Forbidden Fruit (17 page)

I watched the morning news from bed, fluffy pillows piled behind my head and a coffee in my hands. It felt like the lap of luxury. The odd thing was that I had a television in my bedroom at home, plus fluffy pillows and the ability to hold coffee, and yet it would never occur to me to nestle in bed and watch the morning news. Another example of how context was more important than content. I filed the thought away for a column.

Midway through the report, my house appeared in the snapshot behind the immaculate blonde presenter. I had expected it, but it was still a surprise. I turned the volume up.

Her face was set with gravitas. ‘
A body found at the country home of columnist Nancy Forrest, noted for her Middle-aged Spread franchise, has been formally identified as Rex Fletcher, a seventy-four-year-old man from Queenscliff. Reporter Richard White is live from the small rural town of Majic, and has more on the details of this bizarre case
.’

I had flinched as soon as she mentioned my name, or something resembling it, but when my house appeared in widescreen, from the front, my flinch became a grimace. There should be some type of protocol here, where permission had to be obtained. It wasn’t so much that the place was particularly untidy, but rather that the burgundy sheet, not a good look at the best of times, now had a tear on one side through which the interior light shone like a laser pointer. Besides,
country
home? It made it sound like I had residences dotted over the entire state.

A young male reporter was speaking, clutching the microphone so close to his mouth that at times it looked a little personal. ‘
Thank you, Tamara. Yes, police made the formal identification last night, but what remains a mystery is why this elderly man was so far from home, and why he chose
this
particular house
.’ He allowed a moment of silence, as if to let viewers form their own conclusions about
this
particular house. ‘
It has also been revealed that Mr Fletcher was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, although it is not sure how advanced his condition was. Police are not ruling out a connection with the discovery of human remains here last week, buried in the backyard. These were found to be those of missing Ballarat woman Dallas Patrick, last seen in 1970
.’

‘
Have they released a cause of death?
’ asked Tamara, leaning forward.

‘
Not at this stage
.’ Richard shook his head sadly, and then brightened. ‘
However in a further twist, it has now been revealed that the man arrested for the murder, Harold Forrest, who was extradited from England earlier this week, is also the father of the woman who purchased the residence only a few months ago
.’

‘
And this would be the columnist Nancy Forrest?
’ asked Tamara, rather unnecessarily.

‘
That is correct. But this latest development has, of course, thrown that murder investigation wide open
.’

‘
Thank you, Richard. That was reporter Richard White, live from the small country town of Majic. And we’ll be keeping you up to date on further developments as they come to hand.
’

I turned the volume down and then, for good measure, flicked the television off. I had wondered when they would make the connection; had, in fact, thought them a little slow not to have done so before now. Not because I was particularly famous, as I wasn’t, but rather because it was the habit of journalists to grasp at anything to give the story depth. Plus, if a man with the same surname as the homeowner was arrested, then you would think that in itself was a likely lead.

I rolled out of bed and dragged the chair into the bathroom. Through the glass, I could see that all was calm at Lucy’s house, with her car still in the driveway. I was also glad to note a complete absence of police vehicles, which was good news, although there was a lone news van parked on the spare block next door. I wondered if Richard White was inside, and whether I should knock on the window and inform him that (a) my father had not been extradited, (b) I did not have a ‘country’ home,
or
a franchise, and (c) my name was not, and never had been, Nancy.

As I watched, Quinn exited Lucy’s house with her schoolbag slung across her back and walked purposefully down the path towards the hotel. Just before reaching it, however, she veered to the side and then squatted down behind the far wall of the beer garden, almost exactly opposite me. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out her pencil case, then peered inside, sifting through the contents. Finally she rose and, leaning against the wall, nonchalantly lit a cigarette.

My mouth dropped open. The only smoker among my five girls was Ruby, and even then she was on the lighter end of the scale. I was hoping, also, that her stint in a developing area of the world might cure her of the habit. I closed my mouth and narrowed my eyes instead. Quinn coughed, smoke puffing from her nose. And here came Griffin Russo, strolling around the corner and past the hotel in that loose-jointed manner of teenage males. He glanced up and down the road and then ducked over to join her.

I clambered down and grabbed my mobile phone, keying in her name as I got back into position. He had just taken a puff and was passing the cigarette back to her. At least sharing did not suggest true commitment to the habit. The ringing tone sounded on my end and I watched as she thrust the cigarette at him before squatting to retrieve her phone.

‘Hello, Mum?’

‘Put that cigarette out.’

Quinn froze momentarily and then jumped up to peer frantically around. ‘What?’

‘I said put that cigarette out. Right now.’

‘Whaddya mean?’ she asked, taking a few steps out onto the footpath to gaze up and down the road, shading her eyes. ‘I don’t have a cigarette.’

‘No, because you just passed it to Griffin Russo.’ I was thoroughly enjoying myself now. ‘And I’ll be ringing his mother next.’

She clapped her hand over the phone and turned to hiss at Griffin. He dropped the cigarette and ground it out, then stuck his hands into his pockets.

‘Don’t litter,’ I instructed. ‘Put it in the bin.’

‘Where
are
you?’ Quinn was scanning the area. For a moment she seemed to look straight at me, but then moved on. ‘Like, how are you doing this?’

‘I see everything, young lady. That reminds me, first base only at your age. Don’t you forget it.’

‘What!’ She turned again to stare at Griffin, as if concerned that he might have overheard this last. I thought it best to stop there, before I gave her a complex.
Forty-year-old virgin seeks psychiatric help with mother issues. Prognosis: poor.

‘Now off you go,’ I said cheerily. ‘Otherwise you’re both going to be late. I’ll see you tonight and we’ll have a little chat about this.’

‘Okay,’ she replied in a subdued voice. She cast one more searching glance up the road, towards our house, and then said something to Griffin. He picked up the cigarette butt with two fingers, holding it fastidiously, and stared at it for a moment before dropping it in his schoolbag. They set off, keeping their distance from each other, and rounded the corner into the main street.

I climbed down and carried the chair back. I was disappointed in Quinn, but not overly concerned, being fairly sure it was simply stupid teenage experimentation. They certainly hadn’t seemed like experts. It was tempting to blame Griffin, particularly as his mother Lyn was a smoker, but Quinn had to take responsibility for herself. And this evening, she would. However, the episode had almost been worth it for the restoration of my good humour. That had been the most fun I’d had in days.

*

I paid my bill at reception and then wandered out into the sunshine. Petra had sent across a bronze and black striped skirt and black singlet top, together with a silky bronze scarf. It wasn’t the type of thing I usually wore at all, but I felt flirty and feminine, which was totally wasted on my short stroll to the car. I had just unlocked the door when a divvy van cruised into the U-shaped driveway and Matt Carstairs jumped from the driver’s seat. He hurried around to open the passenger door and a tall, red-haired elderly woman exited stiffly. I recognised her from reception the previous evening, except that her strip of white hair had now vanished, a good indication of how she had spent the previous evening.

‘Thank you,’ she said brusquely in a husky smoker’s voice.

‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Fletcher. Please call us if you have any problems.’

My mouth dropped open, again. I was starting to make a habit of it.

Matt drove off, leaving her to make her way slowly up to the portico. I shut my own car door and moved rapidly across to intercept. ‘Mrs Fletcher? Mrs
Clare
Fletcher?’

She glowered at me. ‘What of it?’

‘I’m Nell Forrest.’ I stuck out my hand. ‘Lilly and Harry Forrest’s daughter.’

‘Never heard of you,’ she said, ignoring the outstretched hand.  

I folded my arms, a little embarrassed. ‘Oh. Ah, they stayed at your holiday house once, in Queenscliff.’

She peered at me, her eyes deep-set but bright. ‘It was your house then.’

‘If you mean where your husband …’ I petered off. ‘The other, Dallas Patrick, was next door.’

‘Yes, so I’ve been told now. Still, not a good look, is it? You’ll have trouble selling.’

‘But I don’t
want
to sell.’

‘So what’re you after here? An apology?’

I shook my head. For a grieving widow, she was remarkably confrontational. I understood what Yen had meant; this woman would have been the driving force in
any
relationship. ‘No, of course not. I just wanted to talk. I’m, ah, trying to clear my father’s name …’

‘Well, I should think Rex did that for you,’ she said snappily. ‘Very obliging of him.’

I stared at her, uncertain how to reply. She was a handsome woman, despite the red hair, with fine bones and an aquiline nose. She also had the arrogance of the once-was-beautiful, framed by a lifetime of entitlement. ‘I
am
sorry for your loss.’

‘Don’t be. Serves him right. Karma always gets you in the end.’

‘Um, okay. Are you staying here long?’

‘No longer than I have to.’ She began moving again, stiffly. ‘Three days in this godforsaken place is more than enough.’

I kept pace. ‘
Three
days? But I thought that you just came up, ah, afterwards?’

She looked me up and down. ‘You resemble your mother. If you must know, he dragged me up here the day before he did it. Not that
I
knew what he planned to do.’

‘Oh. But I thought he had –’

‘Don’t believe everything you hear –’ a corner of her mouth twitched ‘– Nancy.’

‘My name’s –’

‘I know.’ She waved a hand dismissively, as if bored, and then set off again. She paused at the automatic doors before going through into reception. I wasn’t sure if I liked her or hated her. One thing was for sure: she had just become interesting.

Of course, one of the few times a hat would actually have been handy, and not just aesthetically pleasing, I didn’t have one on me. I pushed my chin down into the scarf and ducked my head as I left the car. But Richard White saw through my cunning disguise. He was also a quick mover, reaching me as I thrust my key into the front door.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Forrest? Could we have a word?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ I pushed the door open. ‘Too busy.’

‘So is that no comment?’ asked Richard, his words floating around the door as I shut it.

I pressed my hand against the jamb, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a hiss that reminded me of Quinn and her cigarette. The house was quiet, serene, the police gone. I walked upstairs slowly. My bedroom was much as I had left it, apart from a fine dusting of black and grey powder over every surface. For a moment I had an image of Mary Poppins’ Bert, the chimney sweep, doing his whirling dance around the room. I rather wished that were the case, because Mary would have been very helpful with the clean-up.

I moved forward, towards the end of the bed. The area where the body had lain looked exactly the same as the rest of the floor, with nothing to set it apart. I licked my finger and ran it over the top of my dresser, idly signing my name and underlining the
Nell.
It immediately became apparent that this was an error, as the damp fingerprint powder metamorphosed into a version of Indian ink. I had to scrub it off in the bathroom, and even then I was left with grey whorls on my finger pad. I felt a surge of anger towards Rex Fletcher. This was going to be a bitch to clean.

Back downstairs, I checked the answering machine, but the only messages were from Svetlana’s Haberdashery, informing me that my curtains were ready for collection, and then a parade of family and friends ostensibly concerned about my emotional state, and really just wanting the inside news. The computer yielded a good deal more messages, but either in the same vein or work-related. I couldn’t concentrate on either at the moment. I walked back into the kitchen, restless and unsettled, and put the kettle on. It had just come to the boil when the front doorknob rattled noisily, followed by the doorbell and a series of agitated knocks.

‘Mum!’ called Lucy. ‘Mum, are you there?’

I ran across the room and wrenched the door open. ‘What is it? Is it the baby?’

‘No, of course not.’ She pushed past me, followed by a beaming Kate, who was carrying Gusto. ‘Quick, that reporter guy is coming.’

I shut the door behind them. ‘What then? Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. But we found it!’

‘Whatever “it” is, it’d better be good.’ I put a hand up to my chest. I could actually feel my heart leaping giddily. ‘Because you just gave me a heart attack.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, looking gleeful. ‘You’ll never guess. It was in the windowsill! Just tucked in a little alcove behind the wood!’

Kate put Gusto down. The dog ran straight into the kitchen to check his bowl.

‘We searched last night. Quinn helped, but we gave up in the end. Then this morning Kate goes, “I reckon it’d be in the bay window somewhere. That’s where
I’d
hide something.” And she was right!’

I realised that Lucy was holding a small tin with a tarnished silver-black rim. Faded and scratched flowers adorned the lid, alongside the name:
MacRobertson’s Begonia Chocolate Assortment
. She held it out to me proudly.

‘Process of deduction,’ said Kate smugly. Her dark hair was spiky once more and her eyes rimmed with black eyeliner. The sparkle of her nose-ring seemed incongruous in comparison.

‘Amazing,’ I said, taking the tin. It felt like a ceremony, as if I should say something. Acknowledge Dallas’s contribution. Instead, I prised the lid off and stared at the contents. There was some folded paper, pearly in colour, a champagne cork and a grey shell. I gently sifted the contents with one finger and uncovered a small gold-edged paper ring.

‘It’s a cigar thingamajig,’ said Lucy. ‘We’ve already looked. Sorry, couldn’t resist.’

‘Ritmeester,’ added Kate. ‘From a Ritmeester cigar.’

‘So you’ve read these?’ I removed the paper and passed the tin back to Lucy. She nodded, smiling. There were three sheets folded together, their creases stiff and stubborn. I straightened them gingerly. The first was a letter with fine, spidery handwriting.

I glanced up at Lucy and grimaced. It had been Dallas who had died, not the writer. I slid the letter to the bottom of the pile and read the next.

The box was compelling, its emptiness testament to a decision never finalised and a life cut short. I shuffled the sheets and then stared at the final one. It was stunning. A pencil sketch of a naked woman, almost certainly Dallas Patrick, reclining with her head on one hand, a cloud of hair tumbling across her shoulders. The artist had used the bare minimum of lines, just languid sweeps of pencil that delineated the arc of her figure, the curve of her breast, the gentle mound of her belly. But as sensual as her body was, it was her face that drew the eye. Cupid-bow lips just partly open and a heavy-lidded gaze, direct and knowing. This was a woman who was satiated, physically and emotionally. A woman in love.

I dragged my eyes away from her and reread the last note, with its desperate appeal. I looked up. ‘Wow.’

‘Wow indeed,’ said Lucy. She was no longer smiling. ‘How beautiful is that drawing?’

‘I wish it was mine.’ Kate was sitting on the armrest of the couch, ruffling Gusto’s fur. ‘It’s Shakespeare, you know.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Shakespeare never looked like that.’

‘Not the drawing.’ She grinned. ‘The quote. To thine own self be true.
Hamlet
, I think.’

‘Fascinating.’ I returned to the picture. ‘So we think this is what she came back here for. Maybe she left the tin here when she went to Ballarat because she really meant to give her marriage a chance, but then came back for it after changing her mind.’

‘I don’t know much about the rest of it,’ said Kate, ‘but I think she was going to fill in that box. Write a big yes.’

‘So you think it was him?’ asked Lucy. ‘The guy on the news who topped himself?’

I shrugged slowly. ‘Rex Fletcher. I suppose it makes sense.’

‘That must have been very upsetting,’ said Kate. ‘You finding him like that.’

‘Yes.’ I pushed Rex Fletcher aside, mainly because meeting his wife had complicated that scenario. Plus his brown old-man shoes simply didn’t go with what I held in my hands. ‘The only thing I don’t get –’ I laid the papers on the bench ‘– is why she didn’t just run upstairs, grab it and go. I mean, she was up there long enough for my father to confront her and then, most probably, someone else. Maybe Rex Fletcher. Why did she spend so long looking for it? Surely she would have known exactly where it was?’

Kate was shaking her head. The spikes remained rigid. ‘No, it wasn’t easy to retrieve. Like I know you guys had the place painted, so that didn’t help, but after I noticed the ridge, I had to actually get a flat-head screwdriver to lever it loose.’

I ran a finger gently over the curve of Dallas’s hip and stared into her somnolent eyes. They were trusting, vulnerable. I couldn’t believe that whoever sketched this picture was also responsible for her death, whether it was Rex or someone else. The love that had guided the pencil seemed utterly and appallingly discordant with murder. I felt a shift in responsibility, not wholly putting aside my father and what he was going through, but moving this woman in from the periphery. She had been let down by so many; someone needed to have her back.

*

I left the sheets of paper on the bench for the afternoon, only moving them to scan and then email to Petra. I had stuck Dallas’s timeline and the list of suspects up on my study wall the day before, so now I updated them, underlining both Rex and Clare Fletcher with hot-pink highlighter. I thought of the latter, and her freshly dyed hair. A very odd type of recently-bereaved widow. But perhaps she had always known of his affair with Dallas, and was mortified, and a little furious, at his mode of death. Or perhaps
she
had killed Dallas, out of jealousy, and then he had taken the rap. It made a strange sort of sense alongside Yen’s insistence that he was wholly devoted to his wife. But then why start the affair in the first place? I sighed.

An email came through from my editor, with a receipt confirmation required. I obliged and then read it, with mounting amusement.

Hi Nell, was a little shocked to hear your name on the news. Dreadful business. Thought I would share some concerns, though. Last year’s business was terrific PR, and drew a lot of interest to your brand. This of course is all about the everyday middle-aged woman and, as you put it once, the ‘paraphernalia of life’. But everyday MAW don’t generally have this sort of stuff happening on a regular basis. And I worry about the association of ‘bizarre’ (quote the news) with your image. Too much of this type of notoriety may start to be detrimental. Anyway, food for thought. Love from Ali.

I typed a quick reply, apologising for my thoughtlessness and assuring her that I would immediately hire a storage container, so that next time I found remains, whether in my backyard, bedroom or hanging piñata-like from the porch, I would be able to squirrel them away without involving the police. But as soon as I finished, I deleted it. Ali was lovely, but she had little sense of humour when it came to work. She would probably offer me the storage fees out of petty cash.

Leaving my reply for later, I googled for advice on cleaning up fingerprint powder, rather surprised at the amount of information out there. Perhaps I had led a sheltered life. I swept and dusted, removing as much as possible while dry, before finally mopping not once but twice. The stuff was lethal. The experience would have made for a very interesting column but I suspected Ali, in her present state of mind, would veto it. It didn’t come under the parameters of everyday MAW.

I showered after finishing and then dressed in exercise leggings and a sloppy T-shirt. I fetched Gusto’s lead, the sound alone causing him to run in excited circles and then dance along on his hind legs as I walked to the front door. At the last minute I remembered Richard White so did an about-turn and exited via the sliding door. At the back corner, close to where everything started, I tucked a wriggling Gusto under my arm and then clambered awkwardly over the fence, nearly garrotting the dog in the process. Ali would have been furious.
Columnist strangles own dog at notorious country house. Franchise in disarray.

We both took a moment to recover our equilibrium, and our breath, and then set off diagonally across the uneven ground towards the rear of the main street. There was an alley that ran along here, abutting the little backyards of each shop, lined with garbage bins and empty containers. I waved at Sharon, flattening some Pan Macmillan boxes behind Renaissance. She gestured at me, no doubt wanting to hear the latest, but I shook my head apologetically.

We walked through to the end of the alley, and then took a left to wind our way around Kata House before doing two circuits of the football oval. It was a beautiful summer’s day, the sky dotted with the type of puffy white clouds that, if painted on a canvas, would look
too
perfect. The cenotaph was tucked to one side amid a grove of mature trees, midway between Kata House and the footy clubrooms. Each time I passed, I glanced towards my two shops. There was a clear view of the land next door, and a partial view of the lane. Dallas’s Volkswagen, while not obvious to those clustered around the monument, would have been visible soon after somebody started walking in that direction. My father had been one of these, but had there been anyone else?

By the time I rejoined the alley, Gusto had begun to pant by my side. Sharon had finished and the back door to Renaissance was closed. I turned into the tiled arcade leading through to the main street. Halfway down was Svetlana’s Haberdashery, a store that had been in the same position since shortly after Majic had been founded. This was one hundred and fifty years ago, however, so ownership had changed several times. I clipped Gusto’s lead to a solid A-frame sign and pushed my way through the fly-strips. The latest Svetlana, a buxom woman with a florid complexion and piles of brown hair held in place by a collection of antique hatpins, greeted me with enthusiasm.