Cherry Pie (24 page)

Finally I settled down and rested my head back on the rim, feeling my flesh wobble pleasantly in the simmering water and sticking my feet in front of a jet so the air tickled my soles.

I fiddled with a dial on the rim of the bath and there was a low volcanic rumble as the pressure increased, not only on my feet but coming up between my legs. I shifted slightly and—goddamn—that was the spot. I twirled the control a little further. Whoa. Unfortunately the bubble bath company seemed to have mixed up its ‘Romance Blend’ with its ‘Filthy Slut’ line of aromatic oils because instead of an awfully chaste fantasy of skipping through a field of daisies with my boyfriend, I was imagining myself bent over Trip’s Ducati while he slapped my butt and pulled my knickers to the side. I was seconds away from coming when I heard the door to the room slam shut then a sharp rap on the bathroom door and a high pitched voice calling out.

‘Housekeeping!’

I reacted faster than when that car had tried to run me down. I sat up, half fell over the side of the spa, struggled into my robe, looked around wildly for the belt and had to settle for holding it together at the chest. ‘One moment!’ I called.

I swallowed, tried to steady my breathing and opened the door.

Trip was leaning against the frame, holding a stack of folded towels. Little packages of soap and shampoo balanced on top. ‘How did you—?’

‘The maids love me.’ He flipped an electronic key between his fingers like he was doing a card trick. ‘Your boyfriend about?’ He peered over my shoulder into the bathroom.

‘He’s not my boyfriend.’

‘Riiiiiiight. That’s why he was looking at me like he wanted to kill me.’

‘Get the fuck out of my room.’ I pushed the door shut.

He stuck out his motorcycle boot and kicked it back in.

Dramatic.

‘Your cheeks are flushed.’ He checked out my face, then the spa and the bubbles all over the floor. The motor was still on high and water spumed out. ‘What have you been up to?’

A flashback from my sexual fantasy inserted itself into my mind and I felt my face get hotter. ‘I was just getting dressed,’

I replied through gritted teeth.

He bent forward and dumped the towels on the marble sink, then leaned against the doorframe. ‘There’s no use lying, babe, we’re the same, you and me. Kindred spirits, lust for life and all that.’

‘What are you doing here, Trip?’

‘Asking you out on a date. The Doyles are having a garden party.’

‘Did Sam put you up to this? So he could have another crack at hiring me?’

‘No!’ Trip came over all wide eyed and innocent. It really didn’t suit him.

I hadn’t fallen for Doyle’s ‘I just like interesting people’ shtick either. He wanted me onside because he thought I was close to finding something out. Pity I didn’t have a clue what that was. I didn’t say anything and Trip was forced to go on.

‘I’d really like you to be there. And, you know … it’ll be fun. French champagne, great food and who knows, maybe you can get Sam drunk and interrogate him some more. I know you think he’s got something to do with Andi.’

‘Actually, I don’t anymore.’

Trip raised his eyebrows in a reverse v. ‘I’ll tell you my information.’

‘You were supposed to tell me last night.’

‘And I would have if you’d stuck around. Not that I blame you for running away, darlin’. That much sexual heat can be hard to cope with, ’specially if you’re not used to it.’

‘You are such a wanker,’ I said, and he beamed like I’d paid him a compliment. ‘Just give me the goddamn information.’

He checked his watch. ‘I’m running late ’cause of my interview with the coppers. Why don’t I tell you there?’

I crossed my arms and glared. He shrugged, turned and slouched out of the room. Good. I wasn’t at his beck and call. I wasn’t going to be summonsed to Doyle’s party, go hang out with a whole bunch of rich people, possibly get Sam to admit why my mum was so scared of him …

‘Wait!’ I called.

I hated to admit it but I was growing fond of the big red Ducati. I dug the speed, the way you had to move your body with the bike. And Trip had been right, the damn vibrations coming up from the engine weren’t bad at all. We flew through the CBD then across the Anzac Bridge: a sweep of concrete connecting Pyrmont to Glebe and Balmain. Stay cables fanned from two giant towers giving the bridge a futuristic look, and in between them I glimpsed the fish markets and Blackwattle Bay. The western view of the city skyline rose up on the right and below the bridge container ships docked next to a port where rows of identical white sedans glinted in the sun. The sky was pale blue but for a faint smudge of smog clinging to the horizon, and along with exhaust fumes I could smell the jacket Trip had given me to wear, cracked leather over a quilted lining infused with sweat.

Leaving the bridge we tore up Victoria Street and hung a right, twisting our way onto Darling Street and heading further down the peninsula. Balmain had once been a mostly working class enclave of rundown cottages and cramped terraces with a grotty pub on every corner, but like most suburbs close to the city it had undergone a revival during the previous twenty years. The houses had been immaculately renovated and the shops lining Darling Street now sold posh furniture, designer clothes and gourmet food. Real estate was expensive anywhere in Sydney, but in Balmain a half decent two bedder wouldn’t leave you much change from a million.

Trip turned left and we wound down sloping side streets till we reached a narrow road one back from the harbour. He slotted the bike in between a BMW and a Mercedes that were both parked half on the footpath, and we approached a high wall with concrete lions guarding the entry. Trip talked into the intercom, the gate clicked open and a two storey glass and sandstone villa came into view. The building followed the contours of the slope and was surrounded by a rockery jumbled with ferns, staghorns and palms.

I trailed Trip down worn steps, through an open front door and into a marble entrance hall that led to a formal living room filled with pristine white furniture. French doors opened onto an enormous terracotta tiled entertaining area where fifty or so guests milled around a blue tiled swimming pool and a quartet played jazz standards inside a pergola. ‘Toto, we’re not in Elwood anymore,’ I whispered as Trip and I crossed through the living room to the patio, our boots clicking on the polished parquetry floor.

The pool rested on the edge of the property so that the water appeared to merge into the harbour beyond. A half sized tennis court was wedged to its left, a grassy area led to a white wooden boathouse on the right, and small olive trees and Grecian urns bordered the yard. The band started performing an instrumental version of ‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered’, the song that had been playing when Sean and I first kissed, and I felt a pang in my stomach when I realised I hadn’t thought of him all day.

Waiters sashayed to and from a trestle table shaded by a sail and laden with canapés and top shelf booze. Trip swiped a champagne and a beer from one of their trays, handed me the glass and as I sipped I noted the palate was completely devoid of cat piss, unlike the shit I usually drank. Seeing all the beautiful people in their pricey duds made me glance down at my own outfit. As well as being not entirely clean, the stretch pants were faded and Mum’s black top was pilling and covered in little white specks like a tissue had got loose in the wash. The waiters were better outfitted than me.

‘I’m so not dressed for this,’ I muttered.

Trip, as usual, wore ripped jeans and a sleeveless heavy metal t-shirt. ‘Don’t worry, neither am I.’

‘Yeah, but you’re Trip Sibley.’

‘True.’ He swivelled his head, surveying the crowd, ‘My agent says I’ve got to project a consistent image if I want to establish myself as a brand. Speaking of which, that’s him over there, talking to a chick who was on the cover of last month’s
FHM
magazine.’ He pointed his beer bottle at a balding guy in an open necked white shirt and khaki pants, deep in conversation with a pneumatic redhead. Double sided tape had to be the only thing stopping her tits popping out of her plunging, emerald green minidress.

‘Check you later, Simone.’ He started over and I grabbed his bicep with one hand.

‘I thought I was your date.’

‘No need to get jealous, babe,’ he winked. ‘I’ve got plenty to go around.’

‘Information first or I tell that buxom wench you’ve just given me a bad case of the clap.’

‘You would, wouldn’t you?’

‘Better believe it, chef boy.’

‘Fine. Okay.’ He sighed. ‘My theory is that Dillon killed Andi.’

Yachts bobbed around a nearby marina and a ferry headed for Birchgrove, which shimmered in the distance.

‘You’re full of shit,’ I said.

‘Am I? They were always hanging out, and the way she used to look at him is exactly how all those middle aged society broads are staring at me …’ Trip squared his shoulders and flexed his biceps and I couldn’t tell if the pose was an unconscious reflex or completely contrived.

A lot of the women
were
gazing at him, some subtly from behind their wine glasses, others giving him a bold up and down. I supposed I couldn’t blame them. After a couple of decades with a squishy, golf playing investment banker I’d be gagging for a bit of well-built rough trade.

‘Why would Dillon kill Andi?’

‘It stands to reason.’

‘How?’

He sighed, like I was a little dense. ‘Well, it’s always the husband or boyfriend, isn’t it? Statistically speaking.’

‘Statistics?’ I skolled my champagne, royally pissed off. I’d been busted kissing Trip for that? Jesus.

‘Don’t knock ’em. Right now they’re telling me there’s a ninety-two percent chance me and the redhead’ll end up in one of the spare bedrooms within the hour.’

‘Dillon wasn’t Andi’s boyfriend,’ I hissed, ‘she was just playing him, trying to find out about Sam for her article. What better way than through his stepdaughter and her husband?’

‘You sure about that? I saw them together, outside of work.’

‘Where?’

‘Mink. You know, the bar under the Prince of Wales? They were sitting real close in one of those dark, curtained booths.’

‘So?’

‘Why would you be there unless you wanted privacy?

I certainly did. I had a Russian model on each arm and Yasmin would have—’

‘Did they see you? Andi and Dillon?’

‘Nah.’

‘When was it?’

‘I dunno, maybe a week before she disappeared.’

‘You tell the cops?’

‘Nah. Doesn’t prove anything and I need all the fucking staff I can get. Anyway—’ he nodded towards the redhead—‘I’ve got business to attend to. You wanna join in it’s the first on the right at the top of the stairs. Expect us at about, oh, twenty past?’

‘You just don’t stop, do you?’

Trip necked the last of his beer and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘You’re a long time dead …’

He stalked off in pursuit of his quarry and I stood alone in my shabby clothes feeling out of place and nervous. The only other person I knew was Sam Doyle and he hadn’t even noticed I was there. He was standing by the pool with his back to me, smoking cigars and drinking spirits with a couple of older guys. All of a sudden my plan to grill him about knowing my mother seemed stupid. If he hadn’t wanted to enlighten me the night before, why would he do it now? It had been a mistake to come and I’d hightail it back to the hotel just as soon as I’d stuffed a few of those gourmet snacks into my mouth. I was starving. It was one o’clock and I hadn’t even eaten breakfast.

I wandered over to the trestle table, put my empty glass down and hoed in, starting with little stacks of eggplant, goat’s cheese and red capsicum, dolloped with pesto. Divine. Tiny wontons nestled in Chinese soup spoons, floating on puddles of sesame scented broth, and I tipped a couple between my lips, bit into the slippery suckers and tasted prawn, ginger and coriander. After living on cauliflower, home brand tuna and individually wrapped cheese singles for so long it wasn’t just a party in my mouth, it was a goddamn revolution.

Behind me Trip’s agent was reassuring him that the network was thinking of expanding the proposed cooking show into an

‘extreme’ lifestyle program, but I tuned out as I hoovered up a mini pancake loaded with crisp Peking duck, sweet hoisin sauce and crunchy spring onions, visualising the flavours exploding like incendiary devices, causing all my little taste buds to dance and hug, sing in Spanish, throw off their bandanas and fire automatic weapons into the air.

Across the table I spied cone shaped nori rolls dangling from red laquered holders, crammed with salmon, rice and wasabi. Peaks of Japanese mayo crowned their tops, and tiny, translucent pearls of orange salmon roe glistened in the sun.

I reached over and plucked one out, sucked off the top and pressed the fish eggs between my tongue and palate till they burst and their salty juice mingled with the creamy mayonnaise. It tasted so good I did a Chloe-style butt wiggle as I bit through the rest and barely heard the cough behind me. I only registered a presence after a high, nasal female voice said, ‘Excuse me!’

I turned around. The woman glaring at me was tanned to within an inch of her life and wore a tight white miniskirt with a matching jacket and camisole top. The teased and curled blonde locks cascading over her shoulders were the texture of fairy floss and a marvel of modern hairspray, and her clinking jewellery was the same yellow-gold as the chardonnay in her oversized glass. Judging by her smooth forehead, plump lips and slightly starey eyes, she’d had a bit of work done and it was hard to tell how old she was. From the wrinkling on the back of her hands I guessed she was somewhere around my mother’s age.

That and the skin on her surgically enhanced chest, which was as brown and speckled as a free range egg.

‘Mmm …?’ I hadn’t managed to bite all the way through and the roll was hanging together by a slender but stubborn thread of salmon. If I kept gnawing the thing was likely to disintegrate all over my top, so I shoved the lot in and felt my cheeks bulge like a chipmunk’s. I tried to chew but there was so much food in my mouth my teeth couldn’t get any purchase.