Sex on Tuesdays (6 page)

Exactly.

6

Tuesday, 2:30 p.m.

It wasn't until we pulled up in the car park behind the
Tribute
and Simon switched off the engine that he brought up the reason we'd both been interviewed by the police.

“Hold it. Don't get out yet,” he ordered, putting a gentle hand on my arm as I went to unfasten my seat belt. “I'm worried about you, Dani. You've got yourself mixed up in something mad-dog serious here.”

As if I didn't know
.

He let the seat belt flip back against the seat, took his hand from my arm and began to drum restless fingers against the steering wheel. A car horn blared nearby followed by a screech of brakes and angry shouting. Normal everyday sounds that barely penetrated the buildup of confusion intent on taking over my brain cells.

“You know,” he said at last. “I've been trying to nut this whole hot poker thing out.” Simon paused, a frown creasing his broad forehead. “And the same thought keeps popping up over and over again. Whoever changed the last letter in your column, either murdered
DF's
wife, or
knows
who murdered her. Right?”

I nodded.

“So, if we're going to get the police off your back,” he went on, “it's the biggest clue we have to go on.”

We?
So Simon was prepared to help me. A warm glow spread through my tired body and I smiled up at him. “Actually, Simon, it's our
only
clue.”

“You're right.” His eyes twinkled and then went serious again. “Think hard, Dani. Have you any idea who could have sabotaged your column?”

“Let's face it, the saboteur could be any one from the
Tribute
. From our esteemed boss—right down to the sandwich-shop girl who comes across to take our lunch orders. They all have access to my computer.”

“What I don't understand is who would want to drag
you
into the murder? Who at the
Tribute
has that sort of a grudge against you?”

“
Alice!
” We blurted at the same time.

A grin tickled the corners of Simon's mouth. Eyes questioning, he turned towards me.

“Nah….” After giving it a second's thought, I shook my head slowly. “Alice might put salt in my coffee but, hey, murder is a far cry from causing me to spew up. And then there's the actual murder itself. What could Alice possibly have against
DF
's wife?”

“What about if she was in love with
DF
?”

“Alice?”

“Well, she could be his secret mistress.”

“Alice?” I repeated, in disbelief.

“Hmm…you're right,” he agreed. “I saw a photo of the dead woman on the news this morning and believe me, no man with two eyes in his head would prefer Alice. The victim was not only a stunner, she looked intelligent. Beauty and brains compared to obnoxious and stupid. Alice would need to be blackmailing
DF
for him to risk losing his gorgeous wife to a middle-aged, sallow-skinned, wannabe witch.”

“Well, perhaps she
was
blackmailing him.”

“But if that was the case, wouldn't
DF
be more likely to murder Alice? Why was the wife murdered?”

“So you reckon it's the husband?”

“In most cases it's someone close to the victim.”

“But why frame me? I have no motive.”

I rubbed both hands over my face and let out a sigh. Nothing made sense. It was like waking from an incredibly horrific nightmare only to find the damn thing was real after all. To think, yesterday I was a boring spinster whose biggest concern was that the herbal remedies I'd bought for my hot flushes didn't do a spit of good. Today, I was almost seduced by a rival paper journalist, late for work, escorted from the office by two detectives, accused of murdering a woman I didn't know. And if the decibels of Joe's yells when the detectives assisted me into the police car were anything to go by, my job could very well be in jeopardy.

After today's debacle, perhaps getting fired would be a relief. And yet I loved my job as a sex therapist—advising people who wrote in to me, baring their souls, ready to give up on a relationship because the magic had gone out of their sex lives. No, what I needed to do was get better at my job—not give up and go back to selling lattes and cappuccinos.

And then my mobile phone rang and my mother's ID showed up on the screen. Which just goes to show—problems in life can always get worse. If she'd gone ahead and booked herself into hospital for that boob job, I'd have to bring in the heavy artillery—my sister Penny.

“Hi, Mum, what's up?”

“It's that dickhead Henry,” she yelled in a voice loud enough to crack china. “It's his nintieth birthday on Saturday and he wants me to buy him a friggin' skateboard. What's the silly bugger gonna do with a skateboard? Hey? He can't even get around without his walking frame, so how does he think he's gonna stay upright on the damn thing?”

The image of 90-year-old Henry on a skateboard did not compute. “So,” I said, giving up on her question, “what are you going to do?” Henry and my mother have this on-again off-again relationship that hits the rocks and bounces back at least twice a day. In between, she has ongoing relationships at Sunny Days Retirement Home with Billy, and Percy, and a 78-year-old guy called Tug whose claim to fame is that he once drove the getaway car for the Mafia.

“Well, that's what I'm ringing you for, sweetie. Will you have time to shop for a hot pink skateboard—that's the color he's hanging out for—and bring it to the Home before Saturday?”

“Of course, Mum. Any special brand?”

“Nah. Just make sure it's pink,” she said. “I knew I could rely on you. It was no good ringing that tight-assed sister of yours. She'd end up buying poor Henry a coffin cover or a bag of boiled sweets, regardless of the fact that he has no teeth. No imagination at all, that one. Takes after her father, God rest his soul. Well, I'm off to Bingo now, sweetie. And get this! There's a new resident at the Home with a full mop of hair. His name's Johnny, and he's going to fight both Henry
and
Tug for the honor to sit next to me at dinner. Should be a doozy.”

On that note, my mother hung up.

It was so unfair. My mother's sex life was more prolific than mine. But then again, a dead person's sex life was more prolific than mine. Did this make me a phony? Answering other people's sex-related questions without naked, hands-on, hip-grinding research?

I stuffed the phone back in my shiny red bag and closed my eyes, so tired that my brain had erected an
Out of Order
sign, which left it operating on only two of its six cylinders. The only cure for this ailment was to drive home, soak in a hot tub and go to bed. But before leaving the police station, I'd left a message on Megan's voicemail arranging to meet me at Tamali's, a little coffee shop in the city, at four o'clock. After that I might go home and sleep until this whole nightmare was over.

Perhaps Simon noted the slump of my shoulders or heard the tiredness in my sigh, or just thought I might end up crying all over his new seat covers. Anyway, next minute, he took my hand and his voice gentled. “Just take care, Dani. Okay?” he said, giving my hand a squeeze. “I've asked my mate, Brian, the sergeant I was chatting to at the police station, to let me know if anything new comes up with the case. But meanwhile, I want you to watch out for Alice. She's a loose cannon, that one. She had access to your rubbish bin so could have found your longhand draft and I'm sure I heard her chanting over what looked like a dead frog and some ratty looking feathers the other day.” He let go of my hand and pushed a wispy strand of hair back behind my ear. “And don't eat or drink anything she offers you. Right?”

I flashed him a weak grin. “Okay, Dad.”

“That's enough of the Dad stuff,” he ordered with a mock frown. “Now, are you coming into the
Tribute
with me or are you chickening out and taking off to meet Megan?”

I shook my head and began rooting around in my tote bag for the keys to my car. “I'll leave Joe until tomorrow.
After
I've had a sleep.” Suddenly I couldn't face the prospect of my brother-in-law's blustering face and loud voice. “If I go in there now, who knows, the old buzzard might have a heart attack. And I'm in no condition to listen to Penny rant at me at his funeral.”

“Okay, Dani. Go home after you see Megan and I'll write up a disclaimer for you and add it to your column.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Maybe I'll ring later and fill you in on what our exulted leader had to say. And remember, if you need to talk, or just want someone to eat pizza and watch a movie with tonight, I'm only a phone call away. Okay? “

“Thanks, Simon. You're a good mate.” Leaning over, I kissed him on the cheek before climbing out of the car. Then, crouching low, so I couldn't be seen by anyone inside the office, especially Joe, I dodged quickly from car to car until I found my Futura.

Tuesday, 4:00 p.m.

Megan Starr amazes and sends me aback all over again, every time.

When my co-researcher sashayed through the door of the little coffee shop, I thought for the hundredth time, how could this exotic, movie-star-look-alike be a middle-aged ex-prostitute? Hell, the woman looked 28 instead of 48. Flawless skin, model thin and ready to pose for any passing cameraman at the drop of a garter belt.

Definitely not good karma for a mere mortal's ego.

When I'm with Megan, I feel so far down the food chain, the dogs won't even look at me. And today was no exception. My hair, slipping from its confines, straggled around my face, while Megan could have stepped straight out of a trendy hairdressing salon. Okay, I'd just stepped out of a police station so maybe I had an excuse, but even on my best days, the dogs still didn't give me a second glance.

Megan smiled at a passing waiter who almost tripped over his feet in his hurry to attend to her. “We'll have two caramel lattes and two carrot cakes, please.”

Dropping several shopping bags under the table, she made a great production of wriggling into the chair opposite me. I could see by the swanky labels, most of the bags were from Le Faye, an exclusive, up-market shoe shop that had only opened a month ago.

“So,” she drawled, “how the hell are you, Danielle?”

“Not great,” I replied, unable to take my eyes off the woman. How did she do it? She was dressed in red leather—which on me would have been a joke—but on Megan only emphasized her spectacular body. Of course, it also made every male over twelve go weak in the knees. Her feet were resplendent in a pair of strappy high heels that would have cost more than I made in a month. Yet Megan was retired. Just showed how lucrative prostitution was. As opposed to working at McDonald's part time until I graduated with a useless BA degree, and then spending several unexciting years managing a coffee shop. It wasn't until my sister Penny coerced her husband into giving me a job writing for the paper that my work suddenly became important to me. More so since I'd taken over the “Sex on…” columns.

“Sorry I couldn't make it for lunch,” I said, leaning forward and catching the overpowering scent of her
Poison
perfume. I coughed. “As it turned out, I had other things on my plate.”

Megan lifted one beautifully penciled eyebrow. “From what I hear, it wasn't a boiled egg with toast fingers, either.”

Geez. The grape vine moves quickly, but this was ridiculous. Here's me, spat out of the police station less than two hours ago and the rest of the world knew. I lifted my never-been-plucked-and-not-likely-to-be-plucked eyebrows at her. “How do you know that?”

“Alice.”

Of course
.

“That woman is so emotional,” Megan went on, accepting her coffee and cake from one enraptured floating-on-air waiter, while mine was dropped in front of me. “When Alice rang to let me know you couldn't make lunch, she told me you'd been dragged away to the police station by two detectives. Poor dear sounded so excited, I thought she'd come crashing through the phone at me.” She patted at the corner of her lips with a serviette before leaning forward and giving me a stern look. “So, what's going on, Danielle?”

“I bet Alice wet herself with excitement when the cops took me away.” I rolled my eyes. “And I'm sure I saw her waving that damn voodoo doll at me and muttering incantations.”

Megan stirred sugar into her coffee. “I read your column this morning and was rather surprised at the answer to your last letter.” She attempted to force her botoxed forehead into a frown, but merely sent a shimmer over the smooth creamy skin. “‘Shove something hot down the bitch's throat?' What were you thinking, Danielle? Sounds like something I'd lap up, but definitely over the top for you.”

Suddenly, bone weary, I leaned my weight on my elbows and rested my aching head in my hands. “I didn't write that, Megan. And don't ask me how it got there, because I don't know. That's what all this business with the police was about.
DF's
wife
did
have something hot shoved down her throat in the early hours of this morning and it wasn't her husband's hot pulsing love-stick. It was a red hot poker.” I shook my head and let out a sigh that felt like it came from the soles of my shoes. “That poor woman was murdered by someone who used my column as a weapon. And now it's up to me to find out who did it.”

“Up to
you
?” Megan finished chewing on her mouthful of carrot cake and gave me a what-the-hell-do-you-mean look. “For crying out loud, Danielle, it seems to me you need to keep a very low profile here, not go soliciting trouble. If, as you say, the police suspect you, won't you make their day if you go chasing after some hard-assed killer and get yourself blown away? It will mean one less suspect they'll have to keep an eye on. Take my advice and keep your nose where it can't be shot off.” She washed the carrot cake down with several sips of coffee. “Instead of chasing a murderer, why not use your inner energy chasing your soul mate?” She raised one penciled eyebrow again. “You
are
still looking for Mr. Right?”