Nefarious Doings (6 page)

‘Why is the shop closed?’

‘Because of this.’ I gestured with my head towards the crowded cafe, and then kept moving forward, forcing her onto the footpath. ‘Plus Sharon would have struggled without me there, and she really needed a break. Be reasonable, Yen.’

‘When am I
not
reasonable?’

‘Nell’s not suggesting that you make a habit of it,’ said Petra, standing to one side. ‘Just that it might be advisable on this occasion. Besides, that creepy Santa there is going to put off more customers than closing the shop for an hour. I swear his eyes are following me.’

‘I think he’s designed to deter loiterers.’ I took a step away from the shop. ‘Anyway, I’m starving, so let’s go eat.’

‘Half an hour,’ Yen said grudgingly. ‘Then I’ll come back and get things on track. Too many customers? That’s a funny complaint.’

‘You’ll see,’ I muttered, leading the way up Main Street. The bookshop cafe was obviously out of the question so we continued past the council chambers to a nice little tavern that specialised in pasta and risotto, tucked away in an alcove. After ordering we settled in the back, behind a conga line of red-nosed reindeer. I fetched a carafe of water from the bar and poured glasses while Petra positioned her bag on the spare chair, with the Jimmy Choo label facing out.

‘Fake flowers,’ said Yen, fingering the verdant leaves of the carnations in the centre of our table. ‘So tacky.’

‘Yen, I was thinking … you know how you’ve always wanted to go to England? Maybe now would be the perfect time to do it.’

She regarded me steadily. ‘Two weeks before Christmas? The perfect time?’

‘No,
after
Christmas of course. And it was more about you not having anywhere to live. I mean of
course
you can stay with me as long as you like. Naturally. I just meant … ah, something to think about, that’s all,’ I petered off, then turned to my sister. ‘Pet! What’s happened then? Any news?’

Petra was smiling. ‘Well, insurance all went well. Under control. Plus the other bits and pieces. Oh, and Yen got the all-clear from the hospital.’

‘I
can
talk for myself you know.’ Yen moved the carnations to an adjoining table.

‘Okay then, how did you go with the police? What did they ask you?’

‘Just some daft questions about my sleeping patterns. I have very little faith in their ability to solve the issue. That Armistead man in particular seems to have decided it’s either me or Beth. Or perhaps us both, in cahoots. Stupid man.’

I nodded, not wanting to commit myself. ‘Do they know how he died?’

‘Cute though,’ said Petra musingly. ‘In that rugged, competent type of way.’

Yen ignored her. ‘If they did, they’re not telling me. But it seems to have been around midnight or so, because that’s the time they’re most curious about.’

‘My guess is that he was killed in our backyard,’ added Petra, ‘because according to Edward Given, that was where they were concentrating their manpower, while there was nobody next door, at the Craigs’.’

‘Of course!’ I stared at Petra, remembering the activity around the shared fence. ‘So there
was
no dragging the body over the fence! He must have climbed over himself!’

‘Yen’s theory is that he threw a full bottle over when he was having his tantrum, after the police came, and then ran out of beer later. So he was trying to retrieve it.’

‘Yes … that makes sense.’

‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ snapped Yen. ‘Is this salt shaker made of plastic? Maybe they’re going for a theme here. Op shop 1950.’

A waiter came over, bearing two bowls of Bombay risotto and one of lamb’s fry with bacon and scalloped potatoes. Petra and I stared at the lamb’s fry, and then exchanged an expressionless glance that spoke volumes. Like
oh my god she’s driving me nuts you have no idea what this day has been like,
and
could you do me a little favour and sleep with the insurance people and/or the builders, so that they fast-track things?

I folded the parmesan through my risotto, and looked up. ‘Yen, could it have been her, do you think? Beth Craig?’

‘No.’ She sprinkled salt generously over her dish, paused, and then added more. ‘I’ve given it a great deal of thought, and decided it’s not possible.’

I waited for her to continue but she didn’t. ‘Uh, why not?’

‘Well if you must know, because the police attended at ten-twenty, spoke to Beth Craig inside the house, Dustin Craig on the decking, and then came over to my house to speak to me. I suspect Beth took that opportunity to put her girls to bed and then, if she followed her usual behavioural pattern, went to bed herself. Her idiot husband remained outside, flinging the occasional bottle into my backyard. He often did that; settle down for hours, just drinking. She would certainly not have gone outside to engage him. That would be ridiculous.’

Petra poured more water. ‘But what if he called her out? Insisted?’

‘It would have been unusual, but it’s still a far leap to having the two of them in
my
backyard, her killing him, and then dragging the body into my garage and setting it alight.’ She took a bite of the lamb’s fry, grimaced.

‘I still think she’s the most obvious suspect.’

I nodded. ‘Me too.’

‘Then you’re both fools.’ Yen laid down her cutlery and stared at her food.

‘But don’t you see that if it’s not her, then …’ I tried to find the right words. ‘Well, then the next most likely is –’

‘Me, of course. Which doesn’t change the fact that she didn’t do it.’ She stood, placed her serviette across her plate. ‘This food matches the theme here. Shabby shit. I’m going back to the shop, maybe do some business. Just for something different.’

I watched her leave, and looked down at my own food. ‘Actually, I thought the risotto was delicious.’

‘Me too.’

‘What are we going to do about her?’

‘Tie her up, leave her in the backyard, and hope it’s a serial killer?’

I laughed, and then slapped a hand to my mouth. ‘Pet, that is so inappropriate.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ Petra leant across and lifted the abandoned plate. An inch wide circle of salt remained. ‘Although she’s probably on borrowed time anyway.’

She put the plate down and we ate for a while, in silence. I wasn’t looking forward to returning to work, mainly because Yen was no doubt there to stay for the afternoon. She wouldn’t risk leaving Sharon and I alone now, just in case we did anything underhand like close up again. I took a deep breath and sighed.

‘Nell?’ Petra was staring at me, no smile visible now. ‘Do you think maybe … she did it?’

‘I don’t know.’ I toyed with a sliver of chicken, pushed it beneath the rice. ‘I don’t see how she
could
have. I mean, he was a biggish guy.’

‘Unless they did it together.’

‘Yes, unless they did it together.’ I thought this through, and then frowned. ‘But if that was the case, why not just leave the body in the backyard? Why drag him into the garage and set it alight? And then go to bed and wait to be rescued? It makes no sense.’

‘But neither does it make any sense to have a random neighbour do away with him in Yen’s backyard, and then try and murder her while they’re at it.’

‘And me.’

Petra laughed. ‘You?’

‘Yes. Maybe that was it all along. It’s a plot to do away with me, because if I have to live with her for an extended period of time, then I’m going to fling myself off a cliff.’

‘Nah, you wouldn’t do that. You’re scared of heights.’ She pushed her bowl away and regarded me closely. ‘How are you anyway? Things getting any easier?’

‘Yes. And no.’

‘You need to get laid.’

I picked up the menu, examined both sides. ‘They don’t seem to have it listed. Perhaps it doesn’t go with their theme.’

‘I’m serious. You have to stop mucking around with that bloody doll’s house and get out more. Because you can’t really break the ties, move on, until you sleep with someone else. It’s like drawing a line in the sand.’

‘Yes, because the phone’s been ringing off the hook.’ I put the menu down, straightened the edges. ‘All those blokes. So persistent.’

‘Confidence. That’s the trick. And some effort on your part.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ I stood my fork in the leftover risotto, and then watched it slowly keel over. ‘In the meantime, I might just concentrate on staying sane.’

‘Well, don’t forget I’m here for you.’

Ah, but you’re not
, I thought, even as I smiled, because I knew she meant well.

Could you please settle a bet? My friend insists that you are the same Eleanor Forrest who wrote a murder mystery called
Midnight Only Strikes Once
, published about twenty-five years ago. I say that you can’t be because that writing is so clichéd, not like your column. But she won’t take my word for it. A three-course dinner is riding on this!

I finished early, leaving soon after the book club dispersed. It had been an enjoyable session despite all, with talk of the fatal fire having segued neatly into that week’s reading choice of Kerry Greenwood and inner-city murder. And the club gave me a chance to absent myself from the main bookshop, where my mother was milking her audience for sales. There was something about her in trader mode, with beaming smile and sticky sweetness, that was even more unpleasant than bitch mode. Where at least what you saw was what you got.

I stopped on the way home and stocked up on basic supplies, then staggered into the house bearing an armful of bags. Silence swelled within, lending the rooms an airy peace. The whiteboard had been moved to an armchair, indicating that the television had been used at some stage. I stared at the map and notations, but they didn’t tell me much more than I already knew. There were two main culprits, and neither made sense.

After putting the groceries away, I turned on the computer and settled for the remainder of the afternoon. I started with a game of Tetris to loosen up before dealing with my emails, and then bought a miniature tri-fold fire screen and two copies of
Midnight Only Strikes Once
from eBay. I had the book on permanent saved search and my plan was to eventually buy up every copy in existence. However, for a book that had sold a mere thousand copies twenty-five years ago, the damn thing seemed to be reproducing itself.

After one more game of Tetris, I worked my way around to the column, staring at the screen until it became a fluorescent blur with the cursor blinking accusingly in the corner. I opened my bits and pieces folder, where I stored aborted attempts and culled fragments, and perused the list of titles. Middle-aged spread, gender disparities at backyard barbecues, husbands who do the dishes once a week and think that equates to shared housework. I highlighted the last, and then poised my finger over the delete button for a moment before changing my mind. Let it stay.

Maybe I could write about the Christmas function I had been pressured to attend last week, in town. Where I was the oldest female present and all the middle-aged male journalists seemed to gaze straight through me, like I was made of glass. I might
as
well have been wallpaper; a situation made undoubtedly worse by the fact that my carefully chosen burgundy and beige dress was the exact same colour as the wallpaper. But there was something else at play beyond bad luck. I had never been a raving beauty, by any means, but I’d always had my fair share of male attention. This
invisibility
was something new, or perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps it had been sneaking up for some time but I’d never noticed. Until this year.

I shook my head, took a deep breath. What about what was happening right now? Surely I could extricate
something
from the debris of the last two days. I spun my chair, left to right and back again, then one full circle. That was when I noticed the little red answering machine light blinking on the phone by the filing cabinet. Possibly because my mobile was still set to mute, and likely to remain that way until I remembered to have someone change the ringtone. I pushed off backwards, rolling over to the filing cabinet, and pressed talk. The machine whirred, clicked, and began.

‘
Hello, Nell? It’s Edward Given. Ned. Look, I just thought you should know there’re some ugly rumours flying around here. About your mother. And Dustin Craig. Thought I should pass them on, being old friends and all. Give us a ring and I’ll fill you in. Cheers.
’

I sagged a little in my chair. The machine clicked over but this time the caller hung up. Probably Edward again. The third call, however, was Uncle Jim, his deep voice distinctive enough to provide identification, because he certainly didn’t.

‘
The hospital tells me your mum’s been discharged. Nell? Thought I might pay a visit?
’

There was a pause, as if he rather hoped someone would pick up, and then the call ended. Another click, and the next message issued forth in a throaty male voice.

‘
You’ll get what’s coming to you, bitch, just wait and see. Both of you.
’

The machine clicked again, whirred, and continued.

‘
Hey, Mum, it’s Red. Just thought I’d touch base and see if anything exciting’s happening down under. It’s freezing here, but no snow yet. I’m stuck at a conference in Bristol for the next few days. Bor-ing. Looking forward to coming home for Christmas. Love you.
’

The words slid cheerfully in one ear and straight out the other because there was no space. I stared at the machine as it rewound, finally reaching the end with the light changing to a steady red. After a moment I stretched out one finger and pressed play again. But the husky voice was identical, as was its message. And I still felt like being sick.

‘Mum! Hey, Mum?’

I leapt up, shooting the chair backwards. It shot across the floor to rebound off the desk and then settle by the door. My heart was beating so fast it felt like I’d been the one doing something wrong.
You’ll get what’s coming to you, bitch … Both of you
. I took a breath, dragged it deeper, let it out.

‘
There
you are.’ Lucy appeared in the doorway, beaming. ‘Guess what? I’ve got a job!’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got a job! Full-time and I start tomorrow! See, I
told
you it’d all turn out!’

I stared, trying to process this. ‘What about uni?’

‘Mum, I’ve been
telling
you. Uni’s over. It’s no good. It’s not me.’ She shook her head. ‛I have to be true to myself.’

‘True to yourself? That sounds like your daft YOLO crap. Nothing but a cop-out.’

‘Oh, Mum. No, it’s not. I only wish it was.’

‘Ta-da.’ I swept one arm through the air, adding a flourish at the end. ‘Wish granted! All this rubbish is just another way of giving yourself permission to do exactly what you want.’

‘Instead of what
you
want? Is that what you mean?’

All thoughts of the phone message had now been swept aside by frustrated fury. ‘What I
want
? Really? Okay then, yes, I
do
want you to get a degree, and I
do
want you to get a good job, and be successful, and financially secure. How amazingly selfish of me. So yes, you’re right. Clearly it’s all about what
I
want. It always is.’

Lucy regarded me evenly. ‘I’m not going to talk to you when you’re like this. But before I go, I’d just like to say thank you. Thank you for being so supportive, and congratulatory, and for taking my buzz –’ she held up one hand, laid flat with the palm uppermost, then curled it into a fist ‘– and crushing it.’

‘Oh, and I’m not going to talk to
you
, either.’ I pushed the words past clenched teeth. ‘But before you go, I’d just like to say you’re an idiot.’

Instead of answering she stared at me for a few moments, which was actually more effective. Then she turned and left, with a dignity that I would have found rather admirable if not for the fact I was so furious. What
I
wanted?
Nothing
at the moment was what I wanted. Half a childhood house, a mother who was the prime suspect in a neighbourhood murder, a sister who had conveniently relocated just far enough that she couldn’t quite be relied on, and now a twenty-year-old uni drop-out who no doubt planned on moving back home. Oh, and of course a husband who … my mind reared like a skittish horse, then galloped away. And no column. And anonymous threatening phone calls. And –

‘Did you really call Luce an idiot?’ asked Quinn from the doorway. ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

I nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Like, if we’re not allowed to call you an idiot, then you shouldn’t call us an idiot.’

‘I know.’ I took a deep breath. ‘How come you’re late, young lady?’

‘I told you I was going to Caitlin’s to study. What’s the point of me leaving messages on your mobile if you don’t ever check them?’

‘I do. I did. Whatever. Anyway, how was school?’

‘Yeah, okay. Griffin Russo says his mum says she’s too scared to sleep at night. What with a psychopath in the neighbourhood.’

‘Can I say that Lyn Russo is an idiot?’

Quinn grinned. ‘Yeah. What’s for dinner?’

‘Crumbed fish. I’ll get it started in a moment, I just have to make a phone call.’

As soon as Quinn left, I went out to the entry and rummaged through my bag until I found the card for Detective Sergeant Armistead. Plus a handful of crumbled blueberry muffin. I used the phone in the study, shutting the door as I dialled. It rang incessantly before his voice kicked in, requesting callers leave a message after the beep. I obliged, making sure my voice was level and the details succinct. Menacing message, possibly a disguised voice, unknown provenance. As an afterthought, I sent a quick email to my editor, asking her to let me know whether there had been any nasty letters received at their end. Perhaps it was something to do with one of my columns.

Out in the kitchen, I separated the fish fillets and began the crumbing process. There was nobody else around, although the television was now on. The news started so I found the remote control and turned the volume up a little, in case there were any developments. I felt a little ill, not just because of the nasty phone call, but because of Lucy. My children might infuriate me at times, but arguing with them was always disagreeable.

‘Are we having chips with them?’ Quinn wandered in, eyeing the fish with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

‘Yes.’ I pulled a bag of frozen chips from the freezer and dumped half onto an oven tray.

‘Has Grandma’s house been on again?’

‘Not yet.’

Quinn flung herself down on an armchair in the living room, giving me a flash of purple knickers beneath her school dress. I slid the tray into the oven, turned it on, wondered if the detective sergeant would call back tonight or tomorrow.

Lucy came in and stood at the end of the island bench idly straightening some catalogues. Finally she looked at me. ‘Do you want a hand?’

‘No, thanks. All under control.’

‘Oh. Well, you know I could set the table.’

I shrugged, dragging a fillet through beaten egg. ‘If you like.’

‘Ssh!’ Quinn held up a hand. ‘It’s on again!’

The house was centre screen, although it seemed to be the same footage as yesterday with the flurry of investigation taking place. The male newsreader’s voice came over the top. ‘
Investigations continue into the homicide and house fire at Majic, in country Victoria, yesterday, with police confirming that the victim was already dead at the time of the fire.
’ Then Detective Sergeant Armistead filled the screen, with his name on a caption beneath, wearing the grim expression that seemed to be his default. Larissa Wheatfield thrust a microphone at him. ‘
Yes, the deceased has been identified as Dustin Ronald Craig, aged forty-five.
’

‘
And can you tell us whether Mr Craig was known to the occupants of the house that was burnt?
’

‘Yes, he was a neighbour.’

‘So the two incidents are connected then?’

The detective stared at her for a moment. ‘
Well … yes. That would be our assumption.
’

‘
And do police have any leads?
’ asked Larissa intently.

‘
We’re being helped in our inquiries by a number of people. And we also urge anyone with relevant information to ring Crime Stoppers. We would particularly like to speak to the owner of a dark-coloured sedan with a number plate beginning with W.
’

Detective-Sergeant Armistead and Larissa Wheatfield vanished, replaced by the male newsreader. The picture behind him now showed a small town with encroaching flood waters. Quinn picked up the remote control and turned down the volume, then turned to me. ‘That means they have a suspect! The guy with the dark sedan!’

‘Yes,’ I replied slowly, wondering if this meant our theories had just been destroyed. Maybe it had been an outsider after all. I picked breadcrumbs off my fingertips thoughtfully.

‘Finished the table, Mum.’ Lucy waved towards the meals area, where a neatly set table even boasted a pot plant as a centrepiece. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, some board. Now that you’re employed. I take it you plan on staying here?’

‘Well, yeah.’ Lucy looked stunned. ‘I was … like, I thought …’

‘Clearly.’

‘Of course I’ll pay board,’ she said stiffly. ‘Just name your amount.’

I got out the salad bowl and began tearing lettuce, flinging it in. ‘So what’s this job then? Picking apples? Pears? Cherries? Or have you moved on from fruit?’

‘When’s dinner?’ asked Quinn. ‘I’m starving.’

Lucy was staring at me. ‘How did you know?’

‘I know everything.’ I sliced the top off a red onion and started chopping.

‘I was just taking time out, working out what I wanted to do. Trying to fi–’

I held up my hand to stop her, which worked because it was also the hand holding the knife. ‘If you say “find yourself”, I swear to god I’m going to blindfold you, drop you in the middle of the desert, and then see how you
really
go about finding yourself.’

‘In all fairness,’ interjected Quinn, ‘if you dropped her in the middle of the desert then it wouldn’t be
herself
that she’d have trouble finding, it’d be –’

Lucy sniffed. ‘Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. But it worked for me.’

‘– civilisation,’ finished Quinn. ‘Which is entirely different.’

‘So tell us then: who the hell gave you this wonderful job?’

‘That would be me,’ said my mother from the doorway. She put a carrier bag down on the floor with her handbag, and came over to the island bench. ‘Is something burning?’