Nefarious Doings (7 page)

‘Shit.’ I pulled out the tray of chips and tossed them around, removing one that had fallen against the element. I replaced the tray and faced Yen. ‘You gave her a job.’

‘Yes. Why not?’

‘Because maybe it would have been nice to speak to me first? See how I felt about it?’

She shrugged. ‘Lucy’s an adult. She needed a job, I offered her one.’

I opened my mouth, and then closed it again. Anything I said now would no doubt be regretted later as I was so angry I could barely think straight. Instead, I got out the electric frypan and drizzled some olive oil, then laid the fillets in a neat row. I watched them sizzle, little bubbles frothing at the edges.
Elderly woman felled by skillet. No witnesses.

‘Has Auntie Pet left?’ asked Quinn.

‘Yes. And I don’t know why you’re so annoyed, Nell,’ said Yen, in the same tone of voice she used when I was five. ‘I’m doing you a favour. You should thank me. Good lord, are you crying?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I was chopping onions.’

After a few minutes of silence, Quinn turned the volume back up on the television. The weatherman was now on, pointing industriously to a series of charts. I turned the fish and added some carrot and feta to the salad bowl.

‘Grandma, did you know the police have a suspect now?’ Quinn swivelled around in the armchair. ‘They’re looking for a guy in a dark-coloured sedan.’

‘Well that should narrow the field down.’ Yen sat down on the armchair, stared at the television and then back at Quinn. ‘Any other developments?’

Yes
, I thought to myself, tossing the salad vigorously,
we now have a threatening caller and you’re a controlling bitch.

‘No, but your house was on the news again. So was that detective Mum spoke to.’

‘He said they had several people helping them with their inquiries,’ added Lucy.

‘That’s what they always say,’ said Yen dismissively. She watched me plate the fish. ‘Are Scarlet and Ruby coming back up this weekend?’

‘I don’t know.’

She drummed her fingers on the armrest. ‘Your sister is. Just to see how things are going. See if I need anything.’

‘Dinner’s ready.’ I poured the chips into a large bowl. ‘Quick, while it’s hot.’

‘Crumbed fish,’ said Yen, rising. She came over to the bench and took the plate with the smallest fillet. ‘How nice.’

Lucy sniffed appreciatively. ‘Yum.’

‘I thought you were vegetarian?’ Quinn extracted a single lettuce leaf and deposited it on her plate, before covering it with chips.

‘I am. Fish is different. And Mum’s cooking makes it special.’

I passed her a plate and then picked up the salad bowl and chips and took them over to the table, placing them either side of the pot plant. As everyone was settling themselves around the table, I went back to the kitchen and covered the remaining fish with cling wrap.

Quinn was watching me. ‘Aren’t you eating?’

‘Later.’ I washed my hands briskly. ‘I’ve got to finish my column first.’

I could feel Yen studying me as I strode past the table but I schooled myself not to glance in her direction. Instead, I went straight to the study and shut the door. Then I wheeled my chair into position, tapped the computer out of hibernation and typed in the title for my new column. ‘Power, control and the manipulative mother’. After that the column wrote itself.

I wonder if you realise that you have written three columns in the past six months around the theme of the joys of solitude. Not sure what’s going on in your life but methinks the lady doth protest too much?

I’m not sure when I first decided to do a little bit of investigating myself. It may have been at around three in the morning, when I thought I heard someone creeping up the driveway. For the third time that night. Or it may have been a little earlier, when I could have sworn somebody was using a glass cutter on the windows in the living room. Which would have made for a rather intrepid villain, as those particular windows were a good five metres off the ground and didn’t even have ledges. Or it may have been even earlier, as I played the answering machine tape about six or seven times, trying to get some clues from those fourteen throaty words.

I would have spent some time on the doll’s house, which had become my routine for sleepless nights, by my mother’s presence thwarted even that. Instead, I tossed and turned and thought. I decided it was very doubtful that the threatening phone call was about one of my columns, as I rarely wrote about issues deep enough to generate that level of wrath. Nor was it likely to be about my personal life as I was fairly law-abiding. The worst thing I had done recently was park in a parents-with-prams bay outside the local supermarket and even then, strictly speaking, I
did
own a pram, albeit an old one. The sign hadn’t stipulated that it actually had to be in the car. It was most likely, however, that the phone call was connected to the dead body recently found in my mother’s garage. Otherwise it was far too coincidental.

All of which left one burning question: why? Actually it left several other questions also, but it seemed better to concentrate on one at a time.

By the morning my mind was made up, and even sand-in-the-eye weariness was not enough to dissuade me. At the very least, investigating the case would be a distraction, and I needed a distraction. Besides, as a middle-aged woman, it seemed that I possessed a highly desirable trait for sleuthing: invisibility. Might as well make use of it.

I slept in until past eight, which was unusual, and by the time I made it to the kitchen everybody had already left. There was a note on the bench –
Gone to school. Love, Quinn
– and fresh coffee wafting from a percolator that hadn’t been there when I went to bed. I poured myself a mug and was pleased to discover that it tasted as good as it smelt.

The thing was that whichever way the situation was examined, my mother seemed to be involved. Even if the unidentified sedan owner was the culprit, there must have been a reason that he dragged the body into
her
garage and set it alight. Perhaps he had decided to kill two birds with one stone. So to speak. Regardless, my mother’s involvement gave me a legitimate reason for asking questions. And those questions, plus answers, might give me an angle that – I let the half-formed idea peep out for just a second – could be used for a book. Perhaps fate had given me a second chance at writing a murder mystery. Perhaps, despite all recent evidence to the contrary, fate was on my side.

It was a beautiful morning, with an airy balminess that was more spring than summer. I drove with the windows down, singing along to Jimmy Barnes and just reaching the climax of ‘Working Class Man’ as I turned into Small Dairy Lane and parked by the kerb. The house was deserted now, no other cars, no investigators; just crime tape and blue canvas fluttering in the breeze. I ducked beneath the tape and walked towards the remains of the garage. The damage to the house itself was boarded over, but the garage had been so badly burnt that there was little recognisable there. Except the blackened shell of my mother’s Honda.

I pushed at some coal with my foot and stared at the black smear across my sandshoe, then made my way gingerly through the debris. In the backyard I could see the section of blackened fence that Rita Hurley had been talking about, but all else looked untouched. The borders still bloomed, the grass glistened, and the trees spread leafy shade with a welcoming generosity that was a little ironic, given their owner. I crossed to the Craig side fence and was thrilled to see, immediately, that a section of garden had been all but destroyed. There was also some damage to the lawn nearby, as if something had been dragged for a short distance, perhaps about a metre. Otherwise, the lawn remained pristine, apart from scattering of possum poo, all the way up to the garage remains.

From here I could see the top half of the Craigs’ house and I guessed that if someone had been sitting on the decking over there, I would have been able to see the upper half of them too. I swivelled towards the back fence where, because Lincoln Court was set on a slight rise, Leon Chaucer’s entire veranda was visible, with three-quarters enclosed behind rippled green perspex. Next door was Berry Pembroke’s house, but only a large corner window faced my mother’s yard, lined with white net.

‘Nell! Thank
goodness
it’s you!’

I turned a little more and there was Rita, peering over the top of her fence. The burnt section spread from below her chin, like an amorphous charcoal body. ‘Yes, just me. I thought I’d come check things out.’

‘Though I’m not sure if you should be back there. The tape
is
still up.’

‘If they were that fussed, they would have left a guard or something.’ I crossed the yard towards her. ‘Listen, Rita, do you have any theories? About what happened?’

She blinked. ‘Um, no. That is … no.’

But I knew, just by the way her eyes slid from mine for a second, that she did indeed have a theory, and my mother had a starring role. I waited, hoping that she would feel compelled to fill the silence.

‘You look tired, Nell. Not sleeping well?’ She paused as I shrugged, and then continued in a rush. ‘So, is your mother going to rebuild?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Oh, I just thought she might take the opportunity to, well, downsize. Maybe even one of those nice villages, like the one they’re building out near the lake.’

‘You mean the retirement village?’

‘Well, yes. Not that I’m suggesting she
retire
,’ added Rita rapidly. ‘Just that this might all be sort of serendipitous. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Oh, exactly. And it was terribly sporting of that Craig bloke to be part of the serendipity. You don’t often find that sort of generosity in a neighbour.’

Rita frowned. ‘Um, that’s not quite –’

‘I know.’ I took pity on her, despite her clumsy attempt to turn the situation to her advantage. Which was probably understandable in itself.

‘The police have been around, asking questions,’ offered Rita. ‘Did we hear anything, that sort of thing. I told them we just turned the telly up when the arguing started, tried to mind our own business.’ She hesitated. ‘They took Jim to the station to make a statement.’

‘I see. Ah, did they mention the car? A dark-coloured sedan?’

‘Yes, they did, but we weren’t any help.’

‘Naturally. And I don’t suppose you know how Beth Craig is? How she’s coping?’

‘Oh, I dropped in yesterday.’ Rita looked pleased to report that she’d done something proactive. ‘Took her a casserole. She’s struggling, poor thing.’

‘I’m heading over there now. Offer my condolences and all that.’

‘Well, pass on my best wishes again. And to your mother as well.’

‘No problem. Did you want me to pass on your suggestion? About the retirement village?’

Rita paled. ‘No! I mean no, that’s not a good idea. It’ll sound all wrong. It was just a thought, a silly thought. You know me, not thinking …’ She petered off.

‘No problem,’ I repeated, feeling guilty. ‘I won’t say anything. But I’d better go, or I’ll run out of time. Bye, Rita.’

‘Bye, Nell, love. Do say hello to your mother from me. And from Jim.’

I left Rita at the fence and made my way back through the remains of the garage and into the front yard. From Lincoln Court came the sound of a motor mower, the roar throbbing along the soft breeze. It only served to accentuate the silence of the house next door, where every blind was at least half-drawn. I walked up the driveway, my feet crunching on gravel. Past a cluster of tree ferns that sprouted from pine-chipped garden beds, trailing fronds across the lawn. Up to an old-fashioned screen door that was more screen than frame, and behind which a mission-brown front door was firmly shut.

I rang the doorbell and listened to it echo deep within the house. It was still echoing as the door was flung open and I dropped my gaze to the little girl who stood there, about six years of age, wavy blonde hair pulled back into pigtails. ‘Hello there. Is your mum home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah, so could you get her?’

‘Yes.’

I thought that if I stood there, expectantly, the child might follow through, but long moments passed with us simply staring at each other. It’s difficult to know who would have given in first but fortunately her mother appeared behind her, clearly annoyed that the front door had already been answered.

‘Jessica! I’ve
told
you and
told
you. What have I told you?’

‘Not to open the door?’

‘I am
very
cross with you.’

Jessica nodded, apparently unperturbed. She pointed to my head. ‘You’ve got funny hair.’

‘Yes, I do,’ I said agreeably, and then turned my attention back to her mother. ‘Hello, I’m Nell, Lillian Forrest’s daughter. From next door.’

Beth Craig was visibly relieved. ‘Oh,
good
. I thought you might be that woman from the paper again. Oh, and I should ask how your mother is?’

‘She’s fine, just fine. But you – I’m so sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you.’ Beth pushed the screen door open and I realised her loss was, in fact, written all over her face. Her pale hair appeared unwashed, pulled back into a low ponytail, and her eyes were swollen, cradled by loose, puffy bags. Nevertheless it was also clear that she was a very good-looking woman, with porcelain skin and fine facial bones.

‘I just thought I’d pass on my condolences, and if you need anything, you know …’

‘Yes. Thank you. So kind.’

Silence stretched, and I knew she was being polite, waiting for me to leave. ‘Ah, I wonder if I could ask you something? Not to be nosy or anything, but more because, well, my mother is sort of involved and …’

‘I understand.’ Beth’s face tightened. ‘What did you want to ask?’

‘The police mentioned a car, a dark-coloured sedan. I was just wondering if …’

‘Oh,
that
. No, I don’t know who it was.’ She shook her head, tendrils of fine hair fluttering. ‘No idea. Nothing to do with us.’

‘I see. Most likely coincidence then. Perhaps a visitor for someone else in the street.’

‘I reckon. All I know is no-one was visiting … us.’

I watched her face tighten once more, and tried desperately to think of something to prolong the conversation. Something empathic, yet insightful. ‘Shit, hey?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must be so, um …’

‘Yes.’ She hesitated, running her fingers through one of her daughter’s pigtails. ‘He wasn’t like they’re saying, you know. Not always. He loved me, and the girls.’

I nodded, glanced down at Jessica. She stared steadily back.

‘It was his job. So much pressure. And me …’ She laughed, a harsh sound. ‘Sometimes I don’t know when to shut up. Nag, nag, nag. That’s me.’

I nodded again, because I didn’t know how to respond. I had a flash of insight that soon Beth would begin rewriting history in earnest, and no doubt within a year she would be insisting that her marriage had been perfect, and her husband a gentle soul.

‘Could you please say thank you to your mother for me?’

My eyes widened. ‘What for?’

‘Oh, she’s been so good to me. So helpful.’

I stared at her guileless expression and knew, instantly, that she hadn’t been involved. Whatever had eventuated that evening, how her husband’s body ended up in my mother’s garage, Beth Craig knew no more than she claimed. I put a hand on her arm. ‘I’ll tell her.’

She gazed at my hand, then back at me. ‘I just can’t work out who … well, could
do
something like …’

‘My dad’s dead,’ said Jessica, with perfect timing. ‘A bad man stabbed him seventeen hundred times.’

‘Stabbed him?’ I blinked at her, then Beth. ‘So you’ve heard how he died?’

‘Oh my god!
You’ve
heard?’

I frowned. ‘Well, only from you. Just then.’

‘But I don’t know anything! I thought
you
did.’

‘She just said –’ I took my hand away to point at Jessica, who was watching us both with interest ‘– that a bad man
stabbed
him!’

‘In the shower,’ added Jessica.

‘Oh my god, don’t listen to her! She just got that from
Psycho
, is all. You know, that old film with the nyeh, nyeh.’ Beth executed the classic shower stabbing motion. ‘We watched it last night, to try and take our minds off everything.’

‘You let her watch
Psycho
? To take her mind
off
things?’

‘It was boring,’ said Jessica. ‘I liked
Roger Rabbit
better. There was a lady with my name. She was hot.’

Beth was looking at me narrowly. ‘Are you criticising my parenting?’

‘
Psycho
! When her father’s just been –’

‘Fuck off,’ said Beth, taking a step backwards and pushing Jessica behind her. She let go of the screen, which bounced closed, and then gave me one last glare before she slammed the front door. Leaving me with just mission-brown through mesh.

‘Well done,’ I said to the door. ‘Top journalistic skills.’

I could hear Beth’s voice, interspersed with her daughter’s higher tones, fading into the depths of the house. The motor mower took over, with a throaty rumble. I took a deep breath as I walked down the driveway towards the car. It was just as well I never hankered after a career as a private investigator; a Pink Panther-type ineptitude wasn’t quite as appealing without the French accent.

I detoured past my mother’s letterbox and removed a handful of mail, which I threw on the passenger seat. Then I surveyed the street thoughtfully. The Roddom house was locked up tight, with garage door down and curtains drawn, and was only missing a sign announcing
We’re on holidays and nobody is home
. Next door the Tapscotts’ carport was sans cars so I guessed both were at work, with the budding author about a month or so from maternity leave. I turned to peer down the street towards Mrs Fletcher’s old weatherboard, and noted that it too appeared deserted. It seemed that this street was perfect for crime, with the residents all either absent or watching movies about psychopathic killers and/or animated interspecies marriage.