles.

Indya looked at him uncertainly and shook her head, obviously not understanding the joke.

‘Never mind, we’ll see if we can curry some favour here tonight with the winning ticket. Could we have the box please?’

One of the kitchen ladies picked up the box and handed it to him. The MC shook it vigorously and took the lid off.

‘Now Indya, close your eyes, put in your hand and pick out a ticket.’

He bent down and held the box in front of her. Indya closed her eyes, put her hand into the box and shuffled around in it for a good few seconds, making the most of her time in the spotlight. She picked out a ticket and handed it to the MC.

‘And the winning ticket is number fifty-nine!’

A round of murmurs and rustles ensued as people checked their ticket numbers and heads craned to catch the winner in his or her moment of discovery. The only thought running through Reuben’s mind was of a couple of Panadol and sinking into a warm bed.

Carlene nudged him. ‘Rubie, isn’t that one of your numbers?’

Reuben pulled the sheets of ticket stubs from his pocket and leafed through them. There it was, large and clear, jumping off the page. Fifty-nine.

CHAPTER 8

Smoke billowed from the old Holden in front of him and he could smell the acrid fumes even through his full-face helmet. He held his breath. The traffic lights were taking forever. A horn beeped in his ear and he looked up. A truck idled in the lane beside him and on the passenger’s open window rested a beefy, hairy arm. Its owner grinned.

‘Hullo darling!’ He shouted down in falsetto.

‘Hullo gorgeous,’ Reuben mouthed back and pursed his lips into a kiss. Surprise and confusion flitted over the other’s face. The lights changed, Reuben planted his foot on the accelerator and shot ahead. You had to give this little baby its due – though it was only 50cc, it was nifty in traffic. Even if it did sound like a swarm of enraged mosquitoes. And in one respect, the only respect, its colour was an advantage – he was less likely to be mown down, even if it meant being laughed at by bogans driving in vehicles in inverse proportion to the size of their brains.

It was an act of God, according to Carlene. ‘Think about it, Rubie,’ she’d said yesterday as they both looked at it basking in all its shining glory in the driveway, after the delivery. It was so hot pink it almost sizzled. ‘You need a vehicle and what happens? You win one! By saying you wanted it, God heard you and you manifested it.’ She gave a shiver. ‘It makes me go all goose-bumpy just thinking about it.’

‘If it was an act of God, he’s got a strange sense of humour. Why couldn’t he have picked another colour? It’s not as if I can argue that it’s salmon or apricot or crimson – even Blind Freddie can see it’s a hot, lurid pink!’

‘Don’t be so sensitive, baby. I think you look really sexy on it. Women love a guy who’s man enough not to care what others think.’

‘It’s not women I’m concerned about,’ Reuben said. ‘Seeing you love it so much, why don’t you have it and I’ll drive the car?’

‘You’re forgetting, I have to go out and visit sponsors for our fundraising. I can’t turn up there wearing riding boots and helmet hair. And what if it rains?’

Reuben tried not to think about that possibility as he puttered along Lutwyche Rd to the office of Pizzazz Promotions in Spring Hill. He already felt exposed and vulnerable, with almost every other vehicle on the road towering over him - sometimes they roared past so close to him that his heart jumped and the hair on his forearms stood up.

Even though he’d owned it for less than twenty-four hours, he’d decided to get rid of it as soon as possible. When Wayne and Jo and the kids called around to inspect the scooter at close quarters, Jo was so rapturous in her admiration that Reuben offered to give it to her once he had his own car. Her sallow face lit up.

‘Thanks heaps. Indya, won’t it be fun riding around on the back of the scooter with Mummy?’

Indya surveyed the scooter. Brayden was crouched beside the front wheel, testing the durability of the tyres with his teeth. ‘Where’s your pink shirt and shoes?’

‘Pardon?’ said Reuben.

‘You said you had a pink shirt and shoes to match it.’

‘Um … I must have thrown them out. I’ll paint it red to match this shirt.’ He pointed to the red pullover he was wearing.

‘You’re not going to paint it, are you?’ said Jolene, looking stricken. ‘Pink’s our favourite colour, isn’t it, Indya?’

Indya nodded. ‘You said you like pink!’ Her face glowed with indignation.

‘All right, I’ll leave it pink,’ Reuben said.

‘Good decision, ducky,’ Wayne said with a lisp and an effeminate curl of his wrist.

‘What’s its name?’ Indya said.

‘It doesn’t have a name.’

‘We can give it a name if you like, sweetheart,’ Jolene said. ‘What should we call it?’

‘The Barbiemobile,’ Indya said promptly.

***

If it wasn’t for the small brass plate inscribed ‘Pizzazz Promotions’ on the front door of the refurbished terrace house, you could be forgiven for thinking the office was someone’s home. It was the latest craze in the trendier suburbs – to make offices appear cosy and intimate, so that when you opened the front door you half expected to be greeted by a dumpling-cheeked old lady in an apron and ushered into the living room for a cup of tea.

It was apparent as soon as Reuben entered, that gentle old ladies and cups of tea were in short supply. His immediate impression was of being in an art gallery. The walls exhibited an array of abstract paintings of brilliantly coloured misshapen objects, like a psychedelic acid trip. Framed photos covered the ochre feature wall behind the reception desk – some appeared to be of movie scenes, in others a tall man with bouffant fair hair and golden complexion posed beside vaguely familiar figures.

The receptionist, flawlessly groomed right down to her impossibly long fingernails, looked up from her computer. ‘Take a seat, Mr Littlejohn,’ she said, with no change of expression. Only her mouth had moved, the rest of her face frightened into botoxed submission. She picked up the phone and whispered into it.

Reuben sank into a plush leather chair and stretched out his legs. The rhythmic tap of the receptionist’s fingernails on the keyboard lulled him into a trance. His eyes were heavy. The last couple of nights, sleep had been fitful and full of disturbed dreams of Lucy – always the same theme. She was naked, about to seduce him when Frank sprang out of nowhere and started hacksawing off her limbs; or tied her to a tree Robin Hood style and shot an arrow right through her heart, or a dozen other creative means of disposal. Carlene had complained of him keeping her awake with his tossing and turning.

A hand shook his shoulder. He jerked his eyes open. A woman stood in front of him, hand extended.

‘Hullo, Reuben.’

Reuben sprang out of his chair. ‘God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’

‘I certainly hope not,’ the woman said, smiling. Her voice had a musical lilt. ‘My name’s Posie.’

She was tall and thin, her body barely filling out her tailored suit. Straight, snow- blonde hair sprung up in a curl from her shoulders. Her eyes were a startling blue, fringed with luscious eyelashes like fat spider legs. Her skin had the even burnish of a fake tan and her pneumatically enhanced breasts almost bounced out of their corporate confines. She could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty-five.

Reuben shook her hand. It was soft and slightly greasy, as if she’d just moisturised them. Long orange talons jutted out flame-like from her elegant fingers. It seemed they were
de rigueur
in the promotions industry. Reuben gave an inward shudder – he found long fingernails a complete turn-off. Too painful having your skin raked to pieces in the throes of passion.

‘Would you like coffee?’ The spider’s legs fluttered at him. ‘I think you need one.’

‘Thanks, that would be great.’

Posie waved her talons towards the reception desk. ‘Coffee please, Sam.’

Reuben followed her as she minced down a short hallway to her office. She couldn’t help but mince, as her heels were so high he got vertigo imagining walking in them. Without them she would barely be of average height.

Her office had a calming ambience of feminine elegance, with its pastel colours, pale timber desk and matching swivel chairs. In the corner, a leather settee and coffee table displayed a carelessly artful arrangement of glossy magazines. They sat down and Posie inclined her head in the direction of his motorcycle helmet, which he’d placed on the floor beside him.

‘You have a motorbike, Reuben?’

‘Yes.’

Posie clasped her hands together and parted her Angelina Jolie lips in a smile of delight. ‘That’s fabulous! Every now and then we get a request for someone with a motorbike licence and it’s so hard to come up with someone at short notice.’

Reuben cleared his throat. ‘It’s more a scooter than a bike. I don’t have a motorbike licence.’

‘Oh.’ She looked downcast then leaned forward, her breasts perched on the desk. ‘So, you’re interested in film and TV?’

Her gaze was intense, as if encouraging him to divulge his deepest, most secret desires to be on the screen.

‘I don’t know – can you tell me what’s involved?’

Posie launched into an overview of the company. Pizzazz Promotions covered a variety of fields from modelling to casting for advertisements, TV and movies. It cost $295 to join the company, which included an internet profile – much cheaper than many of its competitors. Reuben would also need to supply a photo portfolio, although the company could do that for him at a very reasonable cost.

He was so fascinated by her that he found it hard to concentrate on what she was saying. In the space of a few minutes of introductory spiel, Posie expressed the full gamut of emotion from hopelessness to exhilaration – as if she were in a drama class and had been instructed to give an example of every emotion. If indeed she were acting, she threw herself so fully into it that it appeared to be her natural way of speaking; in contrast to her body, most of which seemed to be false, coloured or plastic, down to her brilliant sapphire contact lenses.

‘So what do you think, Reuben?’

Posie leaned forward, pencilled eyebrows raised.

‘Er ... I’ll have to think about it.’

Two hundred and ninety-five dollars was a lot out of his meagre savings for something unproven and he really should talk it over with Carlene first. She’d been unenthusiastic about his going to the interview in the first place, being of the opinion that promotions work was not high on the list of respectable occupations.

‘Of course you do.’ Posie nodded. She leaned forward and said with a conspiratorial air, ‘But I’ll do a special deal, just for you. If you sign up and pay today, we’ll do your photos for you – free of charge!’

She watched him as he thought about her offer. He felt like a moth being drawn in by the powerful radiance of a bright light. A photo portfolio would be expensive and to have it done free of charge sounded like a good deal. Surely Carlene couldn’t argue with that.

‘Okay,’ he heard himself say.

‘Excellent.’ She gave a vigorous nod of approval. ‘It just so happens that the owner of the agency, Simon Broadbent, is here today. He does our photography, so he can do your photo shoot and your audition as well.’

‘Audition?’ His voice came out as a squeak and he cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t come prepared...’

‘It’s nothing.’ Posie waved her talons dismissively. ‘I’ll give you a few lines to memorise while you’re having your coffee. Now, just fill out this form. Credit card or savings?’

He paid the $295, then filled out the form requiring the usual personal details and attached his resume to it, as requested. His resume had required at least as much creativity as any of his schemes. But he was proud of the end result – the Reuben Littlejohn of his CV was versatile and enterprising, experienced at a range of occupations from sales assistant to manager, displaying a steady pattern of progression in his career. He’d also included a couple of overseas holidays of a few months’ duration, in between jobs, to demonstrate his sense of adventure, and to show his compassionate side; one of them had been a trip to Uganda to help build an orphanage.

He’d done enough research to be able to answer standard questions about his occupations and overseas trips, although, he had of course supplied false names and phone numbers for his referees. In the event of a potential employer phoning both those numbers and finding that both businesses must have folded and the owners moved on ... he’d have to put that down to bad luck. He didn’t have a plan for that, indeed he’d hoped to score a job on face value alone – up until now his whole life had been based on making favourable personal impressions. He’d only done the resume because Droopy Dave had insisted he have one.