ONCE UPON A LIE (A Fitzjohn Mystery) (11 page)

‘
Yes, I know.  Arthur Brandt. He was featured on a television show I watched not long ago.  One of those SBS shows on art.’  Esme sipped her tea while Charlotte gazed at the report.  ‘It never ceases to amaze me that many of the most sought after pieces of artwork are not pleasing to the eye.  At least not mine.  And this report is about its provenance, you say?’

‘
Yes.  Which seems odd because I can’t imagine Mum buying anything without its provenance being in-tact, or at least being satisfied with it.  Can you, Esme?’

‘No.  That’s where
your mother and Michael were alike.  Fastidious about detail.  What does the report conclude?’

Charlotte flipped through the pages. 
‘It’s not finished so there’s no conclusion.  But Mum does have notes here, at the end, about what she plans to do the following week.  The week of July 11th, 2010.’

Esme gasped. 
‘The week your mother passed away.’

‘Yes.’
  Charlotte paused.  ‘It’s such a shame she was never able to finish this.’

‘
Why don’t you do it for her, dear?  That way your mother’s work will be complete, and as the owner of the sketch, you’ll be assured of its provenance.’

‘
It sounds like a good idea, Esme, but I don’t know that I have the expertise. I know nothing about art or who to approach.’

‘What about your mother’s notes?
  You could start there.’

‘
I suppose so.  I’ll read through them again, and think about it.’  Charlotte sat back and cradled her cup in her hands.  ‘Would you like to come to the winery with me tomorrow, Esme?  It’ll make for a nice change.’

‘
You know, I think I’d like that.  It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the Hunter Valley.’

Charlotte smiled.  ‘
Then it’s settled.  We’ll plan on leaving late morning, after I’ve been in to the bookshop.  I need to let Irene know that I’ll be away.’

CHAPTER
12

Early the next morning, Betts arrived at Fitzjohn’s Birchgrove home to find his boss in the back garden looking upward to a tree branch hanging precariously over
the greenhouse.  ‘Good morning, sir.’

Fitzjohn turned.
  ‘Betts.  I thought you had a meeting with the insurance company this morning.’

‘
It’s not till eleven,’ said Betts, following Fitzjohn’s intent gaze to the branch swaying in the wind.  ‘That whole tree needs taking down, sir.’

‘I
f you can convince my neighbour of that fact, Betts, I’ll give you a medal.’

‘I take it you’ve spoken to him about it
, sir.’

‘
It’s not a him, Betts, it’s a rather formidable woman by the name of Rhonda Butler.  And yes, we’ve had words. On several occasions.  But it hasn’t done any good.  She refuses to take any action because the tree provides her house and garden with shade throughout the summer months.’  Fitzjohn lifted his eyebrows.

‘
Nevertheless, I think you’re within your rights to, at least, have that branch removed, sir.’

‘I know
.  In fact, I rang the council this morning.  They’re on their way now.’  Fitzjohn looked at his watch.  ‘Or so I thought.  If they take much longer, I won’t have time to drop my suits off at my tailor before Reynolds and I speak to Stella Rossi.’

‘I can wait
here for the council to arrive, sir.’

Fitzjohn
eyed Betts over his glasses.  ‘Have you ever had dealings with any councils, Betts?’

‘No,
but I’ve watched my mother in action.  I’m sure I’ve learnt something along the way.  If you like, I can get Mum over here.  She’ll soon sort this out.’

‘Thanks,
but I think we’ll leave your mother out of this.  I’d appreciate it though if you could wait here for the people from the council to arrive.  I’m expecting they’ll come prepared to take that branch down and when they start cutting, I’m afraid Rhonda will go spare.  To put it politely, she’s highly strung.’

‘You mean
she’s neurotic, sir.’

‘I didn’t say that, Betts. 
But be warned.  Rhonda Butler is a daunting adversary.’

‘Leave her to me, sir.
’

Fitzjohn left his tailor’s shop that morning preoccupied with thoughts of how Betts was getting on with the council, and with Rhonda Butler.  Was the threatening tree branch finally being cut down, or had Rhonda halted proceedings by chaining herself to the offending branch?  With this last thought in mind, Fitzjohn took his mobile phone from his coat pocket and started to punch in Betts’s number when his attention was drawn to two men walking ahead, in deep conversation.  Fitzjohn slowed his pace when he realised who they were.  Chief Superintendent Grieg, and Ron Carling?  Together?  For what purpose?  Fitzjohn’s thoughts went back to his meeting with Grieg the previous day, and the knowledge Grieg had of Graeme Wyngard’s complaint about his yacht being impounded.  Did this mean that Ron Carling was the mole?

Confused as well as perturbed, Fitzjohn jumped in to the first taxi at a rank along O’Connell Street and sat back stiffly
as it took off into the traffic.  His mind traversed through all the years he had known Ron Carling.  A man he had always considered his friend.  Not to mention one who had made it clear, right from their first days on the force, that he did not like Grieg and would never consider working with him.  So, if that was the case, what were Ron and Grieg doing together now?

This last thought lingered with Fitzjohn as he and Reynolds started out for their interview with Stella Rossi.  And it continued until Reynolds pulled up outside her Cammeray home where a set of garage doors, and a tall wrought iron gate, was all that gave any hint that a house lay beyond.  ‘Right, Reynolds,’ said Fitzjohn, climbing out of the car.  ‘Let’s see if Mrs Rossi’s alibi gels with Prentice’s, shall we?’ Fitzjohn opened the gate and the two officers descended a set of stone steps in to a small secluded garden.  The front door to the residence lay down yet another set of steps.  After pressing the doorbell, they waited before the door opened and an attractive woman in her late forties appeared.  Tall and willowy, her dark hair swept up and held by an elaborate comb, she looked guardedly at the two men.  ‘Can I help you?’

‘Mrs
Stella Rossi?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, and this is Detective Sergeant Reynolds.  We’re from the New South Wales Police Force.  We’d like to speak to you in connection with your husband, Michael Rossi. May we come in?’

‘Yes, o
f course.  Actually I’m glad you’ve come to see me,’ she said as she led the way along a wide hallway that ran the full depth of the house.  ‘I heard about Michael’s death on the news on Saturday morning, but I haven’t heard anything since.’  She glanced at Fitzjohn.  ‘I’m still having difficulty believing what happened to him.’  They emerged in to a large living, dining area, its floor to ceiling glass bi-fold doors and windows revealing magnificent views over Long Bay.  ‘Have a seat, gentleman.’  Stella Rossi gestured to several couches; not unlike the ones at the victim’s home in Rushcutters Bay.  ‘Can I get you both a refreshment?’

‘That’s very kind, Mrs Rossi,
but we’re fine, thank you,’ replied Fitzjohn.

Stella Rossi nodded and sat
on a couch, smoothing down the snug white slacks she wore.  ‘I take it you know that Michael and I were separated.’

‘
Yes, we are aware of that, Mrs Rossi,’ answered Fitzjohn, looking around the room as he settled himself.  ‘Did you have much contact with your husband after the separation?’

‘Not a lot,
no, but we did keep in touch.  Mostly by telephone.’

‘And when was the last time you spoke
to him?’

‘As a matter of fact, it was the day he died.  I telephoned Michael to see how he was.
’  Stella Rossi caught Fitzjohn’s questioning look.  ‘He was a complex man, Chief Inspector.  I worried about him.  I had no idea it would be the last time we’d speak.’  She looked away, her eyes blinking back tears.  ‘You know, I’ve been thinking that if I hadn’t left Michael, this would never have happened.’

Fitzjohn waited before
he continued,  ‘I know this is difficult, Mrs Rossi, but to your knowledge, did your husband have any enemies?’

‘Enemies?’ 
Stella grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table in front of her and dabbed her nose.  ‘I don’t know.  It’s been over two years since Michael and I have lived together.  The only person I know who didn’t like Michael is Robert Nesbit.  And who could blame him.’ Stella shook her head.  ‘I take it you know about the reason, so I won’t bore you with a repetition.’

‘We know that your husband and Robert Nesbit were business partners and friends
at one time,’ Mrs Rossi, ‘so it would be helpful to us if you could fill us in on what happened to change that.’

For the next few minutes, Fitzjohn
and Reynolds listened to Stella Rossi’s account of her estranged husband’s love affair with Robert Nesbit’s wife.  ‘It ruined Robert’s marriage, of course, not to mention our own.’  Stella glanced out to a yacht moored in the harbour at the end of the garden.  ‘The ideal home for a man who loved yachts and sailing wouldn’t you say, Chief Inspector?  And yet he threw it all away.  Our actions can be so life changing.  It’s frightening.  Still, I can’t grumble.  Michael and I had an amicable settlement that left us both financially secure.  He insisted I have the house.  It appeased his conscience, I suppose.’

‘
So I take it you don’t expect to be a beneficiary of your husband’s estate,’ said Fitzjohn.

‘
I wouldn’t expect to be, but as it turns out, I am.  Michael didn’t change his will after we separated.  I know because he told me.  Again, I think it appeased his conscience.’

Fitzjohn nodded. 
‘There’s just one other question I have to ask, Mrs Rossi, and that is, where were you on Friday evening between the hours of eight and midnight?’

A look of indignation came to Stella
Rossi’s face.  ‘You’re not suggesting…’

‘I’m sure you can appreciate
the importance of knowing where everyone, who knew your husband was at the time of his death, Mrs Rossi.’

‘Well, since you put it that way.  I attended a function at the art gallery with my friend, Janet Gibson.  You can check with her.  We left
the gallery around 8:30pm and then... I met another friend.’  Stella hesitated.  ‘Actually, it’s a rather delicate situation.  You see, he’s married.’

‘Can
you give us his name?  So we can corroborate your alibi.’

Stella grimaced.  ‘
Is that altogether necessary, Chief Inspector?’

‘It is, I’m afraid
.’

‘
Well, this is embarrassing because I was with Nigel Prentice, Michael’s business partner.  We’ve been seeing each other for the last couple of months.’  Stella Rossi caught Fitzjohn’s eye.  ‘It’s shabby of me I know, but I’ve been so lonely.’

‘
Might I asked how you and Nigel Prentice spent the evening, Mrs Rossi?’

‘We went for a drive.  Up as far as Colloroy, I think.’

‘
Well, their alibi’s match, sir,’ said Reynolds as he followed Fitzjohn back through the garden to the car.  ‘And you can’t help but feel sorry for the poor woman, can you?  She seems to think that if she hadn’t left her husband, he might still be alive.’

‘
It’s part of the human condition, Reynolds.  We feel responsible and guilt for much of which we’re not.’  Fitzjohn climbed into the car and pulled his seat belt on, his thoughts going to Edith.  ‘Even so, let’s not forget the fact that with the death of Michael Rossi, Stella Rossi and Nigel Prentice now own Rossi & Prentice Yachting Electronics Pty Ltd.  Which means, they both had motive to kill our victim.’

An hour later Fitzjohn sat at his desk in the Incident Room at Kings Cross Police Station turning his pen end for end, his thoughts not only on whether Ron Carling was Chief Superintendent Grieg’s mole, but also the fate of the tree branch. As he sat there lost in thought, the door opened and Betts walked in.  Fitzjohn sat forward.  ‘Tell me that the branch has been taken down,’ he said.

Betts shook his head and slumped
into his chair. ‘I’m sorry, sir.  You were right.  Rhonda Butler is one difficult woman.  She threatened to phone the police if we touched the tree.’

‘But
you
are
the police, Betts.’

‘
That fact didn’t sink in, sir.’

Fitzjohn
threw his pen on to his desk.  ‘What did the people from the council suggest I do?’

‘
Unfortunately, Mrs Butler put the wind up them, sir, and they left in a hurry.’

‘Mmm.  Let me guess.
Rhonda dropped a few names and told them that if they so much as looked at her tree, none of them would have jobs by tomorrow morning.’  Betts nodded.  ‘It’s her usual line of defence.’