Marriage & the Mermaid (Hapless Heroes) (16 page)

This time Knowles was openly skeptical. “Thirty meters?”

“I know that must be an exaggeration –”

“The only thirty meter shark that ever existed was a Megalodon and that’s been extinct for twenty five millions years. Were the tourists drunk?”

“No idea,” he said. “We’re waiting for a full report.”

She shook her head in disbelief and reached across the desk to pick up an envelope. “I’ve written up a report on the shark for your marine murderer friend,” she said and handed it over. “It tells him everything we know so far.”

“That’s gracious of you,” he said straight–faced.

“Just doing my job,” she replied, the subtle sarcasm flying right over her head. “If he somehow manages to catch it, don’t let him mutilate it.”

“What if the shark is bigger than you think?” he asked, holding her gaze. “Skeyne could get into trouble.”

“Skeyne looks for trouble,” she pointed out. “But if you’re worried, tell him to leave it to the QUT team. Their boat is huge, and they have all the equipment they need to track and trap a shark, no matter how big it is.”

“Fair enough.” Moore could imagine where Skeyne would tell him to shove that suggestion.

“I’ll contact the QUT team and give them the heads–up,” she added, “Now show me exactly where the victim was found.”

She scooped up a handful of maps from a nearby bench and came back and sat at the table – not across from him, but alongside. Their knees touched as she pulled in her chair and Moore was surprised at how that small contact affected his body. If they’d been naked with their skin touching he couldn’t have been more aware of her.

“Somewhere around here?” she asked, pushing a map in front of him, then looking up at him over the top of her glasses, seemingly completely oblivious to the chemistry between them.

Moore suddenly realised he could smell something on her skin, some light perfume. Apple?

“Moore?” she said, frowning.

“Near Saltwood,” he replied, getting a grip, keeping his voice business–like when his mind was anything but. He dragged his gaze away from hers and looked blindly at the map. It could have been Madagascar and he wouldn’t have known. “South of Bundaberg,” he said.

She pulled that map away and replaced it with another. “Near here then?” she asked, pointing.

Belatedly Moore got his bearings. “Right here,” he said, and she marked the headland with a cross.

They sat back and looked at each other. Moore wondered if the gentle warmth building inside himself was one–sided. Probably. “So,” he said, “My five foot ten suspect with blue eyes and golden hair is off the hook.”

“Unless you’re interested to ask her to dinner at the Bayside Bistro this Saturday night.”

Moore felt the warmth blossom into a smile. “Nah. Not interested to ask her out.”

Knowles nodded. “Then you’ll have to find someone else who’s available… if you want to go?”

His smile faded as the intensity between them ramped up a notch. “Oh yeah, I want,” he said, surprised at how easy it was to be honest with her.

Knowles nodded. “Thought so,” she replied.

Chapter Eighteen

B
az rounded the corner of the study and felt an instant pang of relief. “Dad, there you are.” Baz hadn’t had children, but he was sure that the feeling of not knowing where his father was must be like losing your toddler in the shopping centre. The old man was generally safe if he stayed in the house or the area immediately outside it, but if he wandered off into the scrubland beyond, anything could happen. Baz had been mad to send him outside at night for roses. “Why aren’t you in the dining room?”

“It’s too early,” Ted replied, struggling to close the roll–top of his writing bureau. He stood up to give himself leverage.

Baz sighed. “No, dad. I need you to go to the dining room while I get Wynne.”

Ted waved him away with his free hand. “Off you go then.”

“You first.”

“No, you!”

“Dad …” Baz frowned. “You’ll forget. I bet you’ve already forgotten what you came in here for.”

Ted crossed his arms and turned to face Baz. “Have not.”

Baz swore softly but his father was onto that straight away.

“Are you swearing, boy? You know I don’t hold with that. Particularly when there are ladies around. What if Elsie heard you?”

“Elsie’s gone, dad.”

“Did you swear in front of her? Wretched boy. Is that why she left? Where am I going to find another housekeeper to work all the way out here?”

“Dad, can we talk about this later? The party pies will be burnt if we don’t eat them soon.”

“Party pies?” Ted snorted. “For breakfast? That’s a change. Usually all I get is soggy cereal.”

“It’s dinner time, dad. So if you could go to the dining room now, I’ll dish them up shortly.”

At which time Wynne would decide his family were fruit loops and she’d leave. But maybe that was one less problem to worry about.

“Oh. Good–o,” Ted said and shuffled past Baz, but then he lingered at the door.

“Off you go to the dining room, dad,” Baz said and pointed.

“I know the way.” Ted shook his head, bemused.

“Then I’ll see you there in ten minutes. I’m bringing a woman with me. Wynne. So be nice,” Baz said.

“Lynne,” Ted muttered as he set off. “Who’s she?”

Baz watched his father totter off, and when he was sure the old man wasn’t coming back he went to the writing bureau and lifted the roll top his father had been struggling with. Inside was a jumble of technology which Baz quickly realised was worth thousands of dollars: a digital camera, a digital telescope, a hand held computer, an iPod. Baz picked them up one by one. They were all still in their boxes, as though they’d never been used.

Baz put the iPod back in and closed the bureau, then he stood looking at it. He’d bet anything that Randolph Budjenski was behind this. But why? And was there any point in talking to his father about it? The old man would just get mad at Baz for prying. Nothing would be sorted out.

Baz cursed himself again for not being clever enough to get Randolph’s address to give to the private investigator his solicitor had engaged. The mobile phone number had produced no results — a dodgy name and address, no surprises there. And now the kid wasn’t answering the phone. Baz was at a dead end and no closer to getting his father to sign the Power of Attorney forms. It all looked hopeless.

Maybe I don’t deserve Saltwood.

Ted had never come right out and said that, but it was implicit in every conversation they’d about the estate, particularly the recent ones. Baz stared out the window at the blackness outside and considered for the first time that he might lose his inheritance. And would that be so bad? He didn’t want to live here, after all. There were too many bad memories. So maybe he should let his father do what he wanted, and when the money was gone Ted would have no choice but to go into a nursing home and then Baz would be rid of him.

Really? Rid of him?

Who was he kidding. Baz would never be rid of his father. Long after Theodore Wilson was gone Baz would still hear his voice saying
Weak. Stupid. Playing with toys
. Hating his father and pushing him away wasn’t going to fix Baz’s childhood. If anything it would lock him into that powerless place where his life had been stolen from him and he’d had no choice.

Baz had choices right now, and he wasn’t going to do the same thing to his father, as he’d had done to him. Nursing homes were no better than boarding schools. They separated you from the people who cared about you, and although Baz was a long way from imagining he loved his father, he did care about him, otherwise why would he care if the old man wandered off. So the smart thing would be to stop pretending otherwise and just get on with sorting things out.

Although, when he looked down at the jumble of technology in the writing bureau a disquieting feeling came over him that this was just the tip of the ‘secrets’ iceberg, and that there were far worse problems to be sorted. Never mind that he had his own little secret, snoring away in the guest suite.

So they weren’t a ‘normal’ family, whatever that was. But that wouldn’t stop Baz pretending they were. Having dinner was normal. People did that every day. Surely Baz could do that too without any further drama. He just had to get all the diners to the table first. Ted was hopefully on his way there, so that just left Wynne, and Baz set off for her room.

He’d left her an hour ago, so she was probably starting to wonder what the hell was going on. Or maybe she’d taken all that time to shower and dress. She might have washed her hair. It had been soaking wet, although sexy in a wet–leather–slicked–down sort of way.

There, that was good. He was thinking Wynne was sexy. Well, her hair was at least. So perhaps it was possible for him to be attracted to someone who wasn’t either a nut case or a manipulator. If only he could notice other things about her that were attractive. Maybe her mouth. He couldn’t really remember that, but he knew he was attracted to women with sexy mouths. Wynne’s was probably luscious, he’d just never noticed.

“The party’s about to begin,” he called, and knocked on her door. “Your escort is waiting.”

It opened on an overpowering waft of perfume and Baz almost gagged. He caught himself, but not before he’d taken a step backwards. Wynne was standing in the doorway in a gauzy floral halter–neck dress, fluttering her eyelashes, her dyed burgundy curls so perfectly arranged they were probably held in place with hairspray. Add to which, she had make–up on, and not just mascara and lipstick, but foundation as well. On her feet were apricot stiletto sandals that matched the color of her dress.

“Wynne,” he said, trying to hold his breath so he wouldn’t cough. “You look… gorgeous,” which was true, but she was definitely overdressed for a casual dinner with a neurotic and his demented father. “This way,” he said and took her hand, eager to move towards fresher air. She had so much spray
stuff
on, his eyes were watering. “Dad’s waiting. Are you hungry?” he asked.

She gave his fingers a squeeze. “Starved,” she said in a husky stage whisper. Her sandals click–clicked as she stepped off the polished floorboards onto the hallway runner.

He glanced at her, about to smile, imagining she was vamping it up, but she fluttered her eyelashes at him and he suddenly realised she was genuinely trying to be seductive.

Overdressed, over–sprayed, and — he looked closely — thin lips.

Shit.

“We’re pretty informal here with meals,” he told her.

“Oh dear. Am I overdressed?” she asked, in a small, don’t–dent–my–confidence voice.

“Not at all,” he lied smoothly. “It’s lovely to have some femininity amidst all the testosterone.” He smiled at her and she smiled back, forcing it.

In fact, everything about her was forced. He’d liked her much better when she’d stood in his doorway looking like drowned mouse.

Then they turned the corner and stepped into the dining room and Wynne propped, drawing a quiet breath. Baz came in behind her, realizing he should have scoped the room first to make sure his father wasn’t swinging off the chandelier, but nothing was untoward. Ted was sitting at the head of the table still dressed in day clothes and everything was in its place.

“It’s huge,” Wynne whispered, struggling to smile at Ted, and Baz looked at the room again through her eyes. A century old mahogany dining table for twenty, servant’s entrances and sideboards full of crystalware, silverware and fine china. In its day, Saltwood had been
the
place to snag an invitation to. Glittering dinner parties and dances had filled the house with guests and noise, but that had all fallen by the wayside with the advent of war. When four of the five the Wilson men had come home in a box, the remaining son, Baz’s grandfather, had become a recluse. Now Saltwood felt far too big, and while Baz had always thought of his family home as ludicrously over–large, he could see how a stranger might find it intimidating.

All Baz could do was offer a distraction.

“Wynne, I’d like you to meet my father, Theodore Wilson. Dad, this is my friend and colleague Wynne Malone.”

She click–clicked around the table and waited while Ted pushed his chair back and wobbled to his feet before she took his hand and shook it firmly. “So pleased to meet you, Mr Wilson,” she said sweetly, and Baz watched his father light up.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Malone,” he said, his baritone voice smooth although his head wobbled and his hand trembled as she shook it. “So glad you could join us.” Baz marveled at the fact that for a brief moment his father wasn’t a forgetful old man but the patriarch of a wealthy dynasty. The fleeting, erroneous impression gave Baz an uncomfortable feeling that he’d been underestimating the old man. For some time.

Wynne smiled again and fluttered her eyelashes some more before turning back to Baz who put her in the seat beside Ted’s. “Now, you two make small–talk while I get the party pies.”

“We’ll be fine,” Wynne said, and Baz had a glimpse of teeth and fluttering eyelashes before he turned to walk away. She must have directed her attention at his father then, because as Baz stepped out the door he heard her say, “So tell me, Mr Wilson, how long have you lived in this beautiful house?”

Baz knew his father wouldn’t be able sustain a conversation with someone who didn’t know his proclivities, so he hurried back with the slightly burnt party pies and some seriously soggy garlic bread. “Just the way you like it, dad,” he announced, sparing a smile for Wynne as he put the tray on the table between them.

“It looks delicious,” she said and smiled, faking again.

Baz suddenly realised his return grimace was every bit as phony, and he wondered at his behavior since Wynne had arrived. He’d been pretending ‘happy families’ the whole time, and why? To impress her?
Normal
hardly seemed worth the effort.

“Actually,” he said, taking his own seat across from them, “They taste like crap, but dad loves them, don’t you, dad?”

“Don’t say crap,” Ted snapped, but had no reservations about holding his plate out and expecting Baz to dish up. “He’s always had a potty mouth,” Ted confided in Wynne, as though his son was suddenly invisible.