A Pocketful of Eyes (7 page)

9. Had he known Gus before Gus came to the museum?

10. Did he know Cranston?

It all kept coming back to Cranston. William Cranston, the reclusive scientific genius, who kept getting overlooked for a Nobel Prize. William Cranston, employer of Gus. Benefactor of the museum. Bee had to speak to him. The puzzle had about a hundred missing pieces, but Bee reckoned at least seventy of them were to do with Cranston. Could he have killed Gus? It seemed unlikely. Cranston was an old man – and one who had recently been very ill. Surely he couldn’t be strong enough to have overpowered Gus in a struggle. But then, Gus had been a pretty frail guy himself.

Bee suddenly became aware that Angela and the Celestial Badger were staring at her.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘What?’

A brief frown flickered over Angela’s face. ‘Neal asked you a question, Bee.’

‘I’m sorry, Gav— sorry, Neal,’ said Bee, flashing a smile that she hoped was warm. ‘My mind had wandered. What did you say?’

The Celestial Badger brushed his pudding-bowl fringe back from his brow, which was beaded with sweat. Either the Badger was very nervous, or even the mild curry was a challenge for him. Or both. ‘I was just asking about your summer job. Angela says you’re working in a museum.’

Bee nodded. ‘The Natural History Museum. I’m working in the taxidermy lab helping with a new exhibition on native fauna.’

‘Taxidermy?’ said the Badger, screwing up his nose. ‘Like stuffing animals?’

‘We call it mounting,’ said Bee. ‘And also some freeze-drying. There are other departments that do bones and fabricated creatures.’

‘Isn’t it disgusting?’

Bee shrugged. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘We have to be very careful about hygiene. It’s not like we’re dealing with rotting corpses or anything. Every animal is frozen until we need to use it. Then once the inside bits are discarded we’re just working with a dry skin.’

The Badger shuddered. ‘You must be very brave.’

‘I’m just not afraid of dead things,’ said Bee. ‘And I like the way we can sort of bring them back to life. I mean, they don’t run around and smell and eat anymore, but people still get to enjoy them.’

‘Fair enough.’ The Badger still looked dubious.

‘So what do you do, Neal?’ said Bee, sure it would be something incredibly dull.

‘I’m an accountant,’ the Badger replied, giving Bee a little thrill of satisfaction.

‘Now
there
is something you need to be brave to do,’ said Bee. ‘Surrounded by nothing but numbers all day. I can’t think of anything worse.’

‘More wine?’ interrupted Angela, shooting a warning glance at Bee. She refilled Neal’s glass and her own. Bee sipped pointedly from her glass of water, and then put down her fork.

‘It’s been lovely meeting you,’ she said to Neal with a smile. ‘But I’ve got an early start tomorrow and I need to get some reading done. I’ll leave you guys alone.’

Neal fumbled with his wine glass and napkin as he awkwardly stood up. The wine spilled, drowning his curry. He blushed pink to the tip of his nose and dropped his napkin into the soggy mess on his plate, then wiped his hand on his trousers before holding it out for Bee to shake.

‘N-nice to meet you too,’ he said, looking as though he might burst into tears.

‘Night, Mum,’ said Bee to her mother, who had rushed into the kitchen for paper towel.

Back in her room, Bee tried once again to read her novel, and failed. She prowled around for a while, putting away clean clothes, and finally turned her computer back on. She swallowed and double-clicked on Maddy’s email.

Hey,

I hope you had a great Christmas and Santa brought you everything you wanted.

So. Remember the last day of school? When we all went to that party at Sam Mitchell’s house? And you left early because you had to work the next day? Well, I stayed. And I probably drank a bit too much, which was dumb. But I got talking to Fletch, and stuff happened. By which I mean we ended up kissing on the couch.

I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I’m so, so sorry. I know that’s no excuse, and there’s REALLY no excuse for what happened next.

I called Fletch and asked him to have a coffee with me, so we could figure out what to tell you. Except it didn’t really work out that way, because it happened again. And again. It’s been happening all summer.

I know I’m a first-grade lowlife scumbag harridan. But here’s the thing: I like Fletch. I really like him, and he really likes me. And you never said it out loud, but I know you and he were only ever lukewarm. I know you found him a bit boring, and I know he never really ‘got’ you.

I’m so sorry for being such a weasel about this. But if there’s anything I can do at all that will help you forgive me, then just name it. Anything! Except give him up. I’m afraid that’s the one thing I just can’t do.

Yours in weaselly, sucky, terrible-friendish love,

Maddy xxxxxxx

Bee shut her laptop and gazed at the wall for a moment, wondering if she was going to cry. After a few minutes it became clear that she wasn’t, so she pulled on her pyjamas and climbed into bed. She wasn’t sure she felt anything – not anger or hurt or betrayal. Perhaps she was just in shock, or perhaps Maddy was right and she’d never cared much for Fletch after all. She wondered absently what Toby was doing, and how she might get to Cranston. She was just formulating a plan when sleep came. Cranston could wait until morning.

Bee tried the obvious first, and looked up Cranston in the phone directory. No joy. Then she tried googling ‘Cranston’ and ‘Healesville’, but all she got were news articles containing vague references to Cranston’s fortune and his large country estate. It was time to be more sneaky.

She dialled the number for the Healesville local council. A man answered.

‘Hi,’ said Bee. ‘My name’s Samantha Teal. I’m a professional exterminator and I’ve been given a job at the residence of a man called William Cranston. Apparently it’s quite a big job, but I’ve run into a problem. The address I’ve been given isn’t correct, and I was wondering if you could help me.’

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. ‘You don’t have a contact phone number you can try?’

Bee thought quickly. ‘Nobody’s answering.’

Another pause. ‘Could you tell me the number?’

‘Um,’ said Bee. ‘5293 4444.’

‘Guess again,’ said the man. ‘Tell your English friend I’m not going to be fooled just because he gets a girl to call. We don’t give out private addresses
or
phone numbers.’

The line went dead. English friend? Could he have meant Featherstone?

Bee tried Facebook, but she knew it was a lost cause. As if Cranston would be on Facebook. She frowned, pulled on her dressing-gown and headed out of her room in search of breakfast. How did you find someone who didn’t want to be found?
Why
didn’t he want to be found, anyway? And who else was looking for him?

Bee barely noticed the Celestial Badger sitting at the table, his shirt untucked and wrinkled, and his hair all tousled. He was drinking coffee from a mug and reading the newspaper, and he sat bolt upright and blushed when Bee emerged.

‘Um,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Good morning.’

‘Hey,’ said Bee distractedly, as she poured herself a glass of pineapple juice.

‘Y-your mother’s in the shower.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Bee sipped her juice. Was there someone else she could call? Did Cranston have any employees who she might track down? He must have a cleaner, or a handyman. She could call every cleaner and handyman in the Healesville area.

The Celestial Badger screwed up his courage. ‘I know this must be difficult for you,’ he said, everything tumbling out in a rush. ‘But I want you to know that I really like your mother. She’s a very special lady and I know she’s your mum and that must be weird, so I hope that you and I can be friends and if you don’t want that then it’s fine, but I hope at least we can get along, otherwise it’s going to make things very difficult.’

Bee blinked at Neal. What was he talking about?

‘Well?’ he said, a little belligerently.

‘What would you do if you had to find someone?’ she asked. ‘If all you knew was their name, but you had to find them.’

The Badger looked taken aback, but he seemed to conclude that if Bee was asking him questions like this, she was probably okay with him sleeping over.

‘Have you tried the electoral roll?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Bee. ‘How can I see it? Is it available to the public?’

The Celestial Badger nodded eagerly. ‘It sure is,’ he said. ‘You just go into your local electoral office and they have a kiosk where you can look up anyone’s name. If they’re on the roll, their address will be there.’

‘Really?’ said Bee. ‘Everyone’s address? Just available to anyone?’

‘Unless someone’s specifically asked not to be listed,’ said Neal. ‘Like, Kylie Minogue would probably have her address suppressed, because she runs a risk of being stalked.’

‘Huh,’ said Bee. ‘Thanks!’

She disappeared back into her room to get changed, leaving the Celestial Badger looking confused but pleased.

As Bee headed out the front door, her mother stopped her. ‘Sweetheart,’ she said, ‘are you okay? With Neal sleeping over? I meant to talk to you first, but it sort of . . . happened somewhat unexpectedly. I’m really sorry I didn’t discuss it with you.’

Bee grinned. ‘It’s fine, Mum,’ she said. ‘He was very helpful.’ She breezed past and out into the street.

She bought herself a coffee and a croissant from a little French bakery, and then waited for the Electoral Office to open, which it did at 10:02 am.

A friendly looking young man with curly dark hair was behind a counter tapping at a computer. He smiled at Bee and she nodded back at him, but turned to the line of computer kiosks on her left. She clicked SEARCH on one monitor, then typed CRANSTON, WILLIAM into the box and selected VIC from the pull-down menu.

The computer paused for a moment, and Bee held her breath. Then a list flickered over the screen. There were only four Cranstons in Victoria, and only one William. Bee’s heart sank. Where the other three Cranstons had a full address, postcode and electorate, the entry for William Cranston had only two words: ADDRESS SUPPRESSED.

Bee scowled at the computer, and then glanced over to the friendly man. She carefully assembled her most vulnerable facial expression, and approached him with a timid smile.

‘Um, hi,’ she said, looking demurely down at her hands.

‘Hey,’ said the young man. ‘Can I help you with something?’

Bee nodded shyly. ‘I’m trying to get some details for someone,’ she said, ‘but when I look him up it says the address is suppressed.’

‘That means he’s a silent elector,’ said the man. ‘He’s requested that his address not be made public.’

‘You can do that?’

The man shrugged. ‘Yes, if you can demonstrate that making your address public would constitute a threat to you.’

Bee let her lower lip tremble. ‘So there’s no way of finding his address?’

‘Sorry.’

Bee had taught herself to cry when she was seven. It had taken her several months of staring into the bathroom mirror and thinking about how her goldfish had died and her mother had flushed it down the toilet without letting Bee say goodbye first. But after intensive practice, Bee could bring on the tears at will, without even having to think about little Herman Melville and his swishy orange tail.

‘Um,’ she said, her voice going high and squeaky as her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I found out a few days ago that my dad isn’t my real dad.’ Bee paused for some dramatic gulpy breathing. ‘And my mum finally told me who my real dad is, but she’s not in contact with him anymore and all I have is a name and . . . I just want to meet him.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ said the young man. ‘But I couldn’t give it to you even if I was willing to break the law. Only the District Returning Officer has access to the silent elector details.’

‘Th-the District Returning Officer? Is he here?’

A flicker of a frown passed over the young man’s face. ‘Do you know what electorate this man lives in?’

‘I-I think he lives in Healesville.’

‘That’s McEwen,’ said the man. ‘Only the McEwen DRO would have access to those records. And don’t get too excited,’ he said, looking at Bee with sharp eyes. ‘She won’t be able to help you. It’s a federal offence to give that information away. We can’t even give it to the courts or the police.’

Bee pulled a tissue out of her handbag and sniffed. ‘I just really need to find him.’ She leaned towards the man and lowered her voice. ‘I-I’m dying,’ she whispered. ‘I need a kidney transplant and he’s the only chance I have at finding a match.’

The young man shook his head. ‘Nice try, Veronica Mars,’ he said. ‘But I’m not an idiot. Have a great day.’

Bee spent the ten-minute walk to the museum composing a rant about how frustrated she was with the search for Cranston. She planned to deliver it to Toby, who would surely respond with
a
) sympathy or
b
) a breakthrough. Or preferably he would say something that would trigger
Bee
to have the breakthrough. That would be extra satisfactory.

But Toby wasn’t in the taxidermy lab. The lights were off and nothing had moved since the night before. Bee checked the clock on the wall. Toby was nearly two hours late for work, which was pretty much inexcusable. Bee was also late, but now Toby didn’t need to know that. Bee’s irritation deepened. She couldn’t find Cranston
and
she couldn’t rant to Toby about it. And he was late. Again. Did he have no respect for his employer? That was probably why he needed to make up extra credit for uni. Extreme tardiness.

Bee pulled a seagull out of a plastic tub labelled
SEA BIRDS
and examined it critically. Its feathers had become all crumpled and untidy and a brown stain had appeared on one wing. Bee sighed.

When Toby finally came through the lab door, Bee was blowdrying the now-spotless seagull’s feathers into place with a hairdryer.

‘Hey,’ said Toby, dropping his bag under his desk and plonking himself down on the chair. Bee ignored him and continued to blast the seagull.

‘Thinking of opening a salon?’ said Toby, raising his voice to be heard over the hairdryer. ‘You could call it “Curly Bird Gets the Perm”.’

Bee shot him a withering look.

‘Yikes,’ said Toby, and turned on his computer.

Bee switched off the hairdryer and put the much-neatened seagull on her desk

‘And
where
have you been?’ she snapped.

Toby looked taken aback. ‘At uni,’ he said. ‘I had a meeting.’

‘Uni?’ asked Bee. ‘Uni doesn’t start until February. What was this
meeting
about?’

‘If you recall,’ said Toby, ‘I’m here to make up extra credit because I failed an exam last year. I had a meeting with my anatomy professor to discuss my work here, and explain that he won’t get a progress report from Gus when I’m done. Because Gus is dead.’

Bee stared at the seagull, who fixed her with a beady glass eye. She swallowed. ‘Sorry,’ she said, smoothing a wing feather. ‘I’m just in a bad mood. I’ve been trying to track down Cranston all morning, and I can’t seem to make any headway. It’s like he doesn’t want to be found.’

‘Well, he doesn’t,’ said Toby. ‘That’s the definition of a recluse.’

‘But
why?
’ said Bee. ‘Why is he a recluse?’

Toby shrugged. ‘Some people just don’t like people.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘So what now?’

Bee sighed. ‘I don’t know. I just need to find Cranston. I have a feeling that he’s the key to all of this.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘I can’t
find
him!’ Bee explained about the electoral roll and the phone book. ‘I’m
that
close to catching a train to Healesville and wandering dirt roads, knocking on all the doors of the really big houses.’

‘I reckon there are a few things we can try before it gets to that.’

‘Good luck,’ said Bee. ‘I’ve tried every trick in my detective book.’

Toby grinned. ‘Well, maybe it’s time for the Worthy Beginner to step up to the plate.’

Bee gave him a flat look.

‘Give me the number of the local council.’

‘I already tried them,’ said Bee. ‘It didn’t work.’

‘Just give me the number.’

Bee read it out to him, and Toby picked up the phone and dialled. ‘Good morning,’ he said in a surprisingly convincing American accent. ‘Can you please put me through to accounts receivable?’ He paused and winked at Bee. ‘Hello? Hey, yeah. I work for William Cranston, and I haven’t received our annual rates bill yet. Can I please check the address you have for us is correct?’ He mimed writing at Bee and she pushed a pen and paper towards him. ‘Uh-huh,’ he said, looking delighted. Then his face fell. ‘Awesome. Yes, that’s correct. Thanks.’

He hung up the phone. Bee raised her eyebrows. ‘What was with the American accent?’

‘Isn’t that part of detectiving? I’m hoping tomorrow you’ll have to wear a blue wig and run around in a black vinyl catsuit.’

‘You watch too much television.’

‘DVD. Television is for amateurs.’

‘Whatever. Did they tell you anything?’

He gave her the piece of paper and Bee’s heart sank. ‘It’s a post office box,’ she said. ‘That doesn’t help at all.’

‘We could send him a letter,’ suggested Toby halfheartedly.

‘I suppose. But I don’t really think that’d help.’

‘What would Nancy Drew do? Use her feminine wiles?’

Bee shrugged. ‘Probably. But I’ve got no one to wile.’

‘Maybe you should practise on me.’

Bee chose not to respond.

Toby tapped a pen against his cheek. ‘You want to hear about snails?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Snails,’ said Toby. ‘Did you know that most snails are hermaphrodites? So there’s no lady snails and man snails, and they’ve all got double the bits.’

Bee tried to ignore him in the hope that he’d shut up eventually.

‘So when two snails meet, they engage in this incredibly complicated and beautiful courtship dance. They circle around each other for ages, sometimes up to six or seven hours. And they touch each other’s mouths and tentacles.’

‘Ew.’

‘It’s really quite beautiful. Then when the foreplay is getting all exciting, one of the snails shoots a love dart at the other snail.’

‘Is that some kind of disgusting euphemism?’ asked Bee, who had become interested despite her very best efforts.

Toby shook his head. ‘No, they literally shoot a dart. Like a tiny harpoon. Then the other snail shoots a dart into the first snail about half an hour later.’ He looked meaningfully at Bee. ‘Because when you’re sharing a special moment, there’s no need to rush things. Anyway, the love darts indicate that the snails are ready to move past foreplay. Then they both extend their penises, which, by the way, are pretty enormous, relatively speaking, and they kind of twirl them around each other and exchange sperm.’