How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (13 page)

CHAPTER 12

Talk about your life changing in an instant. It was a cliché; something from a book cover blurb or movie trailer. When he woke up this morning, he was a trying-to-go-straight conman whose greatest challenge was finding a job. Now he was a would-be killer, about to stalk and take photos of his victim; an innocent woman who was trying to help him.

Carlene was hunched into a ball under the covers, snoring. He rolled over on his stomach and buried his head in his pillow, but one question pinged around his mind like a ball in a pinball machine.

He’d told Frank that he’d given him no choice, but was that true? Any sensible law-abiding person would go straight to the police. But he couldn’t trust the police not to stuff things up, and he couldn’t expect them to protect him and Carlene from Frank. There was no way he wanted to call Frank’s bluff when it came to Carlene’s life, let alone his own safety – even the thought of being beaten up filled him with terror. He was taking the coward’s way out.

Then it occurred to him. There was another option. Go along with Frank’s plan, but somehow make sure it didn’t succeed. How, he had no idea. But it would buy him some time to figure out what to do – how to save Lucy’s life and his own as well. It was risky. Foolhardy. Full of holes. But it was all he had.

He woke up with a dull headache and the doona twisted and knotted around his legs. Carlene was already up, dressed for work and brushing her hair in front of the mirror. She glanced over at him.

‘You had a restless night, tossing and turning. And you were moaning again.’

Her tone was accusing, as if he’d deliberately had a bad night just to annoy her.

‘Sorry, honey. I had a nightmare about being in prison again.’

It was a cheap trick to get some sympathy, but it worked. She came and sat on the edge of the bed, and stroked his forehead.

‘You poor thing,’ she said softly. Her perfume was delicious and her hand was soothing. ‘You haven’t been yourself lately.’

‘Haven’t I? Who have I been?’

She gave him a playful slap. ‘You know what I mean. You’ve been distracted these last few days as if your mind is on another planet.’

She bent over and pressed her cheek against his. ‘You know what I think, baby? I think you’re suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, from coming out of prison. I’ve been reading about it and you have the symptoms – being detached from others, easily distracted, lack of ambition.’

‘So that makes it a diagnosis? There were guys inside who had PTSD and compared to them, I’m as together as the Pope. Anyway, I don’t lack ambition, I just haven’t found anything I want to be ambitious for.’

‘There’s no need to be defensive, it’s quite normal under the circumstances. I think you need to see a psychologist.’

‘I don’t need a psychologist. Even my parole officer says so.’

She took her hand off his forehead and stood up. ‘All right, but just listen to yourself and you’ll realise what I’m talking about.’

She stomped out. Even her ponytail was stiff.

***

How the hell could he follow Lucy for a whole week on a pink motor scooter without her noticing? It was impossible – even following her for a day would be stretching it. Could he hire a private detective to do it for him? It would be the ideal solution, but they didn’t come cheap and he didn’t have that sort of money to splash around.

He was on the homeward part of his morning jog, digging deep for a burst of last-minute speed, when the germ of an idea appeared in his mind. By the time he stumbled in through the front door it had grown into a fully-fledged plan. He showered and dressed, made coffee and toast, and sat down at the dining table with pen and paper.

• Follow Lucy home one afternoon after work to find out where she lives.

• Take photos of her and her home.

• Invent a weekly schedule for her.

• Take photos of the places she supposedly frequents.

• Superimpose images of her arriving at and leaving these places.

Thank God for Photoshop. With a bit of knowledge and experience, it was easy to manipulate photos to your exact requirements; and with such a smooth, professional result that the average person would never guess they weren’t authentic.

It was a stroke of good fortune that Reuben happened to be experienced in the art of photoshopping due to a travel scam he’d operated some years ago – an online travel company that sold bogus guided tours. He’d obtained photos of a number of popular holiday destinations and superimposed images of tour members beside the company tour coach: smiling and waving, sipping cocktails on a palm-fringed beach, feasting on a seafood banquet and relaxing on a yacht on a dazzling blue ocean. Of necessity, it was a short-lived scam – once the customers turned up on day one to meet the tour coach and found it didn’t exist, the game was up. By then the travel company had, overnight, ceased to exist, and Reuben decamped with a handsome profit.

As he mulled over the finer details of his plan, a bolt of energy surged through him. It was a familiar feeling from what seemed forever ago – the excitement of knowing you were breaking the rules, tinged with apprehension or even dread, knowing you could be caught. But that only added to the challenge and the thrill of it. Only this time, if Frank found out he was being scammed, there was a lot more at stake than a stint in prison.

***

Reuben entered Joe’s Café with helmet in hand and backpack slung over his shoulder. A man was behind the counter wiping the coffee machine – short and paunchy, with grey wispy hair arranged untidily over his shiny head.

‘Yes, mate?’

‘A double-strength espresso, please.’

A stiff Bourbon would be preferable, but hopefully the extra caffeine would give him the jump-start he needed, as his adrenalin had deserted him. He sat at a corner table and ran over the plan in his mind. He’d phoned Lucy before he left home on the pretext of checking his next appointment time, to make sure she was at work, then parked the Barbiemobile in the small car park behind the café. It presented a clear view of the parole office car park next door. For the hundredth time, he mentally listed the contents in his backpack – had he remembered the lipstick? He unzipped the side pocket of his backpack and stuck his hand in. His fingers curled around a cylindrical shape. Thank God.

His coffee appeared in front of him. ‘Double-strength, knock your shoes off,’ the man said, nodding and smiling.

Didn’t he mean socks? He had a heavy Mediterranean lilt, so maybe it was a foreign saying. He was right anyway, it was strong enough to knock your shoes off. Reuben put in four sugars to counteract the bitter taste.

Nina appeared at the counter from the rear of the shop.

He waved. ‘Hi, Nina!’

‘Hullo.’ She stopped then came out from behind the counter.

‘Were you having an afternoon tea break?’ he asked.

‘No, I was cleaning the kitchen.’

‘Oh. Doesn’t sound like much fun.’

Dumb thing to say. His normal conversational brilliance had deserted him.

‘No,’ Nina said. She hesitated. ‘Are you still looking for a job?’

‘I sure am.’

‘There’s one going here as a kitchen hand. Ours walked off the job yesterday.’

Reuben had tried a stint as a kitchen hand in prison, but after he cut his finger, bled into the mashed potato and had to be rushed to hospital for stitches, he’d been taken off kitchen duty. On the outside, it would be different though. Being paid, for a start.

‘Great. When do I start?’

‘Not so fast. I need to ask you a couple of questions.’

‘Ask away.’ He pulled out a chair for her and she sat down, clasping her hands on the table. She had a serious intensity about her, as if she were weighing up everybody and everything around her. He wondered what it would take to make her laugh.

‘Have you done kitchen work before?’

‘No. But I’m a fast learner.’

‘The work isn’t difficult, but Uncle Joe’s very particular that everything is done just right.’

She nodded towards the counter. ‘That’s him. He owns the place.’

The short man was in voluble conversation with a customer at the counter while preparing the coffee.

‘And I have to warn you, he’s got a bit of a temper.’

Reuben smiled at her. ‘Are you trying to put me off?’

‘No, just giving you fair warning. There’s something else I need to know.’

She studied her hands then looked up. ‘I’ve seen you go into the building next door.’

Her face gave nothing away but her eyes were watchful.

‘So you’ve been spying on me? I don’t know whether to be flattered or not.’

She shrugged. ‘I just happened to notice, that’s all.’

‘And you assumed I wasn’t visiting the accountant?’

‘I didn’t assume anything. I’m asking you because a lot of those people come in here and some of them are off their faces. If you’re doing drugs, I’m not interested.’

‘Tell me, Nina, do I look like I do drugs?’

She hesitated. Reuben glimpsed the thick, satiny plait that snaked down her back. Undoubtedly it was part of the job regulations to have her hair tied back, but it didn’t flatter her – it made every feature of her face appear larger and sharper, from her heavy eyebrows down to her elfin chin. He imagined her hair let loose, thick and lustrous, tumbling over her bare shoulders...

‘No,’ Nina said. ‘But appearances can be deceptive.’

‘In this case, they’re not.’ He could think up a convincing lie, but he lacked the will to do it. ‘I’m on parole for fraud. I’m not allowed to have a job where I’m handling money. But apart from that, I’m a fine, upstanding citizen.’

He was gratified to see the hint of a smile. Aim for a smile first, then a laugh.

‘Save your breath for Uncle Joe. He’s the one you have to convince.’

She got up, went to the counter and said a few words to her uncle. He nodded, finished serving the customer and approached Reuben. He held out his hand. ‘Joe Scarparo.’

Reuben stood up and shook his hand. ‘Reuben Littlejohn.’

Joe’s handshake was powerful and despite his corpulence, he emanated raw strength. He wrenched out a chair and sat down.

‘Reuben,’ he said, stretching the name out and rolling it round his tongue. ‘That is a strange name.’

‘Yes. Do you know how hard it is to buy a coffee mug with my name on it?’

‘My heart bleeds for you. So you are looking for a job.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you have no experience as a kitchen hand.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So why should I hire you?’

His eyes were the same shiny caramel as Nina’s, nestled in shadowy pouches that made him look as if he never slept. But they radiated a vitality that belied his worn-down appearance.

‘Perhaps you need a challenge.’

Joe threw back his head and laughed. It rumbled from deep down and erupted like a volcano.

‘I tell you, boy, that’s the last thing I need. But Nina said you are okay and you make me laugh, so I give you a go.’

‘Thanks very much Joe, I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t thank me. You’ll be working your arse into the floor. None of this disappearing outside every hour for a coffee or cigarette.’

‘Nina warned me you were a slave driver.’

‘Did she indeed?’ His face softened and he looked over at Nina, who was taking an order at the counter. She glanced at Joe and he smiled at her.

‘She is too serious, my little Nina. I don’t blame her, she’s had a tough life but she needs to laugh more.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Reuben said.

Joe’s eyes flickered over Reuben’s wedding ring. ‘Stay away from my niece, you hear? You have a wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘Show me her photo.’

‘I don’t have one with me.’

Joe looked at him with raised eyebrows.

‘You don’t carry a photo in your wallet?’

‘No.’

He produced a battered wallet from his back pocket and snapped it open at a portrait photo. A young couple beamed out – a dark-haired young man resembling a young Sylvester Stallone and a blonde, pixie-faced woman with gentle eyes.

‘My wife passed away ten years ago. But this photo never leaves me.’

He closed his wallet and slid it back into his pocket. ‘Do you have children?’

‘No.’

‘We weren’t blessed with children. Don’t leave it too late, that’s my advice.’

‘Thanks.’ Reuben checked his watch. ‘I have to go. When do you want me to start?’

‘Tomorrow morning, seven-sharp. You’ll be working seven to three, Monday to Friday. And I insist on punctuality.’

‘Of course.’ Reuben gave an inward sigh. It seemed that early morning starts were unavoidable in a regular job.

‘We will sign the papers tomorrow. Ciao.’

On his way out, Reuben leaned over the counter and said to Nina, ‘Thanks for recommending me. I got the job.’

‘I didn’t recommend you.’

‘Even better, I got the job on my own merits. See you tomorrow!’

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he walked out and down the street to a group of shops in the next block. A sign pointed to the restrooms down an alleyway between a DVD rental store and a Chinese restaurant. He paused outside the Ladies, listening. Silence. He opened the door and peered in. The three cubicles were empty. He went into the nearest cubicle and closed the door.

He opened his backpack and pulled out a pile of clothes and a blonde curly wig. He did a nervous pee, undressed to his jocks and slipped on a long, floral skirt. He’d had to guess his size, as trying it on in the dressing room of the pre-loved clothing shop was not an option. Even so, pretending he was buying the clothes for his wife earned him a suspicious look from the sales attendant. The skirt was a bit tight around the waist, but bearable if he pulled his stomach in. The blouse, in a green and black swirl design, just fitted. A hearty laugh might burst some buttons, but that wasn’t a likely event. Over the blouse he pulled on a pink and yellow spotted jacket, which he’d chosen for its deep pockets, and slipped his camera into one of them.

Then he took the blonde wig and fitted it carefully over his head, fluffing out the curls. It was hot and heavy, and looked as much like natural hair as a wig bought from Crazy Tony’s Warehouse. Which it was. He surveyed his face in the small hand mirror he’d taken from Carlene’s make-up bag, along with the lipstick. He’d shaved just before leaving home – not that he expected anyone to get close enough to notice his complexion under his helmet. But it was important to get right into the role.