Dead Men Don't Order Flake (23 page)

Madison got out of the car, Timmy held tight to her chest. She headed into the
Cultivator
office.

I looked at my watch. Considered the pros and cons of phoning Dean.

Pro: Preston's head needed to be in police custody before it defrosted.

Cons: far too many to go into.

I dialled his number. Held my breath. A long delay and then it rang out. I tried again and got his message bank. I left a message about Preston's head and then hung up.

‘Bloody hell. Dean phones me every day, hunts me down relentlessly, goes on and on about solicitors, police meetings and interrogations and then, when I actually need him, he's not there.'

Not quite the level of family loyalty I generally strive for, but I was in need of an outburst.

I put my phone away and stared out the windscreen a tick. A memory of Dean flitted in. Back from when he was eleven: that time he came running into the shop, huge grin across his face. With that scab on his left knee that seemed to last for months.
Mum, Mum!
A tone of unadulterated joy. He'd won a competition at school. Maths. First thing Dean ever won. Only thing, in actual fact. Well, yes, there was that police medal, if you want to be pedantic. Injured in the line of duty. There's no need to go into who exactly injured him.

Maths. Who knows where he got that from. And his
eldest is good at maths as well. I supposed I'd see them all again someday? Have them over for a normal Nanna-style lunch, once Dean had got over things? Course I would. I'd find a way.

A prickling from behind my eyes.

‘I dunno why you ever encouraged Dean to join the police force in the first place. The stress of the job's just turned him into even more of a screw-up.' Brad's helpful commentary from the back seat.

I turned around, feeling suddenly very weary. ‘Dean's lack of job satisfaction is not actually my fault, Brad. And to be honest, I'm sick of being blamed for things by you two. Grow up.'

I fumbled for my car door, opened it and stepped out. Wobbled slightly. I carefully shut the door. Walked over to the footpath; continued right along that street. I stopped at the corner and paused a tick, while I considered the merits of having an existential crisis. It might damn well show a few people where my boundaries lay.

The sound of a car door opening. The click of a walking stick against the concrete path. Lots of grunting noises. A wave of Ernie-breath hit me and I flinched.

Ernie put his arm around my shoulder. ‘Cassandra Ariadne, you're a decent woman. And a fine mother. Don't you forget that. And I'm sorry to be the one to say it, but Dean's always been a miserable flaming bastard. You'd probably be better off without him.'

‘Thanks Ernie.' Can a person actually be better off without her son? Still, you had to appreciate Ernie's loyalty.

‘Come on, we've got work to do,' he said. ‘Got a dog-decapitating bully to deal with. And you know the best way to handle a bully: stand up to the bastard.'

Madison came out of the
Cultivator
office, clutching Timmy under one arm. She looked up and down the street, then bustled towards me.

‘Morris isn't at work today. He phoned in sick,' she hissed. ‘I got his address though: 34 Garmin Street.'

39

One side of Garmin Street was lined with jacaranda trees; the other with tall, sweeping yellow-flowered gums. I drove past a grey-haired man sitting on a bench, a little radio parked on the seat beside him. Singing away to himself, smiling. I don't know why some people think they have the right to look so relaxed. Still, maybe if I sat around on more park benches, I'd have a chance to cultivate that kind of mood as well.

I drove slowly, peering at the houses, looking for number thirty-four. Federation spires and verandahs in abundance. A multitude of roofs bristling with solar panels.

‘Cass, it's here,' said Madison.

I pulled over. We sat there in the car for a moment. Thirty-four was out of character with the rest of Garmin Street's tree-lined grace. A dilapidated stripy blind over the front window. Long grass out the front. A Land Rover that
looked like it hadn't been driven in decades husking down in the driveway. It was difficult to believe anyone actually lived here. Anyone who wasn't in desperate financial circumstances, that is. Did Morris have money problems? He had his job at the
Cultivator
though, didn't he?

‘You sure you got the right number, Madison?'

She nodded.

I got out of the car, the others following. Some Ernie-grunting noises as he heaved himself out.

I walked up the two cracked concrete steps to the front door. Knocked firmly, hoping it wouldn't cause the door to fall in.

The door opened. A woman stood behind it, looking out at us. Blinking, as if she hadn't seen daylight in some time. She had long grey hair flowing over her shoulders. A purple paint-spattered smock; maybe she was an artist. Living in this joint, it would probably help if you were happy to spend prolonged periods living inside your head.

‘Yes?'

‘Is Morris in?'

‘Who's asking?'

Madison elbowed past me. ‘We're friends of his. Got a message for him from Jacinta.'

‘He's not home.' The woman's mouth pulled down. Maybe the art wasn't going well. Some kind of painting block, perhaps.

‘Actually, Jacinta's quite worried about him,' said Madison. ‘Would you mind if we came in?'

‘No point. He isn't here.' She didn't budge.

‘Oh? Where is he?' I said.

‘Are you from the paper?'

‘No, no. We're friends: we know him through…' I
paused, searching for inspiration.

‘The Northern Mallee Ferret Club,' said Madison.

‘Really?' The woman looked puzzled. ‘I didn't realise Morris was into…'

‘Oh, Morris has a wide range of interests,' I waved a hand. ‘A young man constantly in search of new experiences. Still, you'd know all that. Living together, I mean.'

‘We're not
living together
,' she snapped.

‘Of course. I didn't mean…'

‘I'm sick of people presuming I'm some kind of cougar. Or his bloody mother.'

I nodded. ‘Yes, people can be terribly annoying.'

‘Morris went out this morning. I haven't seen him since. Anyway, I need to get back to work.' The door started to close.

I stuck my foot in the gap.

‘Can you move your foot out of my doorway?'

‘In a moment.' I smiled sweetly. ‘You don't happen to know where Morris was last night, do you? It's just that he was supposed to meet us…'

‘At the ferret expo,' added Madison.

No response; the woman just shoved harder at the door. I spent a moment worrying whether my toes might drop off, then she sagged against the door. ‘Look, I don't monitor his every movement.'

‘Course not. But you'd probably notice if he went out?' I said.

‘He was here all night, glued to his laptop. Too busy with that to load the dishwasher, of course.'

There was a dishwasher in this dump?

‘Now move your foot from my doorway right now, unless you want me to phone the police.'

Fat lot of good that would do her.

Ernie leaned over my shoulder. ‘You listen to me, young lady.' His voice was a snarl. ‘There are a lot of people worried about Morris. Worried he might do something stupid…like hurt himself.'

‘Ha. As if.' But her face was pale.

‘So you might want to flaming well help us out here.'

A pause. ‘He left about an hour ago.'

‘He say where he was going?' I said.

‘No.'

I looked over at the falling-down carport, devoid of cars. ‘He took his car?'

‘Well, obviously.'

A thought. ‘You don't, ah, happen to know what he was doing on the night of the twenty-eighth of January, do you?'

‘You're kidding me.'

‘I know it's a while ago it's just that…'

Madison spoke up. ‘Tamie, Mr…Smith's prize-winning ferret, went missing that night—and, well, it's just horrible the things people insinuate, isn't it? But there are some who've suggested Morris might have…'

‘For God's sake. I'm sure I would have noticed if he'd brought an animal home. Morris does a lot of stupid things but even he'd draw the line at stealing ferrets.'

‘What time did he come home that night?' I said.

‘How would I know?'

‘It was the flaming Australia Day weekend,' said Ernie. ‘That help you place it?' One of his metal-melt glares.

‘Um. We had a party here that night. Morris sulked as usual. Anyway,' she waved a hand, ‘he won't be hard to find—he's probably floating around this ridiculous festival.
Or having a coffee somewhere with one of his stupid friends. Maybe with that, what's his name—Will—Morris was ranting on about him last night.'

‘Will Galang?'

‘Maybe. Look, I've got a deadline, so bugger off, will you. And when you find Morris, tell him to pay his bloody share of Foxtel.'

She kicked my foot away and slammed the door. We stood beside my car a moment, a forlorn type of Famous-Five huddle. It didn't require a mastermind to see that Morris wasn't out having a coffee with a dead bloke.

‘That was a total waste of time.' Brad, the uber-optimist.

As if to spite him, the sun came out from behind a cloud. You could almost feel all those roof-top solar panels in Garmin Street perk up. And not a single headache anywhere in sight. Not among goats, anyway.

It also seemed unlikely Morris was hanging around the festival out where Glenda might see him, given that he'd chucked a sickie.

‘Anyone got any bright ideas on where to look next?' I said.

Silence. A small dog in a leopard-skin coat trotted by.

‘I'd better get Timmy to the vet, Cass. Our appointment's at one-fifteen.'

We grabbed a quick sandwich and then I dropped Madison, Brad and Timmy off at the vet; a bright yellow and blue building in Muddy Soak's main drag.

Ernie and I sat in the car a moment, digesting. Just assuming we'd been told the truth and Morris was at home, glued to his laptop all last night…who exactly left Preston's head on my doorstep?

40

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, pondering the next stroke in our master plan. My phone rang. Ernie grabbed it before I had a chance.

‘This is Cassandra Tuplin's phone, Ernie Jefferson of Rusty Bore speaking,' he said. You could never fault Ernie's phone manners. ‘G'day Vern. What can I do for you?' A pause. ‘Hang on, you better talk to Cass.' He handed me the phone.

‘Vern? You OK?'

‘Getting there. Arm's back in action, at least. Where are you?'

I explained the latest happenings, or non-happenings, in Muddy Soak.

‘Got some info you might be interested in.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yep, spent a bit of time going through the old notebook this morning. Claire brought in me till receipts and
associated paperwork. Needed bloody something to do while I hang around here in hospital and I was overdue an internal audit. Anyway, noticed something.' He paused.

‘Uh huh?' I tried to be patient. Vern doesn't like it when you try to rush him.

‘There's this one person stands out, based on his spending patterns. Noticeable consumption of liquorice bullets.'

‘Who?'

‘Showbag. I shoulda seen it ages ago.'

A pause while I considered that.

‘So I'd say there's a more than average chance young Natalie was up to something not quite right with Showbag. She probably bought all those bullets to tempt him.'

‘You mean like an affair?'

‘Or a ménage a thingo, like I said.'

‘Doesn't seem likely she'd be interested in Showbag, Vern. Natalie was quite an attractive young woman. Anyway, what's he say?' No doubt Vern would already have called him.

‘Denies it, of course. But he's lying, I'm sure of it. And.' Vern paused significantly. ‘Claire found half a bottle of Fire Drum in his kitchen cupboard.'

‘Ah.' I didn't ask what Claire was doing poking around in Showbag's cupboard.

‘Gotta go. Visitor.' He hung up.

I marched into the
Cultivator
office, Ernie following on his stick. I didn't bother admiring
Our Land in Flood
this time, just headed straight for the door with the sign that said
Editor
. Flung it open.

‘What's going on, Glenda? And why the hell did you
leave a dog head on my doorstep?'

Ernie shuffled in behind me.

‘How dare you! Get out of my office, both of you. Now!' Glenda held her hand over her phone, shielding whoever it was she'd been talking to from our exchange.

‘Or was it your lovely son Andy who killed Preston?' I said, as loudly as possible.

‘Look, I'm terribly sorry, I'll have to call you back.' Glenda spoke into the phone. She hung up.

‘He's got a nasty history with dogs, hasn't he?'

Glenda stood up, her well-bred nostrils quivering. ‘You have no business barging into my office, making wild accusations. Get out now, before I phone the police.'

Ha.

‘Oh, don't worry. We're leaving all right. I need to get on the blower to
Crikey
: I'm sure they'll be quite interested in some information about our state minister for innovation, major projects and energy, and how he conducts himself around various people's dogs.'

‘You wouldn't.'

‘I might be persuaded to reconsider. If you tell me what happened to Natalie.'

Glenda sagged into her chair. ‘I know nothing about a dog.'

‘What's the number for
Crikey
, Ernie?'

‘No, please! Look, there's very little I can tell you.'

I reached for my phone.

‘Honestly!' Glenda held up her palms. ‘What I know is that Natalie told Shane Millson she had a huge story.'