Brittle Shadows (10 page)

Jemma sighed,
her shoulders sagging under the weight of more self-recrimination. “I should
have been there for her, been more understanding—”

“Don’t go
there. We can blame ourselves as much as we like, but it can’t change what’s
happened.”

“Yes, but—”

Ash sliced the
air with his hand. “No buts. You know how strong-willed Tanya was. It wouldn’t
have mattered what you or I said or did.”

“Have you ever
thought that she might have been right about Sean’s death, that it wasn’t an
accident? After all, don’t you think she would have known or at least suspected
if her fiancé were that way inclined?”

He cocked his
head at her, saying nothing.

On her way downstairs to check the
mail, Jemma thought about Ash Bartlett and smiled. She liked his easy manner
and straight-talking attitude. But more than that, she felt an affinity with
him, as if somehow being in his company brought her closer to her sister. He
understood what Jemma was going through; understood it because he was
experiencing the same grief. Given the choice between Ash and Sean, she knew
whom she would pick. What had Sean had that Ash didn’t? Besides arrogance and
an over-inflated ego, of course.

The lift doors
opened and she stepped out, her keys at the ready. Other than a pony-tailed
youth hard at work polishing the glass doors, the lobby was empty. Wrinkling
her nose at the faint ammonia smell, she searched the wall of brushed-steel
fronted mailboxes to her right for number 367, finding it in the sixth row from
the bottom.

Sifting through
the handful of post, she found what she was looking for: the envelope from the
State Coroner’s Office addressed to her Perth address, redirected in Gail’s
rounded handwriting. Satisfied, she closed the mailbox and headed back up to
the apartment, resisting the urge along the way to open the letter. She needed
to be sitting down first.

Except when she
got inside, she couldn’t bring herself to open it. Leaving the post on the
kitchen’s raised counter, she went to check her emails, returned, went for a
pee, returned. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, scratching the backs of
her hands and staring at the top envelope, as if somehow she could absorb its
contents without touching it.

After another
minute or so, she walked around to the living room side of the counter and
climbed onto one of the leather-seated bar stools. The letter hadn’t moved.

She flexed her
fingers in readiness for the task ahead. Then, before she could change her
mind, she snatched up the envelope, ripped it open and drew out the enclosure.
Taking a quick breath, she unfolded it, smoothing it out on the counter top
with her hands. Typed on letterhead, the front page referenced her request for
a copy of Tanya’s autopsy report, but not much else.

Flipping to the
attached report, she scanned through the first pages, not understanding all the
terminology, but getting the substance of it. Tanya had choked to death on her
own vomit after ingesting a lethal cocktail of prescription drugs and alcohol.
Jemma turned to the next page, the sharp intake of breath she heard, her own.

Pregnant? Tanya
pregnant? Her sister pregnant? Six weeks? How? At the time of Tanya’s death,
Sean had been dead two months. Who was the father?

She scoured the
report, looking for an answer, but there was nothing to suggest a DNA analysis
on the embryo had been done. She shook her head, struggling to come to terms
with the news. The autopsy report raised more questions than it answered.

Her mind racing
in circles, she sat motionless, staring at the kitchen wall. Who had fathered
Tanya’s baby so soon after her fiancé’s death? How long had the relationship
been going on? Had it been a one-night stand or something more enduring? She
had to have known, or at least suspected, she was pregnant. So why then, would
she have risked taking one pill, let alone the toxic quantities found in her
system? None of it made any sense.

She had to
speak to Gail. Needing more support than a stool could offer, she took the
report and her mobile phone with her to the couch.

“Gail, it’s
me.”

“Is everything
all right?”

“Yes… no… I
mean I don’t know. Did you know Tanya was pregnant?”

Silence.

“Are you still
there?” Jemma checked her phone in case the call had dropped out. “Is there
something you’re not telling me, Gail?” She was about to disconnect and redial
when she heard a cough.

“Sorry, love,
you caught me by surprise, that’s all.” Gail cleared her throat. “Are you
sure?”

“I’ll take that
as a no, then. Yes, I’m sure, unless the pathologist made a mistake.”

Silence.

“Gail?”

“Sorry, what
did you say?”

“I said, yes,
I’m sure.”

“How far… how
far along was she?”

“Six weeks.”

“Oh, the poor
girl. What must she have been going through?”

Jemma’s grip on
the phone tightened. She had asked herself the same question over and over.

“Six weeks, you
said,” Gail continued. “But Sean’s been dead longer than that.”

“Exactly. I was
hoping Tanya might have confided in you, especially since she wasn’t talking to
me. She had to have told someone. If not you, then a friend. Do you have the
condolence cards handy?”

“Hang on a
sec,” Gail said, her voice fading for a moment. “Got them.”

“Okay, I think
there should be one there from Tanya’s friend, Fen.”

“Such a lovely
girl.” Everyone was lovely to Gail. “Here it is.”

“Is there a
phone number or a street address?” Directory had no listing for an F Luk in the
Melbourne area and Jemma had yet to gain entry to Tanya’s notebook.

“Not on the
card, but I’ve got the envelopes here, too. I kept them for when you’re ready
to do the thank you notes. Jemma, love, why don’t you let me look after that?
You have enough to worry about.”

Sighing, Jemma
kneaded her left temple. Another forgotten task. “That would be such a great
help. Thank you, dearest aunt.”

“Only aunt, you
mean.”

“Still the
dearest.” Jemma hauled her bag from the floor and scrambled in the bottom of it
for something to write with. “Did you find the envelope?”

“Yes, but
there’s no phone number, only a post office box, if that’s any help.”

Better than
nothing. “Shoot,” Jemma said, pen poised.

Gail read out
the details. “Pregnant?”

“I couldn’t
believe it either. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”

Hanging up,
Jemma racked her brain, trying to think whom she could call or what she could
do to track down Fen. Would Ash know how to contact her? Except she had
forgotten to ask him for his phone number. Rising from the couch, she stood in
the middle of the room, struggling to recall where she had put Marcus’s
business card.

Then she
remembered Tanya’s mobile phone charging in the other room. What was it Gail
used to say? If she didn’t have her head screwed on, she would forget that,
too? She wasn’t far wrong. With a sigh, Jemma gathered up the coroner’s letter
and autopsy report and headed to the study.

She had found
the phone buried amongst clothes in the bottom of one of the moving boxes, but
only because the low-battery alarm had alerted her to its presence. Leaving it
connected to the power point in the wall, she picked up the mobile and scrolled
through the names until she found Fen’s. Without thinking, she pressed Call.

“Hello?”
answered a quiet, hesitant voice.

“Fen, it’s
Jemma, Tanya’s sister. We met at the funeral.”

Fen gave a
titter. “Thank Christ for that. You can’t imagine what was going through my
head when I saw Tanya’s name come up on the caller display.”

“Sorry,” Jemma
said, apologizing again. She seemed to be doing a lot of that of late. “Forgive
me. My brain’s all over the place. I should’ve thought.”

“No worries.
It’s good to hear from you. Where are you? In Melbourne?”

“Yes, how did
you know?”

“A wild guess:
you’re using Tanya’s phone.”

Jemma smacked
her forehead. “See what I mean.”

Fen chuckled.
“Don’t beat yourself up,” she said, as if she had seen Jemma doing just that.
“You’ve been through a lot. I guess you’re in Melbourne to sort out Tanya’s
affairs.”

“Yes, and
that’s one of the reasons I’m calling. I’m trying to piece together what
happened in the lead-up to her death and I’m hoping you might be able to help,
you being her best friend and all.”

“Of course.
I’ll do whatever I can,” Fen said, her voice somber.

Jemma debated
whether to come straight out with it over the phone or arrange to meet up with
her later. “Did you know Tanya was pregnant?” Patience wasn’t one of her
greatest virtues.

“What? Are you
serious? Tanya pregnant?”

Either Fen was
a brilliant actress or she was genuinely shocked. “Six weeks.”

Silence and
then a gasp, as Fen did the math. “No, that’s not possible. How can that be?”

“I don’t know.
I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I obviously
didn’t know your sister as well as I thought I did,” Fen said, her voice taking
on a hard edge. “I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone.”

“So you had no
idea, not even an inkling?”

“Nothing. Her
grief over losing Sean was real. I’m sure of it. You can’t feign emotion like
that.”

“Something
happened that neither of us was privy to, though.”

“Quite.” Fen
sniffed. “Sorry, but I have to go…” Her voice cracking, she hung up.

Tears welled in
Jemma’s eyes. Her chest hurt, the pent-up tension crushing her insides. Raising
her hands above her head, she drew in a deep breath, holding it for a count of
ten before releasing it through her mouth. She was trying so hard to stay
strong, but how long could she keep it up?

The intercom
buzzed. Wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, she went to answer it. She
glanced at the clock. “Mr Punctuality Plus,” she said, a light heartedness to
her voice she didn’t feel. “I’m nearly ready. Come on up.”

She spent the
short time it took for Chris to get from street level to the sixth floor focused
on composing herself. Though not in the mood, she knew an outing had to be better
than staying holed up in the apartment with nothing but regrets and memories of
her sister to keep her company. Jemma only hoped she could be better company
than that for Chris.

Greeting him at
the door, she said, “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“Yes,” he said,
his face deadpan, “I would have much preferred to have stayed home fighting the
flies and the heat to mow what’s left of my lawn.”

“So I’m just an
avoidance tactic then?”

He smiled.
“Something like that. Ready? I’m parked across the street.”

Five minutes
later, ensconced in the air-conditioned comfort of Chris’s RAV4, they headed
east along Victoria Parade. Crossing Hoddle Street was like crossing the border
into another country. Vietnamese eateries, grocery stores and other exotic businesses
lined both sides of the street for as far as the eye could see.

“Little
Saigon,” Chris said, reading her thoughts.

Because cars
shared the street with trams, all the traffic moved in the same start-stop
rhythm, giving Jemma time to take in her surroundings. Even with the vehicle
windows up, she was convinced she could taste fresh ginger, lemongrass and
coriander; hear the rapid-fire chatter of the slight-statured Vietnamese people
populating the footpath. An impatient motorist tooting his horn only added to
the atmosphere.

Chris turned
left at the next traffic lights and pulled over. “I packed a picnic lunch, but
if you prefer, there’s a great little French café just up the road.”

She dipped her
head, peering at him over her sunglasses. “Picnic?”

“Not your
scene?”

“Definitely my
scene, but where?” She waved a hand around at their manmade environs. Did he
intend to lay out a rug on the footpath?

He laughed.
“Wait and see.”

One U-turn and
two left turns later, they ended up in a cul-de-sac. Chris squeezed the
four-wheel-drive into the only available space, a park between a van and
another car scarcely large enough for a Mini, let alone a RAV4. With his
assistance, Jemma managed to clamber over the seats and out the driver’s door.

She followed
him to the rear of the vehicle, offering to help carry something.

“All sorted,”
he said, hoisting a large blue-and-white esky out of the back. He locked the
car and steered her toward a set of concrete steps leading down to a steel and
timber footbridge spanning a clay-colored river. Melbourne’s iconic Yarra, no
doubt.

She grabbed the
guardrail and started down, keen to explore the parkland on the other side.
Halfway across the bridge she stopped and looked down. Dark shapes glided
through the murky water below: fish or perhaps turtles. Chris came up beside
her, pointing across the river to what he called the world’s most urban
vineyard. It all felt so surreal. Only a few kilometers from the city centre,
they had already traversed a foreign land and visited the bush. She must have
been in a trance, because she didn’t see or hear the approaching cyclists.